give a woman some guy and she'll be entertained for a day. teach a woman how to put some guy in situations and she'll be entertained for the rest of her life.
summary › every other weekend, sam hosts a cookout at the docks. every other weekend, bucky pretends he isn’t looking for the same girl standing by the water at sunset.
pairing › bucky x female reader
content warnings › set during tfatws, soft/nervous bucky, (attempted) flirting, sam being a meddling cutie
word count › 1.4k
authors note › a little fluff for summer! if you guys couldnt tell tfatws bucky is my obsession. i love him and need him forever and ever.
Every other weekend in Delacroix, somebody lights a grill, drags coolers out onto the dock, and pretends life has always been this simple.
Sam calls them “casual little cookouts,” which is a lie considering there’s always enough food to feed a football team, music echoing through the boatyard, at least one argument over who burned the burgers and about twenty people yelling over each other while the Louisiana sunset turns everything gold.
Bucky usually keeps to the edges of it all.
Not hiding exactly, just observing. Helping when someone asks. Nodding along to conversations. Holding a beer long enough that people stop offering him another one. And every single cookout for the last two months, somewhere around sunset, he notices you. Always near the water. Sometimes sitting on the edge of the dock with your sandals abandoned beside you, sometimes leaning against one of the old wooden posts near the boatyard. Always looking out toward the horizon like you’re listening to something no one else can hear.
The first time he saw you, he thought to himself how pretty you were, the way the reflected sun off the water glowed across your face. The second time he wondered if you were waiting for someone else to join you. By the fourth cookout, he started looking for you before he even got out of the truck.
Tonight is no different. Bucky stands near the cooler pretending to listen to Sam and Torres argue over seasoning while his eyes drift automatically toward the water, and there you are. Leaning against the fence near the boats, drink hanging loosely from your fingers while the sunset paints orange light across your skin.
Bucky stares too long. Again.
“Jesus Christ,” Sam mutters beside him without even looking up from the grill. “Go talk to her before you wear a hole through the poor girl.”
Bucky nearly chokes on his beer.
“I’m not—”
“You are.”
“I’m just standing here.”
“And lookin’ at her like she hung the moon.”
Bucky scowls while Sam grins into the smoke curling from the grill.
“You got exactly five minutes before somebody else gets the nerve first.”
“That’s not—”
“Five.”
Bucky hates that his stomach actually drops a little at the thought, because he hasn’t done this in a long time, not like this not when it matters. Across the yard, you laugh softly at something one of the Wilson kids says before drifting back toward the quieter end of the dock again. Alone.
Bucky exhales slowly.
Say something to her. Anything.
Before he can talk himself out of it, he starts walking. The wooden boards creak beneath his boots as he approaches. Closer now, he notices details he couldn’t from afar, the condensation sliding down your cup, your hair moving gently in the breeze off the water, the way your shoulders relax out here away from the noise. You glance over at the sound of his footsteps. And suddenly Bucky Barnes the former assassin, war veteran, and literal super soldier—completely forgets how conversations work.
“You uh—”
Brilliant start.
“You’ve been standing there a while.”
The second the words leave his mouth, Bucky wants to launch himself directly into the bay.
Nice going, Barnes.
But then you laugh, soft and surprised and warm enough to knock the air from his lungs.
“Oh, yeah,” you admit, looking back toward the sunset. “Guess I have been.”
Then your eyes flick back to his.
“I didn’t think you’d notice me.”
And Bucky, the poor bastard, his brain short-circuits entirely. Because how is he supposed to answer that honestly?
I notice you every single time you walk into a room.
I started showing up early hoping you’d be here.
I know exactly what your laugh sounds like from across the yard.
Instead what comes out is something much clumsier.
“I’d have to be blind not to notice you.”
Your cheeks flush immediately and Bucky’s soul leaves his body.
“I mean—” he starts quickly, panic rising fast, “not like I’m staring at you or anything—I just meant like—”
You save him then, with that warm gentle smile of yours.
“It’s okay,” you say softly. “I know what you mean.”
The relief nearly takes his knees out. Then after a tiny pause, your voice gets quieter.
“I notice you too.”
Bucky stares at you, stares like he’s trying to process whether he imagined that.
“You do?”
Smooth. Very cool.
You laugh again, ducking your head slightly.
“Kind of hard not to.”
Something warm unfolds slowly in Bucky’s chest. Shock first, then confusion, then happiness so sudden it almost feels dangerous. And when you smile at him again, all shy and sunlight-soft in the fading evening glow, he thinks distantly to himself.
This is good, right? Yeah. Okay. Time to send it home.
Bucky clears his throat.
“I uh—”
God. Why is he suddenly sixteen years old again?
“I notice,” he says carefully, glancing toward your cup, “your drink is empty.”
You look down at it like you forgot you were holding it.
“Would you maybe wanna get another,” Bucky asks, trying very hard not to sound like this is the most nerve-wracking moment of his life, “with me?”
There’s half a second where he’s convinced he ruined it somehow. Then you smile bright enough to rival the sunset behind you.
“Yeah,” you answer softly. “Yeah, I’d like that.”
Bucky tries to play it cool, he really does, but as the two of you start walking back toward the lights and laughter of the cookout together, he can’t stop the small smile pulling at his mouth. And behind the grill, Sam Wilson watches the whole thing happen before immediately shouting aloud for everyone to hear.
“IT’S ABOUT DAMN TIME.”
Bucky flips him off without hesitation which makes you laugh so hard you nearly spill your drink again as he shakes his head and mutters something about this being a setup.
"A setup?"
"You and Sam."
"We've never discussed you."
"That's exactly what somebody discussing me would say."
The two of you reach the cooler then, and Bucky bends down to grab fresh drinks before you can.
"What are you having?"
"Lemonade."
He already knows, you've had lemonade at every cookout. Still, hearing you say it feels oddly satisfying. Bucky twists the cap loose before handing the bottle over, and your fingers brush his. It's brief, barely there, the kind of touch most people wouldn't even notice. But Bucky does.
The warmth of it lingers embarrassingly long.
"Thank you."
"You're welcome."
Neither of you pull away quite as quickly as you probably should and it makes Bucky's heart do something deeply inconvenient.
You seem completely unaware or maybe you're pretending to be, he honestly can't tell. The realization gives him a strange burst of courage. Because you've been smiling at him for the last half hour, because you noticed him too. Because if he leaves tonight without asking, Sam will probably never let him live it down. Mostly because he doesn't want to wait another two weeks to talk to you again.
Bucky clears his throat and immediately, you glance toward him and suddenly the nerves return full force.
"Hey."
"Hey."
Very smooth, professional even, he thinks.
You bite back a smile and Bucky points at you.
"Don't."
"I'm not doing anything."
"You are."
"I haven't said a word."
"You're thinking things."
That finally earns a laugh and the sound settles some of his nerves, just a little, just enough. Bucky rubs the back of his neck. Then, before he can overthink it.
"Would you maybe wanna come to the next cookout with me?"
Your eyebrows lift slightly.
His stomach drops, so he rushes onward.
"I mean—not that you aren't already coming. Obviously you're already coming."
Fantastic.
"God."
You laugh again.
Bucky closes his eyes briefly.
"Let me start over."
"Okay."
He's smiling now despite himself.
"So. Next cookout."
"Next cookout."
"Would you wanna come with me?"
The teasing fades from your expression and something softer takes its place. Your smile becomes smaller, warmer, the kind that twinkles across your eyes.
"I'd like that."
Relief crashes through him so quickly he almost laughs.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah."
You nudge your shoulder lightly against his, this time definitely on purpose.
"I've kind of been hoping you'd ask."
And for the rest of the night, Bucky can't stop smiling. Not even when Sam catches his eye from across the grill and points both thumbs triumphantly toward the sky. Not even when you laugh at that too. Not even when your head finds his shoulder, or stays there.
Anyway, homie is, like all wealthy white dudes, egregiously imperfect, but he’s definitely fucking trying. So in that regard, he’s valuable because he’s reaching audiences that you personally probably wouldn’t be able to reach, and if you find he has specific stuff on topics you need to persuade people on, he’s a valuable avenue.
➴ PAIRING: Brother's Best Friend!Bucky x Reader
➴ WC: 6k
➴ WARNINGS: friends to lovers, reader is 18, bucky is 20, college!bucky, romanogers, SMUT (p in v, protected sex for once, fingering, dry humping, car sex, virginity/virginity loss, BCB (big cock bucky), pussyjob if you squint really hard) yearning, j*hn w*lker is a dick, miscommunication, YEARNING, slow burn but not but super slow burn?, excessive use of eye rolls, he's down bad, tooth rotting fluff, open ending.
➴ SUMMARY: Your prom date ditches you, and Bucky, ever the gentlemen, offers to take you. He gives you the full senior prom experience even though he's your brother's best friend and your crush for the past decade.
+fran: I wrote this with greasy hair, after work, before a shower. apparently I reach a flow state when I'm feral. this is my baby and I love this fic so much please for the love of all that is holy, tell me what you think. can be read alone, it will have sequels tho.
⤷ songs/playlist for this: there she goes - the la's, always everywhere - charli xcx, ruin the friendship - taylor swift, back to friends - sombr
more
The Rogers' backyard was, for all intents and purposes, the hottest wedding venue in town.
At least if anyone asked nine-year-old you and 11-year-old Bucky, as much was true.
The cracked sidewalk leading to the clothesline was the aisle, peony and dandelion flower beds were the decorations. The old apple tree was the altar at which Steve stood taller on an upside down wooden crate, one of your father's old dress shirts over his shoulders to pretend he was a preist, or a pope, or some sort of higher entity able to witness this whole thing.
Bucky had one of your dad's suit jackets on, the navy fabric completely swallowing his frame, overlapping at the front and masking the Yankees jersey he had on, and all the dirt and grass stains on it.
You had a pillowcase that definitely needed to be in the hamper for laundry day pinned to your hair with your favorite hair clips, of a little crystal blue butterfly.
"Everybody be quiet," Steve announced, nose high up in the air like he was presenting a case to the Supreme Court. "This is serious business."
"It is serious business," you agreed immediately, failing to bite back a grin, missing your top right canine tooth.
One that Bucky held your hand the whole time so you'd let Steve run away with the string and pull it out.
"We are gathered here today because Bucky and my sister wanted to play wedding instead of baseball."
"You said you'd play too!" you accused.
Steve ignored and just kept going. "Now, Bucky Barnes." He cleared his throat, trying to make his voice lower. "Do you promise to be nice to her forever, always save her a seat to watch fireworks on my birthday, and never eat the last s'more?"
Bucky rolled his eyes, his dimple coming out as he smiled wth the side of his mouth. "Yeah," he said simply. "I promise."
You raised your brow, mock-scolding him. "You're supposed to say I do."
"Okay, yes," Your heart did an odd flip. "I do."
Steve then turned to you next. "And do you promise to be nice to Bucky forever, not tell Mrs. Barnes when he sneaks cookies before dinner, and always let him have the red Popsicle if there's only one left?"
"But they're the best ones!" You whined.
Steve sighed, ever the dramatic, looking at Bucky with fake sorrow. "Okay, then I guess you don't love him as much as—"
That set panic in your little heart. "I do! I do!" His face changed immediately, and Bucky smiled at you.
The kind of smile that always made you feel like maybe the sun shined a little brighter on your side of the street than everybody else's.
Steve smiled, as if everything was back on track. "Now, for the rings."
Bucky dug into his pocket and produced two dandelions he'd twisted into little circles. Your eyes widened. "You made those?"
He nodded, brown hair bouncing up and down his head with the gesture. "Took me forever, but they're your favorites."
He held one carefully between his fingers before sliding it onto yours with all the concentration in the world.
"You made me a flower ring." Your grin stretched so wide your cheeks hurt.
Bucky shrugged. "Yeah."
Steve interrupted your thoughts, "Okay, okay. By the power in this vest… or in me, whatever they say in movies, you are now married." He pointed at Bucky. "No cooties." Then at you. "And don't make him play tea party every day."
Your stomach did that weird fluttery thing it always did around Bucky Barnes. It did the same thing when you rode rollercoasters, felt like it was gonna fly away and take you with it.
"You may now high-five the bride." Steve announced, stepping down from the crate.
Bucky extended his pinky towards you, "We'll be best friends forever."
"No take-backs." You smiled, wrapping your pinky around his.
TEN YEARS LATER
As time passed, you grew up. You got new interests, all of you got new friends, and the found family you had just seemed to get bigger. Of course, you weren't as close with Bucky anymore, no college sophomore wants to hang out constantly with his best friend's kid sister.
It's kind of uncool.
The house was loud in that familiar, comfortable way—the kind of loud that doesn’t feel chaotic so much as lived-in. Every sound has a place. Every voice belongs. Bucky, as much as he isn't family by blood, grew up running up and down these stairs the same you and Steve did, as Steve did in his house.
Both of your moms were best friends since diapers, and it was only fate that Bucky and Steve were too.
The kitchen doorway had his height and age and name scratched on it just the same as it did yours, he knew that house in the dark just as much as Steve, trying to sneak around to get snacks during late nights playing video games.
Controller clicks. Steve muttering under his breath. Bucky’s low laugh every time he wins—because of course he’s winning.
“Dude, you’re cheating,” Steve groans, tossing his controller down for a second.
“I’m just better than you,” Bucky shoots back easily, stretched out on the couch like he owns the place, long legs kicked up, completely at home.
He always is.
Him and Steve drove back home from their Sophomore college parties for your graduation weekend, still half-running on energy drinks and bad decisions from the night before, which just happened to fall in the same one as your prom, only separated by three days.
They could hear your speaker booming in your bathroom while you got ready with your two best friends, Yelena and Kate, and Natasha, Steve's girlfriend, helped you with your makeup.
It was a mix of Megan Thee Stallion playing and giggles coming from the three of you, your two best friends gushing over their dates.
Makeup scattered across the counter. Curling iron plugged in and dangerously close to knocking something over. Dresses half-hanging, half-draped over the shower rod.
And Natasha’s laugh, warmer, older, threaded through all of it as she tried to keep things somewhat under control.
Kate is perched on the edge of the tub, kicking her heels against the porcelain. Yelena is leaning into the mirror, fixing her lip gloss with unnecessary intensity.
And you—
You’re standing between them, half-finished, dress still unzipped, hair clipped up, trying to decide if you feel as good as you’re supposed to.
“Okay, no—seriously,” Kate says, pointing at you like she’s making a case in court. “John is going to lose his mind.”
Yelena hums in agreement. “He already looks at you like he has no thoughts.”
You laugh, a little breathy. “That’s not even true.”
“It is completely true,” Kate insists.
“You’re just saying that.”
“We are not just saying that,” Yelena shoots back.
Natasha, standing behind you, gently brushes powder along your cheek, more focused than the rest of them—but she’s listening. And she notices there's a sparkle in your eye that's missing when John's the subject.
He's nice, he's good looking, he's captain of your football team, maybe he has some anger issues with other guys, but all in all he's a solid boyfriend. He's just not—
“Alright,” Natasha says finally, pulling you from your thoughts, lightening her tone again. “Turn around. Let me see the full thing.”
You do as she asks, and she takes in her work of art, your hopeful eyes, and the soft blownout curls of your hair framing your face.
"Perfect!"
Careful with your steps as she reaches for the zipper, pulling it up your back slowly, sealing you into the dress, into the night, into everything that’s supposed to happen.
A knock sounds on the bathroom door. "You girls alive in there?" Steve calls. "Or did the hairspray fumes get you?"
"We're decent!" Natasha calls back.
Steve pokes his head in for a second. "Oh."
You raise an eyebrow. "Oh?"
His expression shifts immediately into something resembling offense. "What happened to my little sister?"
"Oh my God." You snorted.
Steve's broad frame now came into full view in the tiny bathroom as he stood on the dorway. "Who is this grown woman and where did she put the gremlin that used to steal my fries?"
You rolled you eyes. "I'll still steal your fries."
He shakes his head. "You look beautiful, Bug."
Your expression softens. "Thanks, Stevie."
As Pietro and Bob scrolled their phones impatiently at the bottom of the stairs, making small talk with Steve and Bucky, you were almost wearing a path into the carpeted floor of your bedroom.
Seconds after he was supposed to arrive with the other two, he texted you some shitty excuse as to why he was taking Olivia, his ex, to prom instead.
“I was gonna explain,” John says finally, like that makes it better.
You let out a short, disbelieving laugh. “Explain what? That you’re ditching me the night of prom?”
“I’m not ditching you,” he says quickly, defensive already. “It’s just—Olivia asked me to go with her and it’s complicated.”
“Complicated?” you repeat, your grip tightening around your phone. “John, it’s prom. We’ve had this planned for weeks.”
“I know, I know,” he says, exhaling like you’re the one making this difficult. “But she’s going through stuff right now and I don’t wanna make things worse.”
Your chest tightens. “So you thought canceling on me last minute wouldn’t make things worse?”
“That’s not what I said.”
You huffed. “That’s exactly what you’re doing.”
He goes quiet again for a second, and you can practically hear him thinking—calculating—trying to figure out how to spin it in a way that makes him look less like the bad guy.
“Look,” he says finally, voice shifting into something more controlled, “you’re gonna have fun no matter what. You’ve got your friends, it’s not like you’ll be alone.”
The words hit harder than anything else he’s said.
Because they’re so easy for him. So dismissive.
“So that’s it?” you ask, quieter now, but it wavers anyway. “You just—drop me and go with her, and I’m supposed to be fine with that?”
“I’m not dropping you,” he insists again, frustration creeping in. “It’s one night.”
“It’s prom,” you snap, the word catching in your throat. “It’s not just some random thing, John.”
“Why are you making this such a big deal?” he shoots back.
That’s what does it.
Your eyes sting, tears blurring your vision as you shake your head even though he can’t see it. “I’m making it a big deal?” you echo. “You’re the one who decided, what, an hour before we’re supposed to leave, that I don’t matter as much as your ex?”
“It’s not like that,” he says, sharper now. “You’re twisting it.”
“I’m not twisting anything,” you say, your voice breaking despite your best effort to keep it steady. “You just told me exactly where I stand.”
He exhales, long and annoyed, like he’s already over the conversation. “You’re being dramatic. The words land like a slap. And for a second, you can’t even respond.
“Okay,” you say finally, and your voice is quieter now, but steadier in a way that feels final. “Okay. Go with her.”
“—See? That’s all I’m saying, it’s not that—”
“No,” you cut him off, shaking your head again, even though he still can’t see you. “I get it now.”
There’s a shift on his end, like he didn’t expect that. “Wait—”
“Have fun at prom, John.”
And before he can say anything else, you hang up.
The silence that follows is immediate and heavy, pressing in around you as you stare at your reflection, your chest rising and falling too fast, your phone still clutched in your hand.
For a second, you just stand there. And then your face crumples, and the tears come before you can stop them.
Great. You think. An hour of Natasha's hard work gone in two seconds.
You ripped a couple squares of toiled paper off of the roll, trying to dab away the tears when a knock interrupted you. You didn't even have time to tell whoever it was to leave you alone, the door opened anyway.
And of course it was Bucky.
"Hey, Walker finally—" Then he saw your face. The red rimmed eyes, the puffy nose and lips, he'd recognize your crying face if he was in a dark room blindfolded and you were three states away. "What happened?"
His voice wasn't panicked our loud, just immediate.
"Apparently my boyfriend had a better offer." You said with a humorless laugh, fiddling with the corner of the tissue.
His expression then changed to confusion, then disbelief, then anger. "He did what?"
Your eyes stayed on the paper, humiliated. "He took his ex to prom instead." It sounds ridiculous out loud. Embarrassing. "I know it's stupid—"
He shook his head. "It's not stupid."
You shrugged one shoulder anyway. "It kind of is."
"It kind of isn't." Bucky insisted.
Your laugh broke apart into another shaky breath. "He said I was being dramatic." Your voice was small, like a small part of you almost believed John.
"No the fuck he didn't." Bucky's voice, on the contrary, sounded like he was about to make sure John was in three zipcodes at the same time.
You wiped at your face furiously. "Can we not do the whole protective older brother routine thing right now? Steve's probably already planning a felony downstairs."
Bucky nodded, as if agreeing that yes, Steve should be planning felonies. "Good."
Despite yourself, a tiny laugh escapes you. "Bucky."
"I'm serious." He took the couple steps needed to lean back against the sink, back to the mirror, while you faced it. The familiar weight of him beside you settled something in your chest. "You know what I think?" he asks.
You sniffled. "What?"
"I think he's an idiot."
You snort. "Very eloquent."
"You spent weeks excited about tonight." You shrug. "You talked about your dress for months." A smaller shrug, your head shaking like you agreed with him three weeks was a little excessive. "And some guy decides at the last second that he doesn't feel like showing up?"
His eyes looked for yours, and he continued once you met his gaze. "That's his loss."
Downstairs someone was shouting something about finding the car keys. "I just feel stupid."
His brows furrowed immediatelly. "Why?"
"Because I was excited." The words came out smaller than you meant them to. "I really thought tonight was gonna be special."
Bucky's expression softens. "It still can be."
You laughed weakly. "My date literally dumped me an hour before prom."
"Okay." He says, like the solutions is obvious. Like a dragon staring you in the face.
You were confused. "Okay?"
"Okay." He stands up straight. "Counterpoint." You raise an eyebrow. "I've seen enough terrible teen movies to know where this goes." Despite yourself, curiosity wins.
"Oh yeah?"
"Oh yeah." He nodded, and started counting on his fingers. "Option one: you go with your friends and have an incredible time."
"Mm." An amused smile played on your lips.
He continued. "Option two: Steve commits a crime."
You smiled widened. "Likely."
"Or a secret, better option three—"
You quirked a brow. "There are three options?"
Bucky rolled his eyes playfully. "There are always three options." You gestured for him to continue and he grinned. "Option three: some devastatingly handsome college sophomore heroically steps in and saves prom."
You stared at him in disbelief. "Bucky Barnes."
"What?"
"You are not asking me to prom."
"Why not?"
"Because that's ridiculous." You stammered. "You're a college guy and it's gonna be a bunch of drunk high school seniors and—"
"Seems pretty straightforward to me."
You crossed your arms over your chest, the action making your breasts stand out more, and Bucky had to hold back from looking briefly. "You drove eight hours home from college."
"Correct."
"You haven't slept." Another excuse.
"Also correct."
Truth is… You didn't trust yourself not to ruin your friendship, and Steve's, with Bucky as your date. Yes it was a childhood crush, yes it was stupid, yes he only saw you as a little sister, but for some reason every time you smelled sandalwood and listened to divorced dad rock, your stomach did the same fucking thing it always did.
It flipped.
"I'm serious." The grin on his face faded into something gentler. "You shouldn't miss your prom because some idiot couldn't see what was standing right in front of him."
Your throat tightens. "I don't want a pity Bucky Barnes date."
"I wouldn't dream of it." Bucky shook his head. "I want to go to a high school prom sleep deprived, listen to bad music, and drink shitty punch."
You pretended to think about it. "I want milkshake and fries from Juniper's after."
Bucky got down on his knees dramatically, clutching his hands together, play-begging. "Please, let me spend my hard earned student loans on a malted brownie shake for you, m'lady."
You signed, as if you weren't blushing seven shades of red at the moment, all hidden by Natasha's foundation. "I suppose."
After Nat talked Steve down from whatever Law Abiding Citizen crap he was gonna pull, Bucky borrowed one of your dad's suits while you touched up your makeup, and off into his jeep you went.
Bucky lingered back as he watched you walk to the old car excitedly, Natasha stopping right beside him as your friends walked to their cars, watching you get twirled by Kate.
Bucky noticed Natasha staring at him and raised a brow in question. "What?"
She gave a noncommittal noise. "Nothing."
"Romanoff." Bucky scoffed.
She put her hands up in surrender. "I didn't say anything."
"You've got the face."
Now it was her turn to raise a brow, trying to bite back a grin. "What face?"
Bucky rolled his eyes. "The face where you've figured something out before everyone else."
Nat shrugged her shoulders. "I always figure something out before everyone, Bucky." Tapping him on the shoulder and turning arounfd to go inside.
The prom commitee worked very hard to make sure the night looked exactly like every movie promised it would.
String lights draped from the ceiling of the gymnasium like stars somebody had caught and hung overhead. Balloons clustered in the corners. A photo booth occupied one wall. The basketball hoops had been disguised beneath enough tulle and fairy lights to fool almost everyone.
Turns out, getting ditched by John Walker was the best thing that ever happened to your prom night. You didn't even notice when Olivia was cryingin the bathroom because she caught him making out with someone else.
No.
You were too busy slow dancing with Bucky Barnes.
When the first chorus of the song came on, he held out his hand. "May I have this dance?"
You rolled your eyes. "You're such a dork."
"Tick tock, Rogers." He wiggled his fingers impatiently.
You took his hand as if it didn't make your fingers go numb with excitement, and Bucky quickly nestled a hand on your low back, your forehead to the side of his jaw.
"You know," Bucky said after a minute, "this is definitely better than my prom when I was your age."
"Okay, grandpa." You laughed softly. "What happened at your senior prom?"
"My date spent forty-five minutes crying in the bathroom because her friend wore the same shoes she did."
You clicked your tongue. "That's tragic."
"It was devastating." Bucky agreed, nodding his head, laughing softly.
You nudged his jaw. "I'll try to hold it together."
"I appreciate that."
A moment passed, then another, and you spoke up. "Thank you for doing this for me."
"Anytime." He let out a soft breath, leaning back the slightest bit so he could look at you. "You do look beautiful, I mean it."
Thank fuck for Natasha's foundation, powder, and concealer for hiding your flush. "Thank you, Bucky." Oh how you wished you hadn't looked into his pretty eyes, reflecting the lights off of the mirrorball back onto the dancefloor.
The ten seconds seemed to stretch an entire decade. Somehow Bucky's face getting closer and closer to yours, eyes switching from your lips back to your eyes and to your lips again.
"Hey." The word cut through the moment like broken glass. Fucking John Walker. King of never in the history of the world reading anything. Specialy the fucking room. "Can we talk?"
Bucky's hand tightened around your waist, "What do you want, John? Olivia is probably looking for you."
"C'mon, baby, you're not gonna throw our relationship away over one bad call, are you?" He was seriously trying to play this off. "I made a mistake." His hand reached for you but you stepped away.
"I'm not your baby."
He scoffed. "Aw, c'mon." And tried again.
This time, Bucky got between you two. "She's done, Walker. Walk away."
Now John got… Defensive. "This isn't any of your business."
Bucky clicked his tongue. "She kind of is." The words slipped out before he could stop them.
The air stood still for a minute before the football bros came to get John, leaving you and Bucky with the weight of unsaid words and unspoken looks.
Juniper's was closed by the time you finally left prom.
Not closed enough to stop Bucky from leaning halfway out of the driver's side window and convincing one of the employees locking up to sell him two milkshakes and an order of fries out of pure pity.
It wasn't until you were stargazing in his jeep with soft music from his Spotify mixing with the crickets hiding in the grass that your heart settled again.
You were in the passenger seat, your burger already eaten, just finishing your delicious fries and your milkshake with Bucky in the same predicament in the driver's seat.
Now the two of you sat on the hood of his Jeep in the empty parking lot overlooking the river, the New York spring air cool enough that your bare shoulders prickled every time the wind picked up.
Without a word, Bucky shrugged off his suit jacket and draped it over your shoulders. You blushed. "Thanks."
He shrugged. "'M not using it."
"You literally had it on 30 seconds ago." You rolled your eyes. Bucky just muttered details between a mouthful of fries.
"You know," you said eventually, "this wasn't exactly how I pictured prom going."
Bucky laughed quietly. "No?"
"I don't know. There was significantly less public humiliation in the original draft." You laughed softly. "But I like this version better."
Bucky nodded. "I had fun."
You looked over. "Yeah?" Hopeful little edge in your voice giving you away to anyone that knew you remotely well.
"Yeah." His expression softened. "Got to dance with a pretty girl."
Heat climbed into your cheeks immediately. "You flirt with everybody." You rolled your eyes.
Bucky made an offended expression, clutching his chest. "I absolutely do not."
"You absolutely do." You lolled you head to the side, raising a brow to make your point. He laughed.
God, you loved his laugh. Always had. The thought came and went so quickly you almost didn't notice it.
Your eyes drifted back toward the sky. "You know what this reminds me of?"
"Hm?" He lifted his eyes from the milkshake cup he was trying to get every last bit out of.
"The meteor shower."
Bucky smiled immediately. "Oh man."
You grinned. "You remember?"
"Remember?" Bucky chuckled. "I had baseball tryouts the next day and I was up all night to make sure you didn't miss it."
It stopped you dead in your tracks. He did what? "No, you didn't. Your mom came and woke us up."
Bucky nodded. "Yeah, because I woke her up. I was outside waiting for it while you and Steve snoozed it off. Played like shit the next morning." He continued. "You had the date circled on the calendar."
Your brow furrowed. "I did?"
He nodded. "You drew stars around it."
"Oh my God."
Bucky chuckled, his own head lolling to the side on the head rest to look at you. "You made Steve and I promise we wouldn't stay up late the night before because we had to be rested."
You buried your face in your hands. "That sounds insufferable."
"It was kinda cute." He smiled at you like he always did, and your heart promptly forgot how to function. Bucky, meanwhile, was blissfully unaware of the devastation he'd just caused.
Trying so desperately to change the subject to something that wouldn't make you tear up or your heart jump, you fiddled with your milkshake, taking a sip and making a face. "You know, I think this thing is eighty percent whipped cream."
Bucky grinned. "I can see that, it's all over your face." His left thumb came up to wipe down the leftover shake on the corner of your mouth, and it lingered just a second too long.
For a second, or three years, the world felt like it stilled. A moment frozen in a snow globe to be forever replayed.
Neither of you moved, not entirely sure how to. Suddenly Bucky was very close, close enough to see the tiny scar in his eyebrow from falling off his bike when he was fourteen, to count the freckles dusting across his nose, enough that you could feel your heartbeat somewhere in your throat.
His eyes flicked down to your mouth, then back up, and your heart and lungs stumbled over themselves.
His hand lowered slowly, resting on your thigh. The night around you seemed quieter somehow. Smaller, as if the entire world had narrowed down to the space between you.
"Buck..." His name came out softer than you intended.
His expression shifted into something you'd never seen directed at you before. "If you don't want—"
And then your body moved forward on instinct, your brain a mess of fuzzy TV static, and when you came back to your body, your lips were on his.
Not because you were brave or even confident, just mostly because if you let him finish that sentence you thought your heart might actually explode.
For one terrifying second you were convinced you'd made the biggest mistake of your life. Then you felt the warmth of his hand on your cheek, pulling you closer and deepening the kiss as his tongue slipped past your lips.
The kind of kiss that felt less like fireworks and more like coming home after a very long trip.
One of your hands quickly found the nape of his neck, gently scratching your manicured nails against his scalp. He whined against your lips, hand drifting to your waist, and just as much as he pulled you onto his lap, you climbed over the console to him, food wrappers forgotten on the floor.
You shrugged the suit jacket off, accidentally honking the horn with your butt in the process, and Bucky's hands rubbed up and down your thighs as you rocked your hips against him, feeling the heat of him against the suit pants.
Your hands dropped from his shoulders down to his arms, then forearms, directing him to paw at the zipper on the back of your dress.
That made him pull away, looking for your eyes. "Are you—"
You could not have nodded more feverishly if you were a damn bobblehead.
Bucky needed no further incentive, he made quick work of the zipper, excitement bubbling in your stomach like freshly popped champagne while he peppered kisses along your jawline and neck.
The now bothersome fabric of the dress fell to your waist as you worked on the buttons of his shirt, hands moving to his belt and pants after.
He kissed you again, deeper as his hand snuck under the hem of your dress to find the wet spot on your panties.
You moaned against his mouth, your own hand finding its way inside of his boxers. You broke the kiss, gasping for air.
"Is this— I mean— okay?" It was hushed and murured against his lips as you stroked his length. "I've never— oh!"
You got rudely interrupted by Bucky's index and middle fingers rubbing your sensitive clit over the blue cotton of your panties.
He nodded against you, "Y-yeah, you're— fuck— you're doing so good."
His hips bucked up against you, and the second he slipped out of his pants with your movements his hand left your core and now were both squeezing your ass.
Bucky brought you flush against him, the angry red tip of him begging for friction found it when you started to dry hump him through your underwear, gasping into his mouth every time it nudged your clit.
"Bucky, please…" He couldn't not give you what you wanted, right? "I can't take it." Not when you begged this pretty.
He nodded against you, "I know, baby." And his right hand went under your dress, behind you, and pulled your panties to the side. "I know."
The second his bare cock made contact with your wet slit, he hissed, and a lightbulb went off in his head.
Condom.
He did not trust himself to pull out. Not of you. "Condom." His voice was almost distant to you, like it hadn't crossed your mind to use protection. Not with Bucky, anyway. He'd never hurt you, he was your—
"I—" You were dazed, lost and drunk in the scent and thought and feel of him. "My purse."
His hands let you go and you leaned over the seat to grab your purse from the backseat, your ass right beside Bucky's head.
Of course he took advantage of that fully pull your panties down, now that you had the leg space.
You sat back down on top of him with a little huff, trembling hands fumbling with the wrapper.
Bucky hissed as you rolled it down on him, and one of his hands lined himself up with your entrance.
As you sank down on him, you thought maybe you should've thought twice about it. I mean, you knew he was packing, you walked in on him changing one time a couple years ago, there was no way you could—
"Hey," Bucky's voice brought you back from your spiral. "Look at me." Beautiful cerulean eyes stared up at you like the moonlight was made to bounce off them specifically. "Breathe."
His other hand brushed your hair away from your face, just as the hand that was holding his shaft traveled up, thumb finding your clit rubbing soothing circles on it.
"Just take it slow." Your eyes fluttered closed.
"How do you not get knocked over hauling this thing around?" That brought a chuckle out of him, landing straight onto the skin of your neck. "Oh, God..."
You rocked yourself back and forth, until he was fully inside of you, your lips touching the light hair at the base.
Bucky kissed all over your face, his thumb never stopping its work. "You're doing so good, baby."
"Feels full." He laughed softly. squeezing your waist and helping guide you into a rhythm. "Feels good."
"Yeah?" Hushed and right by your ear, you felt like drowning and the happiest person alive at the same time. "You're so tight," He continued. "So warm."
You whined against his lips, the vibration going all the way down to his core.
He moved you up and down his cock, listening to the obscene wet squelch each time you sat up and sank back down on him, and each time it dawned on him what was actually happening, he got louder.
Bolder.
He bounced you on his length, hissing each time, you squeezed around him. "Feel good, Buck. Hah!"
It surprisingly didn't take long for Bucky to have you right at the edge, not as long as people online led you to believe losing your virginity would feel like. "Can feel you fluttering." His thumb worked faster.
"Wanna come, Bucky." You whined, kissing him, and pulling away with his bottom lip between your teeth, "Can I?"
He hissed, the question making it hard for him to not blow his load right then and there. "F'course you can, pretty girl, c'mon."
Your release felt like a million meteors hitting you at once. Like Earth came apart and got put together all in the same breath.
It felt entirely different, better, than when you tried to do it on your own. And your orgasm triggered Bucky's, waves of pleasure milking rope after rope of cum from him into the unworthy latex of the condom.
For what it felt like forever for the milionth time that night, neither of you spoke. Your breaths and the crickets were the only sounds.
It was quiet after.
Just… quiet.
The kind that only existed when two people had known each other so long that silence wasn't something to fill. Starts lit up the sky that was now your ceiling, and Bucky had taken the condom off and tied it, throwing it inside of the trash with the fry bag and the milkshake cups.
For once in his life, James Buchanan Barnes appeared to be completely out of words.
Which was concerning.
You smiled a little, back in the passenger seat with the suit jacket around your chilly shoulders. "What?"
He glanced over. "Hm?"
"You're thinking too loud." That got a laugh out of him. A quiet one, but still a laugh. "Sorry."
A beat of silence, then another. "I don't want this to ruin anything."
Your smile faltered slightly.
Of course, you thought. Of course he doesn't feel that way about you, why would he—
"Oh, Buck." You faked a smile as his eyes met yours. "We'll be okay."
A sheepish, hopeful look hit his face. "Yeah?"
"Of course." You nodded and reached over and laced your pinky with his. "We're us."
His expression softened when he looked down at your joined fingers. "We're us," he echoed.
You smiled. "We survived Steve's bowl cut phase." You listed off. "The great Thanksgiving mashed potato incident."
"Traumatic." He chuckled.
"The time I accidentally backed your Jeep into Mrs. Russo's mailbox." You continued.
He scolded you playfully. "You still owe me for emotional damages."
You laughed softly. "We'll be best friends forever."
The words came so naturally, so easily. The same words you'd said years before ona hot day beneath a tree. A pinky promise.
Forever.
Beside you, Bucky went quiet. Of course she wouldn't want anything to do with you, you're her brother's best friend. That shit only works in mov— "Right." His eyes dropped for a moment. "Friends."
Your stomach twisted at the word for the first time in your life. Because why did that sound disappointing?
Why did it sound like something had slipped through your fingers without you realizing you were holding it?
a little bit of fran in your life: okay did we like it??????? it was meant to read like a first chapter but also a standalone in case you wanted to just be done with it. yippieeeeeeee
⭐︎ warnings: nsfw, greece au, fluff, smut, enemies to lovers, banter, arguments, alcohol, manchild player bucky, mean!bucky, john walker back to playing the role of a toxic bf, cheating (not by bucky), jealousy, oral (f!receiving), squirting, overstimulation, reader mentions she's on the pill (no pregnancy), praise, dirty talk, angst, alpine feature, dead rat, miscommunication, insecurities, hurt/comfort
⭐︎ word count: 17.8k
⭐︎ a/n: if you like mamma mia, this fic might be up your alley. this is my contribution for the bwat summer collab hosted by the lovely @barnesonly and @iamthatonefangirl. thank you for taking the time to keep us in check. be sure to check out the other fics in this masterlist! happy brat summer even though it was two years ago
synopsis:
If managing a housing complex in Greece during peak tourist season wasn't hard enough, your stupid, DJ manchild of a tenant, Bucky Barnes, goes one step further to make it even more difficult—that is, until he overhears an argument between you and your boyfriend, John, and decides to prove that he actually cares about you for more than just pissing you off with his loud music.
← previous fic | main masterlist
Oonts. Oonts. Oonts.
It was the same wretched sound all over again.
From where you sat in the complex’s office, the bass emitting from Bucky’s room was thumping and vibrating the very walls around you. The ground shook, and you swore you could see dust and pebbles straying off the ceiling and landing right into your cup of coffee.
There was no one else in the office, so you screamed as loud as you could.
“Keep it down, Barnes!”
But of course, your angry voice was met with even more thumping bass and weird techno noises.
Mumbling curses to yourself, you angrily picked up the office phone—which barely worked—and dialed his number. You pressed the receiver hard to your ear, foot tapping impatiently as you heard it ring once, twice, three times, until finally…
“Hey, you reached Bucky. Sorry I couldn’t get to the phone right now. Please leave your name and number—”
He had left your phone calls unanswered so many times, you had already memorized his voice message word for word.
With another curse, you slammed the phone back down, pushed out of your rolling chair, and stomped your way up to his room.
It was peak summertime, meaning that vacationers were flooding the streets of Greece looking for accommodations, meaning that your rundown complex had available rooms for cheap rent, meaning you had to leave your one-man post just to take care of the obnoxious tenant you should’ve kicked out years ago.
Finally reaching his door, you knocked angrily with a strength that threatened to break the hinges.
“Barnes, open up!” you shouted.
I wanna dance to me, I wanna dance to A. G—
“Bucky! Don’t make me break down this door!”
I wanna dance with George, I wanna dance to SOPHIE.
Christ. What the hell was he playing? Whatever this noise slop was, it felt specifically designed by Bucky himself to give you a headache.
“God, this fucking… fucking asshole—” you cursed to yourself, fishing for your keys in your pocket.
You unlocked his door and pushed it open. Lo and behold, you found him seated in the exact same position you always found him in every time you barged into his room for a noise complaint. Bucky’s music was so loud he didn’t even hear you enter, his focus entirely on his fancy DJ setup and speakers that probably cost more than his rent.
“Bucky!” Your face scrunched as it took every vocal cord in your body to muster the shout.
Bucky whipped his head around to face you, looking very much like a boy who had been caught red-handed watching porn—except this music was much worse than mediocre sex-on-a-screen.
He finally lowered the volume, allowing you the ability to actually hear your own thoughts.
“What the hell are you doing in my apartment?”
You crossed your arms, jutting your hip out as you glared at him with an unpleasant and as equally disappointed frown.
“I tried calling your phone, but it went straight to voicemail. I need you to turn this music down.”
Bucky didn’t react.
He had heard this exact complaint from you more times than he could count. It was always the same routine. You’d yell at him, your body hot from the lack of AC circulation this shitty complex provided, leaving you standing in his doorway in a tank top—no bra—and tiny daisy dukes that left little to his imagination. And once you were done yelling, you’d go back downstairs to your office, and he’d turn the music right back up.
But of course, he always had a knack for making your job much harder than it actually was, purely because he loved seeing you get riled up.
“Oh. Is Georgia from the third floor complaining?” He tilted his head like an innocent puppy, knowing damn well that Georgia was a senior citizen who was legally deaf.
You scrunched your nose, looking even more pissed—which only made Bucky’s smile widen.
“No, but I’m complaining, and that should be enough to get you to shut the hell up—considering I’m your landlord.”
“Aw, but I’m dedicating this song to you.”
You wanted to stomp over to his desk and slap him right across the face to shut him up for good—but dealing with a lawsuit and a restraining order was the last thing you needed when you were responsible for running this shitty complex during peak tourist season.
“I’m not going to argue with you today,” you said, though it sounded like you were trying to convince yourself rather than him. “Soon, this complex is going to be packed with tourists and I need you on your best behavior. That means no loud robot music that’ll scare potential tenants away.”
Bucky flinched, looking offended.
“Robot music?” he scoffed, spinning back in his chair to face his laptop. “And you say this shit every year. Summertime, tourists, rent... but you’re lucky if even one person books a room.”
Your brow twitched. You hated how right he was. “Regardless, I need you to give the music a rest. If I’m not the one complaining, someone else will.”
You were ready to leave it at that. You turned around, your hand gripping the doorknob, prepared to slam the door behind you so he wouldn’t have the space to argue back. But of course, Bucky just couldn’t help himself.
“Whatever you say, sweetheart.”
You spun around so fast your hair whipped across your face. “What the fuck did you just call me?”
Bucky kept his back turned to you. You didn’t even need to see his face to know he was wearing a smug, shit-eating grin.
“My music is harmless,” he muttered, clicking away at his screen. “And who knows? Maybe your future tenants will actually find it entertaining. I might even draw people in.”
“No, it won’t,” you hissed. “You’ll scare people away.”
Bucky shrugged. “Then what the hell am I paying you rent for if I can’t even listen to music in my own apartment?”
The way he said it was so casual, but you knew he had thrown those words out just to pull the pin right out of your heart.
Over the years, you had seen several tenants come and go, break their leases, or even scam you out of money. Taking over the building with little to no hope for business had been completely exhausting, and Bucky—along with Georgia—had been the only loyal tenants you had left.
In reality, the two of them were the ones keeping the place afloat.
You grimaced, facing the door again.
“Just… keep it down,” was all you said, because you no longer had it in you to keep up the fight.
Bucky had kept his promise to keep the music down—but that only lasted about a day. And Bucky being Bucky, if he didn’t have the ability to piss you off one way, he’d make sure to do it another.
You weren’t sure if it was entirely intentional or not, but regardless, it made your skin burn with irritation. While you were talking to a man seated across from your desk, the sound of a girl’s loud laughter echoed right above the office—and it certainly wasn’t the voice of any girl you recognized who lived in this complex.
You smiled through it. As long as you ignored it and didn’t address it, then maybe the man in front of you—who seemed to have every intention of staying here during his months long vacation—wouldn’t notice.
“But yes, as you can see, the building is very close to the beach—walking distance, actually!” You smiled, hands folding primly on the desk in front of you. “And the beaches in Greece are beautiful. I’m sure you’ve seen them while doing your research. You said you like to surf, right? This spot is very convenient for—”
“Haha—you’re so silly, Bucky!”
“I know. But you like it.”
The man in front of you glanced at the ceiling, frowning at the sound of the girl giggling, and you swallowed hard.
“—surfing….”
Instead of answering your question or addressing anything else you said, he kept his focus on the wooden ceiling above him and pointed up. “I take it this place is pretty busy—considering all the noise.”
You gripped your hands tighter.
If you weren’t able to secure this guest, you were going to make sure Bucky got an earful from you after this.
“That’s a good thing, right? Shows how lively Greece is during this time of the year.” You tried your best to salvage the situation, but your own words only gave you secondhand embarrassment.
The man chewed the inside of his cheek, his expression apprehensive. His eyes darted around the office, suddenly taking in the white plug-in wall fan that was making a suspicious whiiiirrr noise, along with the poorly painted window panels you hadn’t gotten around to fixing yet.
“Look, you seem like a nice, responsible, and hardworking young lady, but—” He stood up and started grabbing his bags. “I don’t think this place is right for me.”
“W-wait!” You scrambled from your chair, nearly lunging across the desk just to get him to stop. “We have much quieter rooms on the second floor! Facing the courtyard! You won’t hear a single thing over there, I promise!”
Fuck. What were you even saying? Bucky’s room was on the second floor.
The guy was already heading for the exit, his heavy duffel bag slung over his shoulder. He gave you a tight, sympathetic smile that felt more like a slap to the face before walking out.
“Sir, please! I can offer you a discount on the first month! Ten percent—no, fifteen!”
Your voice was pitching higher in distressed panic, but the bell above the office door gave you a cute and mocking ting! before he pushed it open and stepped out into the burning Greek heat. The door shut behind him, leaving you alone in silence with the stupid run down fan.
Well, almost silence.
Aside from the consistent whirring from the fan, another loud giggle squealed through the floorboards right above your head. Then came the thud of Bucky’s mattress hitting the bed frame.
Your eye twitched as your hands curled into tight fists. The payment that man would have given you had he settled in today—even with a fifteen percent discount—was supposed to be your grocery budget for the next three weeks.
Your sandals were already stomping up the stairs to Bucky’s floor. By the time you shoved the key into his lock, twisted it, and slammed the door open without so much as a knock, you were seeing red.
“Barnes!” you screeched, not even caring that the unknown woman lying in his bed was half-naked.
She squealed and yanked the blanket up to her chest, trying to cover herself, but you didn’t so much as glance at her.
“Bucky, I didn’t know you had a girlfriend!” she yelped, looking at Bucky with wide, terrified eyes.
Well, at least this one had some decency compared to the others. Most girls would look at you with swollen lips and a proud, “gotcha” smile to match. Bucky pushed himself up with a groan, giving you a glare that could have killed you right where you stood.
“She’s not my girlfriend,” he grumbled, wiping his wet lips with the back of his hand. “She’s my landlord.”
“Oh.” The girl’s shoulders slumped in relief—and a part of you wished Bucky hadn’t clarified that, just so you could have kept the upper hand.
“Are you fucking kidding me, Bucky? You scared another potential renter away!”
Bucky didn’t look remotely remorseful. If anything, he looked mildly annoyed that his afternoon had been interrupted. He swung his legs over the side of the mattress, getting up to meet you at the door.
You didn’t even care that he was wearing nothing but a pair of boxers that hung low on his hips—you had walked in on him one too many times to even bother telling him to put on a pair of pants.
“I didn’t do anything,” he said, his voice gravelly from whatever he’d been doing earlier. “I was minding my own business.”
“I’m sorry, but your ‘business’ becomes everyone else’s when you’re being too fucking loud!” you shouted. “I was seconds away from closing a three-month lease, Bucky. Three months! Do you know what I could do with that kind of money right now? I could finally fix the plumbing so the water doesn’t smell like eggs!”
The girl in his bed looked back and forth between the two of you, awkwardly clutching the sheet to her collarbone. “Um… should I leave?”
“Yes!” you snapped.
“No,” Bucky countermanded, running a tired hand through his already tousled hair. “Stay, Eleni. My landlord was just leaving.”
“Like hell I am,” you hissed, crossing your arms. “I swear to God, Barnes. If you keep this up, I’m going to tear up your lease and evict you.”
Bucky huffed a laugh. That was new. He had pushed your buttons enough to unlock a brand new threat—even if it was one you both knew you probably wouldn’t follow through with.
“Yeah, sure. Go ahead and kick me out,” he challenged, stepping closer. “You need me more than I need you, anyway.”
You were seconds away from going ballistic—from grabbing his precious DJ setup and throwing it right off the balcony. Every hair on your body stood up like a threatened cat, and you were ready to tear Bucky Barnes apart in his own room.
You sucked in a deep breath to unleash a litany of curses, and Bucky stood up straighter, bracing himself to return the sentiment right back, until a familiar voice called out from the office downstairs.
“Honey? Are you here?”
Both of you froze. Your accusatory finger hung in midair as your head instinctively turned towards the open door.
Of course. Your boyfriend, John, always managed to show up at the absolute worst timing possible.
“Would you look at that,” Bucky sighed—though you couldn’t tell if it was out of relief or annoyance. “Your knight in shining armor, coming to save me yet again,” he said sarcastically.
You shot Bucky one last lethal glare— forgetting all about Eleni still laying in his bed—and turned on your heel, stomping back down the stairs to tend to your boyfriend. As you hurried down, you flattened your hair and adjusted your tank top, trying to make yourself look somewhat presentable, though it was a lost cause.
“Hi, John,” you said, sounding more tired than endeared as you leaned in to press a kiss to his cheek.
“Hey, you,” he grinned before pulling back to look at you, his expression turning from a smile to displeasure.
“Wow, you look terrible.”
Your boyfriend always had such a way with words.
You sighed, your shoulders slumping in defeat. With John here, you felt like now was the great time to talk about your day, hoping that it’d relief just a tiny bit of stress.
“I look terrible because my day is going terrible. I feel like a hamster running on a wheel that leads nowhere. It’s barely afternoon, and the day is already kicking my butt—”
“Did you hear that I got promoted today?”
You blinked at his blatant interruption. “I’m… I’m sorry?”
“No worries,” he waved his hand with a guileless smile, as if you were actually offering him a sincere apology when, in fact, you were just giving him the opportunity to rethink his interruption. “I said I got promoted. Valentina finally saw how hard I’ve been working and decided to give me the next position up. I’m making double the amount I made before!”
You felt utterly and completely defeated.
Here you were, feeling like a dog that had been beaten to the ground, and the man you proclaimed as the love of your life was flaunting his success. You should have been happy for him, but every sentence that left his lips only felt like a slap to your face.
“I’m happy for you, John,” you said, your voice wavering. You were happy for him—you really were—but John didn’t buy it.
He frowned. “Well…?”
You blinked again, your brows furrowing in confusion. “Well, what?”
“Are you going to take me out to celebrate?”
“Celebrate?” You huffed a laugh, taking his words as a joke. But one look at John’s face told you he was entirely serious.
Your lips twisted right back into a frown, your brows furrowing as dread began to settle in your gut.
“John… look around you. I can barely afford to keep this place running, much less take you out to celebrate your promotion. And besides, you’re making so much more than me now. Wouldn’t it financially make more sense for you to take us out if you really wanted to celebrate?”
You knew the words were blunt and straightforward, but truthfully, you didn’t have it in you to beat around the bush to cushion John’s feelings. You were drowning, and you needed to be honest with your partner.
John sighed, stepping closer and resting a hand on your shoulder.
“Honey, if money was that important to me—then I wouldn’t be with you right now, would I?”
Before you even knew it, you were looking at your partner not with the eyes of a lover—but with the eyes of an enemy.
“Excuse me?” You ripped yourself away from his touch, his hand dropping as you stared at him in utter disbelief. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
John let out a long sigh, his classic way of telling you that you were blowing things out of proportion. “I’m just saying, I don’t care about your financial situation. I’m looking past it because I love you. You don’t have to get so defensive.”
You wanted to cry. Your body was so coiled with nothing but rage, and right now, the only person you wanted to take it out on was John.
“Look past it?” Your voice cracked as it began to rise. “You’re looking past the fact that I run myself dry trying to keep a roof over my head with zero support from you? I can’t afford groceries, and instead of asking how I am, you walk in here, cut me off, brag about your money, and insult my business!”
“Oh, here we go with the drama,” John scoffed, throwing his hands up as if he were the victim. “It’s a rundown complex in Greece, honey, not the Hilton. You’re overreacting like you always do—”
“I am not overreacting! You are being incredibly selfish—”
“What’s going on here?”
You were so caught up in the yelling match that you hadn’t even heard the footsteps creaking down the stairs and into the office.
Both you and John turned to find Bucky and Eleni standing by the archway that led to the stairs. Bucky was dressed appropriately this time. By the looks of it, he had no intention of eavesdropping—he was just politely leading Eleni out of the building.
You swallowed hard. What a funny predicament to be in—complaining about Bucky and his noise just minutes ago, only to end up doing the exact same thing.
“It’s nothing,” you mumbled, averting your attention back to John. But John was already looking elsewhere—more specifically, right at Eleni.
“You sure? Sounded like things were getting pretty heated in here,” Bucky said, trying to make a joke that landed flat. “I was just leading Eleni out. You can go right back to tearing at each other’s throats once I escort her out, thanks.”
Eleni had been following close behind Bucky like a lost puppy, looking a little flustered, until her eyes scanned the lobby and landed squarely on the man standing next to you—who was already staring at her.
She froze, her jaw dropping. “John?” she gasped.
The color drained from John’s face, his cocky posture instantly stiffening into a defensive stance. “…E-Eleni?”
You blinked, looking between your boyfriend and the woman who had just been in your tenant’s bed. “Wait. You two know each other?”
Eleni gave you the exact same treatment you had given her earlier. She zipped right past you, completely forgetting about you and Bucky, and folded her arms tightly over her chest. “John, you asshole! You ghosted me after Cabo! You blocked my number and never returned any of my calls!”
The office went dead silent. Aside from the whirring fan, of course.
You felt your heart drop into your stomach. Cabo? John had mentioned going on a ‘business conference’ to Cabo—but that was only two months ago.
No.
He couldn’t have…
You slowly turned your head to look at John, silently pleading to whatever cruel God that was currently tormenting you to just give you a break. You hoped John would deny it, that he would tell this interloper to get lost, even if you hadn’t had the guts to do it yourself when she was upstairs.
But he didn’t. All he did was dart his guilty blue eyes around the room, looking anywhere but at the two women he had wronged.
“John…?” you whimpered.
And under just a smidge of pressure, John folded.
“I’m sorry!” he barked out defensively. “Look—it was a one-time thing, okay? I got drunk with Lemar on the beach, and… we lost track of time, and Eleni came up to me and—”
“Get the hell out.”
John’s shoulders slumped. He reached out for you again. “Honey, you don’t mean that—”
“Get out of my fucking face, John!” you screamed, slapping his hand away.
“Please, just listen to me for one second!” John pleaded, taking another step closer despite your screaming.
“I know I messed up, okay? I know it was a mistake—but look at the bigger picture here! I just got promoted. I’m making double now! I can take care of you. I can fund this entire complex and even… even fix the plumbing smell you’re always complaining about! Whatever you want! You won’t have to worry about a single cent anymore. Just please, don’t throw us away over a stupid slip up.”
Slip up?
Was this what he thought this was?
Years of being together, and his infidelity was just a slip up? A stupid moment of weakness?
You had thought that having a boyfriend—someone who loved you unconditionally—was the one thing you could have to yourself in this cruel world. You and John had your ups and downs, sure, but the idea of being in love was what kept you going.
Now, you felt entirely sick to your stomach—humiliated, exhausted, and broken.
“Stop it,” you choked out, a tear finally spilling down your cheek. You stepped forward and weakly slammed your palms against his chest, trying to push him towards the exit. “Just stop talking. Get out!”
Your hands were trembling, completely devoid of the strength you had wielded against him and Bucky just minutes ago. John barely budged under your weak shove. He sighed, reaching out to grab your wrists to stop you.
“Honey, stop. You’re hysterical right now, just calm down and—”
Before his fingers could even brush your skin, Bucky’s broad frame wedged itself between the two of you. He clamped a heavy hand hard onto John’s shoulder, shoving him back as he used his own body as a shield to protect you.
“You heard the woman,” Bucky gritted through clenched teeth, glaring down at your now-ex-boyfriend. “She told you to get the hell out.”
John stumbled back a step, swallowing hard as he looked up at the much larger man.
He tried to reclaim some of his lost dignity, puffing out his chest. “Hey, man, back off. This is between me and my girlfriend. It’s none of your business.”
“When you’re being that loud, your business becomes everyone else’s,” Bucky hissed. “You have three seconds to pack up your pathetic excuses and get your feet off this property before I throw you off it myself.”
If you weren’t such a fragile mess, you might’ve laughed at the fact that Bucky had just used your exact words to throw right back at John.
John looked at Bucky’s tight fists, then glanced past his shoulder at you, where you were wiping away your tears. He huffed a bitter laugh—he knew he couldn’t win a physical fight against Bucky, but that didn’t mean his pride was going down without a fight.
“Wow. Blew one of your tenants so he could act as your security guard since you couldn’t afford one?” John’s face twisted into an ugly, resentful sneer. “Fine. Keep her. I’m leaving.”
You were too busy sniffling behind Bucky—of all people—to notice that his shoulders were shaking with anger.
Bucky knew he wasn’t a saint, especially towards you, but hearing you get degraded by a man like this—a man you had given your heart to—made him unfathomably angry.
If you weren’t in such a sensitive, vulnerable state, Bucky probably would’ve had this guy pinned to the floor by now.
“While you’re at it, go ahead and take Eleni out with you,” Bucky added, nodding toward the woman dismissively, as if he hadn’t been tongue deep in her mouth just minutes ago. “Sounds like you two have some catching up to do, anyway.”
John muttered curses under his breath as he pushed through the exit, a timid Eleni trailing quickly behind him.
When the door shut, leaving just you and Bucky in the office, he turned around to finally look at you—and his heart broke right there in his chest.
He knew he had said and done things to purposefully get under your skin in the past, but seeing you now, looking so small with your cheeks stained with tears, it made him feel like the worst kind of man, despite not being the one who broke your heart.
“Hey,” Bucky murmured gently, resting both hands on your shoulders and leaning down so he was at eye level. “Are you okay—”
He nearly stumbled back from the impact of you burying your face into his chest.
You gripped his shirt tightly as you broke into the most gut wrenching sob he had ever heard in his life.
Without another thought, his arms came up to wrap securely around your body, holding you close against him. One large palm rested at the back of your head, soothing you with a comforting caress.
Bucky didn’t know what to say.
There had been times when he had almost made you cry out of sheer frustration, yeah, but that was almost. Now with you breaking down in his arms, he hated the very idea of you crying, period.
“Hey, he’s gone, okay?” he murmured against your temple. “You’re okay. You’re okay.”
He didn’t know what else to offer other than a couple of “you’re okays” and the occasional “I’m here.”
“I—I don’t understand—” you whimpered into Bucky’s shirt, which was now damp with your tears. “What did I do to deserve this?”
Guilt clawed at his heart while his teeth caught his lower lip hard enough to draw blood.
He knew your words were also a partial reflection on him and how he’d been treating you—constantly making your job so much harder than it needed to be. He sighed, holding you a little closer.
“Nothing. You did nothing,” Bucky said, his tone gentler than you had ever heard it before. “You don’t deserve any of this. And I’m sorry.”
“Thank you,” you sniffled. “For standing up for me. I… I didn’t know what to do. I’m just so tired.”
Bucky felt like the Grinch—his chest tight as his heart softened with each broken word you cried out.
For the first time since he had moved into your complex, he was hearing a thank you leave your lips. He might have expected it if he ever turned his music down on the first ask, or helped you take out the trash. But not once had you muttered those words to him until now, while you were weeping in his arms and holding onto him like he was the only person you could rely on.
He felt terrible.
He, of all people, didn’t deserve your gratitude.
“Hey, don’t get sappy on me now.” He sighed, caressing your hair again as he rested his chin on the top of your head.
“You’re a strong girl. You’ll be okay.”
As the day bled into the rest of the week, Bucky felt like he was getting whiplash.
One day, you were crying in his arms and seeking his comfort, and the next, it was like you slapped your cold mask back on and went right back to being his personal landlord from hell.
He had made a promise to himself to help you out in small ways—like keeping his mixer at a lower volume, or offering to help paint the window frames. He hadn’t even invited a single girl over since your breakdown. It was selfish of him to think you’d soften up just because he held you while you cried, but you didn’t. Instead, it was the same usual business from you.
“Bucky, turn down your music!”
“Your music is giving me a headache. Lower it.”
“I can’t believe people actually listen to this robot music.”
Today, he had his friends over—Steve and Sam—whom you seemed to detest just as much because of the volume they brought with them.
Sam was lounging in the beanbag chair, his legs sprawled out, while Steve found comfort on Bucky’s bed. All three of them had a cold Mythos beer in hand, taking slow swigs while Bucky focused on mixing a new track on his laptop.
“Turn the music up,” Steve said, gesturing to the monitor with his bottle. “I want to hear how the bass hits on that drop.”
Bucky’s hand hovered over the master volume knob, then hesitated. If he recalled correctly, you had a lot of important calls to make down in the office today. The last thing he wanted to do right now was add more to your plate.
Slowly, he pulled his hand back, leaving the volume exactly where it was. “Nah, it’s loud enough.”
“No way, man. The walls are usually shaking from how loud you play this stuff,” Sam said, furrowing his brows. “Come on. Turn it up.”
Bucky kept his attention glued to his laptop, his hands adjusting everything on his mixer but the volume.
“My landlord is making calls downstairs,” he muttered, trying to sound as dismissive and nonchalant as possible in the hopes his friends would just drop it.
But of course, they don’t.
Steve sat up on the bed, his arms resting on his knees while the green bottle dangled loosely in his fingers. “Hold on. Since when do you care about what your landlord thinks?”
“Especially when it comes to your music,” Sam egged on, that teasing grin spreading across his face.
Bucky felt like he was a cat being cornered. He chewed the inside of his cheek, attempting to play around with the BPM to distract himself, but ended up completely messing up the transition.
“I don’t care what she thinks,” Bucky said quickly, his voice a little too defensive as he clicked aggressively on his trackpad. “I just don’t feel like hearing her run her mouth today.”
“You know, speaking of running her mouth—” Sam pushed himself up on the beanbag chair with a groan. “How did she react when she walked in on you and Eleni? Surely she heard all the noise you two were making, right?”
Steve barked out a laugh, waiting to hear Bucky’s response.
Bucky grimaced at the memory.
Despite them bringing Eleni up, his mind wasn’t on her at all—it was entirely on you and everything that had unfolded that day.
Normally, he’d chug his beer with his track set to the highest volume, laughing alongside Sam and Steve about how you were constantly on his ass, pestering him like a mother. But this time, he recoiled at the way his friends were talking about you.
He didn’t even know how to begin explaining it.
How could he explain that he hadn’t actually slept with Eleni because he’d overheard you arguing with your boyfriend, John? The very same John who got outed for cheating on you with Eleni—the girl Bucky just so happened to have brought home that day.
“We didn’t even sleep together. We were just messing around on the bed, and she came in to complain about the noise,” Bucky muttered with a casual shrug. “That’s it.”
Sam hummed in thought, pausing in the middle of sipping his Mythos. “You know what it sounds like your landlord needs? She needs to loosen up.”
Bucky frowned.
They had no idea what you were going through at all.
“Yeah,” Steve agreed. “Take her to one of your gigs tonight—show her how good your music actually is, and what keeps her rent money coming in.”
Bucky couldn’t picture it. You, loosening up in the middle of a crowded dance floor, actually enjoying the music you constantly complained was nothing but “robot noise.”
“Yeah,” Bucky scoffed. “Like that’s ever going to happen.”
Steve shrugged. “A girl like that wouldn’t be hard to impress. Who knows, maybe she’ll realize the nightlife she’s missing out on here in Greece, ditch her lame boyfriend, and give you a chance instead—”
“Alright, alright, enough.” Bucky waved his hand, spinning around in his chair to glare at Steve. He hated how obvious it was that he cared. “Can we just get back to working on my mix? I need it ready and sounding perfect by Friday night.”
Sam’s brows rose. “Oh, Friday night! That’s the perfect amount of time for you to convince her to come out—”
Bucky groaned, rubbing the space between his brows to soothe his impending headache. “Christ, Sammy. Would you just shut up—”
“Eeeeek!”
Bucky was cut off by a loud, piercing screech echoing from down the stairs—straight from your office. He immediately sat up straight in his chair, his eyes widening.
Steve grimaced. “Jesus. What’s wrong with her now—”
But before Steve could even finish his sentence, Bucky was already throwing himself out of his chair. He lunged out the door and raced down the stairs toward you. As his feet pounded against the creaky steps, his mind scrambled through every worst case scenario.
Had John returned to threaten you?
Was a potential tenant giving you a hard time?
Either way, he was ready to tear them apart. And he didn’t care if Steve or Sam were right behind him to witness it.
“Hey!” Bucky barked, breathless as he rounded the corner into the office. “Are you okay—”
“Oh my god, oh my god, get away! No! Don’t get any closer!” you squealed.
Bucky froze in the doorway, only to find you stranded on top of your desk chair, your legs wobbly as you tried to keep yourself from falling. Your eyes were wide with terror, staring down at the floor. Bucky tilted his head to get a better look at what was going on.
Sitting right at the base of your chair was a stray white cat. Her tail was swishing lazily against the floor, and she was proudly holding a very dead, very fat rat between her teeth.
Bucky’s shoulders instantly slumped as he realized he wouldn’t be throwing hands with John after all—and just how ridiculous this entire situation was.
“Bucky, help me!” you wailed, pointing a shaky finger at the feline. “Get it out! Get it out of here right now!”
“Which one?” Bucky crossed his arms, making absolutely no effort to rush to your rescue. “The rodent, or the cat?”
“The rat, Bucky! Oh my god—she’s getting closer, ew!” You whipped your head toward him, frazzled. “Do something!”
Bucky sighed heavily.
He was on a tight time crunch, needing his mix ready by Friday for a gig at a massive club here in Greece—and now his precious time was being spent trying to wrestle a stray cat.
Then again, he had made a silent promise to himself to start helping you out.
He stepped away from the doorframe and closer to you, making exaggerated shooing motions at the animal.
“Shoo! Go on, get out of here. And take your friend with you.”
The cat looked up at Bucky with big, round blue eyes that perfectly matched his own, let out a raspy mewl, and turned her head right back to you. Wanting to ensure her favorite human accepted the prize, the cat pushed herself up on her hind legs, stretching her paws onto the seat of the chair to drop the limp rodent right at your feet.
“Oh my god, no! Don’t do that! Ew, ew, ew! No!”
You could’ve sworn you saw the dead rat twitch.
Panic completely overrode your system. Without a single thought for your pride or your dignity, you launched yourself off the chair and jumped straight into Bucky’s arms.
Bucky looked up, his eyes widening as he realized what you were doing, but it was already too late to brace himself.
He let out a oomph! as your body collided with his, nearly knocking him right off his feet. With a huff, his arms hooked around your waist and thighs to catch you before you both could hit the floor. He stumbled back, struggling to find his balance as you wrapped your arms around his neck, burying your face into the crook of his shoulder in panic.
He had never expected to find you in his arms again so soon—much less over a damn cat.
“You’re okay,” Bucky sighed, caressing your back. “Look! She’s already taking the rat away.” He reassured, despite the cat not moving a single paw.
You kept your face buried, your fingers tightly bunching the fabric of the back of his shirt. “Is she really? Promise me you’re not lying, Bucky.”
“Buck! We’re coming! Hold on—”
Steve’s voice echoed through the hallway as he and Sam burst through the office doorway in a sprint. Both of them had their shoulders squared and their fists clenched, ready to throw down in whatever fight Bucky had gotten himself into.
But they came to a halt, their eyes wide as they took in the view.
There was Bucky, holding the very woman he claimed to detest so much securely in his arms—bridal style, at that.
“Oh,” Sam chuckled, raising a brow. “Are we interrupting something?”
Bucky’s neck flushed a deep crimson. Even with your body tucked firmly against his, he was focused on the mortification of Steve and Sam drilling their stares directly into the side of his head.
“Get the rat out of the room!” he hissed through clenched teeth.
He tried to speak quietly so he wouldn’t startle you with the word rat, but the attempt obviously failed—because, well… you were right there, and you squealed in response.
Sam didn’t move, his grin only widening. “I don’t know, Buck. Pest control wasn’t really on the itinerary today. What’s the magic word?”
Bucky now understood why you hated his friends so much.
“Sam, I swear to God—”
Seeing that his best friend was about to combust from embarrassment, Steve finally took pity on him.
“Alright, alright, I’ve got it,” Steve reassured, stepping past them. He grabbed a plastic clipboard from your desk, using it like a makeshift shovel to carefully scoop the dead rodent off the chair.
“Ugh, that thing is huge,” Sam pointed out—eliciting another loud squeal from you—as he held the door open for Steve so they could dump it in the trash bins outside.
“Is it gone?” you whimpered into his chest.
Bucky looked down, his eyes softening as he took in the way your nose was pressed directly into his shirt. “It’s gone. I promise.”
With a relieved breath, you gently pushed yourself out of Bucky’s grasp until your feet hit the floor. He hated the sudden, empty space between the two of you.
Trying to bridge the gap you just created, Bucky stepped closer again, resting a warm palm on your shoulder. “Are you alright?”
He spoke so softly, with a gentleness that caught you off guard.
Heat tickled the back of your neck, your heart beating rapidly from the embarrassment of your outburst—and the fact that you had run straight into Bucky’s arms for comfort yet again.
“I-I’m fine,” you stammered, straightening yourself.
Steve and Sam were just about to walk back inside, but they stopped when they saw Bucky leaning down, his thumb now softly caressing your cheek.
They knew their friend had a long track record of being a blatant flirt and a playboy, but never once had they seen him soften up the way he was right now. Exchanging looks, the two of them played it smart and silently agreed to turn around, letting their friend have his chance.
You gently stepped away from Bucky’s touch, letting out a soft sigh at the cat still perched in the middle of the office floor. You hoped averting your attention elsewhere would soothe the awkwardness.
“Why’d you do that, Alpine? Are you trying to scare me to death?” you murmured, kneeling down to give her a gentle pat on her dusty head.
Bucky furrowed his brows. “She has a name?”
“She was a stray hiding near the trash bins a few weeks ago. I ran to the market next door to buy some food for her, and she’s been following me ever since. But I didn’t think she’d stick around long enough to gift me a…” You shuddered at the mere thought. “…a rat.”
He chuckled, kneeling down right next to you to offer the cat a few pets of his own.
“That’s cute,” he murmured. “Look at you, always on top of taking care of things—even the neighborhood strays.”
You let out a small laugh, the sound soft, warm, and genuine against his eardrums.
Bucky felt like his chest was going to explode. You were so close, smiling brightly in a way he almost never saw from you. As the last of your laughter trickled in the air, he realized this was his perfect opportunity.
The atmosphere between you two was soft. Your walls were down, and he could take this conversation exactly where he wanted it to go.
Are you free this Friday night?
Do you want to come see my set at the club? We could even dance together.
I actually named one of my tracks after you.
But you spoke up before he could. “Oh, I almost forgot. I wanted to say thank you.”
Bucky shrugged casually. “The rat was no problem—”
“No, not just for the rat. I meant for everything else,” you clarified, sitting up straight and meeting him in the eye.
“These past few days, I’ve noticed you’ve been… well, on your best behavior.” You offered a sheepish smile as you struggled to find the right words. “You’ve been lowering your music whenever I ask you to, and I really appreciate it. So, thank you.”
Bucky huffed a laugh.
Here you were—showing gratitude just because he was finally giving you the bare minimum. He didn’t deserve you.
“Yeah, well, even if my music isn’t blasting at full volume, it still sounds good,” he joked, flashing you a confident grin.
You rolled your eyes, letting your hands gently pet down Alpine’s spine. She was purring.
“You keep telling yourself that,” you teased back. “I still don’t know how you can listen to music like that all day, much less produce it.”
“It’s not music you listen to all day,” Bucky adjusted his posture so he was a bit more relaxed as he sat on the floor. “It’s music you listen to when the stars are out while strobe lights are blinding you.”
Without even realizing it, he started rambling.
“It’s the kind of music that's meant to make you feel good. To push all the thoughts out of your head, drown out the noise of the rest of the world, and just let yourself loose for a little while.”
You hummed in thought.
For the entire time you’ve known Bucky, you had never bothered to ask about his DJing simply because you didn’t care to.
You’d always figured it was just a stupid hobby he did to piss you off and disrupt your peace—but the way he talked about it now, passionately getting lost in his own words, made you interested to say the least.
“You should come to one of my gigs one day and see what it’s like,” he murmured, his voice sounding far more vulnerable than his usual confidence. “It’ll be fun.”
You blew a raspberry, though you weren’t entirely put off by the idea.
“I appreciate the invite, but look around you, Bucky,” you huffed, letting out a self-deprecating laugh. “This place is running on my bare hands alone. I can’t afford a night off.”
“Then let me help you,” Bucky interrupted, turning his body so he was giving you his undivided attention. “You need help painting the window frames and fixing the plumbing, right? I’ll take care of it.”
You blinked, your eyes widening in surprise.
Bucky… helping you?
This was completely out of character for him. You braced yourself for the catch, waiting for him to follow up with something like, “As long as I can bring home whoever I want, play my music as loud as I want, and get a discount on my monthly rent,” but nothing came.
“I don’t know, Bucky—”
“Come on, sweetheart,” he grinned, that taunting tone creeping back into his voice. “Let someone help you for once.”
You searched his eyes, trying to catch a punchline, but still, there was nothing.
You didn’t quite believe him. You figured this was just his way of tossing you sympathy points to get you to praise him some more, only for him to end up doing absolutely nothing.
So, you just sighed, rolled your eyes, and pushed yourself up off the floor.
“Whatever you say, Barnes.”
To your surprise, Bucky had actually made true to his promise and helped you around the complex.
He was already up most mornings before you even arrived, blasting his music from his speakers. Instead of just fixing the paint on the window panels, he reinstalled new ones and painted them over with the pretty blue you’ve been eyeing.
It made you feel giddy, seeing him in a tank top and jeans that were covered in both dirt and blue paint.
“Morning,” you shouted over the music, setting your cup of coffee down at your desk. Alpine was still here—curled up in your chair. Bucky must’ve let her in.
“You’re already working on the window panels?”
Bucky didn’t hear you at first, sweeping his paintbrush back and forth until he lifted his head in your direction. He reached over to his Bluetooth speaker, lowering his music to a much more appropriate volume for seven in the morning.
“Oh, yeah.” He pushed himself up with a groan. “Thought I’d get started on the easy stuff first.”
He crossed his arms, taking a step back to admire his work. Then, he looked at you for your reaction.
“How… how do you like it?”
You wanted to jump up and down in glee with how beautiful the windows looked. The bright blue color made everything much more welcoming and inviting, but you didn’t want to give Bucky the opportunity to gloat just yet.
“Hm,” you tilted your head. You could feel Bucky growing anxious beside you—though he tried his best not to show it. “I think I want it in a different shade of blue, actually.”
Bucky’s eyes nearly bulged out of their sockets. He raised his hands, about to protest, but you broke down in a laugh.
“I’m kidding,” you said, wiping a tear at his reaction. “It’s perfect. I love it.”
He let out a heavy sigh of relief, but you could still see the grump lines on his face. “Good. Otherwise I would’ve painted your face blue,” he muttered, motioning to the paintbrush.
“Oh? You mean like this?”
You quickly snatched the brush out of his hands, and before he could even process what was going on, you had already swiped a stripe of blue paint over his stubbled cheek.
Bucky stood there, wide eyed. He swiped his thumb over the paint and looked down at his fingers, appalled. But while you were busy laughing in his face, a slow smile cracked across his lips. He suddenly lunged for you, wrapping his strong arms around your body from behind. He hooked the paintbrush back out of your hands, smearing a streak of blue over your face as well.
“Bucky, stop!” you yelled, thrashing in his arms as you just barely dodged the bristles that were tickling your chin with paint. “Stop! I can’t be covered in paint—I have to work!” you argued, despite the breathless laughter breaking in between your words.
“Yeah, well. You should’ve thought about that before you attacked me first, sweetheart.”
From that day onward, your week with Bucky had been filled with more laughter than you’ve had in the entire course of previous months.
Each day was eventful—Bucky was always up early in the morning working on the complex, somehow always managing to find new things to fix, while you arrived with cups of coffee and a bag of treats for Alpine.
During break times, you and Bucky would eat lunch together in his apartment, and he introduced you to more and more of his music.
Every time you two worked, he always had his music playing. Slowly, you started to become fond of it. There were even a few tracks of his that you liked so much, you actually saved them to your own playlist. And every time you asked him for the track title, Bucky would laugh and say, “See? I told you my mixes are good.”
Now, you were sitting on his beanbag chair with your legs crossed, the two of you eating pitas with cold beers to wash them down.
“It’s all about the frequencies,” Bucky said, gesturing to the DJ controller sitting on his desk. He set his beer down, leaning forward as his fingers traced the knobs and sliders. “You’ve got your lows, mids, and highs. If I want to drop the bass out to create suspense before the hook hits, I twist this dial right here.”
He clicked a button, and the beat lost its thump thump, turning into an airy synth. Then, he slid a fader up, and the thumping beat came back in.
“That’s pretty cool. It’s a lot more complicated than I thought.” You leaned your head back against the beanbag, looking up at him with a sheepish grin. “Honestly, I just thought guys up there would bop their heads to pre-made music and pretend like they’re doing something. I didn’t think they played it all live.”
Bucky chuckled, his shoulders shaking as he swiveled his chair to face you. “Surprising, isn’t it?”
He glanced at his desk, then back to you. “Come here,” he nodded his head toward the console. “Try playing something.”
“What?” you said, sitting up straight. “No. Knowing my luck, I’d touch something and it’d break.”
Bucky huffed a laugh.
Who would’ve thought that the very woman who had threatened to throw his entire DJ setup out the window was actually too scared to even touch it?
“Enough of that. Come here, I’ll show you.”
Judging by the look on Bucky’s face, you knew he wasn’t going to let this up. With a reluctant sigh, you pushed yourself off the beanbag chair and walked over to him. He scooted his chair back, giving you the space to step right up to his setup.
You felt your face warm up instantly when he swiveled right back around, locking you between his desk and his lap.
“Sit down,” Bucky instructed from behind you.
You glanced over your shoulder and swallowed hard. His lap was spread, and he was leaning as far back in his chair as possible to make space for you. You wanted to make an excuse, to say you were much better off standing, but you knew Bucky would just fight you on it.
Mustering up your courage, you sat down, pressing your bottom directly into his lap. Bucky didn’t seem to mind it at all—meanwhile, your face was burning like crazy.
“Here,” he murmured, reaching around you to grab your arm. He guided it toward one of the sliders and placed his hand firmly over yours, setting your fingers down gently on the control.
Bucky’s palm was rough and warm against the back of your hand.
He leaned in closer, his chest pressing into your back, and you could feel the rumbly vibration of his chuckle against you.
“Relax,” he murmured right against your ear, his breath tickling your neck. “I’m not gonna bite. Unless you ask nicely.”
You hated him. You really did.
“Bucky, I swear to God—”
Bucky nudged your hand forward, forcing your fingers to slowly push the slider upward. As the fader moved, the track playing through the monitors began to warp.
“That’s the high-pass filter,” Bucky explained softly. He shifted slightly beneath you, adjusting his thighs under your bottom. “Hear how it cuts out the low end? Now, wait for the timer on the screen to hit zero, and slam it back down.”
You did exactly as instructed, yanking it down the second the timer hit zero, and a smile broke across your face at the bass.
“Wow, that sounds pretty good,” you breathed.
Curiosity got the best of you, and you started to play around with the different sliders on your own—creating a whole new funky and out of beat mix. You messed with the distortion and the reverb, and it sounded terrible enough to make you burst into laughter, with Bucky laughing right along beneath you.
You pressed a button, then a beep! noise came after. A red light started blinking at the soundboard.
“You’re recording now,” he said. “Want to sing something?”
“God, no.” You laughed.
Sooner or later, you felt his hands slowly drift from your arms down to your hips. Surprisingly, you didn’t mind his touch one bit. It felt entirely natural. Like his hands were always meant to be right there—guiding you, holding you…
“Come watch me play on Friday,” he murmured gently.
You looked down at him over your shoulder, and your breath caught. Bucky had been staring up at you this entire time. His blue eyes bored right into yours the minute you made eye contact, with no intention to break it first.
“Bucky, I…”
“I can get you in for free—you can skip the line, or come whenever you want. Just take one night off for yourself. You deserve it.”
You chewed your lower lip, feeling apprehensive. You and Bucky had done enough hard work over the last few days to compensate for the rest of the week, essentially clearing your schedule.
Looking into Bucky’s eyes—seeing the blue glimmer with hope just like the Greek ocean does on a sunny day—made it so much harder to say no. He had done so much for you these past few weeks, and the very least you could do was watch him do something he was truly passionate about.
“Fine. But only if you play my favorite tracks,” you said with a teasing smile.
Bucky blinked, as if he hadn’t heard you right.
Then, his lips pulled into the biggest, brightest grin you’d ever seen from him. His grip on your hips tightened before trailing up to your waist. Hell, he’d delete this entire set he had been working on for months if it meant you’d come watch him.
He was so overjoyed with excitement that he didn’t offer any words to prove it.
Instead, he pulled your waist a little tighter, tilted his head up, and kissed you.
You froze, your eyes going wide as his warm lips connected with yours.
You?
Kissing Bucky?
You never thought you would see the day. But the second his slick lips began to dance with yours—the second his tongue pushed past your lips to taste you—it was like all the stress from before this, all the emotional drain from your breakup with John, disappeared in an instant.
“Mmm,” you moaned into the kiss. Your hands flew to the back of his neck, burying into his messy brown hair and giving it a firm tug that made him groan right back against your mouth.
Bucky’s hands slid up from your waist, his large palms smoothing against your ribs and moving to your back to pull you closer against him.
He tasted like the cold beer, but his mouth was intoxicating heat.
Bucky had his fair share of kisses with women—just as you had your fair share of makeout sessions with John. But neither of you had to say a single word to know that this was it. This kiss shared between you two was like no other.
His hands roamed under your tank top, his fingers tickling your lower back as he trailed upward.
Of course, you had no bra on. You never wore one in this suffocating summer heat. That was one of Bucky’s favorite things about you.
Bucky broke the kiss to catch his breath, his head leaning back against the chair to gaze up at you. His eyes flickered down, lifting the hem of your shirt to reveal your smooth belly. He had seen your midriff from a distance whenever you bent over in your office—but never up close like this.
He groaned hungrily, then leaned in, pressing soft, warm kisses to your abdomen.
“A—ah, Bucky…” you mewled, squirming from the ticklish sensation.
He looked up at you with the softest eyes a boy could have, leaning his cheek right against your fluttering stomach. His stubble made you ticklish, but he didn’t pull away.
“I love it when you say my name like that,” he sighed dreamily. “You’re so beautiful.”
Your face warmed and you stammered, avoiding eye contact.
It was clear to Bucky that you weren’t used to receiving compliments, especially not from your no-good ex-boyfriend, John Walker.
But that was okay, because Bucky was here to change that.
“The most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen,” he murmured. You tried to shy away from his compliment again, but his fingers trailed up to your chin, tilting your head down so you were forced to look at him.
“The prettiest eyes, the prettiest smile,” his thumb traced patterns on your bare hip. “And the prettiest lips. God, those lips.”
He leaned in to press his lips against yours once more. Your tongues danced in a warm embrace as he slowly began to undress you, starting with your tank top. His hands eagerly lifted the fabric, breaking the kiss momentarily just so he could pull it over your head before his mouth crashed right back down onto yours.
In between kisses, he would murmur things like, “So beautiful,” and “Mine,” every soft word matching the steady blood flow pumping from his heart and straight to cock.
When his hands found the button of your shorts, you rolled your hips forward, grinding that hot, delicious heat right against the growing bulge in his jeans.
He chuckled raspily against your lips before pulling away, his lips swollen and his chin sheen with exchanged saliva.
“Eager little thing, are you?”
You groaned in annoyance, though it sounded incredibly sexy to his ears.
You worked at his belt, then moved to the button of his jeans. “Take these off.”
Bucky clicked his tongue. His hand caught your wrist, gently prying it away from his pants. “You’ve ought to learn how to say please.”
His arms wrapped securely around your body, lifting you up from the chair so suddenly that you yelped, wrapping your legs around his waist instinctively. He led you quickly over to the edge of his bed, setting your body down and tucking himself right between your thighs.
“Besides,” he breathed, eagerly pulling your shorts down along with your panties and throwing them over his shoulder. “I’m still not done with you. I want to take my time worshiping this fucking body.”
You lay there sprawled out and bare while Bucky was still fully clothed. It was overwhelming, but you didn’t have time to fully process it before Bucky’s head tucked between your thighs, his nose pressing to your base as he inhaled deeply.
“Fuck, you’re dripping already.”
You arched your back, letting out a shocked gasp. “B-Bucky—! What are you—!”
“Relax,” he murmured against your sensitive skin, his hands finding your outer thighs and prying them wider for him. “Just want to taste you, baby.”
Bucky’s tongue swiped flat against your dripping center, the tip of his tongue flicking your sensitive clit. He groaned, letting the taste of you linger on his mouth.
He glanced to look at you between your legs, and the sight of your face—brows pinching together with your bottom lip caught between your teeth—made his cock painfully hard. You lying bare in front of him was an invitation for him to sink his cock into you, but he wanted to savor this.
He tucked his head back down, lapping at your pussy sloppily. His warm tongue would tease your entrance with every flick, before slowly dragging up. He’d press his whole mouth against your pussy, pushing his tongue deep against your clit and dragging his tongue up and down quickly to make you cry out in pleasure.
“Bucky—please, oh god, Bucky—!”
He swirled his tongue around the swollen peak of your clit, sucking it into his mouth with a light tug that had your toes curling around his head.
You were so deprived of intimate touches, never being ate out in a way that Bucky was eating you out, and you already felt like you were about to cum embarrassingly fast.
“Don’t stop, I’m gonna cum—” you whimpered, hand coming up to your mouth to muffle your cries.
Bucky had no intention of stopping.
He doubled his efforts, the sound of his wet tongue squelching against your cunt, lapping at every drip your arousal gave him. He was eager to make you fall apart, to listen to you cry out his name as you came all over his face.
Bucky inhaled sharply as you began riding his tongue with abandon. You were being selfish—chasing your high. He knew you were that kind of woman, to take what you wanted, and fuck, did he love you for it. Especially when you’re riding his face for your own pleasure, not even caring if he could breathe or not.
“Yes, yes, yes,” you moaned, tossing your head. “Fuck me with your tongue, Bucky. I’m gonna cum—!”
Your eyes went wide when you realized you were about to let out more than you could handle. But you couldn’t stop—not when Bucky was pressing his tongue firmly against your clit and holding your thighs down with his strong hands.
“Bucky—wait, I…” before you could warn him, your back arched off the bed into a cry.
Your orgasm came hot and hard, pleasure suddenly flooding your senses as you felt yourself gush around his tongue. Bucky’s face was drowning with your juices, your puffy cunt clenching around his mouth. Your wet essence trickled down your thighs and stained his bedsheets vulgarly, leaving a wet spot beneath you.
“Oh my god,” you panted, face burning hot as you fought to catch your breath.
Bucky finally pulled away, a smug grin plastered on his face while his chin was dripping with your juice. You watched as he licked his lips, the gesture only making you want to sink deeper into his bed from embarrassment.
“Look at that,” he kneeled back, hand rubbing his hard cock through his jeans. “You made a real mess on my bed.”
Your eyes were shamelessly glued to the way his dick was printed against his pants. It was strained tight against the denim, and you could see the heavy outline of his tip, spurting pre-cum and dampening his thigh with his own juice.
“I’m… I’m sorry…”
Bucky chuckled—a deep, raspy sound that made you clench around nothing.
“God, baby. You’ve got my dick so hard, it hurts,” he rasped, finally pulling his cock out of his pants and kicking the article off the bed. “You already came so much. I don’t know if you can go another round.”
You weren’t sure, either. But with the way he was jerking himself off, that heavy string of pre-cum dangling from his tip, and the way his balls looked so full and desperate for relief, you were determined to go another.
He crawled over you, dragging his tip along your shaking inner thigh and against your entrance, coating himself in your wetness as he probed you.
You were so sensitive, your pussy puffy and aching, yet when he pushed his tip in to test you, your cunt parted for him so easily. You winced, your overworked pussy already fluttering around his tip despite yourself.
“Please, Bucky…” you whined, and it might’ve been the cutest thing Bucky had ever heard. “Put it in. It hurts…”
“It hurts? Aw, baby. But I bet you’re not hurting as much as I am.” He grabbed your hand, guiding it down to his cock. It was so hot, his skin smooth as it twitched under your fingertips. “Feel that? It’s aching for you, baby.”
Bucky grabbed your hips, aligning himself perfectly so he could sink in deeper, pushing his tip past your tight walls until half of his cock was embraced by your warmth.
“Fuck, you’re tight… even after cumming,” he hissed, his face tightening as he eagerly pushed his hips forward to stretch you out. “Like you were made for this.”
Already sensitive, the sudden fullness was overwhelming. A high-pitched gasp tore from your throat as your walls clamped down hard on him, tightening around the middle of his cock where he was thickest.
You whimpered and winced, trying to accommodate him, and Bucky felt his heart soar.
You were usually always so demanding, wound up so tight from constantly being overworked, and now you were wound up tight from his cock bottoming out in your pussy. Each moan and gasp of breath that left your lips made his cock twitch and his balls heavier.
“Those cute little noises—it makes my cock throb so hard,” he groaned.
Once his cock was fully sheathed inside, he started to pick up the pace, his balls slapping against you with wet and obscene smacks. His room—usually filled with the sounds of his music—was now filled with the sounds of your moans, and that was the greatest sound Bucky had ever produced.
He was fucking you so deep, each thrust met with curses and grunts. “So fucking beautiful,” “What a tight little pussy, fuck.” “You’re gonna make me cum so fast. M’already getting close…”
Each moan that left his lips made white spots dance around your vision. He was so deep, you could feel him in your gut. Pressure was building fast in your lower abdomen—a fullness that was equally agonizing and overwhelming.
Bucky’s big body was enveloping yours, his chest pressed into your sweaty one as he rocked his hips sensual and deep. He quickened his pace, in and out, in and out, until he felt his balls clench up.
“Shit, shit—” he gasped into your shoulder. “Not gonna last.”
Your pussy was like a drug. It was addicting, the way you would squeeze and flutter around him. Despite him making you squirt all over his sheets just minutes ago, you were already edging on your next orgasm. He felt every ripple and pulse your cunt had to offer—pumping him with your pussy before you cried out in pleasure so overwhelming, it made you see stars.
“Bucky!” you screamed, “oh my god—I’m cumming again—I can’t—”
Fuck, this was the fastest he had ever came.
“Please tell me you’re on the pill,” he pleaded with a broken voice.
That was essentially your warning that he was gonna cum inside. And when you nodded, that was his invitation to do it.
His entire body coiled up tight as he started pumping you full of his backed up seed. He couldn’t even remember the last time he had sex before you. All that mattered now was that his balls were finally being drained inside the person he wanted to pump them in the most—his precious landlord.
“Shit. I’m cumming, fuck! You’re squeezing me so tight—” he gasped as his body collapsed over you, huffing angry groans as his body tensed—draining every drop of his cum into your overly fucked pussy.
The two of you lay tangled in each other’s sweaty limbs, melting under the shared, musky scent of sex.
While Bucky was catching his breath, he peppered you with wet kisses—to your collarbones, shoulders, neck, and chin.
“You’re so pretty. Could lay with you forever—just like this.”
Who knew that Bucky Barnes, of all people, was the one person you slept with who made you feel more pleasure and adored than John ever had?
Your heart felt too big for your chest, and you felt like you wanted to cry. The way he held you and murmured sweet things to soothe your heart—it all became too much.
A small sniffling sound escaped you before you could stop it, and Bucky caught it immediately. He tilted his head up and looked at you, wide eyed.
“Hey, hey,” he cooed so softly, his palms coming up to caress your cheeks so you would look at him. “What’s wrong? Are you okay? Did I hurt you?”
Bucky was so soft, looking at you with wide, adoring eyes, like you were the only woman in the world and the only one he wanted to be with. It was hard to believe that this was the same man who always made sure to get a rise out of you just weeks ago.
“I’m… I’m okay,” you stammered. “I just… didn’t expect all this.”
Bucky frowned, his touch so delicate as if he were afraid of hurting you.
“I’m sorry—”
“No, don’t apologize,” you interjected gently, your fingers running through his sweaty strands of dark hair so you could see his eyes. “I loved every bit of it.”
He searched your eyes, his brows furrowing with vulnerability as he tried to find the truth in your words. When you held his gaze, showing how sincere you were, his frown tilted back into a sheepish smile—a far cry from his usually smug grins that you always wanted to wipe off.
“Good. Because I don’t regret a single bit of it,” he leaned in, capturing your lips with a wet kiss. “You better come on Friday. Watch me play. Then, after my set, we’ll come back home and make love all over again.”
You grinned at how blatant he was. But lying here with him, soaked up in each other’s essence, it was hard for you to say no.
“Fine. I’ll take your word for it.”
With how busy you were taking care of the complex, Friday night came in the blink of an eye.
Despite living in Greece, on an island notorious for its nightlife, you weren’t a fan of clubbing at all. You were always so busy, elbows deep in the run down housing complex just to keep it afloat—so naturally, you didn’t have anything to wear.
When you had asked Bucky for advice, he told you, “Whether you wear a short skimpy dress or a skirt that goes down to your ankles, I’ll be tearing it off later in bed.”
You had rolled your eyes at that before settling on a dress that was far too short and far too tight for your liking. But you couldn’t be bothered to care, considering the club would be dark and packed enough with bodies that no one would notice your outfit anyway.
You arrived later than you had anticipated, having been caught up with last minute paperwork and calls. By the time you got there, the club was already packed nearly shoulder to shoulder, with colorful neon strobe lights dancing across the crowd.
Your eyes naturally gravitated to the stage, where a familiar—if slightly fancier—DJ setup stood right in the center.
And of course, Bucky was right behind it.
He was manning the mixer, getting lost in his own music while the lights danced around him. One hand was resting on the mixer while the other rested on his headset. He kept his promise of playing your favorite tracks—and you couldn’t help but smile with the way he had everyone dancing in the center.
You felt out of place, standing awkwardly by the bar while everyone danced drunkenly around you. Unlike Bucky, this was not your element at all. But you took the night off, making a promise to yourself, and Bucky, that you would enjoy yourself.
Remembering Bucky’s instructions from earlier that day, “Just go up to the bar, tell them you’re with me, and get whatever you want,” you pushed your way through the crowd to get the bartender’s attention for a drink.
A guy with a slammed expression who looked like he’d been dealing with unruly tourists all night finally looked at you.
“Hey,” you shouted over the music.
“What’ll it be, miss?”
“A double Tsipouro—I’m with Bucky,” you hiked your thumb over your shoulder, pointing at the DJ who was currently mixing your favorite track.
The bartender paused, looking at Bucky on stage, then back at you with an irritated scoff.
“Yeah, like I’ve never heard that one before,” he grabbed a double shot glass, filled it to the brim, and slid it towards you. “That’ll be €8.”
You frowned. You contemplated on arguing back, but the local girls next to you giggled after they eavesdropped on the interaction, and by then, the bartender was already tending to the next person.
With a sigh that felt almost self-deprecating, you downed the shot without a chaser, and tried to enjoy the rest of the night listening to Bucky’s set without letting that interaction get to you.
After a couple of shots—that you all paid for—you went from being buzzed to intoxicated. You were dancing by yourself in the crowd, relishing every bass and beat that Bucky was throwing up on stage. When an unexpected hand came to rest on your lower back, you instantly spun around to tell the guy off.
“Hey, get your hands off—!” but you stopped when you saw Steve standing right in front of you with Sam right next to him.
“If it isn’t Bucky’s landlord,” Sam teased with a tone that brought good intentions, “I didn’t think we’d ever see you here.”
“Did Bucky drag you out tonight?” Steve asked.
With the alcohol bubbling in your bloodstream, you weren’t sure if you hid your flustered expression well.
You had no clue how much Bucky had told his friends about you—how you two were technically a ‘thing’ now, despite not officially talking about it.
“Yeah,” you shouted back. “He wanted me to come out tonight to watch his set. He’s really good.”
“He definitely is,” Steve agreed, then grabbed your hand. “Well, if you’re out here to party, better make the most of it.”
You laughed as Sam and Steve pulled you further into a clearer pocket of the crowd. With the two guys next to you—warding off the other drunk men who tried getting close to you—you actually started to let loose. You were laughing, your chest feeling lighter than it had in months.
During a transition, you looked up at the stage to see if Bucky had noticed you in the crowd yet.
But then your smile faltered, and you realized you were no longer dancing.
A small group of girls—dressed in tight outfits and looking beautiful—had managed to bypass the side security and were now crowding his DJ setup. They were drunk, based on the way they were stumbling and trying to grind on Bucky—who you thought was just trying to focus on his music. But he smiled.
You didn’t know if that was him trying to save face because he was right there, in front of a whole crowd, but from where you were standing, it seemed like he enjoyed every bit of the attention they were giving him.
You looked down, suddenly feeling incredibly self conscious in your dress.
“Don’t worry about that,” Sam reassured you as he continued dancing. “People get on stage all the time, no matter who’s playing. His set is ending soon, anyway.”
Based on Sam and Steve’s expressions, they weren’t soothing your insecurities, but rather assuming you were just expressing concern for a friend’s safety. They didn’t know you and Bucky had a thing going on at all.
You tried to push those thoughts away for the rest of the night, but how could you? Not when every single time you looked up to see Bucky—the person you came out tonight for—he was being smothered by and dancing with half dressed girls.
You tried to get lost in the music, but instead, you were getting lost in your own thoughts.
It was a horrible, familiar feeling.
It was the exact same feeling you had felt with John, who had sworn he only had eyes for you while routinely crossing boundaries, making you feel like you were crazy for caring, and eventually cheating on you. You had promised yourself you would never let a man make you feel that way again.
And yet, here you were.
You thought about the night you and Bucky had just shared. But what was it to him? Just a fun distraction with his landlord? The woman he always swore he hated? Were you just another checkbox on his list—one he sought after simply because you were ‘playing hard to get’ in his eyes?
Bucky was a playboy. His friends knew it. You knew it. And hell, even the only other tenant in the complex—who was deaf, mind you—knew it.
You were the one who had to watch him constantly bring different girls back to his place week after week. You were the one always barging in on them with noise complaints. He was charming, hot, and clearly popular in clubs, and he knew exactly what to say to get what he wanted.
“Just go up to the bar, tell them you’re with me, and get whatever you want.”
And on top of it all, you remembered what the bartender had said.
“Yeah, like I’ve never heard that one before.”
He had heard it before because Bucky had probably used that exact same line on a dozen other girls.
You weren’t special.
You were just the latest girl on his list, foolish enough to believe his sweet compliments after he ravished you in bed—the very same bed he had shared with countless other women.
Tears stung the backs of your eyes, blurring the flashing strobe lights into a messy smear of color. Your throat choked up, your chest tightening so hard it hurt to breathe.
“Hey,” Steve leaned down, noticing your expression. “You okay?”
You couldn’t even answer him. If you opened your mouth, a sob would escape.
You tried to give Bucky the benefit of the doubt—that this was just his job, that he had to put on a pretty smile and perform. But as you looked up and saw him with a drunk smile, leaning closer to a woman who had her hand on his chest and was shouting something in his ear, that was it for you.
“Sorry, I—I… um, I forgot to finish some paperwork that’s due tomorrow morning,” you lied, trying your best to sound steady. “Have fun tonight.”
Steve and Sam offered to take you home, but you couldn’t let them. You needed to be alone.
And that’s exactly what you did.
You took a cab back by yourself, drunkenly stumbling into the complex’s office with only one thing on your mind. It wasn’t because of stupid paperwork or bills. It was to tear up Bucky’s lease.
You shoved the key into the lock with a clumsy hand. Bursting inside the small office, you slammed the door shut behind you.
The office was dark, but sitting right there in the very center was Alpine. The white cat lifted her head from her food bowl, kibble crumbs decorating her white, fuzzy chin as she blinked tiredly at you.
The sight of her made the tears spill over your cheeks. You were intoxicated, heartbroken, and your emotions were at an all time high— looking at the cat you two took care of together only made the anger burn hotter in your already fragile heart.
“Don’t look at me like that,” you choked out, pointing a shaky finger at the cat. “You and your stupid dad. Your stupid, lying, playboy dad!”
Alpine blinked before letting out a mighty yawn for such a small body. Then, she turned her attention back to her food, completely indifferent to your emotional breakdown.
“Yeah, go ahead and eat!” you cried, wiping furiously at your wet face. “Enjoy it, because both of you are packing your bags! He thinks he can just… smile and say the right things, and I’ll just let my guard down and let him in?”
You marched past the cat and stormed over to the filing cabinets. You grabbed the handle of the bottom drawer and yanked it open so hard that it rattled.
“Where is it…” you muttered, your vision blurred by tears as you began rummaging through the folders. You tossed utility bills, maintenance requests, and old plumbing receipts over your shoulder. “Where is that stupid piece of paper?”
You were going to find his lease.
You were going to tear it into a million pieces, throw it in his face, and kick Bucky Barnes out of your complex.
The office door suddenly pushed open, and you jumped at the unexpected intruder who just barged in.
Bucky stood in the doorway, his chest heaving as the moonlight outlined his body from behind. Any other woman probably would’ve seen him as a god, but to you, he just looked like a man spawned from the very depths of hell.
He looked like he had run all the way from the club—but he couldn’t have, not with how fast he got here.
“Why did you come back here?” He panted.
“Get out of my sight,” you mumbled, so quietly that it was like a part of you didn’t want to mean it.
He ignored you, stepping closer as he caught his breath. “Steve told me you left before I could finish my set—said that you had paperwork to do, but that can’t be right. You told me you cleared your schedule just so you could go to the club tonight—”
“Yeah—well, plans change,” you muttered, finally pulling his folder out from the others. You sorted through it until you found his paperwork, gripping it firmly in your hands.
When Bucky stepped closer and realized what you were doing—your fingers positioned in a way that looked suspiciously like you were about to rip it—he stormed over and snatched the paper right out of your hands.
“What the hell are you doing with that?!”
You glared up at him, your head spinning so fast it hurt. “I’m tearing up your lease. I’m evicting you.”
Bucky blinked, his face a mixture of frustration and confusion.
“Are you trying to play with me right now?” He sighed, setting the paper safely on top of the filing cabinet before bending down to try and lift you up. “Come on. Let’s get you to bed. You’re drunk right now—”
You slapped his hands away, pushing yourself up to stand on your own. “What? Get me in bed so you can add me to the long roster of women you fuck?”
“What?” Bucky’s eyes went wide, looking nearly as hurt as you felt just from that accusation alone. “What are you talking about?”
“Don’t think I don’t know!” a sob ripped from your throat, and you hated how weak it made you sound. “You and your notorious record for being nothing but a player who plays stupid music. You know—it makes sense, actually!”
You hiccuped, slurring your words between tears.
“You being a DJ and playing in clubs and all. It’s such a classic tale, isn’t it? How easy it is for men like you to just… pick up women and bring them home in the middle of the night. And I’m always the one cleaning up your messes and kicking them out the next morning,” you laughed at yourself.
You probably looked insane in his eyes, but you didn’t care.
“Now, look at me. I’m the mess, and no one is there to clean me up. I was stupid to think I was different.”
What the hell were you saying?
None of it even made sense to you anymore. All you felt was an overwhelming wave of anger and hurt. Your head was pounding so bad that you just wanted to lie down and sob until there were no more tears left.
Despite every cruel word you hurled at him, Bucky didn’t get angry. How could he? When almost every word you said was nothing but the truth. All the talk about him being a player, blasting his stupid music loud enough to hurt your eardrums—he couldn’t deny any of it.
Except for one thing, and that was you thinking you weren’t different.
With a soft sigh, his shoulders slumped. He stepped closer, moving quietly so as to not startle you like a cat. When he was finally within reach, he wrapped his arms tightly around your body, pulling you close against his chest in a comforting hug.
“I’m sorry,” he muttered gently against your temple, his voice rough. “You saw all those girls huddled around me at the club, didn’t you? I’m so sorry I made you feel like this.”
You jammed your fists against his chest, weak and uncoordinated. But the alcohol had drained all your strength, leaving you hollowed out and drowning in your own tears.
Bucky took every pathetic blow you gave him, and instead of pulling away, he just tightened his arms around you. With a broken sob, you collapsed into his chest, burying your wet face in his shirt.
You hated this. You hated how every time you were upset, Bucky was always right there, comforting you in this very office. And you especially hated that, despite him being the cause of your current distress, you were still seeking his comfort.
One of his large hands came up to cradle the back of your head, his fingers caressing through your hair, while his other arm held you around your waist.
“I’ve got you, baby. Just breathe.”
You were a weeping, hiccuping mess, your shoulders shaking violently as months of built up insecurity and old, unhealed wounds from John came pouring out all at once. You stained his shirt with your tears and ruined makeup, but Bucky didn’t seem to care at all.
He just held you, swaying you slightly from side to side in the quiet, dark office.
“I know what you’re scared of,” Bucky started with a gentle murmur. “You’ve gotten your heart broken, and you’re scared of opening up and getting hurt again.”
He rested his chin on your head with a sigh, looking blankly at the wall with eyes full of regret.
“And I don’t blame you for feeling that way towards me. I’ve been an awful guy to you from the start, and even now, I failed to make you feel secure with me.” He pressed a kiss to your temple, hoping it would help.
“There was no woman that came before you, and I have no intentions of anyone coming after.”
You wanted to believe him, but everything that left his mouth was just noise. Even drunk and vulnerable, you could feel your heart closing on him to shut him out.
You slowly pulled back, your hands pressing against his chest—not out of anger, but out of a desperate need for distance.
Bucky let you go reluctantly, his hands sliding down to rest loosely on your hips, his blue eyes searching your face with a fragile and heartbreaking hope that made it even harder for you to look away.
“I can’t do this, Bucky,” you whispered. “I like you. I like you so much, and I want to love you... but I can’t. I don’t want to get hurt again. I just want things to go back to the way it was before. Me as your landlord, and you as my tenant. That’s it.”
Bucky knew he deserved every ounce of your doubt, but he hadn’t braced himself for the hurt that came with it.
Still, he forced a pained, tight lipped smile, his eyes telling you just how much he was hurting. His hands twitched on your hips, a painful urge passing through him to pull you back, to hold you against his chest and never let you go.
The words I love you rushed to the tip of his tongue, burning to be said. He wanted to shout it, to promise you the world, to prove to you that he was entirely yours.
But as he looked down at your tear-stained face—at the exhaustion and fear written in your eyes, all because of him—he stopped himself.
Even drunk, you still had the strength to look out for yourself. And because he cared about you more than his own need to fix things, he respected your wishes. He wouldn’t use your vulnerability to force a confession on you. He had always been a selfish man, but he couldn’t afford to be one now.
Bucky swallowed hard, a visible lump forming in his throat as he forced the words back down. His shoulders slumped as he finally accepted defeat.
Slowly, his hands dropped from your hips. He took a single step backward, giving you the space you asked for.
“I get it. I’ll leave you alone. But if you’re ever ready to open your heart to someone again—please, let me be that person.”
Bucky kept his word and left you alone.
Yet, there were countless times when he found himself pacing in his room, or lingering just outside your office, waiting to see if you would open your heart to him again. He held onto the smallest bit of hope that the words you had shouted in a drunken blaze were words you didn’t truly mean—that they had simply come from a place of deeply unhealed hurt.
He stayed close, waiting for a knock on his door, hoping you would tell him you were ready to talk. But that knock never came.
Just like him, you also kept your word and went right back to treating him as if he were nothing more than the annoying tenant from the very beginning.
He still helped you around the complex whenever he had the time—entirely on his own insistence. But every time he found himself in the same room as you, you would make up some excuse just to get away from him.
“I need to stop by the store and buy litter for Alpine.”
“Georgia forgot to pick up her mail. I’m going to hand it to her.”
You were like a stone of indifference—not happy, but not angry either. It was starting to get frustrating.
He knew he should have respected your space, but the more you strayed away from him—not only emotionally, but physically—the more restless he grew. Maybe it was the immature side of him creeping in, but he started to take your pleas as a challenge. You wanted things to go back to normal? Back to how things were before his heart fell for you?
Fine. He would make sure to do exactly that.
The next afternoon, the entire building—which had been quiet for the past few days—began to shake.
It was that same, robotic warping noise that always rattled the ceiling of your office. It started with the usual thump, thump, thump, before the bass dropped into the most annoying sound nonsense you had ever heard in your life.
It was Bucky’s music. Except this was nothing like the tracks he knew you actually liked, and it was louder than it had been in months.
For the past few weeks, he had been playing his music through headphones or keeping the volume respectful. But right now, he was blasting it with a vengeance, the aggressive electronic beats making the light fixtures tremble.
You tried to ignore it for ten minutes. You tried to focus on your paperwork, but the relentless oonts oonts oonts was making your teeth rattle and your head pound. You knew exactly what he was playing at. He was trying to get your attention—but you wouldn’t give in. You refused to.
But then, a family of tourists walked past the front of your office. The daughter pointed up at the building, and the mother scrunched her nose, shaking her head in disapproval at the noise.
Shoving your chair back, you marched out of the office and stormed up the stairs.
You banged on Bucky’s door roughly. “Bucky! Turn that music down right now!”
You were furious, but for Bucky, this was the greatest moment of his week. He grinned, pretending not to hear you, and bumped the volume up just a tad louder.
You knocked again, but he ignored it. When you started cursing under your breath—which Bucky thought was the cutest thing he’d heard in what felt like forever, aside from Alpine’s meows—you finally fished out your master keys to unlock his door yourself.
“Do you mind?” you snapped, stepping into his apartment. “I have potential tenants walking past, and your absolute garbage music is running them off!”
Bucky was leaning back in his chair, lazily reaching over to slide a fader down.
“Garbage?” Bucky echoed, the cocky grin on his face not shrinking one bit. “You didn’t call it that when you were sitting on my lap and playing with my mixer, sweetheart.”
Your eyes widened—whether with anger or embarrassment, he couldn’t tell. Either way, he had gotten a reaction out of you, and to him, that was like a man finally finding water in the desert.
“Just turn it down!” you demanded, already turning away and slamming the door shut behind you.
Throughout the rest of the week, Bucky realized he couldn’t hold your attention for more than five minutes with just his music blasting alone.
He was working on a mix—one that wasn’t meant for his club sets, but one that would definitely catch your attention. What was distracting him more, though, was the sound of your giggles echoing all the way from your office.
A tourist had been sitting in there with you. Initially, Bucky thought it was just a potential renter. But as the minutes dragged into over an hour, he realized that the man in question had absolutely no intention of signing a lease. He was trying to get with you.
With the floorboards being so thin, Bucky could hear everything. The guy was a blatant flirt, and you were laughing and giggling cutely at every single word he said, convinced you were just sealing the deal on an apartment.
Bucky, moved by petty retaliation, queued up special track he was working on.
The beat was slower than usual—the exact kind that would have people drunkenly grinding against each other at a club. He dialed a knob, weaving the explicit, unmistakable sound of a woman’s breathless moans right into the track, letting it echo loudly through the thin flooring.
Downstairs, your laugh died in your throat.
Your eyes widened slightly, your jaw hanging loose before a rush of heat flooded your cheeks. The tourist blinked, his charming smile faltering as the loud, provocative audio filled the small office space.
“What an interesting song,” he forced an awkward chuckle. “Didn’t know you had a DJ living in here.”
You sat stiffly in your chair, a storm of emotions thundering in your chest. Embarrassment came first, but right behind it was a wave of shock and a sickening twist of jealousy that nearly choked you.
He brought a girl over? While I'm down here working?
He actually had the audacity to do that after everything he said to you? After he said he’d be your person once you opened your heart again?
“So, anyway,” the tourist continued, oblivious. “Since you’re a local—do you think you could show me some cool spots around here? Maybe we could start with dinner?”
You didn’t even realize how jealous you actually were until that exact moment.
Knowing that another woman might be in his apartment, touching him, making those sounds, made your blood boil and your fists curl tightly under the desk. You thought you were protecting your heart by keeping him at a distance, but hearing this only proved your heart was still hopelessly tied to him.
And right now, those ties were threatening to snap and hit him right in the face.
“Excuse me,” you choked out to the man seated in front of you, abruptly stepping away from your desk.
Every step up the stairs was a stomp accentuated by your anger, the explicit moaning getting louder and more humiliating with every flight you climbed. By the time you reached his door, you were already drowning in an emotional cocktail of rage and heartbreak.
You threw the door open, ready to scream at him and whatever woman he had hidden away in his room.
“What the fuck is your problem, Bucky!”
The door banged hard against the wall as you stormed into the apartment, your chest heaving, your vision tunneling with pure rage. You were so flustered, so blindingly angry, that the words just started spilling out of you before you could even think to filter them. You were desperate to cover up the humiliating jealousy tearing through you, but it only made you sound more unhinged.
“I am trying to run a business downstairs! I just had a guy down there, a potential tenant, and then... then you had to go and bring some woman over and—and do this while—”
You paused, letting your eyes sweep across the room, only to find an empty bed.
“Where is she?” you hissed.
Bucky leaned back in his chair, leg crossing the other as he folded his arms over his chest, looking far too smug for his own good.
“Where’s who?”
Your brow twitched with annoyance. You huffed a stray hair out of your face, waving a hand around the room. “The girl.”
Bucky tilted his head, playing dumb. “What girl?”
“The girl!” you screeched out. “The girl you have over right now—that’s… that’s making all these vulgar and indecent moaning noises because you don’t know how to keep your dick, much less your promises, in your pants for more than a week!”
Bucky’s lips quirked up into a smile.
“I have been keeping both of those in my pants, thank you very much.” He turned back to his screen, his hands hovering over his mixer. “And you mean your vulgar and repulsive moaning noises?”
You crossed your arms tightly over your chest, defensive. “What?”
“Listen to it closely,” he said, slowly amping the volume up. Your soft and breathy moans of pleasure filled the room.
“That’s you.”
Your face twisted. With the heavy distortion overlaid by the beat, you couldn’t tell if he was just pulling your tail or being serious. You didn’t even remember recording anything like that when you played with his mixer.
“Stop playing in my face, Bucky.”
Bucky, still impassive as ever, simply shrugged. “You don’t recognize your own voice?”
Then, a breathy little whine came in that sounded much too familiar. “Bucky, Bucky, oh—”
Your eyes shot open so wide that your pupils stung. That was you, no doubt about it, just remixed in a way that an outsider couldn’t tell.
“That’s you moaning my name, sweetheart,” Bucky said, turning to you again with a smile.
He watched as your once angry posture began to deflate into a look of pure embarrassment. You started to stammer, your eyes darting everywhere in the room that wasn’t him. “I… I—I don’t even remember recording that.”
Bucky pushed himself off the chair with a light groan, sauntering over to you with confidence now that he knew he had the upper hand.
“You pressed the record button yourself when you were playing with my table a few weeks ago,” he explained casually.
Standing in front of you, he lifted his hand to gently caress your cheek. When his palm made contact with your soft skin without you pushing him away, his smile grew wider, and the prideful flames in his heart glowed hotter.
“What’s with that face?” he taunted, his voice low and gravelly in a way that did nothing but make your heart race faster. “After everything I said to you, did you really think I would bring a girl up here? Hm?”
Bucky tilted his head, trying to meet your eyes, which were currently glued to the ground—refusing to give him any attention.
“Don’t tell me—are you jealous?”
He knew the answer, and you did too—you just didn’t want to admit it. Despite you telling him, “No more relationship!” there was a part of you that didn’t want anyone else to have him, as selfish as it might be.
“No,” you lied.
“Okay,” he hummed in amusement. “But I am.”
You scoffed. “What are you on about?”
His eyes trailed the curves of your face—the very curves he had fallen in love with and peppered with kisses just a few weeks ago.
“I’m jealous over the fact that you have a guy downstairs making you laugh, when I haven’t seen a smile from you in days,” he murmured, letting his thumb brush over your lower lip. The sensation made you shudder.
You hated how much you were leaning into his touch. And you hated even more how much you liked the idea of him being jealous over you, just as you had been over the simple thought of him having another woman over.
“I’ve tried so hard to be patient,” he continued. “To wait and see if you’ll open your heart to me again. To see if you’ll finally let your walls down and believe the words I said. But I can’t be patient when there’s a guy down there capturing your attention so easily, when the only way I can get yours is by playing loud music.”
“And you playing a track with my moans in it makes you think you’ll win me over?” You furrowed your brows at him. “If anything, it only pisses me off. You’re distracting me and my customers, and I need you to stop.”
You tried to make yourself sound more furious than you actually felt, but it didn’t translate very well. Bucky simply licked his lower lip before catching it in a subtle bite, making your body tingle all over again.
“I’ll stop,” he promised. “If you give me just one more chance to prove to you how much I care about you and how serious I am.”
You wanted to hold onto your anger, to keep that shield locked up with the key swallowed. But as you stared at him, hearing every sweet word that came out of his mouth, you realized how terribly you missed him.
God, you missed him.
You missed the moments when he would hold you in his arms after every problem, big or small. You missed the stupid afternoons down in the office, when you were supposed to be doing paperwork but ended up doing baseless chores with him instead—with Alpine inevitably scrambling up onto the desk and squeezing right between you two, demanding her own share of the attention. You missed hearing his music up close, sitting right on his lap while he guided your hand with his on the turntable.
You tried your best to keep your face stoic, to force down the screaming of longing in your chest so you wouldn’t cave. But Bucky saw right through you. He watched your shoulders ease up slightly, the way you chewed at your lower lip, and the way you were slowly unlocking that key in your heart.
Letting out a reluctant sigh that sounded like music to his ears, you mumbled, “Fine.”
Bucky’s smile widened.
“But you better not play this track anywhere. Not even to Steve or Sam,” you continued before he could speak, swatting weakly at his chest. “I’ll shoot you dead, Barnes—I mean it. That track is for your ears only.”
Rather than backing off, Bucky reached down and wrapped his arms firmly around your lower waist, pulling you close against him until your hips hit his, making you fluster at the proximity.
“Deal,” he whispered, leaning down even closer. “I’ll delete it if it makes you feel better, but only if I get to make you moan again like that for real—live and in person.”
Your breath hitched as his lips slid down to the line of your jaw, his stubble scraping pleasantly against your skin. Even though you two had been together like this before, the sudden closeness after days of agonizing distance made everything feel brand new, yet exactly right.
It was a feeling that, despite everything, you missed all too much.
“Don’t get your hopes up,” you breathed out as a final and weak attempt at keeping your guard up.
Bucky’s lips hummed deliciously against your neck, his mind already filled with things more than just hope.
“I’ll try.”
if you've made it this far, i hope you enjoyed, and thank you so much for reading! while you're here, might i suggest taking the opportunity to check out the bwat summer masterlist that this fic is part of here!
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✦Rating/Warnings: 18+ for canon-typical violence, swearing, severe mental health issues, self-harm and suicidal ideation, mentions of rape/non-con, and sexual content✦
✦Tags: series rewrite, Soldier Boy x fem!supe!OC, enemies to friends to lovers, canon divergence, slow burn, angst, fluff, eventual happy ending✦
Series Summary
A year after Soldier Boy and Maeve fell out of Vought Tower, Homelander's standing trial, Robert Singer is running for President, and the Boys don't have two good plans to rub together. But Maeve gave Butcher a lead before she vanished. A lead about a supe more powerful than Homelander, who might be willing to fight.
Butcher becomes obessed with finding her. Hughie and Annie worry that it will just be another Soldier Boy. Homelander hides a secret, and somewhere, waiting out for him, is a reckoning. Not from another supe, but a victim.
And the question rises. For all of them.
Will you do whatever it takes?
Author's Note
Welcome to the result of my wrath. An expansion of my soldier boy x reader series, No Love Lost, made to be a more explict rewrite of the Boys season four and five. If you're going in with no prior knowlege of the other fic, enjoy! If you're coming over from No Love Lost, hello! I hope you enjoy this one as well. Going in, no matter what, please forgot everything released after season 3. Gen V, season four and five, Vought rising, none of it's real. I hope you enjoy the story!
Chapter List
Prologue (7/6) (on ko-fi now!)
Season 4
Episode 1 - Down the Rabbit Hole
Episode 2 - What's Dead and Buried
Episode 3 - The Limelight
Episode 4 - All of Us Heathens
Episode 5 - Good Hair Day
Episode 6 - On Shadowboxing, Spiderwebs, and Songbirds
Episode 7 - Titanfall
Episode 8 - The Firebird's Gambit
Episode 9 - Metamorphia
Episode 10 - You Scratch My Back
Episode 11 - Buzz Buzz Buzz
Episode 12 - Transmutation
Episode 13 - Quick, Bald, and Broke
Episode 14 - Heaven, Ohio
Episode 15 - When You Hear the Bell Toll
Episode 16 - Scurry Under the Mountain
Episode 17 - Blinding Neon Glitter
Episode 18 - hymns
Episode 19 - Jersey Devils
Episode 20 - Don't Wake the Sleeping Dragon
Episode 21 - The King of Babel
Episode 22 - Diet Euphoria
Episode 23 - Event Horizon
Season 5
Episode 1 - It's Always Sunny
Episode 2 - Go With the Changing Tides
Episode 3 - That Big Silver Screen
Episode 4 - On the Tenth Day
Episode 5 - Put One Right Between the Eyes
Episode 6 - Washed Up and Sold Out
Episode 7 - Love Thy Neighbor
Episode 8 - So It Goes
Episode 9 - Bloodshot
Episode 10 - Flipping Texas
Episode 11 - The Untouchables
Episode 12 - Mr. Butcher Goes to Washington
Episode 13 - And When You Love Her, Remember to Look Back
Episode 14 - Homelander: The Musical
Episode 15 - Run the Gauntlet
Episode 16 - Operation Ranch Hand
Episode 17 - Hail Mary
Episode 18 - Abandon All Hope
Episode 19 - Benjamin, or Italy
Episode 20 - Oroborus
Episode 21 - Veni Vidi Vici
Episode 22 - Every Demon Wants His Pound of Flesh
Episode 23 - Sunrise, Sunset
synoposis ⸝ ⸝ the hot new neighbour moves in next door and his first stop in town is your bakery, where he learns two things. one: he needs to up his game at pronouncing ridiculous dessert names, and two: you are one very good-looking single mother.
warnings ⸝ ⸝ none; just fluff, not really proofread, mechanic!dean and single!mom!reader’s first time meeting ♡
You’re already up at seven in the morning, boxing cupcakes, assorted macarons, and other sweet treats for another round of pickup orders today whilst triple checking the labels for every one to make sure it’s the right order for the right customer. Then, the sound of a car engine is heard rumbling down the street—louder, closer, until you’re pretty sure you can’t even hear your own thoughts anymore. And then, the engine gets cut. Other people on the block seem to have spot the newbie too already. Your daughter perks her head up from her spot at the kitchen island, spoon full of cereal halfway to her mouth when she drops it back into the bowl, eyes wide and curious. “Mommy, look!” The five-year-old gasps dramatically, “We have a new neighbour!”
“Huh.” That’s all you say in response—more so to yourself as you look out the window to see a ‘67 Black Chevy Impala pull into the driveway of the house next door to yours that’s been long vacant since you’d moved here—which was some time ago. “Well, that’s somethin’ new.”
The driver steps out a second later. Tall. Broad shoulders. Worn jeans hanging low on his hips and a black tee that clung tightly to his solid figure in a way that honestly feels disrespectful to a town where half the women are divorced or have been without partner for as long as they can remember. (A little ironic you think when you pretend not to hear the backhanded pity from the same women for being a single, never married mom at twenty something years old. How different are you from them, really?)
And it was in that moment the entire town lost their collective minds.
—
By 10:30 AM, every resident that’s been remotely alerted of the newcomer has somehow gathered every possible legal (or illegal) information about him. Dean Winchester. Late twenties. Employee at Miller Automotive. Moved from Illinois—no sorry, Georgia—or was it Kansas? Definitely Kansas. But most of all? He’s unmarried. That’s what gets the older women hyped about the most.
You hear all of this secondhand while writing new recipe ideas in your notebook inside The Sugar Shoppe later that morning. The bakery smells of vanilla and brown sugar, soft instrumental music playing over the speakers while your daughter sits at one of the corner tables, aggressively colouring with a brand new pack of permanent markers she absolutely should not be having anywhere near her nice clothes.
The bell above the front door rings to capture your attention and you look up, already speaking out of instinct. “Hey, what can I—”
The words suddenly die in your mouth when you stare at who’s in the doorway. None other than your new neighbour, looking extremely uncertain about every life choice he’s ever made as he stands there, looking unfairly even more attractive up close. There’s grease faintly staining his forearms, dark attire visibly disturbing the sunshine and rainbows your bakery is practically made out of. But one thing’s for certain—anybody can get lost in those sage green eyes of his.
He glances around, making awkward eye contact with a few ladies in the bakery who are now all staring at him like they want to devour him whole. Which, they do, if you’re being honest. He smiles politely at them and they immediately start whispering and giggling together before his gaze finds yours again. “Looks like Barbie threw up in here,” he jokes blankly, clearing his throat when he approaches the counter.
You blink. Then laugh a little before you can stop yourself. “It grows on you,” you say with a sweet smile. “You’re the new neighbour, right? I live next door.”
You think his eyes light up for a moment—maybe in recognition, or something. Or you’re just being delusional because a really hot guy who seems to be out of your league; single, tired, working mom, is talking to you right now and the overhead lighting is reflecting off his eyes.
Instead, he nods once, eyes trailing over you for longer than necessary which has you sweating a bit. There isn’t any flour on your nose right? God, you hope not. “I’m Dean,” he introduces himself. Dean. You nod, telling him your name in response and he actually smiles. He smiles. You can then only wait patiently as he scans the menu, and then the very carefully crafted glass display filled with endless sugary sweets and pastries with mini chalkboard stands on each plate like a toddler scribbled on them. His gaze slowly drifts over to an actual toddler sitting not too far by—one that looks dangerously similar to you. Like the universe got lazy and decided they were just gonna make a mini clone of you and have you bring it into the world.
.....That is your kid. Right?
“That, uhh—” he stutters nervously, awkwardly gesturing to the child in the corner. He doesn’t want to sound rude, or assume anything. You follow the motion of his finger, spotting your daughter who simply flashes you a big toothy grin. You chuckle, shaking your head as you look at him again, “She’s mine, yeah.”
Phew. He was right, letting out a sigh in relief he didn’t even know he was holding in as your daughter waves furiously at him. He smiles, giving her a small wave back.
“Cute one you have there.”
“Thanks.”
He clears his throat, “....So what’s a uh—macaron.... and a macaroon?”
“Well macarons are kind of like a cookie sandwich. Um, we have vanilla, pistachio, salted caramel....” you explain, listing off the various flavours off the top of your head before moving on. “And macaroons, they uh—look like that, and are usually made with shredded coconut.”
“Who creates two different desserts with only one letter differing them?”
“The French and Italians?”
“....Fair.”
You laugh again, softer this time, and Dean swears the entire bakery suddenly feels a little warmer now. After embarrassing himself trying to pronounce more dessert names, he ends up just ordering a black coffee with two sugars. Valid. Atleast he knows how to say that.
While he’s busy digging for his wallet, you quietly start filling an empty pastry box. Two glazed cinnamon rolls and chocolate croissants, a cherry danish, and three sprinkle-ambushed sugar cookies your daughter, now standing beside you insists on adding herself.
Dean finally glances up, looking half-confused, half-terrified. “Woah, sweetheart—don’t think I ordered all of that,” he says with a laugh.
Sweetheart.
You just smile, ignoring the way your heart skips a beat at the nickname as you fold up the box effortlessly like you’d done this a million times (surprise, you have). “Call it a welcome to the neighbourhood gift. On the house.”
For a second, he just looks at you. Really looks at you. Observing your sweet smile, pouty lips, the way your lashes flutter against your skin when you blink. God, wow. You’re something else.
But then he snaps out of it when your daughter who was previously standing alongside you, waddles over to his side, shoving the pastel pink box with the bakery’s name printed in cursive at the side into his hands abruptly.
“Mommy made these cinnamon rolls at four in the morning,” she takes a loud gasp suddenly—toddlers—before whispering just loud enough for Dean to hear—and you. “Because she’s crazy.”
“Hey—I heard that!”
Dean laughs, shaking his head as he politely accepts the gift, something softer settling into his rough features.
“Yeah?” He murmurs, eyes boring into yours where he can’t tell if you’re blushing because of it or because your offspring is embarrassing you infront of him. “Then I guess I better appreciate ‘em properly.”
✦summary: you ask dean to sleep with you, he turns you down, and you believe him. you tell him you don't care, and he believes you. eventually, one of you is going to have to tell the truth, won't they. ✦
✦warnings/tags: Dean Winchester x female!reader, no use of y/n, no description of reader, implied age gap (20s - 40s), virgin!reader, angst, overprotective, bad at feelings dean, pining, idiots in love, as is my way, shameless smut (loss of virginity, praise kink, dry humping, teasing, dean's dirty talk, spanking, fingering, stripping, body worship, degredation kink, soft!dom Dean, size kink, begging, pussy slapping, soft and rough sex, messy, creampie, big dick dean, mean dean, dumbification), love confessions, fluff✦
✦wc: 8.6k✦
✦author's note: i love writing idiots in love it's my favorite kind of idiot it's for love✦
“Have sex with me.”
Dean spits his coffee out. You sigh, bracing your hands on your hips, and wait for him to collect himself. You’re patient. He’s scrambling and slamming a fist on his chest, and you pass him a napkin with a sweet smile. You don’t think it’s going to win you a spot in his bed, but it might help.
“Better?” You ask, when he no longer sputtering and choking. He grunts, holding a hand up for a few more seconds. You roll your eyes—it wasn’t that crazy a thing to say—but bounce on your toes and wait.
Dean clears his throat, ears red, and looks up at you like you’ve grown a second head.
“What?”
“Have sex with me-“
“Yeah, I- I heard you the first time, that’s not-“ Dean shakes his head, running a hand over his face. “It’s eight in the fuckin’ morning-“
“It’s eight fifteen.”
That earns you a flat look, and you smile innocently.
“That’s fifteen extra minutes, it matters-“
“Not for this. And- I ain’t even showered yet-“
Your nose wrinkles. “Why haven’t you showered?”
“I shower after coffee,” Dean mutters, turning his mug in his hands. “If I don’t, Sammy’s stinkin’ up the kitchen from his run.”
“Oh- Okay.” You clasp your hands behind your back, peering at his tight jaw, his mussed, soft-looking hair. “Is that… A yes?”
Dean’s eyes widen on yours. You’re worried he’s going to choke on the air this time. “Yes?”
“Are you going to have sex with me,” you clarify, and his mouth falls open.
“I- I’m- You’re-“ His throat bobs, and he starts to look around the room with a worried squint. “Are you fuckin’ with me?”
You frown. “Why would I be fucking with you?”
“’Cause, sweetheart, you can’t just-“ He lets out a sharp breath. “Is it Sam? Did he put you up to this? ‘Cause I told him- That kinda prank, it’s off the table-“
“What kind of prank?” You’re a little lost, and there’s shame starting to burn up your neck.
A prank. He thinks it’s a prank.
It’s not. You’re so serious it’s almost embarrassing. You wouldn’t have asked him if you weren’t. You’d almost talked yourself out of it, after spending too much time convincing yourself into it. Nights of tossing and turning in bed, an insatiable and aching heat between your legs and the sheets bunched around you in a mockery of a body. Weeks of watching the boys slip out of bars with women that seemed to fall into them like magnets while you spun around, alone on a barstool without any prospects.
Months, of watching Dean with a flush he never saw. An adoration written all over your face he didn’t seem capable of noticing. You’d tried to stomp it out. Your stupid, useless little crush. Dean was older. Seasoned and desirable in the way that made you wonder if he was even real sometimes. Out of your reach, tantalizing, and impossible to just forget about.
You’d neglect your feelings in the hope they’d die, but he’d water them until they were in full bloom and overtaking your heart and mouth and head. He’d buy the snacks you like and let you chose the movie. He’d open doors and let his hand linger on your lower back, he’d smile at you in the dim light of the Impala and make you feel like the only person in the world, he’d call you when he was away on a separate hunt every single night, just to update you. He’d play wrestle you for the remote, and somehow never manage to wonder why he always won when he’d see you take down men closer to Sam’s size with barely a grunt of effort.
“Nice try, sweetheart,” he’d whisper in your ear, when he had you pinned on the floor beneath him, and you’d have to swallow down your moan.
He’d get up, turn on the TV, and leave you on the couch while he went to the bathroom. You’d sit with your knees to your chest and your breathing uneven, unable to focus on anything but the ghost of his body over yours. The heat of him, the way his arms had caged you in, his knee pressed far too close to your neglected core.
If Dean knew how you dreamed about him—how those moments followed you into bed, every single night—you’re so sure he’d never look at you again. He doesn’t see you like that, you’re sure. You’re the kid they took in, the annoying girl who’s got too much mouth on her and not enough experience, in every possible way.
You’ve never done sex. You sort of just missed the window, where it’s supposed to happen, and then it became too big a deal, then you met Dean and you were lost. What was the point of being with anyone else, when you had his shoulder bumping yours in the hallway. When you were so hopelessly in love with him, you think your heart might beat out of your chest like a cartoon every time you see him.
So you made a choice, a few weeks ago. A choice it took a lot of courage to work yourself up to following through on
You just need to have sex. With someone. Anyone. Preferably Dean. It just needs to be done and over with—one time, where he doesn’t know he’s taking your virginity, where he’s peacefully oblivious of your worship of his very existence—and then you can try to move on. Once you’ve had sex, it won’t be this big monster you shy away from anymore. It’ll just be another thing.
So you’re asking Dean. Outside of your alternate motivations, it’s a sound strategic call. You know about his prowess. He’s bragged to you about all his five-star reviews. And maybe that always made you gag over a toilet bowl after, but if it did, that’s none of his fucking business.
Maybe you’re not up to par with his usual partners, but you can do your makeup, or he can turn off the lights, or whatever else makes it easier for him. Anything that makes him touch you. You won’t even cry about it in front of him.
But he thinks it’s a prank. Why would he think it’s a prank.
“You know,” he says, watching you wearily. “Sammy gives you a tenner, you come and ask me for sex, everyone gets a good laugh at Dean. Good joke. Classy.”
You wrap your arms around your stomach, shrinking slightly into yourself. “It’s not a joke,” you mumble. “I- I was serious.”
“You were serious?”
He says it like it’s insane. You shrug, fixing your gaze on the floor. A joke. He thinks fucking you would be a joke.
“Sweetheart-“
“You don’t have to,” you take a step back, trying to sound casual. Like your heart isn’t being torn to ribbons.
You really hadn’t expected him to leap at the opportunity, but this is so close to cruel it hurts. Tears are threatening your eyes, and a lump is forming in your throat. Pathetic, a voice spits in your head. Why the fuck would he ever want to fuck you.
“Wait, just- Hold on-“
You look up, faster than you want to admit. Dean staring at you with pale face and slack jaw, throat working like he’s swallowing his own words every second. You wait, because you’re a fucking useless idiot. Bouncing nervously on your feet—they’re smarter than the rest of you, they want to run—and trying not to melt under his gaze.
“You’re actually askin’ me to fuck you?” He rasps, and you nod.
It’s the tiniest motion of your head. Dean shifts in his seat, staring at you with wide, dark eyes.
“Why?”
“Why?” You frown, saying the first, easiest, least embarrassing reason that pops into your head. “Because- You- You’re good at it?”
“I’m good at it,” Dean repeats. “You wanna fuck me ‘cause you think I’d be good at it?”
You wish he’d stop saying fuck like that. With a harsh ending and low drawl. “I don’t think,” you offer. “You’re the one who said you would be.”
Dean’s lips twitch, but he doesn’t look amused. “I could be lying, sweetheart.”
“I don’t think you are.”
He stares at you. His eyes flick up to the ceiling—maybe he still thinks he’s on a prank show—and he lets out a sharp, slow breath from his nose.
Then he shakes his head, and you feel the echo of your heart as it howls in pain.
“No,” he mutters. “I ain’t- Doin’ that. Not just ‘cause you- No.”
You blink at him, the world blurring a little. You stumble back, and Dean says your name, moving to his feet. You shake your head, moving back another step. Your eyes are stinging with tears, but that’s not his problem. He’s allowed to reject you. You’re also allowed to cry about it.
“Sweetheart-“
“It’s fine.” Your voice is too high. Too wobbly. “It’s- That’s okay.”
“No, just- Fuck-“ He rubs his jaw. “Listen to me, alright-“
“You don’t have to explain,” you shrug weakly. “It’s okay.”
Dean gives you a disbelieving look, but you move further back before he can try to make you feel better about the rejection. It’s not going to help.
“I’ll just-“ You look over your shoulder. To the door, just one more step back.
Dean says your name again. When you look back, he’s reaching to you, trying to beckon you back into the kitchen. You smile, tight and watery.
“Thank you for your consideration.” You say, because you’re a fucking idiot. Dean certainly looks at you like you’re one.
You flee the kitchen. He calls your name again, but this time you don’t look back.
Rejection is fine. You’re fine. You’re so fine, you lock yourself in your room for the rest of the day and eat so much ice cream your stomach hurts. Because it’s fun. It’s fun to cry over something you never even had.
At least you anticipated this. You have a very solid plan B.
If Dean won’t sleep with you, you’re going to find someone who will. You’re going to get it over with. This week.
You’re learning something about yourself.
You are not good at flirting.
The first thing you try is the bars. Sam and Dean slide into a booth, and you go to get the drinks. A guy makes eyes at you, and you smile sweetly in return. When you bring the drinks back, you set the beers down in front of the boys and turn back on your heels to give the bar-guy a shot.
Dean says your name, and you freeze. You always do that for him. It’s a habit you don’t think you’re able to break.
“Where’re you going?” He frowns at you, one arm slung around the back of the seat. Around where you’d usually sit.
“Bar,” you say lamely, and the lines on his face deepen.
“Why, you forget something?”
“No.”
“Then what-“
Dean cuts himself off, his gaze flicking over your shoulder. To the bar. To the man, waiting for you with a smirk, because you promised you’d be back.
Dean grunts your name, low and rough, and if he asked you to stay, you don’t think you’d be able to tell him no.
Things have been strange, since the kitchen. Neither of you have brought it up, and Dean hasn’t stopped treating you the way he always has, but there’s something charged beneath it. A live wire that frays and crackles, every time your fingers brush or your eyes meet. You’ve caught him staring at you with an open mouth a few times. Last week he tried to talk to you, alone in the Impala while Sam got snacks from a gas station. You announced that you had to shit, and scrambled out of the car.
You don’t want to talk about it, and Dean has no right to make you. He’s not the one who got his heart broken. He’s not the one who sort of wants to cry, whenever your eyes meet.
He certainly has no right to glare at you, when he puts together what you’re doing. He said he wasn’t going to sleep with you, and you’re a grown woman. You can, if you so please, have casual sex with a stranger. It is your right.
“You can’t be for real, sweetheart-“
“Dean.” Sam stares at his own beer, looking like he wants to vanish into the floor, and Dean scowls.
“C’mon, Sammy- Tell her she’s being crazy-“
“Crazy?” You snap, and Dean leans back in surprise. “You fuck around all the time, how is it crazy that I’d do the same thing?”
“It’s not- You just- You don’t-“ He swallows. “You don’t do this-“
“I do now.”
“Sweetheart, just- Sit down-“
You flip him off, and march back to the bar before he can ask with a little more conviction. You just need to break out of his orbit. To force yourself to realize that there are plenty of other men, and not having Dean isn’t the end of the universe.
Unfortunately, you sort of just keep proving the opposite.
“What’s a pretty little thing doin’ in a place like this?” The first guy at the bar asks, and you fumble.
You have no idea. You giggle nervously and spin in your chair, speaking words you can’t really hear. He seems into it—no matter how pathetic you must be coming off—until his fingers brush your arm, and you flinch back because his skin is cold. It sends a shiver up your spine that’s not the hot rush of Dean’s touch, but the sliver of a snake.
You go home alone that night, and you don’t look Dean in the eyes. He tries to talk to you, before you retreat to your room. You ignore him, because that’s the only way this is going to work.
But you try again and again and again, and you never get anywhere. They always touch you, and it all falls apart. You look at them too long, and you can’t manage to squeeze them into a Dean shaped hole in your heart, and there’s no way forward. You try dating apps. That goes worse. Every dick pic you get sent just makes you wonder if sex is even something you want. They’re all worm-shaped and ugly. At least dildos come in nice colors. Maybe you should just buy a dildo.
No. You’ll just pretend it’s Dean all the time, and that’s the opposite of what you’re supposed to be doing here.
So you keep trying. And you keep failing. And Dean’s been looking at you weird—brow pinched and jaw set, every single night—and you’re getting desperate and fuck it.
“Sam.”
Sam hums, not looking up from his book. You clear your throat, leaning further over the table.
“Sam.”
“I’m listening, what’s-“
“Have sex with me.”
Sam, to his credit, doesn’t choke. He just goes very, very still, and looks up at you with an expression close to horror. He says your name slowly, and you shake your head, holding up a single hand.
“Just- Listen-“
“No?” Sam gapes at you. “I’m not- I’m not going to listen to that- Jesus Christ-“
“Come on, we could turn off the lights, and- I wouldn’t make it weird-“
“It’s already weird-“
“You’d be doing me a favor-“
“I’d be making a death wish!” Sam’s voice drops to a hiss. “Dean would fucking kill me.”
You roll your eyes. “Then don’t tell him, dumbass.”
“No, I- I’m not doing that.” Sam shakes his head, like he’s trying to jolt the image free. “To you. Or him.”
“To him?” You narrow your eyes. “I- What the fuck would this do to Dean?”
Sam gives you a puppy-eyed, hopeless look. “I… Can’t say.”
“Sam Winchester-“
“Why are you asking me?” Sam whines. “I’m not- You’re not even into me-“
“Exactly, there would be no strings attached-“
“That’s not healthy-“
“Fuck off, like you don’t have casual sex-“
“I mean, I do, but I’m not-“ Sam cuts himself off, sighing dramatically. “Just- Why would you even want to have sex with me?”
You flush, but shrug. It’s just Sam. It’s easier to tell him than Dean. “I want to get it over with.”
“Get it over with?” Sam echoes. “It- You mean sex?”
You nod, and Sam blinks.
“Are you a virgin?”
“Maybe.”
“You- You’re-“
“Don’t be an asshole-“
“No, I’m not- I mean- It’s fine. It doesn’t matter. It actually-“ Sam frowns at the air. “It makes sense, I guess.”
That makes you scowl. “It makes sense?”
Sam shrugs, giving you an apologetic smile, and you can’t even think of an argument. You sigh, your shoulders slumping, and Sam clears his throat.
“You know I’m not going to sleep with you, right?”
“Yeah.” You sigh, and he nods slowly.
“Does Dean-“
“No.” You point a stern finger at him, and Sam raises his hands in surrender.
“I think you should-“
“Sam. I’ll cut your balls off.”
“I- Okay.”
You give him one last glare, and go to leave. But before you can go, the question scratches up your throat. You turn around, hands tucked behind your back, and speak softly. “Would you?”
Sam blinks. “What?”
“If you didn’t- Know me,” you mumble. “If we weren’t like- Friends. And you just met me, and I asked you- Would you?”
Sam snorts, and you scowl.
“I’m serious-“
“Yeah, I know you are.” Sam’s lips twitch. “It’s just- Yeah. I would. Of course I would.”
You stand a little taller. “Really?”
“Yeah, I mean- You know you’re attractive, right? If you just didn’t, like, annoy me. I’d be in.”
“I do not annoy you-“
“You’re annoying me right now.”
You laugh despite yourself. Sam smiles, his voice dropping to something gentler.
“Anyone would be lucky to have you,” he says your name slowly. “I just- Don’t want to be lucky.”
You huff in amusement—if Sam isn’t lying, aversion to luck is a family trait—but dip your head. “Thanks. I think.”
“You’re welcome. And-“ Sam pauses, looking you up and down with a strange expression. “I’m sure the whole- Thing will work out for you. There are… People. I think you’re going to figure it out.”
“You need to sleep with her.”
Dean needed to stop drinking coffee when people walked into the kitchen. This was the second shirt he’d ruined in as many months, and it was because everyone kept saying crazy fucking shit.
“Sammy, what the fuck-“
Sam said your name, and Dean’s hands fisted on the table.
Again. Son of a bitch, he was about to go through this again. The first time had been bad enough. You’d looked at him with glossy, hopeful eyes, practically begged for him to fuck you, and Dean had wondered if he’d died in his sleep last night and been dragged back to hell. Forced to experience some new kind of torture Crowley was developing, where everything he’d ever wanted was just a stretch away from his fingertips, and he wasn’t allowed to take it.
He had to be the noble one here. The wise, old asshole who didn’t take advantage of you. Taking you up on that offer would be one of the worst things he’d ever done. It would be selfish, and cruel, and a worse fate than anything else. To get what he wanted, for one night, then never fucking have it again. To get hooked—because he would, he fucking knew he’d never be able to kiss and touch you once then go back to just living—and turn into an addict willing to do anything to get another hit.
Dean would’ve turned into a bigger creep than he already was. Instead of stares and long, shameful showers with his cock in his hand and your name on his lips, he’d stuff your panties in his pocket and press them to his nose while he fucked himself raw. He’d get possessive, he’d snarl at anyone else who got to close, he’d fall to his knees and beg you to stay if you ever decided you had enough of him.
And he knew that last thing was going to happen eventually. You had a whole life ahead of you, and he was stuck here. In this dim bunker with blood on his hands and under his feet and staining his past and future all at once. He swam in a river of it. In front of him, behind him, washing over him all the time, there was just fucking blood. You deserved better than that. Better than Dean. You deserved the fucking world.
So he’d told you no, and you’d looked at him like a wet fucking kitten he’d kicked into the rain, but it had been for your own good. You’d get over it. Dean was the one who had to watch you flirt with douchebags at the bar. Who couldn’t get in another bed anymore, because he kept getting kicked out for moaning your name.
He was the one who was rooted here forever. You’d find something softer. Something good. He’d accepted that, with a lot of beer pushing it down. You’d find something better, and that was what he wanted.
Sammy knew all that. Dean had gotten drunk once and confessed his stupid, undying feelings, then sworn Sam to secrecy in the morning. He’d kept his word, only shooting Dean sad looks whenever you went off to flirt and smirking whenever Dean called you on a hunt.
But now he was asking Dean to sleep with you. Like he’d lost his damn mind.
“No,” he grunted, and Sam rolled his eyes.
“Look, Dean, I get that you’re being cool and righteous and whatever-“
“I’m not fuckin’ her, Sammy- I shouldn’t.” He shot Sam a glare. “You know why I shouldn’t.“
“Yeah, well, I think your why is pretty stupid.” Sam said flatly. “You’ve never even asked her if she’d be- You know. Open to it-“
“I know she’d be open to it,” Dean scowled at his coffee. “But that’s- I ain’t doing it, Sammy. Never.” Not like that.
Sam was silent for a moment. When Dean looked up, he was staring at him with wide eyes. “She asked you first, didn’t she.”
Dean frowned. “What’d you mean, asked me first-“
“To take her virginity.”
He hadn’t taken a sip of coffee again. This time, he managed to choke on nothing at all. “To- What?”
Sam leaned back slightly. “Did she not ask you to sleep with her?”
“No, she did, I just didn’t fuckin’- She’s a virgin?”
“I guess,” Sam shrugged. “You know that’s not a big deal, right?”
Dean grunted. His head was spinning. Of course it wasn’t a big deal, he didn’t care. He’d wanted you before, he wanted you now, that wasn’t the fucking issue.
But you’d asked him.
You’d asked him to fuck you. You’d wanted him to- Do it. Take it. Pop it, whatever. You’d chosen Dean, to be the guy, and he’d told you no, and then you’d started flirting around with other people, and you could’ve ended up with someone dangerous, someone who took advantage of you, who thought your inexperience was hot for all the wrong reasons and hurt you and-
Dean paused. He looked at Sam. Sam blinked, and Dean’s eyes narrowed.
“How the fuck do you know that.”
Sam swallowed, taking a small step back. “Uh…”
“Sam-“
“She might’ve… Asked me.”
“She what-“
“I said no!” Sam said quickly. “I told her I wouldn’t. But- You know.” Sam cleared his throat. “If you’d said yes to her the first time…”
Sam gave him a pointed look. He was asking to get punched in the fucking face.
“No.”
“Dean, just-“
“No. I’m not takin’ advantage of her, Sammy, I’m not-“
“It’s not taking advantage of her if she wants it!”
“She doesn’t want it-“
Sam snorted. “Oh, fuck off.”
Dean blinked, leaning back in his chair. Sam turned a little red, wincing at himself, but didn’t back down.
“Wow, Sammy. Big claws, huh.”
Sam sighed, running a hand over his face. “Dean… Just- Think about her, okay?”
Dean almost laughed. “All I fuckin’ do is think about her-“
“Then think a little harder.” Sam said flatly. “Before both of you get actually hurt.”
Dean didn’t have an answer to that. Sam didn’t seem to be asking for one. He turned and walked out of the room, leaving Dean alone. With only his coffee mug and thoughts for company. A dangerous thing to do. Dean could talk himself into and out of almost anything, if the logic police weren’t there to stop him.
He was going to do something really fucking stupid and selfish, and it was all Sam’s fault.
“Come in!” You call to the knock on your door, glancing up from your laptop as the door creaks open.
Dean shuffles into your room with his head bowed. Your face heats, and you slam the laptop closed. He doesn’t need to see you scrolling through hookup websites and think any lower of you. You’re already losing sleep over the worry you’ve fractured something between you beyond repair.
“Hi,” you whisper, and he swallows.
“Uh- Hey.”
“Hi.” What the fuck is wrong with you.
Dean’s lips twitch. “Hey.”
You start to pull the sheets between your fingers, trying not to ogle him too obviously. He’s wearing sweats and a t-shirt, and it’s sexier than all the profile pics you’ve spent hours staring at. His hair is a mess, and there are bags under his eyes, and you don’t think you’ve ever wanted to climb over him more.
“You, uh-“ He glances at your computer. “You busy?”
“No- No.” Never for him. You shove your computer onto your bedstand, moving to sit on your knees. “What’s up?”
Dean’s throat bobs. He runs a hand through his hair, huffing something close to a laugh, and shakes his head. “Jesus.”
“What-“
“Nothin’.” He clears his throat, giving you a strange look. “Did you ask Sam to sleep with you?”
Your mouth falls open. You almost trip sitting down. “I- I didn’t-“
“You didn’t?”
“No, I mean- I- He wasn’t supposed to tell you,” you whine, avoiding Dean’s stare. “I didn’t- Fuck-“
“Hey- It’s- Woah-“
Dean crosses the room in a few strides, grabbing your wrists with firm, warm hands. You’d started to pick at your nails with the anxiety. You hadn’t even realized it.
“Don’t hurt yourself, sweetheart,” he mutters, his thumb dragging a circle on your wrist.
You nod, your voice only a breath. “Okay.”
He’s so close. You can count all his crow’s feet, map his stubble, trace his lips with just your eyes. He’s still frowning at your wrist, so you allow yourself to stare.
Then he looks up. And you freeze in panic, but don’t manage to look away.
Dean’s tongue flicks over his lips. Your breath catches. Neither of you move, and you let yourself have it. For a single second, you imagine that Dean is here, in your room, on your bed, and that means something. You get lost in the warmth of his proximity, the calloused but soft feeling of his touch.
“Sammy told me something else,” Dean mutters, scanning over your slack, flushed features.
“Yeah?” You whisper, and he nods tightly.
“Yeah. Said you’re, uh-“ He clears his throat. “Said you’ve never- You know.” He cringes. “Been fucked.”
Your mouth falls open. You think you’d like to die now. “Dean-“
“Is that why you asked me?” His grip tightens on your wrist. Not allowing you to pull away. “’Cause you just wanted someone to take it?”
You drop your gaze to his crotch. There’s a soft bulge there. You’d drool over it, if you didn’t think you were going to explode any second now.
Dean says your name, and you shake your head.
“Don’t,” you mumble. “Don’t just- Feel bad for me- You said no, that’s- It’s fine-“
“What if it’s not.”
Your eyes shoot up. You’d think he was joking, if he didn’t look so fucking serious. His jaw is set. His eyes are blown out and fixed on yours. Your mouth hangs stupidly open, and Dean smiles softly.
“Huh?” You manage to choke out, and he almost chuckles.
“What if I wanted to. Help you.”
“But-“ You blink. “You don’t.”
Dean shakes his head. “Wrong, sweetheart. I do-“
“You said you didn’t-“
“I lied.”
You stare at him. He doesn’t back down.
“Would it mean something?” He muttered, reaching up to trace the curve of your cheek. “If I did it?”
You nod weakly, leaning into his touch. It sends violent, hot shivers through your whole body. Almost like a fever. You don’t want the cure. “Would it matter to you?” You ask, and Dean’s eyes flash. His fingers curl on your cheek. He leans an inch forward, then another inch. Your lips brush, the lightest possible touch, and you let out a soft, uncertain whine.
Dean pushes forward, his lips fully crashing into yours, his kiss demanding but certain. He presses over you, pulling you a little further up on your knees. You grab the collar of his shirt for balance, squeezing your eyes shut and trying to kiss him back with as much fervor as he’s offering you.
“De- Dean-“ You gasp against his lips. “Dean-“
He groans, his arm sliding around your back so he can pull you tight to his chest. You melt into his arms, and his kisses turn messy. Open mouthed and rough, his tongue dragging over your teeth as his fingers dig into your hips. You run out of air fast, but don’t try and pull away. You don’t want this to ever end, and you’re afraid that if you dare to break the moment, it will never be repaired.
High gasps start to escape your throat, though, and Dean pulls away. He cups your face between his hands, frowning slightly, and presses his brow against yours. You struggle for air, almost pressing forward to try and kiss him again, but he holds you in place.
“Breathe, sweetheart,” he mutters, rough and thick. It’s the same voice he uses on you during hunts. When he’s giving an order you didn’t ask for.
Usually, you protest or ignore him. Right now you’re putty in his hands. He could tell you to follow him to hell, and you would. You’d do anything, just for him to never let go.
You inhale unevenly, and Dean rubs your upper back. His hand slipped under your shirt, and his palm is broad and warm. It—annoyingly—helps a lot.
“There you go,” he murmurs, watching you under hooded eyes. “That’s a good girl.”
You whine again. “Dean-“
“Sorry. Couldn’t help it.”
He doesn’t fucking look sorry. His lips are twitching, and there’s a smug glint in his eyes that’s almost dangerously intoxicating.
“Better?” He asks, and you nod, slumping closer to his chest. He doesn’t push you away.
This might be real.
“Are you sure, ‘bout this?” Dean rasps, and you almost giggle.
“Yes.”
“I’m old, sweetheart-“
“I like it.”
Dean blinks, and you stutter, so sure you should shut up but not really sure how.
“I- I mean- I like you, so- I don’t care if you’re old- I like you old- I like you-“
Dean smirks, holding your face so firmly against his you can’t shy away.
“You- Can you- I mean- If it’s just- Just sex- You can forget I said- I think you being old is hot-“
He finally takes mercy, and shuts you up with a long, rough kiss. You hum, pushing further up on your knees, and climb slowly into Dean’s lap. He sucks on your lower lip, angling your head back as your core settles against his bulge, then pulls back with a low sigh.
“Not just sex,” he mutters, dragging his thumb over your swollen lower lip. “Not with you, baby.”
You nod, smiling wider than you probably should. “Cool.”
Dean grins back. “Yeah?”
“Mhm.”
“Cool ‘cause you like me,” he teases, shoving your hips down, right over his crotch. “Of ‘cause I’m old.”
You face burns. All you can do is stare and him and whimper, “You’re spritely.”
Dean huffs, in disbelieving amusement. “Spritely? You think I’m-“
“Youthful,” you babble quickly. “You’ve got a lot of…” You flush as he stares at you, sort of wishing he’d just kiss you and shut you up. “Youth.”
Dean’s mouth curves up. “Youth, huh.”
You nod, and he chuckles, pressing the lightest kiss over your lips.
“Hurts when I bend over now, honey, don’t think that’s very youthful of me.”
“So don’t bend over,” you mumble, and Dean snorts.
“Demanding, aren’t we?”
You shrug, trying not to turn into a puddle and miserably failing. Dean kisses your cheek, then under your eye, tracing his mouth down so he breath tickles your ear.
“Mouthy and demanding,” he rubs your hips, dragging your hips back and forth across his crotch. “Don’t worry. I’m gonna fix that.”
You whimper, and Dean’s grin grows.
“You like that, huh.”
“Dean-“
“Ah,” he kisses the corner of your mouth, moving away before you can chase his lips. “You wanted my help. This is how I’m gonna help, baby. Takin’ real good care of you,” he thrusts his hips up, and you whine as the hard outline of his cock hits your clothed pussy. “Just like this.”
You nod, pressing your face into the crook of Dean’s neck. You don’t think you’ve ever been this turned on. It’s different, with Dean’s hands wandering your sides and his voice right in your ear. Your heart pounds and everywhere gets slick with sweat and arousal, just his dirty talk reducing you to a heap of confused nerves. Dean’s lips drag over your jaw, and you curl further around him, your nails digging into his shoulders as he nips at your throat.
“Just gotta do what I tell you, alright?” He mutters, squeezing a handful of your ass. “Can you do that, baby? Do it for me?"
You nod quickly, and Dean chuckles against your skin.
“Eager,” he drawls, pushing his fingers slowly under the hem of your shorts. “Eager and soft.”
He squeezes your ass again, his fingers brushing against the edge of your pussy. You grind backwards, trying to push him to where you need him so very desperately. He lets you, teasing his fingers over the lips of your pussy, and you whine in his ear.
“Sit still,” he grunts, and you have to bite your lower lip, but you force your hips to come to a stop.
It earns you a sharp slap of your ass, and a kiss on the side of your head. Worth it.
“That’s right,” he mutters, letting those thick fingers dance back over your cunt. “Good work, baby girl. You fuckin’ love the attention, don’t you. Eager to please me, eager to make me proud.”
You swallow, hugging him so tight you’re a little worried you’ll choke him. Dean doesn’t even flinch. He dips two fingers into the wetness of your heat and groans right in your ear, spreading the arousal everywhere between your thighs.
“If you’re gonna hide that pretty face,” he grunts in your ear. “At least fuckin’ kiss me.”
Nervously, you wander your lips over the strong curve of his shoulders, the arch of his neck. Dean moans in your ear, his cock jumping in his jeans. His fingers keep wandering near and around your pussy, and you get a little bolder. Kissing up his jaw, over his cheek, the top of his lip. You’re panting, trying to focus on your job as Dean keeps pulling and teasing you with his touch.
“Shit,” he moans your name, tracing around your flutter entrance. “That’s it, baby, just like that-“
Dean grabs your jaw with his free hand, like he can’t fucking help himself, and slams his lips against yours. You squeak in surprise, but kiss him back, grinding down onto his hand. His fingers dip inside of you for a moment, and you moan. Dean grunts and shoves those fingers inside of you.
Your mouth falls open, your eyes widening at the thick, pleasurable stretch. He feels so good, so fucking right, you’re worried his cock might kill you.
“Look at you,” Dean coos, smirking at your slack face. “Just my fuckin’ fingers, baby. Keep breathin’, or this is all we’re doing tonight.”
You take a deep breath, sharp and sudden, and Dean smirks in approval.
“Good girl,” he pushes his fingers a little deeper, scissoring them and bumping against a spot that makes your whole body jerk.
“Dean-“
“Shh,” he kisses you, crooking his fingers to rub against that hidden button, and you mewl against his lips. “You feel that, baby?”
“Mmm- Mhm.” You press your cheek against his, eyes fluttering as Dean keeps pushing and tickling deep inside you. “Feels good.”
“I know it does, sweet girl,” he wraps his hand back around your neck, guiding your brow to press back against his. “It’s that special little spot, gonna make everything feel good.”
His words are sweet and mocking all at once, and it sends a new gush of arousal between your legs. You watch him with wide, clouded eyes, and Dean’s smile softens for a single second. He kisses you, more gentle than before, and pulls his fingers slowly out of your cunt.
“Lie down,” he whispers before you can protest, and you swallow, but obey.
Dean hums in approval, rubbing a massive hand on your thigh.
“Everything off,” he says, and you go still.
“Everything?”
“Mhm,” he raises his brows at your flushed expression. “That gonna be a problem?”
You shake your head, wrapping your arms around your stomach. You don’t want to disappoint him, but he’s going to see you. Really, fully see you. God, you really don’t want him to see you and change his mind, and-
“Hey,” Dean takes your hand, squeezing it gently. “You want my help?”
“Yes, please,” you breathe, and that’s all it takes.
Dean rips off his shirt first—makin’ it even, he says—then makes quick work of his jeans. You don’t get more than a second to marvel him—flushed, tanned chest and thick everything, and heavy cock that does not look like a worm—before he’s touching you. He shimmies your shorts down, then peels your shirt over your head, leaving you in only your underwear. For a moment he just admires you, palming his cock with a tiny grin, and you roll onto your stomach.
Dean laughs, tapping your ass with a single finger. “Gettin’ shy, baby?”
“Shut up-“
“Ah.” He drags that finger down your clothed pussy. “Who tells who what to do?”
Your face burns, and you press your face further into the pillows. Dean chuckles, and you feel the bed shift as he crawls over your body. You can feel the heat coming off of him, feel the drag of his cock somewhere near your ass as he whispers in your ear.
“You were doin’ so well,” he drawls, unhooking your bra with a single hand. “Don’t get shy on me now.”
It doesn’t help. You keep grinding, trying to get some friction with the sheets. Dean’s hand comes down on your pussy with one, sharp smack, and you squeal, pushing back against his hand.
“Needy fuckin’ baby,” he mocks. “Can’t even help it, can you. Still tryin’ to be good for me.”
He hooks two fingers around your panties, pulling them tight so they push against your clit. You push back against his hand, and he smirks against your ear.
“You want a little more?”
You nod, and he snaps the fabric down, sending a tiny shock through your body.
“Say please-“
“Please,” you gasp, moving your arms up to hide your face. “Please, Dean- More- Oooh-“
Dean’s thumb finds your clit, rubbing in slow, tight circles. Your words fall off, and he fists a hand in your hair, tugging your head back to allow him to kiss you again.
He’s not cruel, with how he touches you. He’s generous, but controlled. Every stroke of your clit is deliberate, making your head spin and your mouth fall further open. That seems to be exactly how he wants you, though, because he pushes his tongue further down your throat and flicks his thumb back and forth, working you up into a writhing frenzy.
When his fingers finally push back inside of you, Dean almost seems unwilling to pull back and stop kissing you. You’re bent back and pliant under him, whimpering happily as he feeds his fore and middle finger into your hole.
“Greedy little pussy,” he rasps against your lips. “Know you’re gonna strangle my cock, baby, son of a bitch-"
He groans, like he’s the one being fingered into oblivion. He’s set a harsh pace with his wrist, snapping his fingers in and out of your cunt without relent. His thumb moved away from your clit, replaced by the heel of his palm, rubbing in tight, unrelenting circles on your swollen clit.
Every single time, he hits that spot inside of you, and your head is starting to get light. All the electricity and heat in your body is pushing down into your core, building like a bomb and threatening to explode. You almost sob, with how overwhelming the sensation is. Dean notices, kissing you a little softer.
“Poor girl,” he mutters. “Already like this and I’m not even properly fuckin’ you.”
“Your- Your hands,” you push out the word between sharp breaths. “They’re big.”
Dean grunts, his cock jumping near your ass. “Yeah, sweetheart? You like how fuckin’ big my hands are?”
“Mh- Mhm.”
You try to kiss him again. He pulls back, moving his hand impossibly faster against your cunt.
“Words,” he grunts. “You’re not stupid enough to not speak, not yet.”
“Like it,” you breathe out. “Love- Love it, Dean, oh- Oh my god-“
You moan again, and Dean grunts. His hips are starting to jerk near your ass, making him rut against you as his fingers work.
“Your close,” he mutters, pressing his fingers fully inside and crooking them against that gooey spot. “Cum for me, pretty girl. Now.”
His voice must have some kind of supernatural power over you, because that pressure in your lower tummy bursts, and your orgasm rips through you link a hurricane. Your thighs clench, trapping Dean’s hand between your legs, and he groans, rubbing his fingers harsher and harsher against your g-spot. You’re shaking and rolling beneath him, and he has to grab the back of your neck and pin it down to keep you still.
Dean works you through your orgasm, whispering low praise in your ear as you float back down to earth. Your pussy feels empty, when his fingers finally pull away. Your eyes are slightly crossed, and your smile is dazed and a little stupid.
You don’t even squeak, when Dean grabs your thigh and flips you over. You keen, back arching and body twitching, but you’re mostly just staring stupidly and happily up at him. Dean swallows, his chest rising and falling fast, and leans down to press a soft kiss to your lips. You hum, eyes fluttering shut, and cup the back of his neck to hold him against you.
He drags his fingers lazily through the mess between your thighs, sending pleasurable little shivers up your spine. He drags your panties fully off your body, holding them up to his nose and taking a deep, long whiff before tossing them off to the side. He gathers your arousal on his fingers and slowly pulls away, rising over you with parted lips and gleaming, almost wholly black eyes.
Dean sucks your juices off his fingers, lapping them up with his tongue and a lazy, knowing smirk. Your breath catches. You almost push up to try and grab him, but you’re still foggy and boneless from the orgasm, and he shoves you back down with a broad hand splayed over your tummy.
“Dean-“
You cut yourself off under his stern gaze, swallowing nervously.
“Please?” You try again, and he chuckles.
“You’re cute.”
“I- I am not-“
“Yeah, you are. Cute when you cum for me,” he dips his fingers back into you, smirking lazily. “Cute when I touch you. Cute when you beg.”
“Deeeean-“
“Deeean,” he mocks, squeezing your upper thigh. “Listen to you. Fuckin’ adorable.”
You flush, a new wave of arousal hitting you like a rising tide, and you don’t even understand how you could possibly be ready that fast. Dean watches you pussy tremble and flutter, letting out a slow, rough breath.
“Son of a bitch,” he shakes his head, his hand moving to rub against his cock. “You got no idea what you do to me, baby, no fuckin’ idea.”
You swallow, watching him move against himself, almost enchanted. He really is prettier than is fair, in every possible way. His cock is thick and long, flushed at the head and leaking pre-cum against his thumb. Your tongue flicks over your lips, as you try to mentally measure the girth and length of him. You’ve taken toys before, when you got really curious. He’s bigger.
“You wanna touch, sweetheart?” He prompts, and you nod, your tongue flicking over your lips.
Dean pushes his hips forward, slowly taking your hand and guiding it against his shaft. He’s warm. Warm and hard. You dance your fingers down the length of him and he grunts, a vein ticking in his neck.
“Easy…” He rasps, and you nod nervously.
You find his balls, give them a light squeeze, and Dean catches your wrist.
“That’s enough.” He mutters, twining your fingers together. “Jesus, woman, gonna blow it before I even get inside of you.”
Your eyes widen. You’d almost forgotten about that part.
“That’s not going to fit inside of me.”
Dean chuckles. “Yeah, it will.”
“No, I mean like- It can’t-“
“It can.”
“Dean, I’m serious-“
He shuts you up with a quick rough kiss, and you go embarrassingly limp. His cock rubs between the folds of your pussy, bumping and pressing against your clit, and your breath hitches. Oh, God.
“Just do what I tell ya,” he mutters. “We’re gonna make it fit.”
You do. It is very easy to do what Dean tells you, when he follows through on all his promises. When he gives you such low and certain orders, and you find yourself molding perfectly around his cock.
Because it does fit. Somehow, Dean spreads your legs and kisses your pussy once—as if he can’t help himself—before crawling over you and slowly pushing the head of his cock inside of you. It’s tight at first. He grunts, pressing his brow to you shoulder, and rubs tight circle around your clit with his thumb.
“Open up for me, baby,” he rasps. “C’mon.”
You go limp with every inch he feeds you. The stretch is glorious, pulling you apart with every drag over your fluttering walls, every low grunt of your name from Dean’s lips. His determination to tease you seems to dissolve, by the time he’s fully seated inside of you, his balls pressed against your ass. He pants in your ear, hot and heavy, and cradles your body in his arms like it’s fragile.
“Slow,” he mutters, and it sounds like he’s talking to himself more than you. “Gonna go slow.”
You keen, at the first, lazy thrust of his hips. A lewd, wet sound fills the air, and the head of Dean’s cock pushes right up against that already abused spot inside of you, making stars dance behind your eyes. Every roll of Dean’s hips makes your whole body spark. He kisses all over your face, his own voice thick and wrecked as you clench around him.
“Takin’ me so well, baby,” he rasps. “Feels good, doesn’t it. Feels so fuckin’ good, bein’ filled up with cock like you deserve-“
His words fall into a moan, his hips snapping forward, and the air gets knocked from your lungs. A sound you’ve never heard escapes you, and Dean chuckles, kissing your open mouth as he repeats the motion.
“Yeah, you like that.” He pulls almost fully out, then slams back forward. “Say it, baby girl, say you like it-“
“I like it,” you gasp out, sounding drunk to your own ears. “Love it, Dean- Fuck- Fuuuck-“
Dean captures your mouth in another kiss, and sets a brutal, drilling pace. You’re split open with every thrust, your every nerve on fire as he fucks you like a machine. He never gets too fast, just hard. Over and over and over again, until you’re gasping for air and clawing at his shoulders. That pressure turns molten and demanding, threatening to burst. Dean’s fingers dig into your hips. He moans in your ear, his own words staring to slur.
“Tight,” he moans. “So fuckin’ tight- I- I can’t- Shit-“
Dean’s hands fumble, dragging over your thighs and as he gropes for your pussy. Two fumbling fingers find it, rubbing tight circles, and you cry out, clenching down on his cock.
“Let go, sweetheart, need you to let for ‘f me- Fuck-“
Your orgasm hits you even harder than before, and your vision goes white. Your pussy flutters and clenches, something hot gushing out as your body trembles with overwhelming pleasure. It’s a strange sensation, but not bad. Not even close. You think you scream with pleasure, but Dean slams his mouth over yours and muffles the sound.
His hips stutter and jerk. You whine his name and he grunts, slamming forward and burying himself at the hilt as his cum spurts deep inside you, mixing with your own release.
You’re almost gone to the world. Dean lies over you, kissing you as you float back down, murmuring praise you can barely hear.
“Gonna clean you up,” he grunts, and you whine when his weight disappears.
“Deeean.” You grab at the air and catch his bicep. “Stay.”
You pout at him, eyes watery and hopeful. He just chuckles, kissing your knuckles before drawing back up, and promising to return.
He better. You really don’t want to let go of him now.
Dean brings a wet, warm towel, and cleans between your thighs. You didn’t realize how sore you were until he touches you with such light hands, but it’s a good kind of sore. When you moan, it’s not even really in pain.
He brings you water. A snack and a fresh shirt, that he bundles you in like a penguin. You somehow end up curled against his chest, half asleep and smiling against his bare, warm chest.
“I like you,” Dean says suddenly, and you beam. You don’t think you’ve ever felt so bubbly in your life.
“I like you too-“
“No,” his jaw works, the words low and tight. “I like like you- Like- Fuck-“
He runs a hand over his face, shaking his head. It’s almost adorable.
“You- You’re just- That really wasn’t nothin’ for me, sweetheart, not even close-“
You take his trick. You push up on his chest, press your lips together, and kiss him until he shuts the fuck up. He kisses you back immediately, cupping your face between shaking hands. You smile against his lips, pulling back just enough to whisper, “I like you too.”
Dean’s eyes snap open, his voice hoarse. “Really?”
“Yeah,” you flush. “A- A lot.”
Dean grins. He smiles wider than you knew he could, and slams a shorter rougher kiss against your lips before pulling back again. Like he can’t stand not to look at you for too long.
“Can I take you out?” He says, and you nod.
“Can we have more sex,” you whisper, and he laughs, pressing another kiss against your lips.
“Any time you want, baby.” He says. “You’re mine now.”
✦End note: drooling for him ✦
✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦
✦Read on aO3! - Series Masterlist - Main Masterlist - Chapter 68✦
✦summary: you look for Sam✦
✦warnings/tags: friends to lovers, canon divergence, slow burn, angst, fluff, pining, action, smut, no use of y/n✦
✦author's note: dean in his clingy wife era and i love it for him✦
✦Chapter Title from nothing left to say by imagine dragons✦
Dean paced on the sidewalk, trying not to grind his teeth. She said that’s why his head had been hurting all day. She’d run her fingers through his hair on the train and he’d slumped down, pressing his face into Her breasts and wrapping his arms around her stomach. She’d been warm, and the air had been cold.
He kicked a rock. It plunked into the water with the tiniest splash, and vanished into the muddy dark of the river. Dean leaned over the edge of the water, then glanced down the street. No one was paying them much mind. If he dove into the water and dragged Her back up to the surface, no one would try to stop him. He ran a hand through his hair, looking back to the water. She’d been down there too long. Almost thirty minutes. He never should’ve let Her out of his sight. Not with Sammy missing. Not with the way She’d been gliding through the world on a thin, frayed string.
The water bubbled slightly, and Dean damn near dove into it. His knees bent, and his jaw locked, and Charlie caught his arm just before he could leap over the edge.
“Fuckin’- Jesus-“ He yanked his arm away, shaking out his fist. “Don’t do that, I coulda socked you-“
“But you didn’t,” Charlie waved him off, looking him up and down with a tiny frown. “And- Stop looking like you want to.”
“I don’t want to-“
“Yeah, but you look like it.”
“Well, I don’t-“
“That’s not what your face is saying.”
Dean scowled, his voice dropping under his breath. “Probably ‘cause you’re making me freakin’ want to.”
“That’s not nice,” Charlie stuck out her tongue. “I’m telling mom.”
Dean shot her a glare, running a hand over his face. He looked back to the water. The bubbles were gone, and she still wasn’t up. He should’ve put that GPS tracker on her. She could be a floating body in the Atlantic by now. Face down and alone and cold, where Dean couldn’t reach Her, where he’d never be able to find her. Washed out and empty eyed.
His stomach clenched into a tight, wired fist. His mouth watered with something sour and his head spun. Charlie took a small step forward, smile slowly dropping into worry.
“Dean, are you-“
“Shh- Shut it-“ He grunted, holding up a hand. Charlie took a step back, her lips in a tight line.
“Do you need to sit down or something? Or- Go to the hospital-“
“I’m fine,” Dean snapped. “And we don’t do hospitals.”
“We don’t do hospitals?”
“Not unless we’re in the waiting room with a Reaper.” Dean took a deep breath through his nose, looking back to the water. It didn’t seem to be moving at all. He wasn’t sure if that was better or worse. “How deep is this river?”
“Umm…” Charlie leaned over the bank, squinting at the water. “Deep?”
Dean sighed. He didn’t have enough in his stomach to vomit. He’d given Her his sandwich this morning, and Adam that fluffy croissant they’d gotten at the café. Dean had survivied without eating before. Charlie and Adam hadn’t, and She shouldn’t have to.
Nothing was going to stay down anyways. Not until She was back above the water. Not until they found Sammy.
“I’m sure she’s fine,” Charlie said, awkwardly patting Dean’s shoulder. “She’s magic, right? Magic people don’t die.”
Dean grunted. Magic people died all the time. Everyone fucking died. He had a dead guy in a bottle in their fucking duffle bag. But Charlie was trying, and he was really trying not to be a dick.
Play nice, She’d told him, before she jumped in the water. In the moment, Dean had rolled his eyes and grumbled that he always played nice. Out of himself, Her, and Sammy, he played the nicest. He praised old ladies cookies and cracked jokes with the other hunters. Sammy said sweet words to the victims then picked fights with the other hunters when they didn’t want to do things his way. She stood off to the corner of the room with Her chin raised and arms crossed, like a scary hot statue. They were the weirdos.
But they were his weirdos. They were the reason he bothered being charming and stupid. And the longer he was left to himself, the more his fingers twitched. His skin was itchy. His leg was starting to bounce, and everything seemed short. Words had to be clipped or he’d lose it at Charlie. Movements were short, or he’d whack Adam upside the head for napping on the bench.
She’d been right. She usually was. He wished She wasn’t. It would be easier to tell Her not to do crazy things like jumping into the Seine for some stupid bones.
“So,” Charlie cleared her throat, and Dean took a deep breath. “Do we have like, a submarine?”
Dean blinked. When he looked at her, she seemed real serious. “What.”
“If you’re going to dive in after her,” Charlie nodded to the water. “You have a submarine, right? Because otherwise you’re going to drown, and I’m going to get in a lot of trouble.”
“You’re not gonna get in trouble, kid.”
“I will if you drown,” Charlie shrugged. “I’m supposed to watch you.”
Dean snorted. “I don’t need watching.”
“You do if you’re going to drown yourself-“
“I ain’t gonna drown myself.”
“Sure,” Charlie shrugged. “And you weren’t about to dive into the water.”
Dean glared at her. She smiled back.
“Seriously. If she comes back up and you’re dead I think she’s going to nuke France.”
And Dean snorted. “Nice try. I’m not that important.”
Charlie stared at him, long enough for his brows to knit curiously. She looked into the dark water, then back to Dean, her mouth hanging open slightly.
“What-“
“Are you serious?”
“Uh- Maybe?” Dean felt like he’d lost whatever thread they’d been following. “Why, what’re you saying right now-“
“I- I’m saying that you- And-“ Charlie said Her name, and Dean swallowed. “She’s like- Oh my god-“ Charlie took a step back. “Sam’s right.”
Dean scowled. “Sam’s right?”
“Yeah, he and Jo, they told me-“
Dean cut her off with a groan. “Fuckin’- Sam and Jo don’t know what the hell they’re talking about-“
“I think they do-“
“You don’t know them like I do-“
“Yeah, but I’m not blind, dude,” Charlie laughed, rolling her eyes. “You’re like Han and Leia. It’s cute, if not gross.”
Dean’s jaw relaxed. is
His hands were still in tight fists. He looked back to the water, then did a tiny double take. “Gross? We’re not gross-“
“Not both of you,” Charlie shrugged. “Just- You know you’re batting out of your league right?”
Dean sighed. “That’s the second time you’ve told me that,” he grumbled, and Charlie laughed.
“Still true. And look at you, you know it.” She poked his arm, smiling wider. “So how do you not think she’d nuke France for you?”
Dean sighed and looked up to the sky. A low, huffing laugh left him, and something close to blowing in his ribcage deflated. Charlie whistled next to him, rocking back and forth on her feet. Dean looked over his shoulder to check on Adam. Still asleep on the bench. He’d gone out almost the moment She dove into the water, but he’d also been sniffing around her like a puppy all day. Dean had kept one arm around Her waist, his fingers splayed. Adam hadn’t done anything stupid, and Dean was—as instructed—playing very nice.
Everyone loved Her. He couldn’t stop that. Hell, he’d rather have to fend off an army of suitors to win her heart then find Her alone and trembling in a tower. Than be her only option. The default, that she’d learn to resent when he clung to her like a vampiric, over adoring barnacle.
“She told me you died,” Charlie said casually, and Dean sighed.
“Yeah. While ago, though.”
Charlie hummed, and Dean expected the usually questions. What did it feel like. What was hell like. What were you thinking about in the last seconds. He had the answered locked and loaded.
It hurt. Hell sucked. He’d thought about Her and Sammy to the last seconds, praying to God he’d been so sure wasn’t real that they’d be alright.
But Charlie wasn’t giving him that wide-eyed pity look. She was watching him like a strange bug she was trying to poke at, to make it’s wings unfurl.
Charlie said her name. Dean felt like he was under a freaking microscope. “She felt you die.”
Dean blinked. His stomach clenched again, and either he was sick, or someone was stabbing him. “I- She wasn’t there-“
“Yeah, but she said she felt you die.”
No, She hadn’t. He would’ve heard about that. “She tell you that?”
Charlie nodded. Dean thought the world might be flipping over.
“What- When-“
“On the train.” Charlie gave him another weird look. “She told me that you liked Lord of the Rings.”
Dean swallowed. His voice sounded far away. “Uh- Yeah. Good movies.”
Charlie hummed. “You read the books.”
“When I was a kid.”
“Huh,” Charlie looked him up and down. “I would’ve thought you were like, a jock. If I saw you in high school I would’ve assumed you were going to shove me in a locker then call me a dyke.”
Dean opened his mouth, then closed it. This conversation was like driving on a freaking highway and trying to keep track of every single billboard. “Uh- I wouldn’t have- Said that.”
“But you would’ve shoved me in a locker?”
Dean’s lips twitched. “Were you annoying?”
“Oh, yeah.” Charlie grinned. “I was a monster.”
Dean didn’t laugh, but he let out another, longer breath. His head hurt less. Charlie was still watching him like a scientist, but he minded less now.
She asked him about what kind of kid he’d been. He told her about moving around and finding things he was good at. Wrestling. Flashing a smile and leaning over girls in the hall. Cracking a joke and getting a rush off of it. Charlie didn’t tell him much in return, but she’d watched Scooby Doo as a kid, and that was enough to carry conversation for an hour. Dean didn’t notice the time pass. Not the way he’d been counting seconds, before.
Then the water moved. Something shifted and rippled, and his head whipped around. That was either a very sexy fish, or his girl.
He dropped to his knees, reaching out an arm, and let out a sharp breath when he could pick out Her features through the waves. She burst out of the water like a damn mermaid, catching Dean’s hand and hauling herself out of the water with a grunt.
“Get the towel,” Dean ordered Charlie, pulling Her fully onto the land. She was soaked to the bone, her clothing stuck to her skin and her eyes squeezed shut.
Dean grabbed Her face between his hands, angling it around for signs of danger. Bite marks, burns, gashes, anything. She wasn’t saying anything. She should be saying something.
“C’mon, Princess, talk to me.” He took the towel from Charlie without looking, wrapping it tight around her shoulders. “Who’s the president, what day is it, uh-“
“Alphabet backwards?” Charlie suggested, and Dean nodded frantically.
“Yeah, alphabet backwards-“
“That’s for drunk people, De,” She mumbled, and Dean’s shoulders sagged.
“Son of a bitch,” he muttered, wiping the dripping hair out of her face. “You were down there forever, baby, next time breach up and check or something.”
“Sorry, I just-“ She dropped Her face into Dean’s neck. “’S bright.”
Dean sighed, and nodded. She didn’t fight him scooping her up, one arm going around his neck and her body slumping against his chest. Charlie got Adam up. They’d go find a hotel, get her cleaned up, then go after Sammy.
“Got the bone,” she whispered in his ear, and he grunted.
He’d forgotten about that part. “Nice job, sweetheart.”
“Were you nice?”
“I’m always freakin’ nice-“
“Dean.”
He sighed. “Yeah. Fed them. Talked to Charlie a lot. Waited around. Rowena ain’t texted me back yet, but-“
“What’d you and Charlie talk about?”
Dean paused.
She felt it when he died.
That wasn’t the kind of thing She’d just say. But She’d never told him. He didn’t even know what the hell to make of it. Not right now.
“Lord of the Rings,” he said. “And Scooby Doo.”
She smiled against his skin. “Told her,” She said smugly, and Dean glanced down with raised brows.
“Told her?”
“To distract you.” She turned Her face, Her cheek pressing against his collarbone, her eyes starry and lidded. “If you got grumpy.”
A small, inevitable smile pulled at Dean’s lips. “You think I get grumpy?”
“Super grumpy,” She whispered. “Like an old man.”
Dean chuckled. “Alright, baby. Let’s get you warmed up, huh?” He pressed a kiss to her brow, murmuring against Her skin. “You’re talking crazy.”
“You’re talking crazy,” She grumbled, turning Her face back into Dean’s neck.
He grinned, and looked back ahead. Charlie was staring around at the Paris streets, whistling casually, while Adam glanced over his shoulder every few moments, then going red and looking back ahead. Dean sighed. He’d been trying with the kid. He’d grown out in the past year—broader, strong, smoother hair and less of a baby bird look in his eyes—but he still was closer to Sammy’s build. Lanky and waving on legs too long for his body. Dean figured himself lucky that the stick gene missed him. He wouldn’t have made it past ’05 if he blew over when the wind picked up.
Playing nice with Charlie had been easy. Adam was… Different.
“You gonna head back to the Letter guys after this?” Dean asked lamely, when they got to the motel. Adam jumped off the bed, fumbling with his phone.
It clattered to the ground between them. Dean pressed his lips in a thin line, running a hand over his face as Adam scrambled to grab it.
“S- Sorry-“ Adam cleared his throat, rushing back to his feet. “You- I, um- I didn’t think you were going to talk to me-“
“I’ve been talking to you all day,” Dean muttered, and Adam went even redder. Dean was worried he was about to self-detonate.
“I- Um- I know, but- You know.” Adam shrugged, looking at his hands. “You know,” he repeated, quieter.
Dean swallowed, crossing his arms over his chest. This was awful, and sticky, and he shifted on his feet like the ground was burning coal. He took a half-step back, and Adam looked up at him with soft, puppy eyes. He had Sammy’s eyes. Dean’s jaw was clenching again.
“Good work today,” he grunted, taking another step.
Adam frowned. “I napped on a bench.”
“Well, good- Napping.” Dean nodded to himself. That was enough. And nice. Compliments were inherently nice, and now he could be done. “Get some sleep.”
He didn’t wait for Adam’s response, before retreating back into the bathroom. Dean closed the door, turned around, and let out a sharp exhale.
She blinked at him from the bathtub, knees curled, hands pressed to her chest, and eyes wide. She gave him a tiny, overly-sweet smile. Dean frowned.
“What’re you up to, sweetheart?”
She shrugged, twisting the skin on Her finger. “Nothing. How are Adam and Charlie?”
“They’re fine,” Dean scanned over Her. Sunken half under the mountain of bubbles he’d prepared for Her, hair fanning out in the water like the halo of a better angel, eyes wide and innocent. The towel was on the toilet, Dean’s phone under the folds. His brow knit. “Where’s your phone?”
She pushed Herself further back against the edge of the tub. “You, um-“ She looked down at Her locked over hands. “You can’t get mad.”
Dean rolled his eyes, and pushed off the door. She squealed when he reached over, trying to keep Her phone out of his reach, but Dean knew her pretty tricks.
“De- Dean- Just-“ She batted at his hand, glaring up at him like a spited kitten. “Dean, wait-“
He grabbed Her jaw, and She went quiet real fast. Her eyes widened like a cartoon, Her breath hitched, and Dean smirked.
“Hey, Princess.”
She made a tiny noise from the back of Her throat. Dean kissed Her nose, then her upper lip. When he pulled back, She was panting like they’d just ran the mile.
“Breathe,” he reminded Her, before pressing a deeper, longer kiss over Her parted lips. She was just as sweet as always. Dean was never going to get sick of it.
Her swiped the phone from Her slack hands, and she squawked with a short-lived protest. Dean squeezed Her jaw once, tucking the phone in his back pocket.
“Easy, baby,” he murmured. That earned him Her high, sweet whine.
When he pulled back, She was looking at him like a baby lion. Trying to build up the courage to pounce and growl at him, but still unsure if She’d land the kill. Dean patted Her cheek, then brushed the hair from Her face.
“Good?” He murmured, and She nodded quickly. “And- Warmer?”
Another nod. Dean sighed, kissed Her hairline, and sat fully on the lip of the tub. He grabbed Her phone back out, and she twisted in the water, moving to Her knees. Her tits can out, soft and covered in bubbles. Dean coughed, and forced his attention onto the phone.
“You said you wouldn’t get mad-“
“I’m not mad,” he said, running his fingers through her damp hair. “Just-“
“If you say disappointed,” she grumbled, pressing Her cheek against his thigh. “I’m gonna stab you.”
Dean laughed, and peered at Her screen. There were texts from Jo, and Cas, and Jody, and-
“She called you?!” Dean scowled at the screen, then Her. “I told her to call me, you- You were at the bottom of a freakin’ river-“
“I know, I- I mean- She says you’re-“ She cut Herself off, reaching for the phone. “Just let me finish talking to her-“
“Ah.” Dean raised the phone over his head. “No, you gotta tell me what she thinks I am.”
She sighed. “Dean, just- Give me my phone-“
“Did she call me a fuck toy again? ‘Cause- I feed you too-“
“And you’re not even fucking me,” She grumbled.
They both froze. Dean’s brows shot up. She flushed, mouth hanging open and panicked eyes flitting to Dean’s, then away. He dragged his face down to cup her neck, keeping Her against him before she could dive under the water and use the bubbles as a guard. Dean’s grin hurt his face. He didn’t care what Rowena called him anymore. Couldn’t possibly matter, when he had this at his feet.
“You got something you wanna tell me, sweetheart?”
“I- Um-“ She took a deep breath, avoiding Dean’s gaze. “Don’t- Stop looking at me like that-“
“I’m not lookin’ at you like anything,” Dean purred, and She dropped Her pretty face straight into his thigh. “You’re the one getting bratty because I’m not fuckin’ her.”
She hit his leg, but it was clawness and soft. Dean laughed, leaning down to kiss the top of Her head.
“Finish your bath, baby,” he murmured. “Call me if you need something.”
She grumbled something low and probably mean, but Her angry face was too cute for Dean to care. He dragged himself out of there with long, heavy steps. There seemed to always be a rubber band tied to his legs, when he tried to get away from Her, even for a few minutes. If he didn’t close that door without looking back, he would’ve just seen Her flushed and ethereal in the bathtub and snapped right back to Her side.
Dean didn’t even know where the hell he’d gotten the willpower to get that far away in the first place. His jeans were painfully tight, and his hands were getting cold just adjusting his jeans and holding Her phone. He’d toss it up to Sammy, and Rowena. That came first. She’d want it to come first. If she didn’t have that sleep-addled, drunken look in Her eyes.
Rowena had, apparently, called Dean Her idiotic man-servant. He’d been called worse, and at least Rowena wasn’t saying it behind his back.
“I am not speaking to the man-servant,” Rowena said, the moment Dean called her. “Where is your boss, boy.”
“Probably getting mad at some bubbles,” Dean shrugged, glancing at the bathroom door. “Tell me what’s goin’ on, Rowena.”
“Why would I do that-“
“’Cause it’s my baby brother who’s missing. And if you don’t tell me where the hell he is,” Dean paused, reaching for his gun on the bedside table, turning it over in his hand. “Well. Let’s just call it that you should tell me where he is.”
Rowena sighed. “You know, I like you better when you’re a pretty slab of meat that knows his place.”
“I like me better when I get to be a slab of meat,” Dean grunted. “Talk.”
Sammy was with Crowley. Rowena told a real long, pointless story about finding a demon and tying him to a bed to get the information. Dean was pretty sure they fucked after, from the way Rowena kept wistfully sighing. He added it to the list of reasons he was grateful for not eating today.
“You got a way into hell?” He made the mistake of asking, and Rowena did—of course she did—but it involved a gargoyle she’d also definitely fucked, and Dean was getting worried his stomach was going to create food just so he could throw it up.
He wondered if Rowena was this explicit with Her as well. He couldn’t imagine that she was. Rowena seemed to know that, for all Her skills, she was on wobbling legs when it came to sex.
“Are you taking care of her?” Rowena demanded after they set up a plan, and Dean sighed.
“Yeah.” Of course he was. He’d pull out a fucking rib if She needed to make it a hairbrush. “She’s just in the bath.”
“Hm.” Rowena sniffed. “You know, she adores you. Pathetically. I tried to cut it out of her, when she was with me, but-“ She sighed. “It’s a cancer.”
Dean rolled his eyes. “Yeah. Thanks.”
“Oh, be proud, you twat.” Rowena snapped. “I haven’t killed you yet, have I?”
Dean supposed she hadn’t. He thought about telling Rowena she really didn’t have to bother with that, because if Dean ever slacked on Her, it was because he was already dead. But the door to the bathroom creaked open, and She poked her head out with those wide, pretty eyes. She was wrapped in a towel and flushed. Dean cleared his throat, and sat up at attention.
“See you in the morning,” he said into the phone, and hung up before Rowena could insult him and his boyfriending skills again.
His girl seemed into them. And that was all that really mattered.
Dean reached out a hand, and She shuffled over to his side. He pulled Her between his legs, grabbing Her waist with a grin. She ran Her fingers through his hair, glancing between him and Her phone, tossed off to the side.
“What-“
“Hell.”
Her eyes flashed. All the colors in the room went sharp. “What?”
“Crowley’s got him,” Dean sighed. “In Hell. We’re going in the morning.”
“In the-“ She shook her head, pushing back on Dean’s shoulders. “No, we- We need to go now-“
“That’s- Princess-“
“He could be in danger, he could be hurt, he- He could be- Crowley could’ve given him to the Leviathans, and- And-“ She pushed harder, head whipping around the room like a caged animal looking for an our. “Dean, let me go-“
“Not until you breathe-“
“I am breathing- Sam’s in danger-“
“I know, I-“ Dean said Her name firmly, pulling Her tighter against his chest. He ducked Her hand, grabbing it and squeezing it three times.
“Dean-“
“I know,” he said, reaching up to cup her face. “I know Sammy needs our help. You know that no one knows better than me, baby.” He gave Her a stern look. “Right?”
Her throat bobbed, but She nodded. Dean sighed, and pressed a soft kiss to her knuckles.
“We need Rowena to get through the doors without, you know.” He gave Her a tight smile. “Dyin’.”
She still didn’t speak. Dean wrapped an arm around Her waist, pulling her right up against him. He rested his chin on Her chest, holding Her gaze. The color was still pouring off of Her. He wondered if this was what astronauts felt like, when they got to see all the glory of the universe. If they felt like the stars would scatter, if they swiped their hand through the dark.
Dean felt like the stars would gather, under his fingers. They seemed to be, the longer he stared at Her. There seemed to be a black light, almost emitting off her body. Her nails were digging into his biceps and the whole roomed smelled like honey and Her apples. Dean let out a slow breath, his smile heavy on his face, but it was a dragging weight he was happy to carry. Someone needed to. If he dropped the joy behind them, no one else was going to pick it back up.
“We’re gonna get him,” Dean murmured. “Swear it.”
She swallowed and offered Dean her pinky. He took without breaking Her gaze, and shook it tight before kissing the back of Her hand.
She knocked out fast, that night. Dean didn’t. He lay next to her, watching the light of the street shift over her face and counting Her every breath. When he closed his eyes, he got worried She’d vanish by morning. And if he lost both of them…
It was better not to think about it. The last time that happened, he’d dove into the deep end and almost drowned in the currents. He couldn’t afford to do that again. There were people who needed him to be steady. With Bobby gone, he was the only one who could keep his feet firmly planted in the ground.
He sighed, and pressed his face into Her neck. She sighed in Her sleep and curled over him. Dean swallowed, his lips grazing soft skin, and clung around Her stomach. Warm and soft and relaxed. Her heartbeat was even. When he dragged over Her spine, she let out a breathy sound that could’ve been his name, and he smiled.
At least he had this. He really, fully had this.
Charlie and Adam had shared an adjoined room last night. Dean got them up at the crack of dawn with a loud knock, and blocked Charlie’s thrown pillow without looking. They both blinked at him, bleary eyed and grumpy, and he gave them the rundown fast. There were going to be questions. He’d try and push through them fast, before the ride showed up.
“I- I want to go to hell!” Charlie protested, and Dean sighed.
“No, you don’t.”
“Yes, I do-“
“Hell smells bad,” he said, and Charlie paused.
“Like, really bad? Like- Stinky shoes bad, or- Or dead body bad?”
Dean shrugged. “Whatever’s worse to you.” He looked to Adam, jerking his head at Charlie. “She’s hitching the angel-mobile back to America. You wanna do the same, you better be ready to listen to everything Jo tells you.”
Adam nodded, then paused. “Um- Who’s Jo?”
“Blonde chick. Mean, and your boss for the next- Uh,” Dean glanced over his shoulder. “Forever.”
“Forever?” Adam gaped, and Dean shrugged.
“Or until you run out. Just-“ He pulled the bone out of his jacket, waving it in the air.
It was smaller than he’d been ready for. Whiter than pearl and dull on all the edges from years under the water. They’d sharpen it, after they got all that blood and oil and fluid. It was going to be a fun few weeks.
“Take this,” he tossed it to Charlie, who caught it with frantic hands. “You don’t let anyone touch it but Jo and Kevin, you got that? You don’t leave it alone in a room, you don’t take it out of the house, you don’t even touch it unless you think someone else is tryin’ to grab it first. You lose it or break it or anything, you’re diving back down to get another one. Got it?”
He glared between them. Charlie nodded quickly, staring down at the bone with a nervous awe. Adam stared at Dean.
The kid said he was going back with them. That those British assholes didn’t forgive easy, and he’d be better off just shooting himself or jumping into the ocean than going back. The nice one—Rick, or Mike, Dean couldn’t remember—might have a chance, but he’d grown up in their little club. Adam was a rookie. They’d cut him off and not think twice.
Dean was worried they were starting a home for wayward losers. Bobby would’ve complained about the grocery cost going up, and asked Her to stop bringing home all her strays. She would’ve said that if they went, she went too, and Bobby would’ve grumbled and given in. Dean was wearing those shoes now. They were a size too big. He was worried he would trip and wipe out and not be able to get back up.
“Did you tell him he’s welcome with us?” She asked him when he walked back to their room, and Dean sighed.
She was sitting cross legged on the bed, reading while they waited. Dean had planned to let Her sleep until Rowena got here. She’d been up with the sun.
“Yeah, but- We’re running outta rooms, Princess.”
“The house is big-“
“Big doesn’t mean Bed and Breakfast.”
She hummed, not looking up from her book. “Okay.”
Dean paused. “Okay?”
“Mhm.” She looked up at him, brows raised causally. “Who are you kicking out?”
Dean blinked. She tilted Her head, hair falling over her eyes, and brushed it away. Dean sighed, running a hand over his face, and shook his head.
“You think you’re funny,” he muttered, and Her lips twitched.
“I think,” She looked back to her book. “That I’m right.”
“Uh huh.”
“Do you not think I’m right?”
Dean snorted, crossing the room in a single stride. He took Her face between his hands, thumbs tracing over Her cheekbones, and felt her damn flush under his palms. He waited for Her to look at him. She didn’t cave easy. She stared at the pages, flipping them a little too fast to be actually reading them. Dean drawled Her name, and pretty eyes fluttered. She still didn’t move.
“I think you’re sweet,” he said, dropping his voices so only she’d hear. “And you’re lucky you’re sweet, or I’d argue more.”
She hummed. “You can argue with me whenever you want, Winchester.”
“Nah,” he kissed Her brow. “I don’t like losing.”
A smile ghosted over Her lips. When Dean guided Her face up, she didn’t fight it. He brushed a featherlight kiss over Her lips, and when he leaned back, She was watching him with glossy eyes.
“We’re alright,” he muttered, pressing his brow over her’s. “I’ve got it.”
That little wrinkle pressed into Her brow. Dean soothed it with his thumb, and kissed Her one more time before moving to his feet. He knew She was worried about it. All of it. He could almost see it bubbling under Her skin and in those bright eyes, ready to flare. Ready to explode.
Which was why Dean had to handle this. He might not have Her on a leash—that wouldn’t be possible if he wanted to try—but he knew how to smooth out the wrinkles before they bunched so tight they crumpled. Because when She crumpled, it wouldn’t be like a piece of flimsy paper. It would be a coil, springing up and exploding. A tsunami, waveless and quiet until it wasn’t.
So Dean handled it, and he did it well. Cas popped into the motel room, and Dean gave him the rundown.
“Sam’s in hell, we gotta get him back so- You, me, and Bambi,” he pointed his thumb over his shoulder, back to where She was waiting on the bed. “We’re heading down to the pit to get him. You bring those two home, then you come back. Got it?”
Cas nodded. Dean looked him up and down, pinched the bridge of his nose, and sighed.
“Tell me what you’re doing, buddy.”
“The pups go back to the nest,” Cas said plainly. “I follow the earth back around the sun, until we return to proper orbit, the sun settles, and the sunflowers stop facing north.”
Dean opened his mouth, closed it, and waved his hand. “Yeah, sure. Whatever.”
Charlie gave him a hug, before she left. Dean hugged her back, and muttered an apology about not bringing her to hell. It wasn’t what it was cracked up to be. They’d probably wade through an acid swamp to get to an ugly fortress or something. He’d tell her all about it, when they got back. That seemed enough to satisfy the little gremlin’s curiosity, and she went with Cas without a fight.
Dean and Adam stood in awkward silence, until Cas popped back in. Dean didn’t know what the hell he was supposed to say. What the hell they could even talk about. They’d had one nice moment in the catacombs, but the glare of reality had been dimmer. Last time he’d been alone with Adam, he’d punched the kid’s lights out. He’d been ready to take the fucking shot. Adam shifted on his feet, pressed on the opposite end of the room, and they both remembered. Dean didn’t want to break the silence, even as is rubbed over his skin like something scratchy and hot.
He glanced back to their room. She was peering at them through the crack in the door, and Dean gave her an amused look. She flushed, but narrowed Her eyes. He sighed, worked his jaw, and looked back to Adam.
“You did good.”
Adam blinked, glancing around the room, then back to Dean. “Me?”
Dean grunted. Who the hell else. “Yep.”
“Oh- Um, yeah.” Adam rubbed the back of his neck. “You- You too. You did great.”
Dean nodded, standing a little taller. He cleared his throat, shifting on his feet. “Stick around. Sammy’ll wanna see you.”
Adam swallowed, and nodded quickly. Dean didn’t know if that was true or not. For all he knew, Sam hadn’t really been thinking about Adam at all. But he walked back into their room—after an awkward handshake with Adam, and Cas wooshing him away—and found Her smiling at him. He rolled his eyes.
“Don’t-“
“You’re a good brother.”
Dean snorted. “I kicked him out on his ass, Princess, that’s not-“ He cut himself off, shaking his head tight.
That was something Dad would’ve done. It sat like a boulder in his stomach, pressing that pit open every time it threatened to close. Every time he got close to thinking maybe, maybe, his hands were good at just the size they were. That maybe he was alright, without all those soft places in his chest being barbed and painted in white-hot lead.
They’d been like that when he got out of hell, and She hadn’t been there. They’d been like that when She and Sammy fell in the cage, and it had just been Dean and the dark. When he sharpened himself and pressed the parts into each other, they made a flickering, harsh kind of light that let him see. It was artificial and cold and just enough to keep him from collapsing on the ground without giving up.
Then She’d come back. Dean would be made of spit and balled fists and Her light would cleave through it all. He’d melt under it. He’d see the sun and remember why he’d always hated the cold. Dean became a tree in the thaw of winter, bare bones and daggered branches turning green. Coming alive.
She reached up, grabbing his arm with a light touch. Dean held Her there, and let out a long, slow breath.
“Don’t clench your jaw,” she murmured. “It gives you a headache.”
And Dean smiled.
Rowena didn’t waste time, when she showed up. Smart choice. That was how you got stabbed.
“Did you bring gold?” She asked, looking at them down the bridge of her nose, and She frowned.
“No? I- Why would we have brought gold?”
“To go to Hell, dearie,” Rowena drawled. “It’s hell. They have a tollbooth.”
“I- We didn’t know we were going to hell-“
“Well, that will teach you to be better prepared.” Rowena looked around the group, then sighed. “You’ll owe me, if I’m paying for the braindead angel and folk boy to ride with us.”
She rolled Her eyes, spinning the Blade in her hands. “I don’t owe you anything. Let’s go.”
Rowena scowled, looking at Dean like he was supposed to do something about that. He wasn’t going to. If She wanted to be mean, she was allowed to be as mean as she wanted. If anything, it was a beam of sunlight, poking through the thick clouds of empty eyes and tears.
“I will turn you into a hamster, boy,” she hissed, while She and Cas were talking in the other room.
Dean smirked, shrugging casually. “Good luck with that, grandma.”
“Grandma-“
“Dean?” She called. “Can you grab my shoes?”
Dean ran away from Rowena. He really didn’t want to be a hamster.
Getting into hell was worryingly easy. They just needed an empty road and matchstick, and some black-eyed son of a bitch took the gold and gave them a path down. Dean was worried it was going to a walk—he could walk, but Rowena liked to move at the pace of a slug and they were kind of on a timer—but hell had a rental car business. They had a fucking Mustang.
“Order of the new King,” the demon grumbled. “We’ve been behind on the times, or something. Why we’re takin’ gold, to pay,” the demons lips curled. “Humans. To build.” He sighed. “ We have a McDonalds now, too.”
“Awesome,” Dean breathed. “Princess, can we come down here more-“
“No.”
“Yeah, right. ‘Course not, just- Y’know.” He laughed, running his hand over the sleek metal. “Joking.”
She hummed, leaning against the hood of the car with Her arms crossed. If Sammy wasn’t still missing, Dean would think he was having a wet dream. “You want us to leave you two alone?” She teased, and Dean grinned.
“If I’m being left alone, it ain’t because of shit I’m gonna do to the car.”
He winked. She flushed and rolled Her eyes, but Dean knew that huff. She could stomp over to the door all She wanted. He could almost smell his favorite place in the world, getting wet and sore.
“You remember last time we got the car to ourselves,” he murmured, walking up behind Her. “You almost makin’ me crash it, me tossin’ you over the seats and showing you why I like to keep both my babies clean?”
He nipped at Her neck, and She grabbed his wrist. “Dean,” she glanced back, to where Rowena was intimidating the demon salesman. “You- We can’t-“
“Not here, no.” He kissed Her throat, rubbing her sides. “But, y’know. How long is it gonna take Kevin to get us another lead, after we grab Sammy?” Dean teased his hand under Her shirt. Her breath hitched. “Lotta time for some lessons. Some chances to get nice and messy.”
She looked up at him with those damn eyes, and Dean grinned. He kissed Her upper lip, then moved away. He had to get in the drivers seat, before he gave up and just bent Her over the hood of the car.
“I hate you,” She grumbled, sliding into shotgun, and Dean chuckled.
“Sure, Princess.” He squeezed Her thigh, then started the engine. She slumped in the seat, glaring at the long, tar-paved road down to hell.
Dean whistled, glancing back at Cas in the rearview.
“Literally highway to hell, huh?”
Cas shrugged. “Water flows downhill unless turned to steam.”
Dean snorted. “Right. ‘Course it does.”
They took off. Rowena sat stiffly in the back, refusing to speak. Cas made fun little comments every mile or so about the snakes being covered in oil and the diamond still being a rock. Dean nodded along and entertained it. She leaned into his side after about ten minutes, then tugged on his shirt after fifteen.
“I don’t hate you,” she mumbled, and Dean chuckled.
He worried about a lot of stuff. He felt small in all the wrong places some nights, and he still tested his grip when She seemed to be getting slippery. The pit stretched open, when the tension over all his muscles—always wound up tight and pressing down everything he needed to cling onto—got to tight.
But he didn’t doubt that anymore. If She hated him, she’d leave. She was a lot of things. They both were. But for all Her running, Dean could at least know that She wouldn’t stich herself to him if She didn’t really damn mean it.
So he wove their fingers together, and squeezed three times. They were getting Sammy. Everything was going to be just fine.
Dean felt a little bad. Hell was not a swamp and Crowley’s place was pretty far from a brutalist fortress. There were forests, and rushing rivers that gleamed pure white. Flowers bloomed on fields with deep green grass. Pale red clouds floated on a permanently dark sky. It almost seemed like everything was made of plastic, but when Dean poked tall weed with his foot, it swayed in a chilling breeze, and diamond dust glitter fell off the leaves.
Dean leaped back. “What the fuck-“
“Don’t breathe that, De.” She grab his arm back from the plant.
“I wasn’t gonna-“
“You were standing too close-“
“I was close to me,” Dean grumbled, glancing back to the glitter. “Uh- What was it?”
“Seraph tongue,” she said. “They have it in Heaven, too. It’s an aphrodisiac.” She sighed at Dean’s confused expression. “Magic Viagra.”
“Oh.” Dean blinked, then smirked. “Oh-“
“No.” She pointed a stern finger, then spun on her heels, marching back to Rowena’s side. Dean laughed, then followed.
It was shockingly easy to get into Crowley’s castle. It was a tall, gothic thing, right down to stained glass windows of snakes and apples and pale trees. Dean craned his neck, but he couldn’t see the scrape of the highest tower against the sky. He whistled, glancing at Cas next to him.
“The hell does- Well,” he coughed. “Hell need with a freakin’ fairytale castle?”
“Falling stars resided in the sky before the met the dirt,” Cas said, and Dean sighed.
“Yeah. I guess that’s true.” He wrinkled his nose. “You’re tellin’ me Lucifer drew this place up?”
“No,” Cas gave him a flat look. “He never had a steady hand.”
Dean wasn’t able to get that one himself. He’d ask Her to translate, but there were other things to deal with. They barely made it across the wrought iron bridge before demons were dropping in front of them, black eyed and-
“Are those fuckin’ wings-“
“Don’t be rude,” She whacked Dean’s arm, throwing the demons a polite smile. “I’m sorry. He’s never been to hell before.”
Dean bit the inside of his cheek, and threw the demons a winning, apologetic smile. He’d been to Hell before. But apparently the freaking slums, because his neck of the woods had been all blood rivers and echoing screams and wingless assholes. He would’ve cut off his hand to hitch a ride over to the rich side of town.
The demons already weren’t glaring. They’d barely even spared Dean, Cas, and Rowena a look. Apparently being a Winchester, angle, and the mother of the king didn’t count for much, when you were standing behind Her.
“We’d like to speak to Crowley, please,” She said. The demons stared at Her, mouths hanging open and wings flopping behind them. Dean was wondering if they were gonna fall to their knees or something.
She cleared Her throat, stomping her foot once. The iron seemed to glow out from where her heel met the ground, like light had been poured into the metal. The demons stumbled back, exchanged a quick look, and glanced at the sky.
“The- The King-“ One of them cleared her throat. “He is occupied-“
“Good,” She shrugged. “He’ll be glad that I’m relieving him from his work.”
She started forwards, and the demons moved out of the way like waves being parted. Dean glanced at Rowena—who was watching Her with a proud smiled—and jerked his head. Rowena sighed and rolled her eyes, but walked after Her. Dean grabbed Cas’ arm and dragged him with them, giving the demons awkward nods as they passed.
Crowley really needed to hire better security. That was the only resistance they met, on the whole way to the throne room. They even had a few demons point them in the right direction. Dean couldn’t really blame anyone, though. She was a damn force, marching through the halls on a war path. With all the light and color Dean could see—with his little, beady human eyes—he imagined that to a demon she seemed like a descending wall of rainbow wildfire. Flowers weren’t blooming behind Her, but old, frayed tapestries on the wall were regaining color, and a few had water pour out of the fabric and roses bloom from woven hands.
Dean paused at the sight of one. He’d seen this one before. The girl in the flowers, hair around Her like a halo, little, firefly-like lights over her body as the earth seemed to grow and bloom around her. He couldn’t remember where he’d seen it before, but he knew he’d thought the same thing as last time.
Her. It was Her. It was always Her, and the longer Dean looked, the clearer it got. When he lingered, She seemed to be crying, and his chest tightened. Her nails weren’t painted, but blooming with roses. Small creatures gathered on the edge of the woods, watching Her as she lay. Under her, the dirt got thick and rich. A sunbeam was splitting through an invisible sky, but she seemed to be trying to bury herself from the warmth.
And Dean squinted. There was a knife curled in her one of her hands, hidden lush grass and overgrown flowers. His gaze dragged up, and in the thick of the woods, he could make out something, something like a figure-
“Dean!” She called and he forced himself away. It was just a tapestry.
Just a tapestry.
Crowley was waiting for them, lounging on a pretty boring and ugly throne, holding a goblet like some old-timey, cartoon evil king. He beamed at the sight of Her. Most people did.
“Hello, love-“
“Shup up,” She snapped, pointing Her blade at his throat. “Where the fuck is Sam.”
Crowley smiled, raising his hands in a mockery of surrender. He looked around their little group, smiling until he saw Rowena. Dean figured that was also a pretty universal norm.
“You,” Crowley sneered. “You dare show your face in my kingdom, you Whore?”
His voice echoed off the walls. Rowena didn’t even flinch. “Oh, please. You cannot scare me, Fergus. You know that temper tantrums aren’t how we get what we want.”
“That’s- You-“ Crowley spat, pointing his free hand at Rowena. “Dispose of her, now-“
The demons started down Crowley’s little dais. They didn’t make it past Her.
“You dispose of her,” She said lowly. “I turn you into nothing.”
Crowley sighed dramatically. “Fucking- You come into my house, and you bring my- my harlot of a mother, and you won’t even let me kill her?”
“You kidnapped Sam,” Dean growled, and Crowley rolled his eyes.
“I did not kidnap him. I bought him. For quiet a lot actually, so- You should be thanking me-“
“Thanking you-“
“Yes, thanking me!” Crowley rolled his eyes, slumping in his chair. “I spent the moon on that little boy prince, and- None of you seem to appreciate that. Even Moose kept telling me I didn’t own the moon to spend it, which,” Crowley laughed. “Just shows you his lack of killer instinct, I supposed. Azazel was right. He would not have made a good lawyer.”
“That-“ Dean ran a hand over his face. “I don’t even know what the fuck you want me to say to that-“
“That you’ll get your snarling kitten in line and let me kill the bitch?” Crowly said, and Dean gave him a flat glare.
“Look, I’m all for killing Rowena-“
“Dean-“
“But,” he added quickly, throwing Her a quick smile. “We’re just here to grab Sammy. Sorry about your net loss with the moon, but we’re takin’ him, or I’m letting the kitten loose.”
She glared at him, and Dean gave Her an apologetic, sheepish smile.
“I said I’d let you loose, baby-“
“You called me a kitten,” She hissed, and Dean threw Crowley a look.
“You see? You don’t wanna piss her off.”
Crowley looked between them with thin lips, brow knit. Dean wasn’t that worried. These weren’t Leviathans or angels. She could probably conquer Hell like a hotter, sexier Gengis Khan if she wanted.
“Do you like my castle?” Crowley said suddenly, and Dean blinked.
“Do we… like your castle?”
Crowley nodded. “I’ve made renovations, in the past few years. Lilith wasn’t very aesthetically oriented, and well- She was rather devoted to Lucifer. Half the place was in ruins, due to historical preservation. And I never had a real home of my home,” Crowley shot Rowena a glare, and she scoffed.
“Don’t be a child, we had a lovely shack that you were never grateful for-“
“But,” Crowley raised his voice over Rowena’s “This place is mine. Do you like. It.”
“It’s, uh-“ Dean glanced around the spare, large throne room. “Clean.”
Crowley hummed. “It is, isn’t it. Sam’s quarters are more decorated, I promise. The throne room just takes time, to get it just right.”
She and Dean exchanged sharp looks. She stood a little taller. “Sam- Where-“
“He’s been given his own little space. He’s a valuable guest, and prime bait.” Crowley smirked at them, and Dean swallowed.
“Bait…” He muttered, taking a half step in front of Her. “You- You knew we’d come for him-“
“Of course I knew you’d come for him,” Crowley rolled his eyes. “That’s what you people do for each other. One of the young ones gets kidnapped,” he waved a hand at Her. “Then daddy comes to grab them and get them home. You really should put trackers on your pets, Squirrel, it’s getting disgustingly easy.”
Dean scowled, his hands balling into fists. It was moments like that, that he really wished he hadn’t lost Excalibur or the Colt. “Where the hell is Sammy.”
Crowley grinned. “I’m so glad you asked. He’s been taken care of. I’m actually rather fond of all of you. That’s why you’re still alive. Except you, mother.” He shot Rowena a glare. “You’re alive because we’re not near my scorpion pit, and I don’t think you’re worth a body bag.”
Rowena gave him an unimpressed look, but still made Cas walk in front of her and Dean behind her as Crowley led them to Sam. He was, just as Crowley had promised, in his own quarters. It was like walking into a damn luxury hotel. The kind of shit Dean only saw on TV, that he used to think was exaggerated, because there was no way there were such perfect places in the world. Flat screen TV, stereo, mini bar, a freakin’ massive bathtub- ‘
“Dean, stop playing with the fridge.” Sam sighed from the bed, and Dean flipped him off.
“It gives you whatever the hell you want, like- Like freakin’ magic-“
“That’s because it is magic.”
Dean shot Sam a glare. “We came to rescue you, bitch-“
“Yeah, and you’re doing a really good job of it, jerk-“
“Well, I’d like to see you do better-“
“Dean.” She gave him a stern look, and Dean sighed. Sam stuck his tongue out, behind Her back. Dean glowered hard enough for Sam to feel it.
It was annoying, when Sam was right. This was not the heroic rescue Dean had pictured.
“Squirrel here is bound to this room,” Crowley drawled smugly. “Show them.”
Sam sighed, and raised his hand. There was a black band around his wrist, and She grabbed his forearm. Sam whined Her name, and she let go with a mumbled apology.
“This is just a location binding spell,” She said slowly, and Crowley cleared his throat.
“Yes, but breaking it might hurt our lovely Sammy. And I don’t think he has much in him left to break.”
Sam bowed his head, and Dean glared at Crowley.
“Fine. You got us here. What the hell do you want.”
Crowley beamed. “Oh, I don’t want anything. But Eve,” he shrugged. “She’ll be here in a week. And she’s the one who you’ll be negotiating with. I’m just-“ He waved a hand. “The charm and pretty face.”
A week. For once they weren’t on a timer, but Dean still didn’t like it. A week in hell to free his brother sounded like something out of a bad Disney movie. They even got their own quarters, with their own soda machine, and Dean sat on the edge of the bed in protest, his hands clasped between his legs.
“I don’t trust it,” he muttered Her name, watching her move around the room. “It’s like that one movie, with David Bowie and the Muppets-“
“Labyrinth?”
“Yeah, that one-“
“I love that movie,” She murmured, and Dean sighed.
“I know you do, sweetheart, but-“
“This isn’t like Labyrinth.” She frowned at him, leaning back against the dresser. “We’re already in the castle. Jenny has to get to the castle.”
Dean paused. “Who the hell is Jenny.”
“The girl in the Labyrinth.” She tilted Her head. “And David Bowie is trying to marry Jenny. He’s not trying to marry us, De-“
“That you think. He could be tryin’ to marry you.”
She sniffed, crossing Her arms. “Or he’s trying to marry you-“
“He’s not trying to marry me-“
“Well why does he have to marry me-“
“He’s not gonna marry you, Princess, just-“ Dean ran a hand over his face. “Forget about the movie, alright?” He reached out, beckoning her forward. “C’mere.”
She wrinkled Her nose, but shuffled between Dean’s legs. He held Her lower back, looking up at Her with a tight jaw. She traced the line of it, and he let out a long breath through his nose.
“I just don’t trust it,” he muttered. “Crowley, Eve, Sammy bein’ bait for us- I don’t like it.”
“I know,” she whispered, giving him a sad smile. “But- We play the game. Then we win, right? And we go home.”
Dean swallowed. He wasn’t sure. They hadn’t been winning much lately, and whenever they did, it felt like their luck was just a few cards away from running out.
“Yeah,” he muttered, pressing his face into Her chest. “Then we go home.”
The first night passed, and Dean stared at Her, and the ceiling. Crowley had given them silken, embroidered pajamas. Dean had opted for his boxers, and he wasn’t getting any complaints. She’d crawled over him in bed with an adorably flushed face, then curled in his arms like deadweight blankets. Dean ran his fingers through Her hair and watched the shadows move over the ceiling. Hell didn’t have a sun, but She said it had strange kinds of moons that took light breaking in from the outer edges and cast it around. Dean asked Her if anyone had named the moons. She said there were thousands of them, and no one in Hell really cared about documentation of celestial bodies. He only knew it was morning because someone rang a bell. The sound pounded through his skull, and he squeezed his eyes shut.
“Jesus, fuckin’- You’d think we were living in the medieval ages,” he groaned. “Hasn’t anyone heard of a freakin’ alarm clock?”
She giggled against him, lips grazing under his jaw. “Crowley’s from the medieval ages. Maybe it’s nostalgic.”
Dean grunted. “Well, if I was the king of hell I wouldn’t waste time tryin’ to recreate a shit childhood. If I bothered, we’d be waking up to a gunshot.”
She got quiet. She did that sometimes, when Dean talked about Dad. He leaned back to get a good look at Her, and she was pouting at his tattoo.
He murmured Her name, tracing Her upper arm. “I’m fine now-“
“I know.”
She didn’t say anything else. Dean sighed, and kissed the top of Her head. She hugged him tighter. He didn’t bother to tell himself he didn’t need it. That pit closed up again, over grown with honeysuckle and sweet, flowering oranges. Dean might be hungry.
“You want some breakfast, baby?” She nodded, but didn’t move. Dean didn’t try to make Her. He’d lie here all day, if he was allowed.
“I don’t like him,” She muttered, after ten minutes, or maybe an hour, of lying in bed. “I- I fucking hated him. I hate him now.”
Dean sighed. “Yeah. I’m not-“ He sighed, closing his eyes.
He still couldn’t say it. Every time he tried it was like something was pressing down on his tongue, threatening to cut it off. He’d think the words and flinch, ready for the blow to come. And a small part of him that still looked down at Sammy and over examined Her every glance whispered he did his best. You weren’t easy. Weren’t useful, ‘till he made you. Not much, until you got a gun in your hands.
She looked at him like he was a lot. Held him like She was just as scared to let go. And Dean still couldn’t say it. But he took a deep breath, watched Her under lidded eyes, and tried.
“He didn’t like you,” he murmured, and Her brow knit tight. “But I do. And you know what I woulda done. If- If he’d given me the choice.”
Dean ran his thumb down Her nose, and her gaze softened. She glanced at Dean’s lips, then met his gaze. He chuckled and kissed Her. And he still didn’t trust this, but Christ, compared to weeks in motels and hovels, running from crazy or watching Her waste away in ghostless house that was haunted, this might as well be a freakin’ vacation.
There were some small payments, but nothing good came free. Rowena wasn’t allowed to leave her quarters, because—in Crowley’s words—she was an untrusting, sticky-fingered whore. Sammy wasn’t in the best shape, but that was kinda always the case. Crowley made them eat with him all the time. By dinner on the first day, Dean thought Eve wasn’t actually coming, and Crowley just wanted some damn friends.
“You got no one else to ea’ with?” He snapped with a mouthful of turkey, and She hit his thigh under the table. “What? We’re the only feeple a’ dinna-“
“Chew,” She hissed, and Dean rolled his eyes.
He chewed and swallowed dramatically, then opened Her mouth for her to examine. She made a face, pushing his away with a flat hand, and Dean laughed.
“Did you find them in a barn,” Crowley drawled Her name, and Sam frowned.
“I’m being polite, Dean’s the one who’s a- A freakin’ dog-“
“Dogs are trained, Moose,” Crowley sniffed. “And you are using the wrong salad fork.”
“But-“ Sam glanced down at his food. “There isn’t a salad…”
He looked at Her, and she gave him an apologetic smile. “Yeah, but- You are using the wrong fork.”
Sammy sighed, and leaned over his plate with a sigh. They separated after dinner. They’d meet up again in the morning for another, weird breakfast.
“I’m not crazy, right?” He asked Her, pulling on his socks. “Crowley trying to wine and dine us, it’s freakin’ weird.”
She hummed, smiling at him from the mirror. “Maybe he really is trying to marry us.”
Dean snorted. “No. It’s more- I don’t know. I’m gettin’ romance book vibes. But a bad one. An airport read.”
“Hm,” Her lips twitched. “How would you know what an airport read is?”
Dean scowled, glaring at Her through the mirror, and She giggled. He walked up behind Her, tracing her sides with light, teasing fingers and kissing over her shoulder.
“Maybe he’s just trying to sleep with us?” She said, and Dean hummed, making out with that soft spot on Her throat.
“He ain’t tryin’ to sleep with us-“
“He’s just trying to sleep with you- Dean!”
He poked Her underarm and she squealed, shoving him back. Dean caught Her with an arm around her stomach, stealing fast kisses all over Her face.
“She’s got jokes,” he muttered, nipping at Her nose. “Dishes it but won’t take it, huh?”
She shoved his chest, and Dean knew that flustered, breathy voice too well. Went straight do his damn cock.
“I hope he gives you a bad blowjob,” she grumbled, turning back to the mirror, and Dean chuckled.
“If anyone’s givin’ me bad head, it’s gonna be you, sweetheart.” He paused, watching the slight waver in Her expression. “Or- Good head. You’re the only one giving me head. Not sticking it anywhere that’s not you, or- Somewhere you tell me to stick it. Your joystick. That’s-“ He cleared his throat. “I’m gonna stop talking.”
“Good call,” She whispered, and Dean nodded, pressing a kiss to Her cheek.
He took a cold shower. Breakfast was slowly, but Crowley said sausage twenty times, about they exchanged looks until She broke down in giggles. Everyone else seemed confused except for Cas, who announced to the whole table that Dean’s progeny were in the pipes of the castle.
“Dude,” he muttered after breakfast. “Why did you fuckin’ know that, do you have like- A freakin’ radar on my sperm? On everyone’s sperm?”
Cas shook his head. “Just yours.”
“I- Why?”
Cas said Her name. “She ordered me to keep you safe.”
“She-“ Dean rubbed his jaw. “She told you that like- Forever ago-“
“Commandments do not erode with the sand they are written on, Dean-“
“And,” he snapped. “She didn’t mean all of me! Not- That part!”
Cas frowned, and Dean was pretty sure he wasn’t getting it at all.
“Where’s my sperm, right now.”
“Much of it has been scattered through waste plants, or bodies of water.” Cas frowned at the air. Dean didn’t love that this was the most lucid he’d been since Purgatory. “A large amount was put inside-“
“Alright!” Dean shouted, marching back into Sam’s room. “That’s- I think that’s good!”
She and Sammy were sitting on then ground, playing cards. They looked up when Dean stormed in, Cas shuffling behind him, both wearing curious expressions. Dean marched over to Her side, grabbing her face and pressing a quick, rough kiss to Her lips.
“Good news,” he muttered. “Cas knows whenever we have sex.”
Sam choked on nothing, and Dean got shoved for that one. Cas got a talk about inside thoughts. Dean didn’t think it was going to take.
He left the dork squad to their card games and conversations about Hell’s Geography so he could sneak around the castle. The place was fucking huge, but She attracted attention everywhere—shining like a damn lighthouse in a storm—and Crowley was keeping too tight tabs on Sammy and Rowena, so Dean was in solo spy mode. He’d said he was Bond. She said he could call it whatever he wanted, as long as he was careful.
The goal was to find something about the Leviathans and Eve were aiming for. Crowley had to have some clue, working with both of them. Dean wasn’t finding jack shit, but that didn’t stop his nerds from speculating. Sam’s theory was death for death’s sake. She wasn’t so sure.
“God seems really worried about them,” She murmured, shuffling the cards. “He made me another offer, which he only does when he’s desperate-“
“Hold up,” Dean grunted. “God what.”
She froze, mouth hanging open, and Sam sighed Her name.
“You didn’t tell him?”
“Didn’t tell me what,” Dean pushed the words through his teeth, and She sighed.
“I- I was going to, De, I promise, I just-“
“You didn’t,” Sam muttered, and She hit his arm.
“You got kidnapped, dickbutt. I was worried about you.”
“Excuses- Ow!”
Sam whined, rubbing the back of his neck. Dean said Her name, stalking over to glare down at Her. He got that sweet smile and those fluttering eyes, but he’d been ready for that. He raised his brows, bracing himself for the pout. She sighed, and flopped flat on Her back.
“God visited me,” She mumbled. “When we were with the Men of Letters. He- He offered to fix everything. To bring- Bring Bobby back. And get everyone out, and give you guys the weapon, and make sure you lead good lives. He said you could visit me-“
“Visit you.” Dean snapped, and She swallowed.
“He asked again,” She mumbled, rubbing the scar on her palm. “But- I said no! I told him no, De- I- I did.” She swallowed. Dean could see Her nails, pressing into her skin. “I promise.”
Dean believed Her. For this, it wasn’t a hard thing to do. But he had to take a deep breath. He sat back down, pressing his face into his hands, and tried to unclench his jaw. A light hand rested on his knee, and he took it. He wasn’t pissed. Not at Her.
But there was this asshole out there, who wanted to take his girl. Who made Her cry and bothered her and promised to give Bobby back after helping kill him. Dean rarely bothered with what ifs. They didn’t do much but make his chest ache, because yeah, what if Dad hadn’t made him leave all those years ago. What if She hadn’t been forced away from him after the car crash. What if he’d told her about the deal sooner, what if he’d put his foot down about that dumb plan with Jo, what if he’d never promised Her not to let Michael in, what if She’d come home right after getting out of the cage, what if, what if what if. It swirled like a storm over the ocean, and got dragged down to the dark where he couldn’t see or breathe or find his way back up.
But what if.
What if this just wasn’t their life. What if he had a normal job, and She was a pretty girl he ran into at the gas station. What if they dated and he proposed and they got married and the time flied without getting caught in spiderwebs. What if She had a stalker and Dean was allowed to just sock the son of a bitch in the face.
What if he could protect Her.
They spent the rest of the day making quiet plans. She looked at Sam’s cuff, trying to find a way to get it off without damaging his soul. Dean did another lap, finding the library and the garden. Most everything in the library was written in languages he couldn’t read, the only English books being the Harry Potter series, the Wealth of Nations, Fifty Shades of Gray, and a copy of the South’s Constitution when they broke from the Union. Dean tossed that last one in the fire and watched it burn. It was, if nothing else, pretty damn therapeutic.
The garden was nicer. There weren’t any clues about Eve, but at the very least nothing tried to eat him, and he’d kind of been ready for that. That damn hallugian plant was growing in a quartered off section, and when Dean tried to casually drop his lighter in the crop, it bounced back and hit his jaw. The diamond glitter sex plant was back, and a very loud, animalistic part of him wanted to take a whiff just to see what kind of juice it would have. He managed not to, only for Her sake. He’d had himself on a leash for eleven years, and he’d been giving slack as She got more comfortable, but they were pretty far from full blow collar off. If Dean turned into an lustblind, magic pilled wolf on a mission to hump Her leg, he was pretty sure She’d break.
Not that he’d hurt Her. He’d never hurt Her, even whammied up. But he’d toss Her around the bed and die between Her thighs. He’d pull Her into his lap and rut up into Her, sucking on Her breasts until they were raw and red. He’d bury himself in Her until one thrust made them both come apart, then he’d rail Her into the mattress, and a while after. She wouldn’t be able to walk. He might end up breaking his dick off. Would be worth it, if She could say cum without getting flustered.
He gave up on the garden. Wasn’t gonna find Eve’s master plan in there anyway.
She was already in their room, when Dean got back. He kissed the top of Her head and went to shower. He stared at the drain for five extra minutes, the water pouring down his face. Freaking Cas.
“I can’t jerk off in the shower anymore,” he grumbled, walking into the bedroom.
She dropped Her water glass. Dean caught it, set it on the minibar, and kissed Her cheek.
“Careful,” he muttered, and She nodded, staring at him like She’d never seen his chest before.
Dean tried not to puff up too much, but the way she was looking at him might as well be a shot of helium. It was a lot of effort not to slip his hand under Her oversized shirt. He was supposed to still be pissed at Her, for not telling him about the God thing.
He moved around the room, grabbing clean boxers from the duffle bag and making sure Bobby’s bottle was comfortably hidden under some sheets. One sex trauma was enough for the day.
“You-“ She cleared Her throat, and Dean glanced over. She hadn’t moved from that one spot. “You can’t what?”
Dean sighed. “Jerk off in the shower. Not when I know I got Cas doing a freakin’ sperm count.”
“Why- When do you jerk off in the shower?”
“I dunno. All the time.” He laughed to himself, pulling on his boxers. “Only thing that got me through the past eleven years. You know.”
Dean shrugged, because yeah, She hadn’t really been doing sex, but it wasn’t like she’d just been hands off. Then Dean looked at Her, and she was swaying slightly. He’d think there was a breeze, if this room wasn’t perfect temperature. He frowned at Her parted lips and glazed features, like steam was literally forming under Her skin. He cleared his throat, turning slowly, and said Her name.
She made a tiny sound and took a step back. Dean swore under his breath, and looked up to the ceiling.
“Princess-“
“I’ve masturbated!” She shouted, and Dean bit back his snort.
“Yeah, alright-“
“I have,” She protested, arms wrapped tight around Her stomach. “A- A few times in Europe, and the Middle East, and- When- Once when- I- Um-“ Her eyes widened. “Never-mind.”
Dean frowned. “No, you gotta finish that sentence.”
“No, I don’t-“
“Yeah, you do, once when what-“
“Once when nothing!” She took another step back, pressing against the minibar. “It’s- It’s not, I said nevermind-“
“I heard you, baby, just-“ Dean crossed the room, grabbing Her hands when she tried to hide her face. “Hey. Hey,” he ducked down, trying to catch Her eye. “Princess. Look at me.”
She didn’t. Dean sighed.
“Look, I can tell you right now, nothing you’ve got is gonna shake me. I, uh-“ He cleared his throat, steeling his voice. “I’ve- I’ve done it in some weird ways. Weird places. Kinda places I shouldn’t have been.” He shrugged. “It ain’t a big thing. Most everyone’s gotta sometimes, and- What’ve I been tellin’ you?”
She swallowed, head still bowed. “It’s okay to want things.”
“Louder,” Dean coaxed, and She shot him a glare from under pretty lashes.
“It’s okay to want things.”
“Good girl,” Dean kissed the space between Her eyes, and remembered that he was supposed to be mad at her. He’d never been good at that anyways.
They got into bed, and Dean pulled Her into his chest. He’d spend the night watching the moonlight again. Were worse ways for that time to pass. At least this way, he had Her in his arms.
And he knew that he could’ve pushed that somewhere. She’d been ready. She’d been looking at him with those fuck-me doe eyes, and if he’d pulled Her pretty ass into bed, she would be singing his name into the sheets right now. He’d had fun teasing Her, the past month. Getting her right to the edge, then cutting off. He’d thought she’d like it, and he hadn’t been getting any complaints.
But he’d also been assuming that She, like he, would be touching herself on Her own time. He should’ve known better. Should’ve known his awkward, anxious girl well enough to figure out that she was just pent up down there. Ready to burst.
He sighed, squeezing his eyes shut. He was half-hard, and trying to convince himself not to touch Her. The Bobby wound was too raw. The man was in a damn bottle in the room, what if he heard the whole thing and shot Dean when he came back.
The night passed slower than the last one. Dean was sore from blue balling himself, when they got to breakfast. He grit his teeth and took it, like a man. She patted his jaw at the table, and that didn’t help at all.
“De, don’t-“
“I’m not clenching,” he muttered, and She gave him a flat look.
“I can see it.”
“So? We can all see things, Princess-“
“Dean Winchester.”
He winced, hand frozen midair to reach for the syrup. Crowley whistled, grinning between them. Dean had a new theory. They were in house entertainment.
He unclenched his jaw, and poured the syrup over Her pancake. She glared at him the whole time. It was pretty hot.
“Sorry, baby,” he kissed Her cheek, and She huffed. “You look pretty this morning-“
“Eat your pancakes.”
Dean sighed, and stuffed the food into his mouth. Sam was snickering into his pancakes, Dean glowered at him. If he told Jo about this, Dean didn’t care how tall and big he was. He was getting his ass tossed in Crowley’s stupid fucking moat.
“Your majesty,” a black eyed demon walked into the dining hall, and Dean exchanged a shaper look with Sam.
They hadn’t had an interruption yet.
“Oh, for-“ Crowley sighed dramatically, gesturing around the table. “Can you not see I have guests?”
The demon cleared his throat, scanning over the table. Sam and Dean got the distain they were used to. Cas got a slight double-take. The demon’s eyes landed on Her, and they didn’t move until Crowley loudly cleared his throat.
“If this is not time sensitive, I advise you leave now before I slit your ugly meat-sacks throat and let the Winchester play with the leftovers.”
Sam sighed, and Dean glared up the table. “We ain’t doing your dirty work, Crowley-“
“Of course you’re not. I am trying to make a threat.” He glared back to the demon, his voice raising. “What. Is. It.”
“Oh- Um-“ The demon stood a little taller, giving Her one more look. “We have news from Edgar that they found another nest. This one did not contain any young first beasts.”
She sat up, eyes going sharp. “I’m sorry- Another nest?” She looked between the demon and Crowley. “What kind of- Like a monster nest?”
Crowley ignored Her. “Well, just- Tell them my demons will remain out of their way, but if they throw another one in like shark bait, I will remind Eve just how many of her children are wasted on her brutish tactics.”
“Children?” She hissed, and Sam gave Dean a nervous, do something look.
Dean shook his head. What the hell was he supposed to do?
Sam jerked his head at Her. Fix it.
Fix- Dean rolled his eyes. Not that fucking easy, Sammy.
Sam’s nose wrinkled. Seems easy.
Dean flipped him off. You fucking try.
Sam just scowled, and jerked his head again. Dean didn’t need him to keep doing that. He could already tell that the air was soured.
“Crowley,” she hissed. “What the fuck are the Leviathans doing.”
Crowley sighed, dismissing the demon with a wave. “In all honestly, love, I don’t fucking know. They tell me they need demons, I give them demons. Eve tells me she needs demons, I give her demons. They all come back talking of- Of parasites and nests and reeking of that godawful smell.” Crowley wrinkled his nose. “I don’t know what their failure to find a first beast has to do with me.”
Her fingers were curling over the butter knife. That Silver light was pouring out of Her. Dean could almost see the color of every particle, floating through the air in a strange, war-like dance. “What do they want with a first beast,” she muttered, and Crowley shrugged.
“Oh, who cares-“
She shot to Her feet, and Crowley toppled back in his stupid, velvet chair. She was clinging to the butter knife the same way she held her blades. If Dean was Crowley, he’d start protecting his eyes and crotch.
She took several long, deep breathes. The flowers on the middle of the table were withering. Dean heard a chirp, and glanced over at the platter of eggs to find a smack of baby chicks. He swallowed, and grabbed Her hand.
He squeezed three times, and those blinding eyes shot to Dean’s. He held them, and squeezed again. He knew She was still angry about not being able to track down Balthazar for that monster daycare thing—which Dean had thought was crazy, but it had mattered to Her, so he’d been down with it—and wasn’t gonna be taking this one lightly, but not here. Not now. Not for a parasite like Crowley.
She let out a sharp breath, and the power waving off of Her dampened. She took a stumbling step back, then another. She stormed away, and Sam followed with a call of Her name. Dean stood up, tossing his tablecloth down, and gave Crowley a tight, empty smile.
“Breakfast seems done, then-“
“Dean,” Crowley cut him off, staring after where she’d vanished. “May I offer you some… advice.”
Dean almost laughed. “Hell, no. I- Why the fuck would that be a yeah, I don’t even listen to self-help coaches, or- Or Oprah-“
“Keep her out of this,” Crowley said, his voice dropping to something low and darker. Dean froze, a chill over his skin that didn’t seem to belong in hell.
“You know that ain’t up to me,” he muttered, and Crowley gave him a hooded, iron look.
“I’d do my best, if I were you,” he moved to his feet, smoothing his coat. “And it is not as if we all don’t stand against the same thing, is it?”
Dean opened his mouth to say they didn’t, but Crowley vanished. Leaving him with Cas, who was still eating his pancake. He raised his brows, and Cas frowned at him with puffy cheeks.
“There is a blessing, over this meal.”
A chick hopped on Cas’ spoon, and he smiled like a child. Dean sighed and clapped his shoulder. “Don’t eat the chicks,” he muttered, before following after Her and Sammy.
They’d made it back to their room. Sam was sitting next to Her on the bed, mumbling something that he quickly gave up on when Dean walked through the door.
“And- Look- Everyone’s fine-“
“Sam,” Dean muttered, nodding to the door. Sam took the cue with a sharp breath of relief.
She hadn’t once looked up from Her hands. They were restless, picking at Her nails and rubbing her wrists raw and red. Dean didn’t wait for the door to close, before he crossed the room to Her side. He knelt before her, covering those twitching finger with his own, and murmured Her name. She dropped Her face down into his shoulder without a word. He cradled the back of Her head, closing his eyes and taking a long, slow breath.
He didn’t get it. Not as much as he wanted to. Part of him might always hear Dad’s voice in his head, telling him to shoot first or be the one bleeding on the floor. That had gone for monsters, for ghosts, for other hunters when it had to. Didn’t matter how old, how big, how small. You grow a spine and pull the trigger, or you get your feeble one ripped out of your body.
But She trembled in Dean’s arms, and he rubbed her back slowly, and she had a strong spine. Sometimes he worried it was too strong. That She’d get some bright idea that would scare anyone else shitless, and he’d finally run out of that thin, borrowed luck. And Dean knew it wouldn’t take much. If she thought she had some way to protect those baby monsters, he was gonna need to start throwing pennies into water fountains.
And there wasn’t anything he could say. Not to make this better, or worse. Which was the worst goddamn kind of pain. It seeped between cracks and stuck, stubborn and angry. Dean leaned back, pulling Her face between his hands. They’d been here a million times before. They’d be here a million times again, and saying this isn’t your fault never worked on either of them.
“Dance with me.”
She blinked at him, tears clinging to Her lashes. “What?”
“Dance with me, Princess.” Dean wiped a stray tear, offering Her a small smile. He stood, holding out a hand, and beckoned Her. “C’mon.”
She stared at him, glancing between his hand and his face. He raised his brows, tipping his chin to his hand, and She swallowed.
She took his hand with light, fragile fingers. Dean grinned and pulled Her right up to his chest. His arm went around Her waist, and he squeezed Her hand three times, rocking them back and forth through the center of the room.
It wasn’t a coordinated dance. It was quiet until Dean started humming, and he wasn’t following any of those fancy steps She probably knew. They mostly swayed to a silent rhythm, Dean guiding them through a made up waltz that felt better than it probably looked. But She watched him with soft eyes, and Dean leaned down like a moth to the candle. She wasn’t crying anymore. When he kissed Her, she let out a shaky breath against his lips.
And he smiled. Nothing was better.
But it felt cleaner. And everything hurt just a little less.
Dec. 18th – 2011
Princess,
There’s a moon that’s coming around every night. Never see any of the other ones twice (you told me something about hell being a sphere like Earth, but we’re on the inside, but then Sammy started talking about an old book and you got excited about a map and I kinda stopped paying attenition) but this one keeps coming back. thought I was going crazy at first, but I’m sure. It’s the only one with the craters that look like a peach. I called it the butt moon last night. Not sure if you remember, but it’s the butt moon.
I don’t know if it always does that. I’d ask you, but you’re doing a lot right now, and the butt moon isn’t that important. I asked Cas before dinner and he said it that everything found gravity eventually. Not sure what that meant. I thought moons needed gravity to function at all, but I also didn’t think hell had moons, and I was pretty damn positive that hell was all floating rocks and fire rivers. Didn’t know they did real estate. Makes sense, though. They probably invented it.
If this is Hell, though, I’ve been wondering about Heaven. When we popped up there it was all memories and a garden, but that can’t be the whole thing. Wouldn’t make sense for God to give the demons their own little planet that could run on National Geographic, but the angels are stuck wandering around human’s lame memories. I mean, Sammy and I had good memories, but they’re mostly in random forests and motels. That’s not gonna be a fun eternity. There’s gotta be something more, or God’s more of a dick than we thought.
The butt moon is coming back around. Staring to see it out the window right now. You’re out. Went right down, after I got you in the shower. I’m proud of you for sleeping more, lately. You’d been freaking me out with everything, and I know it’s hard right how, but
I don’t know. I really wish I knew, sweetheart, but no one fucking knows. When my Dad died I fixed up Baby then bashed her in again. Sammy got quiet. We got through it, but it’s different. Dad was different. We’re different, than you and Bobby. So I don’t fucking know what’s gonna make this better, but you’ve got me. Whenever it hurts, please just fucking remember that you’ve got me. I’d rather you scratch me up than go down alone. That’s what I’m here for.
Please don’t go alone.
Butt moon is up, now. Don’t know if Hell names its moons. Think I’m gonna call this one Bobby.
Sleep well, Princess. I love you.
Yours,
DAW
Every day, Crowley held four meetings. Two in the throne room, two in an off chamber with a big table, lots of chairs, and a pretty cool looking layered map of Hell and Earth. Dean knew this, because he’d been stalking the son of a bitch all week.
Crowley sat at the head of the magic table. His top demons—mostly of them wearing generic meat-suits that had to have been pulled right out of Wall Street—gave pitches about things Dean had expected, and things he really hadn’t. Demons didn’t eat, but they had a department of agriculture. That demon sat between the department of torture, and the department of nightmares. Dean stayed hidden behind the thick curtain, listening to them discuss the best was to torture the ballsack. At one point—based on sound alone—it seemed like someone had pulled theirs out for experiment. Dean was really glad She’d slept through breakfast, and given him an excuse to skip it all together.
The room cleared after the meeting, and Dean slipped out. If anywhere was going to have some kind of plans written down, it had to be the damn war room. The walls were lined with tattered books he couldn’t read, and art of humans getting their skulls cracked open and blood drained. There was a painting of some red smoke behind the head chair, and after a few seconds of squinting, Dean figured it had to be Crowley. No other red smoke was that ugly.
“Admiring my portrait, Dean?”
Crowley stepped out from behind another curtain, and Dean nearly jumped out of his skin.
“Fuckin’- Christ-“
“Not here,” Crowley smirked. “Disrespectful.”
Dean scowled, fisting his hands. Crowley was a crossroads demon. Dean could land a blow and run, before he got stripped down to sinew and bone-
“Oh- Put the guns away.” Crowley rolled his eyes. “You’re not that happy to see me.”
Dean didn’t unclench his fists. Crowley sighed, giving him an unimpressed look.
“I’m not about to kill you. Not right now.”
“Why not,” Dean grunted, and Crowley snorted.
“Because I am in my house. And if I kill Dean Winchester in my house,” he said Her name pointedly. “She’ll blow it right to- Well, below hell. And all the money I poured into renovations? Waste.”
Dean swallowed. “You’re not killing me ‘cause you like your freakin’ curtains?”
“I’m not killing you because I am not a fool, Squirrel,” Crowley said. “But you- You are quite the monkey-skulled pain in my unholy ass, aren’t you.”
“I try.”
Crowley smirked. “Oh, I’m sure you do,” he looked Dean up and down, and Dean’s lip curled.
“You keep lookin’ at me like that, I’m gonna have to remind you I’m a taken man.”
“As if I don’t already know. She practically written mine on your forehead.” Crowley hummed. “You know, if you intend to remain claimed, I’d try to be more official than flashing fists and- Being a human brute-“
“I’m not taking your relationship advice.”
“Ah, well. Your loss,” Crowley shrugged. “Why are you poking around my war room, Dean. As a host,” he raised his brows. “I need to remind you it’s rather rude.”
Dean narrowed his eyes. Crowley was circling him like a fucking shark. He remained planted in his spot, tracking every damn step. “Didn’t know you cared so much about manners.”
“Of course I care about manners. I’m a demon, not a billionaire.” Crowley tipped his head. “May I guess, why you’re snooping around my castle like a bloody fucking racoon?”
Dean didn’t answer. Crowley hummed, and tipped his head.
“I mean, it’s not a very fun game for me, is it. You want to stop us. Stop Eve.” Crowley sighed. “What did I tell you, Dean, about us all being on the same fucking side-“
“We are not on the same side,” Dean spat, and Crowley gave him an amused look.
“You believe that. Humans,” he sighed. “So easily manipulated. Do you have any idea, the kind of glory that could come for you, if you’d just give up that horrible, weak, humanness?” Crowley shook his head, a mocking sympathy coated over every word. “You learn to take what you need. Do what you want, have what you want, and keep it.”
“I have what I want-“
“Oh- Please,” Crowley laughed. “You have a girl with God over her fucking shoulder and a brother whose soul is patchier than a whore’s bush. You could have power,” Crowley stopped in front of him, eyes gleaming in the dark. “You could have everything, if you’d remember what you are. What we let you be, here.” His mouth curled into a crude smile. “You remember it. The fun. With my business instinct, and your- Muscle,” he waved a hand to Dean’s arm. “With the Moose’s brains and the Bride of God on our side-“
“Are you tryin’ to fucking recruit us?” Dean cut him off, taking a large step forward, and Crowley smirked.
“Took you a moment, didn’t it. Only get away with being the thick one because of that pretty little face.”
Dean worked his jaw. “You thought this was gonna work? You don’t kill us and we flip to the dark side?”
“Dark side,” Crowley shrugged. “I get what I want, don’t I?”
“By fuckin’ everyone else over-“
“Because that is the goddamn game,” Crowley hissed, taking a step forward. “Which you will, one day, finally get through that thick, pretty head. The rest of us already know. Everyone knows. Me, Eve,” he sneered Her name. “Even Castiel before he lost his rocker. You play to win, or you lose.”
Dean held Crowley’s stare, keeping his head tipped up. “Why the hell do you care, if we win or lose.”
“I told you already. I’m fond-“
“You’re fond of our power.” Dean said Her name tightly. “You’re fond of keeping on her good side.”
And Crowley just laughed. “Aren’t we all?”
Dean didn’t have an answer. He didn’t want to dignify Crowley with one anyway. He flinched, when Crowley patted his chest, holding his breath like the sulfur could creep up his nose.
“Think about it some more,” Crowley said. “And- I have a party tomorrow. For myself. No occasion, but you don’t need on when you’re the king.” He smiled. “Bring the team. And think about it. If not for me,” he took a step back. “For Sammy. And his poor, tattered soul.”
Crowley vanished, leaving Dean alone again. He swallowed, and looked up at the ceiling. He didn’t want to go to that damn party. His damn brother and soulmate would. If he was smarter, he just wouldn’t tell them.
But he wasn’t smarter, and just as always, he got outvoted.
“Could be a trap-“
“This whole thing is a trap, Dean.” Sam said. “I mean, we’re trapped in Crowley’s house, if it was the kinda trap where he wanted to kill us, he’d just freakin’ kill us.”
Dean frowned. “Yeah, but if he wants to kill us, we could at least not make it easy for him.”
“I don’t think it’s going to be easy for him,” She said softly, sitting cross-legged on the floor, and Dean sighed.
“Yeah, but I also don’t think he’s tryin’ to kill us. I mean, he pretty much spelled that part out.”
Sam gave him a doubtful look. “And you trust him?”
“You’re the one who wants to go to his fuckin’ party, Sammy-“
“Because I think we might be able to get a lead there-“
“Or we get drugged. And put in the human zoo.”
She blinked. “They have a human zoo?”
“Everything is a zoo when you cannot be put in a cage,” Cas mused, flipping over the cards in his hands, and Dean sat on the bed.
“Wise words, buddy,” he muttered, glaring around the room. “Rowena, you wanna contribute?”
“I don’t care,” she said, not looking up from her book, and Dean sighed.
“Great.” He looked between Her and Sam. “You two are doin’ this whether I like it or not, aren’t you?”
They exchanged guilty look, and Dean rubbed his jaw. He knew better than to lock them up or tell them a hard no. He’d watched a documentary last week—She’d watched it, but Dean had also been there—about decriminalization. Parameters rather than cages.
He could work with that.
It took the whole day to get the feral nerds to agree to Dean’s plan. There was a lot of negoations, and apologies, and kissing Her until she stopped glaring and pouting.
“I could help more-“
“I know you could, baby,” Dean cooed, kissing one cheek, then the other. “But the demons are scared of you.”
“So they’ll talk more-“
“They’ll either hit on you, or not say anything.”
She rolled Her eyes, but didn’t move away from Dean’s hold. “They won’t hit on me.”
Dean chuckled. “Mhm.”
She twisted, fixing him with a glare. “They won’t-“
“Princess,” Dean said gently, brushing the hair from Her face. “You can’t tell when I’m hittin’ on you.”
She flushed, and turned back away. Dean kissed Her nose, and she jerked her head away. He sighed, squeezing Her side.
“You get to just have fun hanging out with Cas-“
“I hate fun,” she grumbled, and Dean laughed.
“I know. Just- Try.”
Dean didn’t have a lot of faith She would, but at least she wasn’t going to be leading point on this one. He didn’t know how he’d swung it—probably by getting Rowena and Sam on his side, although he wasn’t sure how he’d done that either—but he and Sammy were going to do the actual work, while she just attended Crowley’s stupid party.
“Rowena,” he said, as they waited for Her to get changed. “You’re in charge of watching her, alright. Not sneaking off to do your own thing, no trying to pull interrogations, no freakin’ spells.” Dean held up a hand, counting off each banned item as he spoke. “I swear, if I see one demon getting dog walked, I’m letting Crowley keep you.”
“Yes, yes, I get it.” Rowena huffed, watching Dean under hooded eyes. “No fun.”
“Oh, you can have all the fun you want, long as it’s not murder fun.”
“That’s the only kind of fun, boy. You’d know that if you weren’t so soft.”
“Uh huh.” Dean sighed. “Cas, you’re in charge of watching the ladies.”
Rowena scowled, and Cas nodded dutifully. Dean might not want him running around asking demons what kind of thorns and poisions were in bloom this season, but he could trust Cas with any damn order, it was watching Her.
“Sammy,” he grunted, pulling at his tie. It was too tight. Felt like it was choking him. “You’re movin’ with me. Whatever we can get about Eve and Crowley’s plan, it’s better than what we got right now.”
“Nothing?” Sam mumbled, and Dean just shrugged.
The door creaked open, and he turned with his tie tight in his fist. She was standing in the doorway—hair shining, skin almost glowing, eyes bright and soft and highlighted by that smoky makeup he saw on billboards and magazine covers—and Dean’s hand slipped. He choked, pounding on his chest and refusing to take his eyes off Her, even as they bulged out of his head. She darted forward, pulling the knot loose, and Dean coughed, a grin already pulling at his lips.
“Jesus, Princess-“
“Save it,” She muttered, glaring at his tie. “I’m still mad at you.”
Dean just hummed, watching Her fix the knot. “You’re gorgeous, you know that?”
She flushed. Her eyes darted up, and Dean threw her his best, winning grin. She flushed and looked back to the tie. Dean chuckled, and swooped down to kiss Her cheek. She batted his face away, but pressed closer to his chest.
“I like this,” he whispered in Her ear, pulling on the strap of her gown. He was gunning to get kneed in the crotch. Would still be worth it. “You might convert all those demons into believers, sweetheart.”
“Dean…” She mumbled, staring at his neck, her fingers stilling on the collar of his shirt.
Dean drawled Her name back, leaning down until their noses bumped. “We could just skip, y’know. Sammy’s a big boy, he’ll take care of it-“
“No, I won’t,” Sam said loudly, and Her eyes widened adorably.
She took a large step, back to Cas’ side. Dean’s hands hovered in the air, where they’d been holding Her. He sighed and bowed his head.
“I’m gonna fuckin’ kill you,” he muttered to Sam, as they made their way downstairs.
Sam just shrugged, gaze fixed ahead. “Next time don’t say you’re gonna fuck your girlfriend in front of me, man.”
“I- That wasn’t what I was saying-“
Sam gave him a flat look, and Dean rolled his eyes.
“Well, did you see her-“
“Yeah. And she’s like a sister to me, so I don’t really wanna hear about this.”
“Prude,” Dean muttered, and Sam snorted.
“Please. You’re the one who’s pissed about Jo knowing your dick size.”
Dean’s ears heated, and he shoved his hands in his pockets. “And Charlie,” he muttered. “She fuckin’ told Charlie. Next I know, she’s gonna be taking out billboards or something.”
Sam laughed, shaking his head. “That’s pretty dramatic, Dean-“
“How’d you feel, if Eileen went around telling everyone you were uncut-“
“Eileen wouldn’t do that,” Sam shrugged. “Because she can actually- You know. Talk about sex like a normal person.”
“Shut up,” Dean muttered. “’Least I’m having sex, instead of moping around like a little bitch.”
“Yeah, only took you ten years.”
Dean shoved Sam so hard he toppled into an expensive looking vase. She whipped around, giving them both a stern look, and neither of them got a chance to point fingers before She was stomping away.
Sam whistled, smirking slightly. “Someone’s on the couch tonight.”
Dean scowled, and stomped away. Sam laughed and followed him.
At least the kid seemed to be doing better. It was the small, painful victories like that one, that got Dean through this.
The party was kind of exactly what Dean pictured rich, demon parties to be. Crowley had gotten one of those tiny orchestras—an ensemble, She called it—to play on a dais, there was as banquet of fancy food and drinks, and a lot of demons milling about the thick, shrouded room and lounging on velvet sofas.
“Huh,” Sam muttered. “I was kind of expecting- I don’t know. Wall street? College party? Not…”
“Demon fairytale?” Dean suggested, and Sam nodded.
“Yeah, I guess.”
Dean hummed, glancing over his shoulder. She, Rowena, and Cas had gone off to one of the quieter corners. They’d be alright. “How’d you know what a college party is like? Weren’t you a book nerd?”
“I had a social life, Dean. I had a girlfriend.”
“Yeah, but I always kind thought she was a sex doll you wished to life.”
Dean ducked the first punch. He didn’t punch the second.
“Nice hook,” he mumbled, rubbing his jaw, and Sam shook out his hand.
“Thanks,” he paused, glanced over his shoulder, then muttered, “and you’re talking a lot of game for someone who probably had a fleshlight he named after his best friend-“
Sam didn’t duck Dean’s first punch. They stared at each other for a moment, then snorted. Dean had kind of missed this. Not the getting socked part, but the ease. Talking to Sammy without worrying or fighting. It was nice.
He wished it wasn’t in the middle of a demon ball, but that didn’t make it any less nice.
“So,” Sammy shifted on his feet, grinning around the group of demons. “What do you think of Eve?”
“Creepy, right?” Dean tipped his glass, nudging the demon closest to him with his shoulder. “Real spooky bitch, like- You guys ever seen the Ring.”
The demons had never seen the Ring, but they were shockingly open to movie suggestions. Sam pulled Dean away from that group after about fifteen minutes of explaining the plot of the Untouchable, hissing that they were supposed to be working. Dean rolled his eyes, but followed. ‘
If he let himself forget that he was surrounded by demons—which, when his goal was to charm them into talking, was actually surprisingly fucking easy—he wasn’t having a bad time. Most of them were pretty thick headed and cocky, but Crowley must’ve imposed a no killing the humans rule, because they were civil. Dean talked to one who’d been a French chef or something, and he could do mouthwatering things with bread. There was another who went topside to work fashion week, and those were some pretty good stories.
Sam, annoyingly, didn’t really want to hear about celebrities flipping out because their lipstick got discontinued.
“They make a million of every color,” he muttered. “It’s just- Just go find another red.”
Dean laughed, clapping Sam on the back. “Spoken like a guy who doesn’t understand women at all, Sammy.”
Sam scowled. “You don’t understand women-“
“I understand women-“
“You understand one woman.”
“Yeah, and I’m well trained.” Dean grinned, and Sam wrinkled his nose.
The demons were impressed with Dean’s fashion knowledge. He’d spent enough time staring at Her and listening to Her and thinking about Her to understand dress cuts and makeup. He was in with the group quickly.
They, though, seemed to know even less than the last group. And the group after them might know next to nothing. Even the demons who Dean had seen playing war-footsie with Crowley said Eve was closed off. That they followed the king to glory, and not much else.
“This might’ve been a bad plan, Dean,” Sammy muttered after almost three hours, and Dean sighed.
“Yeah. I’m gettin’ that.” He glanced around the room. “Maybe they’re just playing stupid-“
“Or they are stupid.”
“Or that.” Dean pressed his lips in a thin line. “So- What? We calling it?”
“I mean, what the hell else are well supposed to do? All of this,” Sam waved a hand around the room. “It’s nothing, dude. Just- demons and Crowley.”
Dean grunted an agreement, then paused. Demons and Crowley.
Sam saw his brow knit. He tilted his head, voice dropping low. “Dean? What- Stop making that face, whatever you’re thinking isn’t a good idea-“
“Crowley,” Dean breathed, and Sammy blinked.
“Uh, yeah- That’s what I said-“
“Crowley, Sammy.” Dean grinned, hitting Sam’s arm in excitement. “We got Crowley right here, and what did Kevin say we needed?”
“Uh… Angel oil, tears of a loveless man, fluid of a great father, and-“ Sam’s eyes widened, and Dean’s grin stretched his face. “Dean-“:
“Blood of hell,” he said, jerking his head at Crowley, lounging on his throne and laughing. “Guess who’s head of hell and filled with blood.”
Sam swallowed, and Dean wiggled his brows. That was a plan. A step forward. They wouldn’t need to know any damn plan, if they knocked off all the Leviathans.
“See you in the morning, Sammy,” Dean said, setting down his glass on a table. “We’ll work out the blood grabbin’ then.”
Sam nodded, and Dean turned to go grab Her. He made it a step, before Sam caught his arm.
“Have you talked to her yet?” He said, looking over Dean’s head to where She’d been waiting.
Dean shook his head, yanking his arm away. “No. I’m waitin’ for the time.”
“You’re always waitin’ for the time-“
“And I find it.” Dean shrugged. “Don’t worry about me, Sammy. I got it.”
Sam didn’t look convinced, but he didn’t have to. Dean was the one who had to have the retirement talk with Her. Dean was the one who was gonna have to get on his knees and beg his girl to just move upstate with him. Take that little cabin Bobby had left them. Do what Bobby would’ve wanted, and have some damn peace.
He’d told Sammy about it already. They’d gone up for a look around again, while telling Her they were at the grocery store. The place was plenty big. They could take Claire no problem. Take Jo and Sammy and Cas, maybe add a few rooms and start up that bed and breakfast. Dean would sell Bobby’s place for building money, or keep it and turn it into an office. But he didn’t want Her staying there. It was fucking eating Her alive.
He’d almost told Sam about the soulmates thing again, on that trip. But he’d bit it down. That was something he had to tell Her first.
She was sitting between Cas and Rowena, hair falling over her face and soft giggles falling from her lips. Cas was rigid and silent. Rowena kept pulling Her back up by the scruff of Her neck, like she was some misbehaving cat. Dean scowled, ready to knock the old lady’s hand off his girl, but he froze.
Those weren’t Her usually giggles. They were too airy, almost ditzy. She didn’t get ditzy. She got mean and sweet and sharp-tongued and doe-eyed, but never fucking bubbly and empty-headed.
He said Her name slowly, kneeling before Her, and her head lolled up with a wide, sunstruck smile.
“Dean!” She grabbed his face, smushing his cheeks, and he bit back a grunt of surprise. “You came.”
“Yeah, uh- I wasn’t goin’ far to start- You feelin’ alright, baby?” He reached up, pressing the back of his hand to Her brow, and she giggled again.
Dean grunted. “Thanks, Princess.” He flipped his hand, and frowned. No fever. “You been eating anything?”
“Cas gave me shrimp and cocktail.”
“Right, well-“ Dean paused. “You mean shrimp cocktail?”
She shook Her head, pressing her brow to Dean’s with another giggle. Their noses bumped, and Dean swallowed, cupping Her cheek. She was flushed. Her eyes were pretty unfocused, and she was swaying sitting down, and-
“Princess-“
“You have good eyebrows,” she whispered, tracing them with her thumb. “They’re strong. They make you look so serious.”
She pinched them together, then laughed to herself. Dean stared at Her, sort of empty headed. He’d only ever seen Her this carefree once.
“You never get serious at me,” she mumbled, and Dean swallowed.
“I get serious at you all the time, sweetheart.”
“Hmmmm,” She titled her head. “Can you be serious right now?”
“Yep.” That wasn’t gonna be a fucking problem. “You had anything to drink tonight, ma’am?”
She giggled, dropping Her head onto his shoulder. “Yes, sir.”
“Jesus fuckin’-“ Dean groaned, pinching his nose with one hand and holding Her upright with the other. “This is not fuckin’ take of her, Rowena-“
“It wasn’t me,” Rowena snapped. “It was the angel.”
Dean gaped. “Cas?”
“She asked,” Cas said plainly, almost confused. “And I cannot deny the giver when she asks for something in return-“
“You can deny her when it gets her fucking wasted, dude, just-“ Dean shook his head, scooping Her into his arms. “I’ll deal with you both,” he glared at Rowena, who’d gone back to examining her nails. “Later. C’mon, Princess. Bedtime.”
“I’m not tired,” She whined, but there was no struggle. Dean marched Her out of the ballroom and through the halls, back to their room. That was the one, weak protest She gave before she was playing with the hair on the back of his neck, and humming some song he didn’t recognize.
Dean set Her down gently on the mattress and started to work on Her dress. The thing was all ribbons and lace, and Christ, he would’ve loved to be doing this under any other circumstance.
“You’re grinding your teeth again,” She whispered as Dean rolled down her sheer tights, and he sighed.
“I know.”
She was silent for another moment, but Dean could feel Her gaze. He pulled off the tights and carefully set Her legs back on the bed. His fingers wanted to linger on the warm skin. This wasn’t the place. He balled up the tights and tossed them to another corner of the room, before patting Her thigh.
“Up.”
She didn’t move. Dean risked a look at Her blown out face to find Her mascara running and her face shining with silent tears. His fingers dug into the skin of Her thigh, and her lip wobbled, and son of a bitch, it ripped his damn chest in half.
“Baby…” he said, low and sore in his throat. “What- Don’t look at me like that-“
She sniffed and rolled over. Dean groaned and crawled up the bed, soothing down Her skirt as he went.
“Hey, you’re alright,” Dean traced Her upper arm. She curved further into herself, and he sighed. “Sweetheart, you gotta talk to me-“
“You’re mad at me,” She said, so quiet he almost didn’t hear. “You- You’re mad.”
Dean let out a long, slow breath. He wasn’t thrilled. Last time She’d been drinking it was because she was hiding a world ending secret and losing her mind about it. This wasn’t exactly a habit he wanted to encourage, even if he had no damn legs to stand on himself.
“I- I’m sorry,” She sounded so fucking shaky. So fucking quiet. “I- I’m sorry-“
Her words broke into sobs, and Dean couldn’t allow that.
“Woah, hey-“ He grabbed Her around the stomach, hauling her into his lap. “I’m not mad at you, Princess, I swear. I’m pissed at- At Rowena and Cas for lettin’ you get drunk-“
“’m not drunk,” She whined, and Dean huffed.
“Oh, baby girl,” he pet Her head, smiling at Her pouting, scrunched up face. “You’re wasted.”
Her nose wrinkled tighter, and she pressed Her face into Dean’s neck. He chuckled, adjusting Her in his arms. He traced circles on Her lower back, humming low and quiet as Her breath evened out. She slowly went limp, the only sign that she was still awake the was She fidgeted with the buttons of Dean’s shirt and pulled at her own dress.
“You wanna get outta this thing?” Dean asked softly, and She rolled off of him with a disgruntled sound, pulling at the fabric.
“It’s hot,” She whined, clawing at the lace. “Why is it so hot?”
“’Cause you’re drunk.” Dean caught Her hands and pinned them to the bed. “Kicks up your body temperature. You’re gonna be hot all night.”
She hummed, watching Dean move under hooded eyes. He stripped Her with slow, careful hands, trying to keep his attention locked only where it needed to be. She spread Her legs, when he dragged the dress over her head. He cleared his throat, and focused on getting off Her bra.
“You still think I’m mad at you?” He murmured, letting his thumb trace over Her nipple just once. Just to see Her shiver, and get that dazed quality in Her voice.
“No,” She whispered, and Dean hummed.
“Good girl.”
She whined, and Dean swallowed. He was a good, controlled man. He was going to get Her a shirt, make her brush her teeth, then tuck her into bed and jerk off in the shower like any civil person would.
But he tried to get up, and got dragged down by the collar of his shirt.
“Fuckin’- You gotta stop doing that, Princess-“
“Where’re you going,” She whispered, watching him with wide eyes. “Are you leaving? You- You said you weren’t mad-“
“I’m not,” Dean said quickly, wrapping his hand over Her’s. “I’m not mad, baby, pinky promise. I’m just gonna get you a shirt, alright?”
Her nose wrinkled. “I don’t want a shirt. It’s hot.”
“You got no idea,” Dean muttered under his breath, and She blinked.
“What?”
“Nothing,” he sighed. “How about we get you in the shower, alright? Cool you down, clean up, then you can sleep this off.”
She frowned. “Sleep it off?”
“Yeah, just- Get the drink outta your system,” Dean squeezed Her waist, offering a gentle smile, and Her frown just deepened.
“But- I wanna have sex.”
“You-“ Dean’s mouth fell open. He couldn’t really remember how to close it. He couldn’t really remember anything at all. He made a low, undignified sound, and She titled her head.
“Can we?”
“Can we- Have sex?!”
She nodded eagerly, pushing up on Her elbows until their lips were brushing. “Please,” she breathed, and maybe She was mad at Dean. Maybe She was trying to fucking kill him.
“Princess,” he muttered. “We- We can’t have sex right now.”
Her face fell, looking at him like a baby duckling he was denying bread. She wasn’t gonna make this easy.
“You’re drunk,” he explained gently, pulling Her slowly up, back into his lap. Maybe he could trick Her into falling asleep. “We can’t fuck while you’re drunk. That ain’t how this works.”
“Why not,” She grumbled, snuggling into his chest. Her legs were looping around his waist, Her bare core pressing over his crotch. Dean had to breathe through his nose.
“’Cause,” he muttered lamely. “’S how it works. Uh- Consent.”
“I’m consenting right now-“
“You’re drunk. Doesn’t count.”
She scowled, and wrapped Her arms tight around his neck. “Stupid,” she grumbled, and Dean chuckled.
“I know.”
They just lay there for a moment, the moons turning light through their room. Dean thought She might’ve fallen asleep, with how still She’d gone. Then She murmured his name, and he sighed, saying Her’s back.
“What was the weird way?”
Dean blinked. “The what?”
“The weird way,” She repeated, pushing up on his chest. “That you used to- To-“ She glanced around the room, voice dropping to a whisper. “Masturbate.”
“Ah.” Shit. “Uh- You know,” he laughed nervously, leaning back against the headrest. “Weird.”
She shook Her head, leaning down. “I don’t know,” she whined. “I don’t know anything, Dean, I- I just- I get so- so-“
She moaned, loud and desperate, and Dean swallowed. His body hadn’t gotten the memo that this was no-go. All it knew was that She was sitting on top of him. Her hair tickled his face and She smelled like that intoxicating apple. Her lips were swollen and glossy with spit, another tiny sound falling from them as she ground down onto his crotch. Dean bit the inside of his mouth, but the sting did nothing against the unforgiving heat and tension wracking his body.
“I need it,” She said, and Dean’s fingers dug into Her hips. “It gets so- Mmm,” She moaned again. “And you- You know, but you won’t tell me.” She stared at him under fluttering eyes. “Why won’t you tell me?”
Dean stared at Her. He was pretty sure he’d had this exact sex dream before, and in the middle of it, he had no fucking clue why he wouldn’t give Her anything she asked for.
“I meant doin’- Uh-“ He coughed, trying to force his thoughts together. “Just kinda stealin’ your panties. To, uh-“ His face was burning. Another bit of luck, that She seemed to drunk to notice. “Jerk off.”
“Oh,” She tilted Her head. “Really?”
Dean swallowed, and nodded. If She dumped him right here, that would be fine. They were right next to a window he could fling himself out of.
“Do guys like that?” She asked, and Dean frowned.
“I like it.” I’m the only fucking guy you’re ever gonna need, Princess. “But if you don’t- I don’t do it anymore-“
“Why not?”
Son of a bitch. She said it like it was an actual fucking question. Dean was pretty sure someone was out to get him. “Most people would count it as creepy, sweetheart. I- I shoulda been asking-“
“Okay.”
Dean blinked. “Okay?”
She nodded, smiling like a fucking siren. “You can do it.”
“Uh- Wha-“
“I like it,” She whispered, dropping Her full weight over him, and Dean couldn’t do much more but hold onto Her and stare. “I think I like it.” She pouted. “Do I like it?”
“I- I think you gotta work that one out yourself, Princess,” Dean breathed, and She nodded tightly.
Her brow wrinkled tight, and she nodded slowly. Dean wondered if he’d died getting into Hell, and somehow wormed his way into Heaven.
“I like it,” She said firmly, looking back to Dean. “What else do I like?”
Dean took a deep breath through his nose. Christ, he wanted to tell Her. The way he’d paid attention to every tiny gasp and flutter of Her pussy around his fingers or cock. The way She gushed on his face when he pinned Her down, or made the sweetest noise when he spanked Her clit. But this, here, with Her drunk and his dick at full attention, wasn’t the place, or the time.
“How about we work it out in the morning,” he said, and She paused.
“You mean you’ll fuck me?”
“I mean that when we wrap this shit up,” Dean rasped, dragging his hand down Her spine. “I’ll lock us in a room for a week, and we can work out everything you like together.”
He’d never seen Her smile so wide.
It wasn’t hard to get Her down after that. One pinky promise and a kiss and She was out like a baby, drooling all over Dean’s shirt.
They had a day until Eve showed up. A day to get Crowley’s blood, free Sammy, and get out. She wanted to stick around and deal with Eve right here. Dean gave a firm no on that one.
“But-“
He grunted Her name, shooting her a stern glare. “You ain’t stickin’ around without us. So either we all face off against Eve at once, or you hitch the ride out.”
She scowled, and slumped into Her seat. Dean sighed, and looked back to Rowena.
“You got anything on breaking Sammy free of the damn cuff?”
Rowena shook her head. “Fergus would need to make the split himself, but- If we’re getting his blood-“
“Might as well make him do that too,” Dean muttered, running a hand over his jaw. “Alright. That- It ain’t bad. As long as things are clean up on earth, I think we’re in good shape.”
They all nodded, and split off. She sat on Sam’s bed while the dorks watch TV. Rowena kept reading, and Dean went with Cas at the table, trying to sketch out the floor plan of the castle. Cas was quiet. It would worry Dean, if he wasn’t focused on getting everyone out without a scratch.
“You’re wrathful,” Cas said suddenly, and Dean glanced up to find him staring.
“I ain’t happy,” he muttered, and Cas tilted his head.
“You’re burning.”
“I’m fine, Cas-“
“Your soul is growing.”
That got Dean’s attention. “My soul is what.”
“The divinity,” Cas murmured, peering at Dean like he could see right into his heart. “It is growing. You’re made of helium. You’ll reach Heaven before the fastest doves.”
Dean swallowed. “Is that- Uh- That good?”
“For you.”
“Right. Good.” Dean paused. “Wait, who isn’t it good for-“
“Holy shit.” Sam’s voice cut over Dean’s, his eyes wide as he stared at the TV. “What the hell?”
Dean glanced at Rowena—still not looking up from her book—then stood and walked over to mattress. Hell was hooked up to MSNBC, and they were running some breaking news story about a billionaire who’d been found dead in his house. Dean counted it good riddance, but a look at Her and Sammy made him double take.
“He was found this morning by his house keeper,” the news anchor was saying. “In a scene that police have described as gruesome and rancid. And let me tell the people at home, just standing outside the house,” she shook her head, wrinkling her nose. “Whatever happened, it smelled.”
Shit.
“We don’t think-“
“The read the police report,” She said, wrapping her arms tight around her stomach. “They death shows all the signs of an animal attack, but the only footage they recovered from the camera is the guy letting people in about an hour before.”
“People,” Sam muttered. “Who were all already dead a weak ago from the same kind of animal attack.”
“Son of a bitch,” Dean sat down, staring at the TV. “What the Hell would they want with some rich asshole? And- So freakin’ publicly. They’ve spent months under the radar, it doesn’t make any sense.”
She hummed, pulling Her knees to her chest. “Why would Eve let them destroy her nests,” she murmured. “Why would they need you and me for anything.”
“Because they’re doing a spell.”
All three of them froze and looked to Rowena. She still hadn’t looked up from that goddamn book.
“What do you mean?” Sam said. “Doing a spell? What- What kind of spell-“
“Well, how would I know that, Samuel.” Rowena rolled her eyes, and She sat up on the mattress.
“But- This can’t be a spell-“
“Oh, little tiger.” Rowena gave Her a flat look. “You know better than to say anything can’t be a spell.”
Her mouth opened, and closed. Her fingers curled in the sheets as she moved to her knees, and Dean muttered her name gently.
“What’re you thinking?”
“I-“ She shook Her head, lips pressing in a tight line. “I think I need to call Jo.”
Jo picked up in two rings for Her, and they started to talk in hushed voices. She paced around the room. Dean sat next to Sam, his leg bouncing, and fought the urge to ask her to put it on speaker phone. From what he could make out, this was a spell. Rowena looked too smug for it not to be, and She kept telling Jo about ingredients and shit. Dean glanced at Sam to see if he was tracking any of this. He looked just as lost as Dean, which was never an awesome sign.
“Just- Yeah, that’s good.” She muttered, glancing over at Dean. “We figured that out, and- It still doesn’t make sense- No, Rowena doesn’t know either.”
Jo said something else, and She swallowed.
“I know. I know. We won’t be. See you soon.” She hung up, and turned back to a waiting Sam and Dean. “We can’t be here.”
Dean frowned, exchanging a look with Sam. “We, uh- We kinda knew that, sweetheart, gotta be out before Eve-“
“No,” She shook her head. “If they need you and I for the spell, it means Crowley might be putting up reinforcements before we try. We need to move, now.”
“But- What about this,” Sam raised his cuff, and She shrugged.
“I’ll make Crowley take it off.” She rolled Her neck, pulling off her jacket and tossing it into Dean’s lap. “I’ll be fast. Try not to kill too many demons, they’ve been nice. De, as soon as Sam’s cuff goes off, get everyone to the car.”
“I- That’s-“ Dean shook his head, moving to his feet. “If you’re about to try to pull this by yourself-“
“I’m not going to try,” She shrugged. “I am.” She gave him a small, deeply unreassuringly smile. “De, I’ve got it under control-“
“No, you don’t.” He took a step forward, hissing through his teeth. “Princess, we just had a talk about you and- Not having control-“
“Well, I’m fine now-“
“Yeah, you say that until you’re not-“
“Dean-“
Dean snapped Her name, and she went quiet. “I’m telling you, no.”
Her eyes narrowed. Dean didn’t let himself flinch.
I love you. “You and me, Princess,” he muttered, holding Her glare. “You say you’re gonna jump in a river, I wait on the bank. I tell you not to do something, you, for once,” he took another step forward, until they were almost pressed together. “Listen to me.”
Her nostrils flared. The power was pouring out of Her again, but Dean didn’t back down. He raised his brows in challenge, and Her scowl deepened. She wanted to do this, She’d have to go through him. And She wouldn’t. Dean might not know much, but he knew that.
“Fine,” She muttered, and Dean smiled.
“There you go,” he cooed. “That wasn’t hard, was it-“
“I can still stab you.”
“I know,” Dean kissed Her hairline, squeezing the back of Her neck. “Thank you, baby.”
He said that last part low, so Sammy and Rowena wouldn’t hear. She grunted, but leaned against his lips. Dean turned back around, giving Cas a tight smile.
“You think you can find the car, or do I need to jerk off in it first?”
Dean got gut punched for that one. He laughed, kissing Her cheek before marching over to Rowena, ripping her book out of her hand, and telling her it was time to earn her damn keep.
It was almost embarrassingly simple and easy. They could’ve done it five days ago, if they’d paused to think. She and Cas would stay with Sammy until the cuff came off, then get him to the car. Dean and Rowena would deal with Crowley, then meet them at the exit.
Dealing with Crowley just meant storming him at dinner. Dean marched in, Rowena sealed the room and froze Crowley so Dean could draw the blood.
“What the hell is this-“
“A coupe, you son of a bitch,” Dean snapped, pulling out the needle. Crowley’s eyes widened, and his mouth curled in a sneer.
“After all the kindness I showed you, this is how you repay me-“
“Yep,” Dean shoved his arm up, pushing down for a vein. “I’d say sorry, but,” he shrugged, pressing the needle in. “I’m really fucking not.”
Crowley glared at him, as he took out the blood. Dean really didn’t care.
“Free Sam,” he stood up, shoving the blood in his jacket. “Or I let Mommy blow up your fuckin’ castle.”
Rowena waved with a beaming smile, and Crowley’s eyes narrowed.
“You bitch-“
“Language, Fergus,” Rowena scolded. “You free the boy, now.”
Crowley scoffed, and looked back to Dean. “You, You- don’t understand what you’re doing, what Eve will do-“
“I think I got it real clear,” Dean shrugged, crossing his arms. “You’ll understand when you’re older.”
Crowley freed Sammy. Dean knocked him out, and gave Rowena a tight nod. She was already out the door.
“You’re kind of a crap mom,” he muttered to her as they made for the exit, and she laughed.
“Please. He’s a horrid, ungrateful son.”
Dean glanced back over his shoulder. That felt like one of those things he was gonna get monologued at about later, but right now, he forced the unease out of his gut. She, Cas, and Sammy were waiting in the car. She hugged him, and Sam gave him a small, thankful nod. They took off out of hell, no blood, no tears, no fight. The sunrise to Earth was red. They breached somewhere in California with two out of the five ingredients for their spell.
How hard could the rest of it be?
✦chapter 70
✦End note: crowley you're a star
✦If you like this story, please reblog, like, or leave a comment! <3
summary: After decades of being away from his wife, Bucky Barnes tried to make his way back to her, only to find out that he was too late. Coping with that hurt, but instead of wasting his life mourning what he didn‘t have, Bucky trusted that he would meet you again when the time was right.
word count: 2.6k
warnings/tags: kinda hurt/comfort, female reader, fluff, bucky is a little softie, a little bit of angst, mourning a loved one, grief, coping with death, mentions of injuries but nothing graphic, kinda angsty ending but it‘s a good one
author‘s note: This was inspired by Noah Kahan‘s new song We Go Way Back, honestly the storyline has nothing to do with the lyrics but there are a few references. I‘ve been wanting to post this since Tuesday, unfortunately I didn‘t have any time so you‘re getting it now.
Honestly I didn‘t really know how to tag this as it‘s a sad ish ending but it‘s also happy? I don‘t know how to describe it, you‘ll see what I mean when you get there.
Also, I really want to thank you guys for the support my work has gotten over the last few days!! I appreciate it so much and can‘t wait share more stuff with you in the future, I‘m a little sick right now so I have some time to kill the next few days which I‘ll definitely spend writing. That‘s it with my little rant, I really hope you‘ll like the story just as much as I enjoyed writing it!!
I do not give my consent for my work to be posted on other platforms or to be fed to AI.
dividers by @cursed-carmine
The grave didn't look like it used to when he first came here anymore.
Back then, after delaying actually visiting your grave for as long as his conscience allowed him to, Bucky had known that it wouldn't be easy to face this.
He'd been right. It hadn't been easy.
As a matter of fact, Bucky had broken down the second he'd read your name on the gravestone, more than grateful that Sam had insisted on coming with him, because he was pretty sure that he would've stayed there for the whole night if it wasn't for him, just staring at your grave as if that would make your death any less real.
As if it would be enough to bring you back to him.
It didn't, of course, but the human brain sometimes had a funy way of planting hope were sun could never actually reach to make it bloom.
Looking back on it, Bucky didn't think that the grave had been what set him off, at least not in the way he'd expected.
After he'd found out that you'd still been alive, living in a small nursing home in Brooklyn whilst he was all the way across the world in Wakanda, he'd promised himself that he would come to visit you, no matter what consequences going back to the US might bring for him.
Then the blip happened and before he knew it, yet another five year of his life had been taken from him.
After coming back, he had to come to the realization that during his absence, the inevitable had happened.
You were dead.
He'd known that it was going to happen, of course. Bucky wasn't stupid, after all, and 102 already was an impressive age, considering that you didn't have the same bullshit running through your veins like him or Steve did.
He'd just thought that he would have more time.
The grave had been in a horrible state when Sam and him first got there, which probably hurt the most.
His sister still had family that was taking care of hers, people he didn't really have anything to do with, but they kept it neat.
Whenever he visited, there was already a boquet of flowers sitting where he added his, the occasional candle burning sometimes.
You didn't have any of that.
Wether your family didn't care or you didn't have one, he hadn't known at the time.
After a little bit of research that Sam had done for him, Bucky now knew that you never actually had kids, let alone got married again.
That was enough of a reason for him to take the complete responsiblility for your grave, making sure that it was in good state again, visiting as often as his tight schedule allowed him to, because he would be damned if anyone ever walked past it again, smiling in pity because they thought that there weren't any people that cared about you to maintain it anymore, which couldn't be further away from the truth.
Bucky cared about you. And now that he couldn't tell you that in person anymore, he could at least make sure that all the love he carried in his heart had a place to go, which happened to be the place you were buried.
Bucky'd made a promise, after all.
On the evening before his deployment started, when you'd cried because you'd been so scared of never seeing him again, Bucky'd promised that he would come back to you.
He'd made it a pinky promise, too, well aware of how much those meant to you.
Sometimes, he liked to think that it had been the only reason he'd survived that hellhole of a place he'd spent more than seven decades of his life in, the gravity of what he'd promised you back then stronger than any pull towards death could ever be.
Unfortunately, he still hadn't been able to keep his promise to the extend he'd actually wanted to.
He did come back to you, just like he'd said he would, you just weren't alive to witness it anymore.
Now your grave was the only thing he had left of you, so he made as much of it as he could.
Sam had once tried to gently tell him that it maybe wasn't exactly the healthiest way of coping, but Bucky couldn't help it.
He was thinking about you all the time anyway, so it didn't matter if he spent his time doing it at home or if he came to visit you.
The weather was nice when Bucky made his way to the cemetery, taking the familiar detour to the florist he was already a regular at by now.
He tried to get you flowers at least once a week, just like he used to when he took you out on friday nights, a tradition he knew you'd always looked forward to even though you had always scolded him for spending his money on that kind of stuff.
Bucky never cared, though. He did his damn best to treat you well, taking on a few extra shifts whenever he could so money wouldn't be too tight at the end of the month.
To be able to afford your engagement ring, he'd worked so much that he actually passed out on the job once, nearly crushing himself under one of the crates they always had to unload from the cargo ships.
You'd been mad as hell when you'd found out and Bucky'd only gotten half of the usual pay for the shift, but it'd been enough money for him to get the ring just in time for when he had the proposal planned.
Even though his whole body had ached for the next to weeks, you'd said yes when he had asked you to marry him, the two of you standing under the starts of Brooklyn, the moon illuminating your face beautifully when you threw yourself into his arms, knocking him over from where he was kneeling on the ground.
That had made all the strain he'd put on his body more than just worth it.
The weather was nice when Bucky made his way over to the cemetery, taking the familiar detour to the florist he was a regular at by now.
The familiar bell chimed when Bucky entered the flower shop, all the flowers shining with how the sun illuminated them.
The young girl that worked at the shop sometimes looked up from where she was organizing some stuff, face lighting up immediately when she noticed that it was him, already familiar with Bucky because of how often he came here.
He never got you the same boquet- mostly because he thought that you'd find it endearing how excited the kid always got when he told her that she could put together whatever she wanted to, but also because he was sure you'd like the variety of it.
It wasn't like he really had a budget, anyway.
Now that he didn't have to worry about that kind of stuff anymore, there was nothing that could ever be too expensive for you.
"What's up, Mr. Barnes? Anything in particular I can do for you today?" Bucky almost had to smile at that. She never failed to check in with him, even though he could already see her fingers twitch against the counter, more than ready to get creative again.
"Nah, kid. You go ahead, don't let me stop ya."
She didn't need more permission than that and quickly made her way over to the buckets overflowing with color, hands reaching for all different kinds of flowers that Bucky couldn't even name if he tried.
"Can I ask you something, sir?"
Even though her eyes were still focused on the boquet she was currently arranging, Bucky could hear the nerves in her voice, which intruiged him a little too much to shut her down. He wasn't usually one for nosy questions, butt he supposed he could deal with them for once. "Go ahead, kiddo."
"Does your wife ever say anything about the flowers? It's just that you come here so often and always let me do whatever I want, doesn't she have any preferences?"
There was something so endearing about the innocent curiousity of teenagers, Bucky just couldn't bring himself to tell her the truth.
"You got nothing to worry about, kid. She always loves them."
Bucky supposed that keeping the answer vague was a little better than actually lying, because he was certain that you would love the flowers. You'd adored the colorful ones the most, claiming that the uncertainty of what the next boquet he'd get you looked like was what made you look forward to receiving them the most.
You'd always made a game out of it, too, trying to get behind the pattern he used to chose the flowers.
There wasn't one, if he had to be honest. He always just picked whatever he thought suited you best.
"Well, I'm glad she likes them. She's really lucky, you know, It's cute that you do this for her so often."
Now, he couldn't help the quiet rumble of laughter that slipped past his lips. "Trust me, I'm the lucky one. This is the least I can do."
He should probably not be doing this. He should just tell her that his wife wasn't alive anymore, that he didn't get you flowers because he was such a great husband, but because they were for your grave.
He couldn't bring himself to do that, though. No matter how pathetic it might seem, it was nice to escape the reality of his life and just pretend that you were sitting at home, preparing pancakes for breakfast whilst he walked the familiar route to the florist, coming back home afterwards instead of going to the cemetery.
Maybe in another life that was the reality he got to have.
Not in this one, though, but he still liked to imagine sometimes.
"May I ask how the two of you met?"
Finished with picking all the flowers and seemingly happy with the result, the kid walked back to the counter again and started wrapping the boquet with practised ease.
She seemed to notice that Bucky didn't actually mind her curiousity, he noticed that she got more comfortable asking questions which was actually pretty nice to witness.
It was refreshing to talk to someone that didn't carry the usual wariness most did when talking to him.
"We go way back, actually. Been friends for ages before we started dating."
"Naw, that's cute. Friends to lovers is the best trope, actually. Hands down."
Bucky wasn't entirely sure about what that meant and made a mental note to ask Sam about it later, even though he would probably just make fun of Bucky's lack of knowledge about pop culture again.
She didn't keep asking questions, seemingly aware that any more questions might border on being too personal, which Bucky appreciated. So instead of feeling the need to keep the conversation going, she just handed the finished boquet over to him.
"That'd be fifty dollars, Mr. Barnes."
Bucky didn't hesitate to hand over a crisp hundret dollar bill, dismissingly waving his hand as she reached for the change. "Keep it, kiddo. Boquet's looking extra great today, thank you."
He grabbed the flowers and left before actually giving her a chance to answer, because he wasn't really up for an unnecssary discussion about whether or not the money was too much for a tip.
The kid was respectful and friendly, and Bucky was a grown man. It was for him to decide what he wanted to spend his money on.
Besides, if she even had to work on the weekend, maybe she could use it.
The remaining walk from the florist to the cemetery was quick, especially because Bucky was eager to get there as soon as possible.
When he was still a young boy, Bucky never understood how visiting someone's grave would actually help to miss them a little less.
Now, he couldn't imagine going without it anymore.
In the beginning, talking to you had felt a little akward and weird, but he'd gotten usd to it by now. He didn't stumble over his words as much anymore and instead talked for hours on end sometimes.
He occasionally told you about missions, but it was mostly things that made him think of you or that he thought you would like if you were still here to experience them with him.
He often apologised, too.
Sometimes because he hadn't held his promise like he thought he would, other times because you'd lost him before the two of you ever got to live together properly.
You'd been freshly married back then, only four months into being Mr. and Mrs. Barnes before war took him from you without either of you actually being able to do anything about it.
Sitting on the grass in front of your grave now, sun shining down onto his back whilst the birds chirped in the background, something settled in his chest.
It wasn't uncomfortable like the anxiety he used to carry everywhere he went. In fact, it felt really close to something that could resemble contentment.
Bucky liked the life he got to live right now.
He liked that he got to go on missions with Sam, but that they weren't what he spent the majority of his time anymore.
He adored his apartment in Brooklyn, had people in his life that he loved and cared about and got to visit you whenever he pleased.
He could finally spend his life the way he wanted to, not having to worry about money or war or the freezing cold of cryostasis running through his body anymore.
He was free.
And even though he really did enjoy his life after years of learning who he was again, he knew that he wasn't afraid of death either.
Bucky wasn't sure if an afterlife and heaven were things that existed for people like him, neither if he even really believed in that kind of stuff.
He was certain that he would get to see you again, though. After all, eight decades had passed since Bucky had fallen of the train and you never tried to love someone else again, didn't get married again.
You'd kept his name, and Bucky realised that the choice you made, the fact that you let him have the honour of being your husband until the very last moment of his life, was enough to reassure him that everything was going to be okay.
After that day, Bucky still came to your grave at least once a week. He still left the girl at the flower shop too big tips and told her about you, but he didn't hold onto you as anxiously as he did before, when it felt like you slipped through hands more and more with every second that he got to live and you didn't
Now it felt like he got to live his life, just like you lived yours, before the two of you would be reunited again.
And when he was lying on the battleground five years later, too much of his blood already covering the ground for him to have any hope anymore, he didn't feel scared.
Sure, he was going to miss Sam. He'd also miss Joaquin, Sarah, the kids and the flower girl, but he knew that they were going to be okay.
Just he was going to be okay, after his eyes grew heavy and he left the world with a smile that pulled on his lips, truly at peace for the first time in what felt like forever, because he knew that when he'd open them again, you'd be there with him.
And now, the time the two of you'd get wouldn't be limited.
✧･ﾟ:dean needs to be close to you. You’re the warmest, most stable and sweet thing in his life. The ground you walk on turns to gold and the kisses are sweeter than pie. He’d burn the world just for you to smile at him, because the light in your eyes would be brighter than the flames. There’s nothing he won’t do. Nothing he won’t try to give.
✧･ﾟ:it makes it hard for him to take, sometimes. You want him to. With everything he does—how hard he works for you and Sam and the world—there isn’t a person in the world who deserves to have things more. You kiss all over his face and test his willpower, trying to get him to snap.
✧･ﾟ:you crawl into his lap and grinding down until he groans and snap. You giggle as he grabs your jaw and kisses you like a starved man. You shriek in delight when he flips you over, ripping at your clothing almost like a feral animal. You coax him on with soft moans and fluttering, glossy eyes.
✧･ﾟ:he drops his brow against yours, exhaling sharply as he pushes himself inside your gaping, aching cunt. You push your head back against the pillow with a long moan, and he sucks on your throat. He needs to mark you. Show the world what’s his, what he does to his pretty girl.
✧･ﾟ:usually he drawls praise and moans your name, but tonight he’s desperate. His mouth is already slack, his eyes blown out and wrecked. He holds you tight to his chest like a doll, consuming your whole body with broad shoulders and low grunts in your ear.
✧･ﾟ:you’re almost overwhelmed with pleasure. Between the weight of him and split of his thick cock in your pussy, your vision is going blurry. But you can still see him, trying to give more than take. He drives into that gooey spot inside of you and your back arches. Dean cradles you in his arms and pants, brows knit tight and jaw clenched, trying to get closer but refusing to do more than long, deep thrusts of his hips.
✧･ﾟ:with a trembling hand you reach around him and press down on the small of his back. His hips drop down, hitting so deep you can feel him in your throat. He tries to lean up, but you press harder. He frowns at you, almost adorably confused. You smile, and press a soft, deep kiss to his pretty, parted lips.
✧･ﾟ:dean melts. He drops fully down, his face pressing into your chest so he can suck and kiss over your breasts as he moves your hips up. Big hands grope at your ass, letting him hit that impossibly deep angle, over and over and over. His thrusts become shallow and desperate, every gasp from his lips a prayer of your name.
✧･ﾟ:he uses you like a sweet little fuck doll, broken moans falling from his lips as his cock bullies against your g-spot. Your vision glazes, your toes curling and core flooding with heat as you cum. Dean pushes up to kiss every moan out of your mouth, practically a dead weight as he hits his own release.
✧･ﾟ:for a while after, he just leans over you, pressing his hips down to hold his cum in your tight, perfect pussy. You comb your fingers through his hair and kiss his brow, letting him take all the time he needs. He, more than anyone else, deserves it.
✦Dean Masterlist - Main Masterlist - read on AO3!✦
summary: After having a little too much to drink, your best friend revealed your little secret to your boyfriend, one you didn‘t actually want him to know about just yet.
warnings/tags: drinking, reader has some insecurities, other than that there‘s honestly just fluff, Bucky is down bad just like always
author’s note: I don‘t think there‘s much to say about this one, I just hope you‘ll like it!
dividers by @cursed-carmine
You should've known that taking all those tequila shots with Joaquin had been a bad idea.
He couldn't keep his mouth shut even if his life depended on it when he was drunk. You'd been there when he got truly shitfaced for the first time, after all, which meant you knew exactly what you were talking about.
Back then, you had to watch as he confessed his feelings to his highschool crush Grace in such a heartfelt way it made every romcom look cheap. After he was finished, you were also the one that had to deescelate the situatioon when Grace's boyfriend beat the shit out of him.
So admittedly, you should've known better.
And now you were paying the price.
The party had died down a while ago. Now, only the Avengers were still there, sitting together on the couches surrounding a small table, the air was buzzing in a way it only ever did after a good time and a little too much to drink.
Bucky's arm was comfortably wrapped around you as your head rested against his shoulder, the alcohol in your blood making you sleepy as the energy slowly wore off.
"You alright, sweetheart?"
Your boyfriend's voice wasn't much more than a low rumble, quiet enough that only you could hear him.
You tilted your head just enough to be able to properly look at him and the concern in his stupidly beautiful eyes made you smile. "I'm good, Buck."
Letting your gaze roam over his features now, you relished in taking all the details of his face up close. The stubble on his cheeks was freshly trimmed, the pale skin of the scar tissue right above his left eyebrow barely visible in the low light. You could see his crow feet clearly as a grin spread over his face and you loved how much they had deepened over the last few months of your relationship.
You adored that you were a part of the life he was having right now, the one he was happy in. Happiness looked good on him and it was a sight you were never going to be sick of.
You were absolutely and completely mesmerized by the man sitting next to you, and he noticed. Of course he did.
"Enjoying the view?"
"Mhmm."
The agreement came almost too easy. You never hesitated when it came to telling your boyfriend how you felt about him, loving how flustered he always got because of it. "You're pretty."
Just like expected, you got to watch how heat creeped up his neck, tainting his cheeks in that adorable way you loved so much.
"And you're unbelievable. You can't just say stuff like that."
"Why not?" Now, you really couldn't help yourself. "You're even prettier with that blush on your face, Sarge. It suits you."
Flustring your boyfriend really was your favourite thing in the world. Unfortunately for you, Sam interrupted the moment before you had the chance to watch the cute pink taint turn into a deep crimson red.
"Hey, love birds! We're still here, you know? Stop looking at each other like that, it's unnerving."
A crease quickly formed in between Bucky's eyebrows, just like it always did when someone interrupted the two of you. Sam had once joked that if it was up to Bucky, he'd devote every single second of his life to you and everything that kept him from doing so was just an annoying inconvenience.
You had laughed it off, but Bucky never actually corrected him.
"Am I not allowed to look at my girlfriend?" Bucky sounded offended by the mere idea of it, but Sam only rolled his eyes.
"Man, you can do whatever you want, it's not like I could stop you if I wanted to. The only thing I'm saying is that it's getting a little out of hand. I figured that the sexual tension might wear off as soon as the two of you got your shit together and finally confessed your feelings, but somehow it has only gotten worse. It would be disgusting if it wasn't so cute."
"Actually, it is disgusting," Tony agreed with Sam. "This is supposed to be team bonding quality time. I didn't sign up for all the eye fucking."
"Guys, you don't know what you are talking about." Joaquin joined the conversation now aswell, still holding the beer that he had been sipping on for the last thirty minutes now. His shit eating grin was so big as he looked between you and Bucky, you knew you were fucked before he even opened his mouth again.
"It's not disgusting, the word you're looking for is destiny. Seriously, these two were meant to end up with each other from the beginning."
For quite a few seconds, everyone just stared at Joaquin. Even Thor looked like he was contemplating if this was the sign that the boy needed a glass of water.
You, on the other hand, already knew exactly where this was going.
And you didn't like it one bit.
"Corny as fuck, but he isn't wrong," Natasha pipes up, trying to save whatever Joaquin just said and make it sound a little less… well, like something Joaquin would say. "The chemistry has been there ever since the two of them started working together."
You couldn't even deny that. You and Bucky have both been on the team for quite a while now, but you only started getting closer to each other when you were assigned to be mission partners for the first time. From then on, the bond between the two of you quickly developed into something you could barely call a friendship anymore.
The tension had finally snapped after Bucky'd caught a bullet for you on a mission and neither of you could hide what you were feeling for each other anymore.
That had been five months ago.
You knew damn well that Joaquin was not talking about any of that, though. No, your best friend had something completely different and way more embarassing on his mind.
"Since they've been working together? Ha, that's funny. This is going all the way back to seventh grade, guys, I'm telling you."
"Joaquin, I swear to god, if you don't shut your mouth right fucking now I am going to throw your ass out of the window and you'll know how it feels to fall twenty-one floors without any wings to save you."
It was an empty threat, but it was the best thing you could come up with right now. Your voice was mostly steady, but there was also a slight hint of panic that you couldn't quite hide. This wasn't how you wanted Buckyy to find out about your little secret and you definitely did not want the others to know about it, either, who all looked equally confused right now- which was understandable. To them, Joaquin was speaking in riddles and you were making threats- trying, at least. Joaquin didn't even seem half as intimidated as he was supposed to be.
He only grinned at you, not intimidated at all.
If he didn't mean so much to you, you were onvinced that you would seriously contemplate throwing him out of the window now.
"No you won't. You love me too much for that."
"I'd actually love if you shut your mouth, Torres."
"Alright, that's enough. It's normal that Torres isn't making any sense, but you-" Sam pointed his finger at you. "Make even less sense right now. Do you wanna tell us what this is about?"
"No."
"Oh, totally."
Joaquin and you answered at the same time, but instead of respecting your decision, he seemed almost offended by it. "C'mon, he'll find out at your wedding anyway! I'll just tell him now and than you got it out of the way and can get married in peace."
"Joaquin, there won't be- we've only been together for five months," you hissed, your cheeks turning pink now as you were discussing the future of your relationship with your best friend whilst your boyfriend was still very much sitting right next to you. He hasn't said anything yet, but you were painfully aware of his hand still resting against your waist, his body heat seeping into your side.
"Five months, five years- that's just the fine print. Do you see how he looks at you? He'd marry you on the spot, paper rings and all. You wouldn't even have to ask."
Joaquin didn't even glance up as he scrolled through his phone, looking for the evidence of what you've said sixteen years ago when James Buchanan Barnes hadn't been anything more than a man from a different time… and a poster in your room.
"That's why it's so important that he knows now. He has to know what he is getting himself into. You've been manifsting this since middle school, after all."
"I'll show Sam your fanpage, Joaquin."
To others, the threat might seem ridiculous of you considered that you'd threatened to throw him out of the tower just a few minutes ago, but you knew your best friend. You knew that making edits of The Falcon when he 'd sixteen and still ages away from actually working with Sam was one of his most well kept secrets.
Usually, you wouldn't use it against him and play dirty like this, but he wasn't exactly giving you a choice.
This had to be enough to keep Joaquin from showing Bucky that goddamn video.
At least you hoped so.
"Dude, I honestly think that I'd care about that if I wasn't this far gone right now, but I really don't. Show him the edits, I ate with that shit."
Well, damnit.
Your shoulders slumped in defeat as you watched Joaquin, accepting that there was nothing you could do to stop him anymore.
Bucky was looking at you curiously, wanting to know what this was about, but you couldn't bring yourself to look at him.
No, you were too embarrassed for that.
"There it is!" Joaquin's grin only grew as he finally found what he was looking for.
It wasn't a big deal. At least it shouldn't be, but you still felt a knot tighten in your stomach as you dreaded Bucky's reaction.
You had been a kid. It wasn't more than a fun story you should be able to laugh about, but you weren't.
Not when you were scared that this might be something that could scare Bucky off.
Joaquin turned his phone around, the display now visible for everyone to see.
"What are you doing, Joaquin?" The twelve year old version of you was grinning at the camera and currently sitting at the kitchen table in your old childhood home, a poster and plenty of markers lying in front of you. You were wearing your favourite neon pink shirt and a ponytail so high, only a pre teen could make it look cool.
Or Ariana Grande, but that was besides the point.
"I'm documenting this." Joaquin's voice sounded so young and carefree, a chuckle went through the room. You still remembered how much his voice had changed during puberty and if this were any other situation, you probably would've laughed too.
"I gotta show this to your husband on your wedding day, just so he knows he was never your first choice to even begin with."
Now your younger self was laughing, at least, a high pitched giggle slipping past your lips as you glued a picture of Bucky to your poster. "He will at least have to look like him, that's for sure. Otherwise I don't want him at all."
"You do realise this is kind of weird, right?" The camera moved unsteadily as Joaquin clumsily set it down with a loud thud before he sat down next to you. "He's dead. And even if he wasn't, he'd be way too old for you. He was born in, like, 1900."
"10th March 1917, actually."
"You even know his birthday! I don't even know Grace's birthday and she is, like, the love of my life."
"Maybe he is mine, how would you know?" There was offense in your voice now, the kind that a kid's voice always carried when they were hearing something they didn't like.
"Dude, he is dead. Do you wanna stay single for the rest of your life and find out if he is really the man for you when you're already six feet under the ground?"
"At least I'd be single by choice, Joaquin. You're just bitter because Grace doesn't like you back."
"Okay so first of all, ouch, and second of all, that is not the point. The video is supposed to be about you and your future love life, which isn't looking all too hopeful when your requirements are that he looks and acts exactly like James Barnes. You don't even know the guy! What if he was a total douchebag?"
"His name is Bucky."
"What?"
"His name, Joaquin. It's Bucky," You repeated yourself and pointed at the bold letters on your poster that formed his name."It literally stands right here."
"Oh, so now a stupid nickname is mandatory too, huh? Do you really think you are ever going to find a man like that?"
"I think if my man is still somewhere out there, I'll know. And then, you have my permission to show him this. Now turn the camera off, J. There's barely any storage anymore."
The video ended and for five very long seconds, the room was very, very still. Nobody said anything as they were still staring at Joaquin's phone, who really couldn't look any more pleased with himself, but the only thing you could focus on was how loose Bucky's grip on your waist has gotten.
Now, wasn't that just fantastic?
"Oh my god." Tony was the first to speak, because of course he was. "Would you look at that. The woman's been plotting on her man ever since middle school. Isn't that romantic?"
"What the hell were you making that poster for? Your room?" There was a big, disbelieving grin on Sam's face, like he couldn't really believe what he just witnessed was actually real.
"It was Hero's day at school." The defense was weak, because you knew damn well that you'd put it up in your room afterwards. "Felt fitting at the time."
Wanda seemed to sense your very deep ly felt embarassment, because she joined the conversation now aswell, just in a less mocking way than Tony, Sam or Joaquin.
"I think it's cute. Everyone had a crush at that age right? I did. And Joaquin apparently did, too. Did you and that girl ever end up together?" Her curiosity seemed to be sincere, but you knew that she was trying to nudge the conversation into a different direction, which you appreciated.
"Well, it's kinda complicated-"
"That's his way of saying no," You interrupted him dryly. "He was into her for, like, seven years, but decided to shoot his shot at the one time she had a boyfriend. Didn't go too well for him."
Joaquin only scowled at you whilst the others laughed and Sam shook his head with a snicker. "Man, I gotta say, quite the devotion the two of you got there. Though it seems like it worked better for one than it did for the other." His eyes flickered to Bucky for a second, who still hasn't said a word the whole time, which was slowly but surely freaking you out. And because you couldn't handle the silence anymore on his end anymore, you decided that this was the perfect moment for you to leave- right fucking now.
"You're never going to let this go again, are you?"
"Not a chance, lover girl."
"Whatever." You placed your glass on the table before you got up, again not daring to look at Bucky, even though you could feel his eyes burning into you from where he was still sitting on the couch. "I think this is my sign to go to bed, that was enough embarassment for one night."
You didn't care about the embarassment, at least not really. That you could handle- what you couldn't handle was your boyfriend probably thinking that you were a scary freak who has been obsessing over him ever since she was twelve.
"Joaquin's fan account is called 'SamWilson_FireFalcon', by the way. You're welcome."
That was the last thing you said before you left the room, your heels clacking against the ground as the only thing on your mind was getting as far away from Bucky as possible.
About twenty minutes later, you were sitting cross legged on your bed, hair thrown up in a bun, your face bare of any makeup and dressed in nothing but one of Bucky's old shirts.
You realised quickly that putting it on might've been a mistake, because now you were even more aware of the lack of his presence.
Maybe you shouldn't have left like that.
Maybe bolting like that had been a bad idea and you should've just wait to see how he'd react, but you you'd been scared. Joaquin didn't mean any harm by it, of course he didn't. He was drunk, it was a fun story from when you were kids and from the outside, it did seem like a lighthearted joke.
You weren't sure if it was that for Bucky, though.
Everyone watching it had reacted, at least in some way. Laughter, commentary, something. The only reaction you got from Bucky was his arm going slack around you.
And that wasn't exactly the kind of thing that could reassure you in this situation.
Bucky had said from the beginning that he wanted to take things slow with you, and you respected that.
Unfortunately, him finding out that you've been crushing on him ever since you were a young girl was about as slow as crashing into a wall with a speed of 100 miles an hour.
Before you could start to properly think about what that might mean for your relationship, there was a light knock on the door.
You knew who it was. Hell, you would recognise that sound of metal knuckles against wood anywhere, but you relished in the silence for a moment longer before you told him to come in.
Your heart twisted in your chest as he appeared in the doorway, because you really, really didn't want to be having this conversation right now.
Actually, all you wanted to do was be with your boyfriend, which was kind of ironic, because he was also the last person you wanted to talk to right now, scared of what he might have to say.
The alcohol you still had in your system didn't help one bit with the nerves, either.
Usually, Bucky could calm you down in a situation like this. He was the only person that could.
Now, your heart felt like it was going to jump out of your ripcage when yoour eyes met his.
"Hi." Your voice came out a tad smaller than you wanted it to and you were almost mad at how much this was getting to you.
"Hey, sweetheart." The familiar softness in his voice should've been enough to calm you down at least a little bit, but right now, it didn't have a reassuring affect at all.
Right now, it just felt like the quiet before the storm.
And that storm could potentially be a breakup.
Maybe you were jumping to conclusions here, but your fear wasn't unjustified. You had experienced way too often that big emotions like that were too much and enough of a reason to make people leave.
So actualy, it was more like a hurricane, tsunami and tornado were all coming in at once.
You watched as he slowly walked over to the edge of the bed, his eyes constantly on yours as he sat down.
For a moment, the two of you just looked at each other.
You were painfully aware of the distance between you, the crease of his eyebrows that you didn't know how to place yet.
Which was weird, because you usually always knew what was going on in his head.
"You okay?"
"Yeah." The lie came easier than it should, especially around Bucky. "Just… a little embarassed, that's all." You could at least try to act as if everything was fine, but you failed miserably when the laugh that was supposed to reassure him came out thin.
Yeah, definitely wouldn't win an Oscar for that one.
"Don't do that."
"Do what?"
"Pretend like everything is okay even though it isn't." His voice wasn't exactly harsh now, but it sounded… stern. Protective, almost. "You don't ever have to pretend with me, sweetheart. Joaquin shouldn't have done that, not against your will and not with all the others being there. You're allowed to be upset about it."
You knew that your boyfriend was one of the most considerate people in the world, but you still hadn't expected this.
Actually, this was the furthest away from the reaction you'd expected.
"You're not mad at me?"
The look on Bucky's face would've been funny if it you weren't so scared of the answer.
"Mad at you? Honey, why on earth would you think that?"
The utter confusion in his voice confused you now, too.
Wasn't the answer obvious?
"Well, that was kind of a lot, wasn't it?"
Now that he asked, you couldn't stop yourself anymore. You've never been good at keeping things from Bucky, anyway.
"I just don't want you to think that I am just with you to prove a point. I promise, I had been way over that crush before we ever started dating and this is not, like, me obsessively holding onto a childhood crush. Does it seem obsessive? I swear it isn't, it's just always kind of been a joke between me and Joaquin but now that you know it doesn't feel all that funny anymore and I'm just scared that you'll think less of me now or-"
"Sweetheart, you need to breathe. C'mon, take a deep breath for me."
You didn't even realise that you'd been rambling until Bucky interrupted you, your inhale stuttering a little as you did as you were told. "There you go, just like that."
You kept your focus on him now as you matched your breathing to his, giving yourself time to calm down a little before you started talking again. "I just don't want you to think that we are together only because that's what I wanted all those years ago. I want you, Bucky. Just like this, not the some version I used to read about. And I was going to tell you about it someday, just… not now. You said you wanted to take it slow and that whole thing… it didn't feel slow. Not at all, to be honest.
Bucky held eye contact the whole time you were talking, patiently waiting for you to finish and let the silence sit between you for a moment longer afterwards, just in case you wanted to add something else.
"Doll, there is absolutely nothing you need to be worried about. Sure, maybe the way Joaquin portrayed it was a little weird, but that's because the guy can't handle a drink, not because you did anything wrong." Bucky slowly reached for you, carefully placing his hand against your waist like he wasn't sure how far he was allowed to go right now.
"And I'm not mad at you, I'm mad at myself. Mad that I didn't stop Joaquin right then and there because you were clearly uncomfortable and then didn't even talk to you after watching it. I was being an idiot, and I'm sorry."
Without letting go of your waist, he let himself slip down from the matress knelt down on the floor in front of you, his chest pressed tightly against your knees as his other hand found your body, too.
"I know we aren't just in a relationhsip because of that. We both know that you have been more than patient with me over the last few months, which you wouldn't have been if this wasn't real. I know that, doll. You're doing a damn good job at showing me everyday what I mean to you, whih honestly drives me absolutely crazy." Bucky's eyes were so expressive again, you felt almost ridiculous for the panic you had spiraled into just a few minutes ago, because it suddenly felt completely unjustified.
"I love you so much, sweetheart, it honestly scares me sometimes. I never thought that I'd ever be able to feel something like this, but you keep proving me wrong every day, because my love for you only seems to grow. And even though I hate to agree with him, Joaquin is right. I would marry you right now, in this outfit, with nobody to witness it but us. But you deserve better than that, and my ma would be turning in her grave if she found out that I way rushing things with an amazing dame like you."
"Dame, huh?" You couldn't help but laugh and your change in mood made Bucky grin, too.
"The most amazing one I've ever met. Why do you think I gave you those, huh?" Bucky gently, so gently, raised his hand and tugged on the dogtags that were resting around your neck.
"I'm already yours, sweetheart. I have been ever since that young girl from Miami decided that I was the man for her long before I had any chance to prove that I was worth even a second of your time. I've never believed in soulmates, doll, not even before the war. But you make it very hard not to."
Bucky reached for your left hand now, pressing a kiss against your finger right where a ring would be sitting now if he was down on his knees for a completely different reason. "I don't want you to ever be scared about being too much. You couldn't be, even if you tried. I love you, exactly how you are, way too much for that. As a matter of fact, I will fall in love with you again and again for the rest of my life until my heart is so full of love it won't fit anymore and even then I won't be able to stop. Do you understand that?"
Now, you felt like your heart might be bursting out of your chest at any moment. Holy fuckin shit.
"You can't just say stuff like that, Buck." Your fingers grabbed at the fabric of the shirt that had been driving you crazy for the whole goddamn evening now and you tugged on it, which Bucky seemed to understand immediately because he stood up, giving you the chance to pull him into the bed with you. One of his arms was wrapped tightly around your waist, but the other one was braced against the matress, careful not to crush you beneath him.
You didn't want him to be careful, though. You wanted him to be as close to you as physically possible, so you tugged on him a little more forcefully, wrapping your arms around his shoulders and your legs around his waist, which made his chest rumble with one of his stupidly handsome laughs.
Before James Buchanan Barnes, you'd never ever thought that a laugh could sound handsome, but here you were anyway.
"I'm too heavy, sweetheart. Wouldn't wanna crush you."
"Don't care." Your voice was muffled because of how tightly you were pressing your face against his chest, inhaling th scent of clean soap, fabric softener and something so achingly him it made you dizzy.
Every single concern of him breaking up had suddenly vanished into thin air. He'd just proved that there was not a thing you had to worry about, because your man was just as crazy about you as you were about him. "Just want you close, Buck."
That seemed to make him budge a little bit, because he carefully lowerd some more of his weight on top of you. He was still mindful of not hurting you, but now you were enveloped by nothing else but him.
For a very long time, the two of you just stayed like that, breathing in sync as your bodies were tangled together so closely, you could almost feel your hearts beating together, too.
"Can I tell you a secret?" You just hummed against his chest, signaling Bucky to go ahead.
"I think I've been in love with you ever since you first introduced yourself to me back when you'd first joined the team." He let that sit between you for a moment, thinking about how to continue.
"I didn't know that it was love back then, off course. I just knew that I was thinking about you so much it was actually driiving me crazy."
Bucky laughed a little at the memory and flipped you over so you were lying on top of him now, just so he could properly look at you. "We didn't end up on that mission out of coincedence, either. I asked Steve to assign us together."
Now, that did surprise you, because back then you had been completely convincd that Bucky didn't want to have anything to do with you. "Seriously?"
"Seriously," He confirmed. "I had no idea how to approach you, especially because every time you came into a room my brain just turned into mush. Missions were familiar ground though, so I figured that if we'd just get assigned together as often as possible, I'd get to know you without making a fool of myself."
You had to laugh, the sound more disbelieving than it was amused. Everytime you thought your boyfriend couldn't get any more perfect, he did another thing that rattled your entire brain chemistry. "You are completely out of your mind, do you know that?"
"Nah, sweetheart." He grinned up at you, carefully brushing a hair strand out of your face.
✶ ― SYNOPSIS. bucky can’t help but wonder why they always come running to you,, or your living fossil of a roommate disapproves of your taste in men and its totally not because he wants a taste of you.
warnings.ᐟ mdni! no use of y/n, roommate!bucky, cocky+flirty!bucky, also guard dog!bucky (if that even makes sense) (it doesn’t), frenemies to lovers, smut (pwp, service dom!bucky, unprotected piv, oral sex - f receiving, clothed sex for like a sec, fingering, creampie, tummy bulge, dirty talk, dry humping, possessiveness, dumbification, praise, temperature play, food play, nipple play, pussy pronouns, hair pulling - m receiving, multiple orgasms, consent kink, implied competency kink and cum eating, bucky barnes begs agenda 2025™, both bucky and reader spend the whole fic towing the fine line between horny and pervy), angst, fluff, jealousy, pining, so much bickering, attachment issues, miscommunication bc these two combined have the emotional intelligence of a chihuahua, bucky’s hobby is baking bc i said so. bucky can pick the reader up (but he’s literally a super soldier so 🧍♂️), one mention of bucky trying to grab the reader’s hair, reader has a nut allergy and does not speak russian (neither do i, so please forgive the very small amount of google translated russian)
ᯓ★hyde's input. god bless sabrina for saving the summer again. also don’t let this flop, it’s my birthday and i’m not above crying over poorly-received erotica (i’m joking) (no i’m not) (edit: wtf guys)
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Bucky Barnes is not someone you’d call a friend.
He’s more of a nuisance, really. A fossil, dropped off at your door by one Sam Wilson with a simple request: “Can he crash here for a few days?”
That was four months ago, and Bucky’s still living on your couch.
Which is exactly where he’s sat right now, head buried in a book you barely even remember owning. The pages, so full of neglect, give him hassle as he tries to turn them, catching on one another and refusing to be pried apart by vibranium fingers.
“How do I look?” You ask as you step out from your bedroom, hands fastening an earring into your right ear.
Unfazed by your appearance, he doesn’t bother glancing up from his book as he sardonically replies, “With your eyes, like the rest of us.”
You contemplate plucking one of your heels off and throwing it at his head. Knowing your luck, it will fly right past him and smash your coffee table into pieces. Just like your roommate, it’s vintage. Unlike your roommate, you willingly brought it into your home.
“Ha. Ha.” Rounding the couch, you swat his feet off the table before snapping his book closed. “Now if you’re done playing comedian, would you answer the fucking question?”
“That’s your generation's problem, you know? You swear more than you breathe.”
“Better than waging a world war every few years.”
“Considering the current state of the world, I wouldn’t rest too comfortably on that one,” Bucky rises from his seat and squeezes past you, irritatingly close in a way that makes sure you feel each defined muscle in his chest as it brushes against your shoulder. “Anyway, you look fine, as always.”
“I look fine?” You parrot his words and follow his footsteps over to the kitchen. “Careful Barnes, don’t get too excited, it’s not healthy for a senior citizen’s heart.”
“You know what I mean,” a heavy sigh slips out the soldier’s mouth as he busies himself filling the kettle, glancing back at you from over his shoulder as he continues speaking. “I don’t understand why you worry so much about all of… this.” He gestures at you, water splashing off the tips of his fingers.
“God forbid a woman cares about looking good on a date,” you’re becoming annoyingly aware of the pout on your lips and try your best to correct it, whilst prying open the fridge door and fishing out a bottle of beer. “Gee if only it were still the 40s, then I could slap some mercury on my lips and hit the town with a man ready to buy me off my daddy for the cheap, cheap price of two goats!”
The frustration within you only rises as you struggle with the bottle’s cap, the skin of your hand pinching as you put all your force behind removing it. Since when are twist-tops so damn hard to twist off?
Bucky’s by the kettle, pouring boiling hot water into a mug he’s wrongfully claimed as his and looking irritatingly fine surrounded by steam — which has your mind trailing back to a few weeks ago: an early morning, exiting your bedroom to find your lodger stepping out the bathroom with nothing but a towel around his waist and the remnant dew of a steaming hot shower trailing down his very naked, very defined biceps, and pectorals, and- He’s not even trying to mask the amusement on his face as he indulges in your failure.
“Don’t you think you’re being a little ridiculous?” He asks and pries the bottle out of your hold, effortlessly ripping the cap off with a twist of his left hand. A familiar warmth curls between your legs, awakening a response from you that you’ve sworn, under no circumstances, will happen due to Bucky Barnes. You barely want to exchange air with him, nevermind bodily fluids. “There’s no way you’re worth two goats.”
“Every day I wake up and resist the urge to smother you in your sleep.”
Your vitriol is met with a smirk taking over his lips. Watching as he brings the beer up to his mouth, you catch yourself forgetting to blink as the soldier engages you both in a staring contest, all the while he’s tilting the bottle up to steal the first sip. He presses the cold glass back into your hand. You try not to focus on his tongue, peeking out to swipe over his bottom lip and clean up a remnant drop of beer.
In a move that puts you even more on edge, Bucky shuffles closer to you. Delirium floods your mind as the smell of smoke, and musk, and a just a twinge of sweat floods your nose, a smell so masculine it has you debating setting feminism and your own self-preservation back hundreds of years by nuzzling your face into the pulse point of his neck, like you’re some damn animal being exposed to pheromones. Meanwhile, he appears none the wiser to the negative effect he’s having on you, too busy reaching his arm behind you and into the fridge.
“Those boys you entertain, do they ever pay you any compliments?” His voice is so gentle, you almost wonder if that’s how it would sound whispering in your ear. Luckily, you don’t actually wonder about that. Not at all, not even a little. “Or is that your job too, like the bill?”
As quickly as he caged you in against the fridge, he moves away and leaves the cool air to rush over your skin, dragging your mind back into reality and away from whatever thoughts it keeps trying to tempt you with. You track his movements towards the island counter as he sets down a glass bowl, marked by condensation and filled with a batter of some sorts.
It's becoming more and more common to catch Bucky pottering around in the kitchen, a recipe on his phone screen and a personalised ‘Kiss the Baker’ apron — which Sam bought as a joke for his birthday — tied around his waist. He’ll never admit it, but a part of you believes baking helps him relax, to shut off whatever thoughts are floating around in that disturbingly pretty head of his and let him focus solely on measuring, mixing, and making delicious sugary treats. You can hardly complain when he’s gifting you the privilege of an at-home bakery. Fortunately, he gives you plenty of other reasons to complain.
“Boys I entertain? Way to make me sound like a stripper,” you huff, sneaking over to dunk a finger into the batter as he turns to grab his coffee. “And I’ll have you know, they do pay me compliments.”
Licking your finger clean, you can’t fight the humm of approval that creeps up your throat nor the way your eyes slip shut as you savour the cold, tangy sweetness of the cake mix. Something warm presses against your left side as Bucky returns to the island, setting down his mug and a cake tin.
“Really? What kinda things do they say?” Just as you go to double dip, he smacks the top of your hand with a wooden spoon, and you nearly freeze at the contact. For a few short seconds, the factory in your mind goes into lockdown as every single one of your brain cells scramble to not conjure up the image of him smacking that utensil on a very different part of you. “Hands off. It’s a lemon cake, not a lemon and your-dirty-fingers cake.”
You silence your thoughts with a swig of beer before putting a safety distance between Bucky and you, unsure whether to be relieved at his obliviousness to the less than ideal affect he’s having on you, or offended by his complete lack of reaction to being so close to you while you’re all dressed up and waiting for another man to take you out.
Not that you want him to be affected by that, or you in general, though.
Your phone lights up with a text from an unsaved number: im hear, r yu coming down or shuld i com up? You shut it off and stuff it into your purse, deciding it's best to keep a man waiting anyway; he’ll appreciate your presence even more once you finally give him it.
Besides, you’ve yet to answer Bucky’s question.
“I’d tell you but I’m too sober to stomach you yelling ‘Heaven to Betsy!’ and giving me a lecture on your medieval dating ethics.”
You earn a genuine laugh, in which his knees bend a little and his head is thrown back, while his vibranium hand winds up splayed across his midriff. The sun is setting beyond the window, lingering shades of orange warmth frame a heavenly glow around Bucky, highlighting a slight curl in his hair and the piercing blue of his eyes. The view is uncomfortably pleasant, so you bring the bottle back to your lips and turn your head away, suddenly utterly fascinated with the eggshell colouring of the kitchen cupboards.
“I think there’s a leak under the sink,” the comment is absentminded, a meager attempt at steering your mind away from the man and his mixing bowl.
Bucky ignores it and drags you right back to the actual topic at hand.
“That’s funny,” there’s a shuffle of tin behind you. You glance back around to find him smoothing batter into the cake mold, wooden spoon clasped in metal fingers spreading the mix evenly. You’ve never noticed how good Bucky is at spreading things. “Cause I swear I remember Sam mentioning something about the last guy moaning his own name in your ear.”
Beer shoots to the back of your throat.
In a spurt of coughing, amidst the burning pain of the carbonated liquid dripping out your nose, you hurry over to the sink. Mouth dropped open in a dry heave, you lean into the basin and try to minimize the mess you make in search of a breath. Heat envelops you from behind and a pair of sock-clad feet come into view next to your maroon heels. You briefly register the cool brush of metal against the back of your neck as he tries to tidy back your hair and, while you appreciate the action, you can’t help note how completely unnecessary it is. Too distracted to care, your attention shoots straight to the weight of his flesh hand pressing into your lower back. Heavy, warm, large, it pollutes your mind with the knowledge of how it feels to have him soothe your skin — even if there is a layer of silk in the way.
The moment air returns to your lungs, you shoot up straight and ache to step away from him and his wandering-to-all-the-wrong-places hands. The battle against his touch is mute, not even one percent of his strength is put behind the way he grips your forearms and turns you to face him.
Bucky’s eyes scan over you, studying your features. You swallow back whatever feeling brings salivation to your mouth. His thumb reaches towards his own and you watch, transfixed, as a pink tongue darts out to greet it, licking a stripe over the pad of it. A splash of cake batter stains his ring finger. You swallow back more saliva; confusingly, your mouth feels drier than ever. Only when he delicately presses his thumb beneath your eye and swipes over your waterline do you realise you’re teary-eyed.
“See how clumsy you are?” There’s a chastising lilt to his voice that sends blood rushing to your face, and then immediately back down to the overwhelmingly empty space between your legs. “Can’t even swallow properly without ruining your mascara.”
You need distance.
You need to move.
You need to leave.
“He’s here!” The words are almost a gasp as you turn out of his hold. The weight of his gaze trails over your legs as you rush around the kitchen island, fishing your keys out of your purse and rambling out the nerves he’s summoned. “Okay, there’s some leftover pasta in the fridge if you’re hungry, and you’re welcome to the beers if you get thirsty. Big remote turns on the TV, the little one changes the channel. Behave and take care of the place while I’m away, okay?”
“Quit talking to me like I’m some kind of guard dog,” he complains as you pull open the front door and cross one foot over the threshold to safety.
“Oh, I’m sorry!” You cheer back, trailing the door behind you as you go. “I wasn’t aware you were going to start contributing rent, I’ll send you my bank details.”
With that, the apartment door slams shut and you head out for a date in which three things will happen: you’ll flirt, you’ll fuck, and you won’t think about your roommate.
Only one of those things ends up happening.
It’s not from lack of an offer that you wind up taking a cab back to your apartment. Your date had been nice… enough. He complimented your outfit, took a sufficient amount of interest in you, and he even bought you flowers — of course, he’d accidentally left them in his parent’s home. Where he lived. In the basement.
And the thing is, you’re not shallow. Time’s are tough, the economy sucks, and the world is still adjusting to the sudden return to half its population post-Blip. So you were more than game to play sneak-me-into-your-bed-without-waking-your-parents, but, as the pair of you waited on a taxi to arrive, his hand found your waist and your treacherous mind noticed something it shouldn’t.
Bucky’s hand was larger. And warmer. And more welcomed against your skin.
Sick to your stomach by your own thoughts, your night ended with you tip-toeing past the familiar figure sleeping on your couch — definitely not pausing to take in the sheer width of his naked shoulders dangling half-off the cushion — and crawling into bed alone, belly full of Thai and mind full of Winter.
When morning comes, the bedroom door creaks as you pry it open, a fist rubbing sleep out your eye and a yawn announcing your arrival.
“Did you eat my ice cream?” Bucky calls out from somewhere, voice muffled and full of accusation.
Despite barely finishing a glass of wine the night before, there’s a throbbing pain beginning in your temples and souring your already bitter mood.
“Wow, good morning to you too,” you stumble more than walk over to the kitchen, in search of the salvation of ice cold water.
That’s where you find him: laid out on his back, grey sweatpants clinging to bent knees, with everything from his shoulders up inside the open cabinet beneath the sink. His arms are inside too, tinkering away at something above his face.
“Good morning. Did you eat my ice cream?” If ever a thing such as a verbal eyeroll were to exist, Bucky would be doing it. From the lack of seeing his eyes, there’s every chance he is literally rolling them.
Your journey toward the fridge is interrupted by the troubling sight of a glass full of water, a plate hosting a slice of lemon sponge cake, and two miscellaneous white pills that anyone who suffers the unusually cruel punishment of a menstrual cycle is likely familiar with. A post-it note with your name written neatly across it sits next to the unexpected care package.
“So what if I did?” The painkillers go down effortlessly, though there’s a lingering chemical taste that has you gulping down an extra sip of water. “What are you doing, anyway?”
“I paid for it!” For all his outrage, he doesn’t care enough to poke his head out as he chastises you. “You said there was a leak, so I’m checking your pipes. I’m quite good with my hands, you know.”
Is he dense, or is he saying this shit on purpose? The double entendre in his words is glaring, yet you haven’t the confidence nor the will-power to address it, to poke the proverbial bear out of fear. Fear of him scolding your dirty mind, or fear of him doubling down on his suggestive wordplay, you’re not quite sure.
You choose to steer clear of the topic and, more importantly, the unexpected twinge in your chest in response to Bucky’s unrequested help.
“And I paid for the freezer you left it in, the electricity that kept it frozen, and the apartment you live in,” you don’t intend to sound so snappy, like a sulking child fighting against their own self-confessed crimes. “So I think you can spare me some goddamn ice cream.”
You’ve taken to joining Bucky on the floor, sitting across from him, cross-legged and back pressed against the cabinets that surround the kitchen island. In your lap lies the slice of cake, a mouthful already missing and melting its tangy sweetness onto your tongue. You almost moan, but it’s unclear whether the sugary treat just tastes that good or the visual of the soldier laid out on his back and tinkering away beneath your sink is just so stimulating.
If you mention the strange noise your car’s engine has been making recently, would he fix that too? You can already picture him slicked in sweat and oil, hands on his hips as he stands over the opened hood and assesses whatever the damage is. You’d have to watch over the whole thing, of course — not out of your own self-interest but on the off chance something goes wrong and Bucky needs help taking off his oil-stained shirt, or pants, or-
“Your date was that good, huh?” You almost jump out of your skin when he speaks.
“He bragged to me about how he and his college roommates used to play pool,” the pause in your sentences seems to capture Bucky’s attention, coaxing him out from beneath the sink. “Using a shotgun instead of cues.”
As he sits up, elbows finding rest upon his knees, you can’t help but note the five-o’clock shadow he’s sporting. For reasons that have nothing to do with the fraying seams of your sanity, you need him to shave.
To Bucky’s credit, he doesn’t laugh. Yes, his lips glitch somewhere between a cheeky grin and a serious frown, but he does not outright laugh like you expect him to. Instead, he nods down at the half-eaten cake and tilts his head — an unspoken question, is it good?, that only weakens his argument about not being a guard-dog. Between the puppy-dog blue eyes and the yearning for approval, you half expect him to sprout a tail and start panting.
Scratch that last thought, actually. Bucky and panting should not coexist in a sentence together, nevermind in your imagination.
“Mind feeding me a bite?” Yes, actually, you would mind, but one glance at his fingertips stained in whatever-the-hell is going on with your sink leaves you no choice but to tear off a corner.
Bringing the piece of cake to meet his awaiting mouth, you brace yourself for the tentative scrape of teeth stealing it out of your hold. The delicate brush of his lips enveloping your fingers throws you off your axis, and the challenge in his eyes as they hold contact with your own has your thighs involuntarily squeezing themselves together.
For a moment, you swear you catch him glance down at your lips.
Then you remember the health insurance your job provides does not cover the cost of being institutionalised, so you stop hallucinating and come back to reality where Bucky Barnes is not so much a flirt as he is a pest, a stray animal abandoned at your doorstep by a friend who decided to take advantage of your good-natured heart.
“Can you give me the exact phrasing your date used to describe this shotgun-pool?” The soldier is gone in the blink of an eye, flat on his back again and continuing his attempt to seal the leak.
“Why?”
“I’m making this list,” he says, and he must shift his hands higher above his head because suddenly the soft cotton of his white shirt has ridden up his torso, presenting your eyes with a golden platter of sun-warmed skin. “I’m calling it ‘the manchild files’.”
“That’s not even funny,” neither is the way he inches deeper into the cabinet, exposing not only the glaringly white tan-line delineating where the band of his boxers should be resting but also the beginning dark curls of a happy trail.
“Well ‘the stupid files’ sounds so simple, I was worried you’d try to jump into bed with it.”
“Are you seriously about to slut-shame me in my own fucking kitchen?” Whilst slutting yourself out on my floor like your name is Mike and you’re about to show me some magic? is the quiet part you don’t say aloud.
“I’m critical but I’m not hypocritical,” there he does again with that verbal eye-roll. “I wasn’t exactly the image of celibacy when I was your age-”
“Yay, more grandpa lore!” Your interruption earns you a nudge from his leg, but you know it made him laugh because his shoulders gently shake.
“I’m not slut-shaming you, I’m taste-shaming. I swear, being useless must be the precursor to having a chance with you.”
“It is not!” You gasp, yet you’re hardly surprised — Bucky’s not exactly subtle in his disapproval of the men you date.
If there is anything to be thankful for, it’s the alleviation that comes with Bucky shimmying out from the sink again, happy trail redressed and a hand diving into the pocket of his sweatpants. With a dramatic clearing of his throat, he brings his phone up to his face and starts reciting.
“After being told you have a nut allergy, Carter B. said Wait, like, you’re allergic to cum?” You’d always known showing him how to use the notes app would come back to bite you in the ass somehow. “Tommy L. walked into a lampost because he got distracted… watching a squirrel run up a tree. You almost got stood up by Steve K. because he accidentally locked himself inside his own car. Lee B. asked you-”
“Bucky B. is about to lose his other arm if he doesn’t shut up.”
“I rest my case,” and he still has the nerve to open his mouth, awaiting another bite of cake.
You cave with no fight and give it to him.
Because you’re a nice person, not because you want to feel his mouth on you again.
Something cool drips onto the bottom of your naked thighs after Bucky reaches over you and grabs at the glass of water, stealing an obnoxiously large gulp; or is it just exaggerated by your stare zeroing in on the way his Adam’s apple bobs as he drinks?
A thought pops into your mind.
“Did you leave these on the counter because you expected me to be hungover?” Your tone is inoffensive, and unoffended, a simple curiosity you need answered.
“You have a headache, right?”
“Uh-huh,” your eyes narrow skeptically.
“Yeah, I figured you would,” Bucky takes another sip, more condensation trickling down onto your legs. “You always have one after eating Thai food.”
Something inside of you stops.
Your heart, or your lungs, or your mind. Your goddamn liver, for all you know.
This is not supposed to be happening. Bucky is not supposed to fix things just because you mentioned it, once in passing and as a scapegoat from focusing too much on him. And he certainly isn’t supposed to notice things, useless little factoids that not even you know about yourself until he brings them to light. Hell, he’s not even supposed to still be here, sleeping on your couch and criticising your love life.
When the thing inside of you clicks back into place and starts again, a new weight rests atop your conscience.
Maybe it’s not so bad having a roommate, having Bucky be that roommate. Maybe you’re starting to get used to coming home to the smell of baked vanilla and the signature grouchy look he wears as he asks you about your day, about how your co-worker pissed you off, about why you’re home later than usual and not wearing a jacket out in the cold of winter.
“By the way,” he’s calling out from beneath the sink again. “You’ll be happy to know I’m touring an apartment next week.”
“Oh.” The bite you just took turns sour in your mouth. You struggle to swallow it down. “That’s great. Finally! You’re going, and I’m staying here, and I’ll have my apartment back to myself. That’s… Great. It’s great!”
No, really, it’s great.
“You’re joking,” a palm on your lower back guides you to the right, just in time to avoid being trampled beneath a cart.
“I wish,” you say, and saunter over to some colourful packaging that’s captured your eye.
After a moment of inspecting the product in hand from every angle, you put it back on the shelf.
“Let me get this straight,” Bucky pushes the cart along behind you, grabbing that same colourful packaging and dropping it in with the rest of the groceries. “You lean through his window, kiss him goodbye on the cheek and then he just… What, crashed his car?”
“Into a wall with street art of a cliff painted on it,” as you add the most important detail, laughter is already bubbling up your throat. “He literally crashed his car into a cliff without even getting to switch out of first gear!”
The pair of you make up quite the sight.
An entire morning of tiptoeing through the limbo of delirium, after an entire night spent trying to block out the relentless banging from the upstairs neighbours. The door to your bedroom crawled open some time past four and there was Bucky, head poking through the space and looking rather pleased to find you wide awake — despite his claims of just wanting to make sure you were asleep.
Seated on opposite ends of the couch, both of you found a quiet solace in the other’s inability to sleep. While a movie marathon played over the TV, the sex marathon above continued. When exhaustion took claim of your body, you drifted off with your arms resting on the armchair and your head resting on your arms. You awoke atop a pillow and beneath a blanket, legs stretched out over the couch and Bucky curled up on the floor by your feet — like any good guard dog would be.
After a botched attempt to sneak past the soldier, only to have him scare the living daylights out of you by grabbing your ankle as you tried to step over him, you both came to the shocking realisation that the fridge was void of any food.
Which brings you to here: standing in aisle 7, laughing an ache into your ribs over yet another one of your failed dates, with a half-filled cart and matching bags forming under your tired eyes.
“I think it’s time we had an intervention about where you’re finding these men,” Bucky says that last word like it's covered in poison, burning his tongue on the way out.
“They find me!” You say, as he reaches for the box of strawberries you just put down. “As generous as I am, do you want to maybe slow down on how much shit you load into our cart?”
His hand freezes, the box of red fruit clasped in a confusingly delicate grip of vibranium fingers
“You picked it up,” his tone is riddled with confusion. “Don’t you want them?”
“Contrary to popular belief, I’m not made of money.”
“Okay?” He replies, like it’s the most irrelevant piece of information you’ve ever given him — and you once spent an hour ranting to him about the inefficiency of the ink cartridges in your office’s printer. “I’m paying, so do you want it or not?”
“Since when do you have money? Did your pension finally come through? I mean… You are old enough. Also, aren’t you literally a vet?”
“You managed to say all that in one breath, yet you failed to answer a yes or no question.”
A bubble of silence surrounds you both. Bucky blinks, slowly, exaggeratedly. It’s the perfect opportunity to stare at his face and notice the five o'clock shadow has grown. A gruff ‘excuse me’, followed by a man shoving between you both to grab some strawberries, pops the bubble.
Without a word, you snatch the box and place it in the cart.
Half-way up the fruit aisle, Bucky gets the genius idea to open his mouth again: “You wanna know what my theory is?”
“Nope,” you say, popping the p and glancing back at him over your shoulder. “But you’re going to tell me anyway.”
He looks vexingly domestic like this, wearing a sweater and pushing your shopping around. Thoughts betray you, wandering off into dangerous territory as they begin to question how others perceive you from the outside.
What do strangers see: two roommates that quarrel like it’s a biological need, or a couple doing their weekly shop? Two strangers forced together by a circumstance named Sam Wilson, or two lovers unwilling to voice that the metal container between them is too much distance?
“I think you date idiots because they’re idiots.”
“Gee whiz, grandpa, that’s so insightful. I sure do hope I’m as wise as you when I’m your age, but I’ll probably just be dead.” You feel the cart meet your back in a gentle bump, a non-verbal warning to cut the teasing.
“Dating those incompetent men, it’s like…” he pauses, searching for the right words, and plucks a bunch of bananas from your hand, dropping them in with your mounting pile of fruit. “Jumping out of a plane! You get the thrill of falling but, the moment something a little too real and solid appears on the horizon, you pull out the parachute and, that’s it, you’re safe. No danger of falling flat on your face and getting your feelings hurt.”
“I don’t know when you last jumped out of a plane-”
“Remember that Karli situation a few months ago?”
“But not ejecting your parachute leads to a little more than just falling flat on your face.”
“So my metaphor isn't perfect,” Bucky trails off, eyes staring past you and mind lost in thought. You follow his line of sight and find a couple at the end of the aisle, hands intertwined and smiling at each other like they’re the only two people in the world. An unnamed emotion tugs at the soldier’s lips, but he won’t let it take over his stoic features. “But you get my point. If you were actually looking for something serious, you’d date someone better than those men.”
Unprompted and unwarranted, his words spear your heart.
Memories replay in your head, a kaleidoscope of the featureless faces you let take you out, dine you, wine you, kiss you. A handful of immeasurables: how many times you’ve brushed off mispronounced versions of your name, how many excuses you’ve made for the way they talk to you, how many times you’ve lowered your own standards to help a man feel desired. In your wake lies a graveyard of failed relationships, with no proper funeral nor mourning.
You swallow back the lump in your throat.
“Okay, psychoanalysing me aside, what’s left on the list?” You ask, making your way round to Bucky’s side of the cart.
“Well, I still need to write down Jeff G.’s cliff accident.”
“The other list.” You watch as he struggles to fish out the scrap of paper from his pocket.
“Eggs, pasta, feta, toilet roll,” his brows are furled, his eyes are glaring, and with each item he lists off, his words grow more unsure. “Grapefruit? Your handwriting is shit.”
“I was in a rush!”
“And sitting on a jack-hammer?”
“Gimme that,” you snatch the list, he yields it with no protest. As you scan over the scribbled ink, a frustrating truth comes to light. Bucky’s right, your handwriting is shit. “Is grapefruit even in season?”
“Huh,” it’s the sound of hollow amusement.
“What?”
“Just…” His presence looms over you, infecting your senses with the woodsy smell of his cologne and the arduous heat that radiates off of him. When he nods his head to the right, scoffing out a laugh and poking his tongue into his cheek, you find yourself wrestling between temptations of slapping him or pulling him closer. “You really don’t notice what’s right in front of you, do you?”
Lo and behold, on the right side of the aisle, grapefruits.
You make it through the rest of the shopping list in relative silence, with the occasional side-comment from the super soldier that either rouses a grin onto your lips or has your eyes rolling in faux disagreement. Little by little, you peruse the aisles and fill the cart; and, when Bucky picks out the only ice cream flavour void of nuts, you bite your tongue and choose to say nothing.
“I forgot to ask,” you finally speak, standing in the self-checkout zone and struggling to find something to do with your fidgety hands as Bucky scans each item — you insisted on helping and he insisted he’d get it done quicker alone. “How did the apartment viewing go?”
“Oh. Fine,” you grimace as he says your least favourite f word. “The current lease isn’t up yet, so you’re stuck with me a little longer.”
Are you supposed to feel this relieved?
In theory, you were never supposed to feel anything in regards to Bucky Barnes. In practice, it’s a lot more complicated, a pendulum that seems to swing in constant motion between red hot aggravation and red hot something else you refuse to give a name.
All you know is there are times where you wonder if his back is okay sleeping on the couch, and you contemplate asking him to come meet you during your lunch breaks, and you crave to have the anxious shake in your leg quelled by his daily check-in calls whenever he and Sam go off on another misadventure. Whatever reason lies behind your behaviour, the familiarity of ignorant bliss tempts you away from seeking the answer.
Besides, Bucky will be leaving soon. He’ll no longer be your roommate and you’ll both fall out of whatever routine convenience has forced upon you both.
A series of beeps capture your attention.
At the epicentre of the noise stands an elderly woman, grey hair pristinely curled and an outfit that screams Sunday-bests, struggling with the check-out machine. With no employee in sight and no do-gooder fellow customer stepping out of their way to help, the woman’s distress grows with each beep the machine makes at her.
Knuckles brush down your arm, and there’s Bucky at your side, waiting for you to pay him any mind.
“You mind handling the rest?” He asks, in that softly-spoken tone of his that would make anyone feel like swooning. Maybe that’s why it takes you a few moments to notice the wallet he’s holding out to you. “Cash is in the back pocket. I’ll be a few minutes, okay? Just finish bagging everything, leave the carrying to me.”
There’s no time to get a single word out before you’re staring at the back of his head and watching as he makes his way over to the elderly woman.
For every item you scan, you sneak a glance. The butter beeps onto the screen, and you peek how Bucky has effortlessly become the woman’s personal helper. You pass the strawberries through and reward yourself with the sight of Bucky’s cheeky grin — with the way the elderly lady laughs and swats at his arm, you can only assume he’s made some flirtatious comment. Clicking on the option to pay cash, you nearly give yourself whiplash as you turn to watch them again, Bucky’s just about finishing bagging her groceries while the woman opens her shopping-trolley bag.
Waiting on the receipt to print, your reflection stares back at you on the self-checkout screen: a hue of endearment glowing off your features. The smile quickly melts off your face when you realise that he… Oh no.
Bucky is charming.
Part of you has always known he was handsome — you’re stubborn, not blind — yet the sight of him now, all dashing smiles and twinkling eyes playing rescuer to a woman who, despite the difference in their physical ageing, is closer to his own age than you, it troubles you. The acid burn in your throat is not a manifestation of jealousy, no; it’s the queasy feeling of knowing you’ve never looked across at a date, caught him in a moment of content, and felt the unyielding desire to be the reason behind it.
Someone clears their throat beside you, a man with a wrinkle in his forehead and an agitated look upon his face, so you quickly excuse yourself and, with plastic handles digging into your fingers, you approach Bucky and the elderly lady.
Upon noticing you, Bucky’s quick to tug the bags out your grip, a scolding already falling off his tongue: “I told you to leave these to me.”
“Yeah, well, Mr. Frowny-Magoo over there didn’t appreciate me hogging up the cashier,” the comment is meant as nothing more than a lighthearted joke, yet you swear you see something shift in the soldier’s stance, his shoulders tensing and his jaw clenching as he glances back at the stranger.
Fortunately, the elderly woman interrupts whatever he’s contemplating doing to him.
“Она твоя жена?(Is she your wife?)” She’s looking between you both expectantly, speaking words you don’t understand. “У нее лицо ангела. (She has the face of an angel.)”
Whatever she says, it clearly has an effect on Bucky. His head turns to the side, to you, and a visible softness overcomes his gaze as it traces over your face. His shoulders are relaxing, his jaw is unclenching, and he’s switching the bags over to his metal hand, renewing his grip and freeing up the hand that now hangs right by yours, knuckles gracing over your own in a way that feels like a dare, a challenge, a temptation to lace your fingers together.
You clench your fist shut.
“Я знаю. (I know.)” He says, eyes lingering on you a few moments longer than necessary, before he’s back to smiling at the elderly woman.
Halfway home and doubling your pace to keep up with his effortless stroll, curiosity finally gets the better of you.
“What did she say back there, that lady you helped?”
A stranger rushes past you both, phone glued to their ear and stressing down the speaker. Bucky takes grip of your arm and tugs you closer to him.
“Do you spend your time getting bumped into when I’m not around?” His fingers give your arm a squeeze before releasing you. “And, if you must know, she said I was the most handsome man she’s ever seen.”
Little force is put behind the shove you give his shoulder.
You’re too busy agonising over how much you agree with her.
Bucky leaves.
Not forever, but three weeks away on some stealth mission with Sam sure begins to feel like it.
It happens on a Friday. After the week from hell at work, a friend’s mid-week engagement party, and the unexpected downpour of rain during the journey home, you walk into an unlit apartment and a note stuck to the fridge.
Sam needs me. Be safe, don’t bring strangers home. B.
The batch of freshly baked cinnamon rolls sweeten your night up, at least.
There’s a quiet that always seems to blanket the house whenever you lose Bucky to missions.
Before he was dumped on your front door, you’d been used to living alone and the peaceful silence that came with it. Independence, the ability to need no one and want nothing, a trait of yours that once brought pride, now brings you nothing but the static sound of a muted television and the hum of the microwave spinning a meal fit for one.
Mornings become a ritual of waking later yet leaving earlier, no one is there to distract you from drinking your coffee. Though the workload is the same, somehow the slow drag of hours still finds a way to pass quicker than ever, the revolving doors of the office building spit you back out onto the streets of New York before you’re fully ready. Your evenings waste away, starved of noise and company, while you run out of shows to watch and books to read, and count the hours down until all that silence becomes necessary for your eyes to close and your mind to rest.
It’s when darkness rules over the sky and the hour is a single digit that the phone finally rings. A blocked number, untraceable, pulling you out the hands of sleep and filling your room with the noise of your ringtone. He never speaks first, not until there’s an echo down the line of your own sleep stained ‘hello?’.
“You can go back to sleep now.”
You never stay on the line long enough to find out how quickly he hangs up after he speaks. Because it’s only ever meant to be a way to let you know he’s safe, alive, somewhere out there doing who-knows-what and stopping who-knows-who. It’s just an unrequested favour he’s granted you, after the incident in which both he and Sam fell-off the grid for five days and you were nearly rounding up a search party. He’s not missed a call since, once a day while he’s away.
So, when he doesn’t call, it’s only natural that you worry.
The alarm bell rings when you wake up to birds chirping, sun spilling through the crack between the curtains, and not a single missed call nor voicemail awaiting you.
It’s Saturday and there’s no work to occupy your mind, so you force down a bagel, toss a tote bag onto your shoulder, and head out to the local market. But there’s no joy in perusing fruit stands without a six foot soldier trailing your heels and muttering to himself about how exotic fruit has gotten, and how ‘back in my day you had your apples, your oranges, and your pears.’
You wind up home by noon, and the dwelling begins to grow, still no call.
There’s a weight on your chest, and a balloon of anxiety that grows in your throat, and an unwarranted agitation burning at your skin as you read over his note again, still very much stuck to the fridge and taunting you — Be safe, says a man who clearly can’t take his own advice.
Then, why should you?
You agree to go on a date, one you’ve been dancing around agreeing to for a few weeks yet reach for it the moment you decide you’re not pleased with the way Bucky’s lack of a call is ruining your well-earned free time.
And, hey, the guy’s not a complete loser this time. On paper, at least. He’s handsome, tall, and an athlete — ex-athlete, really, but you don’t bother to point that out while he talks about the gymnastic studio he runs. Most importantly, he’s eager to call a cab and get you home, screw Bucky’s warning. If you want to bring a stranger into your home, you’ll do it.
Brooding, uncalling soldier be damned!
After stumbling through the dark of your apartment into your bedroom, and fumbling with your bra long enough for you to grow tired and just take it off yourself, you and Mister Gymnast tumble into the sheets for a performance so lacklustre, it warrants taking all his medals away. At least your date seems to enjoy himself, spilling onto your stomach and falling asleep the minute his head hits the pillows.
“I finished,” last you checked, he hadn't even started.
You lie awake, staring at the ceiling, and try to will the phone to ring. Encased by a stranger’s snoring and a guilty feeling, you let Lady Sleep whisk you away. When your eyes open next, morning has broken and you’re alone in bed with a remnant trace of warmth on the sheets. But the silence is finally gone.
Beyond your door you hear the faint thud of footsteps, the ding of the fridge being opened, the whistle of the kettle. You almost trip in your rush to get dressed, and nearly rip the hinges off the door as you tear it open. Then the smile falls from your face.
“You’re up!” Everyone’s favourite gymnast is there to greet you, a mug in hand as he goes to pull you in for a kiss. The way you swerve is automatic, unplanned, leaving his lips to land on your cheek. “Uhh, I was hoping you’d sleep a little longer, I wanted to bring you breakfast in bed but-”
“He couldn’t figure out how to boil the kettle.”
And there’s Bucky, leaning back against the kitchen counter with his arms crossed over his chest and a smug look on his face. Aside from the butterfly stitches above his left brow, he looks unharmed. Fine, even. Dressed in all black, with a t-shirt that’s hugging his frame a little too tightly for your liking, the double-combo of his dog-tags and vibranium arm on display. Perfectly safe for a man who couldn’t call.
Your date laughs and sheepishly scratches the back of his head before you get the chance to speak.
“Your brother was kind enough to help me.” It’s unclear who laughs first: Bucky or you. “What’s so funny?”
“Oh, nothing, nothing, just…” Bucky says, shaking the laughter away with a nod of his head. “In what world do me and her look related?”
“Wait, if you’re not her brother then, are you-” Fifty shades of horror spill over the gymnast’s face, his head darting between looking over at Bucky and back at you. “Holy shit, is he your boyfriend?”
“Husband, actually,” the soldier’s all too quick-witted, pushing off the counter and reaching for a mug of brewing coffee. “But don’t worry, we’re open. What do you think of our kitchen lights, by the way? My wife here likes them dim.”
Dumb as he is, your date tilts his head up to inspect the light fixtures.
“Oh, they’re nice!”
That does it for you.
“Bucky, shut up!” You snap, finger pointed over at the menace who’s biting back a smirk and stirring away at his mug, face as innocent as sin. Is this some twisted version of revenge, a punishment for bringing a stranger home? You’d prefer the punishment to be a little more… hands on. Preferably in the form of your slapping that twinkle out of his eyes. “He is not my boyfriend, or my husband. He is the bum that lives on my couch.”
“You see how she treats me, Vince?”
“It’s Lance,” the gymna- Lance corrects him.
Moving towards the kitchen, your eyes check over your roommate once more, as though they expect some previously unseen injury to make an appearance on his skin. Come the end of your search, you’re left looking into a face that is sporting a split brow and a cruel level of entertainment from the situation at hand.
There’s a relief to having him back, and it’s wrestling with the exasperating emotions a single missed call conjured up.
“What are you doing here, anyway? Aren’t you and Sam still meant to be… I don’t know, on a homoerotic getaway, fighting crime?” The questions fire out of you as you slip into one of the island’s stools.
“We finished early,” Bucky appears by your side as though from thin air, hand clasping the back of your seat and pushing you in closer to the counter top.
“Aww, don’t worry, big boy, it happens to the best of you,” you tease, an empathetic pat against his shoulder.
The mockery backfires when you notice his brows shoot up and his stare shifts towards your date, who’s too busy trying to open the sugar jar to notice the dig at his own sexual inabilities.
Wait, when exactly did Bucky get home?
“How do you take your coffee?” One-Thrust-Lance asks you over his shoulder.
Before you can answer, a cup is nudged into your grasp and Bucky looks over you with triumph, metal fingers reaching out to drag over a plate of freshly-baked cookies. The smell of warm vanilla pairs well with the soft musk of his cologne, your eyes nearly roll back inhaling it.
“Mmm,” one sip of your coffee is all you need to know it’s perfect, made exactly to your taste. “Coffee and baked goods… I knew I kept you around for a reason.”
In lieu of any verbal response, the soldier takes to dunking one of the cookies into your mug before stealing a bite out of it. You watch as he chews on the sweet treat, head nodding in approval at his own skills. After he dips a second time, you expect him to take another bite, only to find him offering the chocolate chip goodness up to your mouth. Two eyes, blue as any winter, stare encouragingly while you sink your teeth into the cookie.
Heaven couldn’t taste any sweeter, you think, as the perfect blend of coffee stained dough and the sharpness of the dark chips flood your tastebuds.
“So messy,” Bucky tuts quietly, his right hand grabbing a steady hold of your chin while his thumb swipes away the crumbs dusting the corner of your mouth.
That thing inside of you stops again as you watch him bring his hand up to his own mouth, a pink tongue poking out to lick his thumb clean.
Arousal thrums through your blood, a pulsing rhythm that spreads straight to your clit. A squeeze of your thighs brings momentary reprieve, yet the ache fights back with renewed force, drying up your throat and knocking the sense right out of you.
Squirming where you sit, your legs switch position until one foot finds itself tucked beneath the opposite thigh, the heel of it sitting perfectly against your clothed core. You find no mercy, no chance to roll your hips forward in search of the balm only friction will bring to your burning skin. Instead there’s simply Bucky, eyes trailing down the length of you and settling on your short-clad legs. As though his behaviour is not cruel enough, he wets his bottom lip with his tongue
“You like that?” More than you’ll ever know, you almost scream until the logical side of your brain takes the wheel again and you notice him pointing down at the half-eaten cookie. Of course he’s enquiring about his baking skills, what else would this scrambled-egg-for-brains senior citizen be talking about? “Are you gonna make me wait all day for an answer?”
Something smashes behind Bucky, just in time to startle away the racy thoughts from your mind.
“My bad!” Your date — who you damn near forgot was even here — is apologising, bending at the waist and trying his best to collect the fractured pieces of a mug off the floor. “Where do you guys keep your dustpan?”
Bucky pushes away from the island counter, taking the smell of his cologne with him; if you weren’t fully back to your rational senses, you’d miss it.
“I’ll get it, Vince, you just stand there and look pretty.”
“Okay!” Lance, it seems, is just as eager to please the ex-assassin as you almost were a moment ago.
You decide you need to move, to stand up, to stretch your legs. This has nothing to do with the lingering effect of Bucky’s antics, nor the damp patch gathering against your panties.
Slipping off the kitchen stool, you work on chugging down gulps of coffee with every intention of dumping the empty mug into the sink, dashing to your bedroom, and conjuring up the best plan you can come up with to get not only yourself, but also the trash you brought in with you last night out of the apartment and away from an infuriating roommate.
Something on the floor derails you, however, dragging you away from the path to sanctuary. The tiniest red petal, lonesome and neglected upon the cold tile. Three steps over, and there’s another petal. One step until the next petal. You follow the breadcrumb trail all the way over to the garbage can where, with one gentle push of a button, the lid opens up to reveal the unexpected, thrown away like a dirty secret.
A crumpled bouquet of roses.
Everywhere you turn, there’s tension.
In your neck, from sleeping at an unfavourable angle. Within your stomach, where a queasy feeling keeps threatening to spew your guts out onto the bathroom floor. Between you and Bucky, a foreign energy that’s grown over the course of this last week, during which you’ve been avoiding eye contact and his stare is full of accusation.
Retracing your steps, they take you back to the moment Lance left the apartment and you found yourself drowning in Bucky’s company for the first time in weeks. He was barely half-way through poking fun at the choices you made in his absence — most of his focus being on the blubbering fool you brought into your bed — when your patience ran thin and snapped.
Now here you are, bearing the consequence of your own short temper, wiping lipstick off your teeth whilst mentally preparing yourself to go on a second date, planned sheerly out of spite and the need to prove a point.
Poor Lance is none the wiser to his role as pawn in your game of ‘Screw You, Barnes!’.
“Everything okay in there?” Think of the devil and he shall knock on the bathroom door, apparently. “Thought you had your big date at seven.”
The gymnast’s text thread stares back at you, a wall of grey bubbles. You have to swallow down the lump in your throat to speak, “He’s not answering my calls.”
“You’ve been stood up? By that loser?” There’s every chance your storm of emotions is impeding you from thinking straight, but you swear you almost hear a hint of disbelief in Bucky’s voice. Disgust, even.
There’s no point dwelling on the thought.
After a quick wash of your hands, you pry the door open and watch as the soldier leaning against it nearly topples forward before catching himself against the frame. He’s entirely too close for comfort, close enough for you to notice the different shades of blue in his eyes.
“Maybe he broke his phone?” The lack of assurance in your voice has you cringing, the fear of being called out suddenly doubling.
Bucky scoffs, arms crossing over his chest.
“More likely he forgot to charge it.”
Is that what happened to him? Is that why he left you to dwell in the dark over his whereabouts and wellbeing, rendering the usual distraction of a night-time companion useless? Only for you to find him the following morning, right as rain and as annoying as ever, standing in the kitchen and casting judgement-filled glances at your overnight guest?
Thinking about it, about him, brings on an onslaught of anger you’re not willing to address. Not right now.
“Shut up!” It comes across as less independent girlboss and more petulant child, but you’re too busy noticing how firm his chest feels under your palms as you push past him out of the bathroom to care.
Prying open the freezer, you hear the soft click of the toilet door closing. Good, you think, he’s gone away. Out of sight, out of mind. Even if it is only for the short time it takes him to do his business.
That time ends up being even shorter than expected, for only minutes after you’ve dug your spoon into the creamy, frozen goodness of vanilla fudge, the object of both your fascination and your torture is making his way towards the kitchen.
“Didn’t I tell you to stop eating my ice cream?”
“Didn’t I tell you to move out?” Mouth full of vanilla, you shoot him a toothy grin and relish in the grimace it earns you.
Satisfaction melts away when Bucky invades your personal space, metal arm reaching over head and pulling open a cupboard.
“Don’t do that,” you swat at the vibranium bicep, a futile fight that simply makes you all too aware of how smooth it feels beneath your fingertips.
“Do what?” Brain of a caveman, Bucky continues his rustling through the cabinet behind you, features as stoic as a rock as though he’s none the wiser to how your chests brush against one another with each exhale.
“That,” another swat at his arm, though this time he yields. The space between you doesn’t grow, however. It worsens, his attention fully falling onto you now. “Reaching over me like you can’t just ask me to move.”
“Fine, if it really bothers you that much,” are the last words you hear before you’re airborne, two hands squeezing at your hips and moving you two steps over and out of the way.
The soldier doesn’t struggle, not even for a moment, the serum that’s altered his DNA leaving him primed and ready to manoeuvre the most steadfast of objects. Manhandle them, too. Pick them up, turn them over, pin them down, make them scream… Objects, of course, or those big, bad guys he and Sam are always chasing after.
The anger in you is renewed, burning brighter than a star ready to die. You shove his hands off of you and secure another step of distance between you.
“Well aren’t you a ray of sunshine today.” With the rate he’s going at, one would think the soldier makes a living out of deepening the frown on your face. “Is this princess’ first time being stood up?”
You’d slap him, right here and now, if it didn’t mean moving closer and touching his skin; the current top two of your ‘Things To Not Do’ list.
Luckily, the tub of ice cream sits just within reach and your eager fingers take grip of it, sliding it over the counter towards yourself. A mouthful of coolness precedes the burning question on your tongue, “Why didn’t you call?”
“Are you serious?” Now he’s the one scowling and taking a step closer.
“Deadly,” you dig the spoon back into the carton. “Now answer the question.”
“You’re pissy with me for not calling, meanwhile I’m the one who came home to some asshole in your bed?”
He’s moving closer. You try to step backwards.
“Yeah, well, if you’d called like you were supposed to, I wouldn’t have ended up with said asshole.”
Bucky’s eyes narrow, “Oh, so now it’s my fault that you date degenerates?”
The cackle that escapes you could break the soundbarrier.
“Wow! Everybody, give it up for another original dig at my love-life from James Buchanan Barnes!” Voice dripping with seven layers of venomous sarcasm, you give three slow claps of your hands. The cynical smile that overcomes your face feels borderline deranged, something plucked right out of a horror movie. “Okay, yeah, I date losers! Happy? Jesus Christ, Bucky, what do you expect me to do? It’s not exactly like there’s anyone else lining up to date me.”
“I am!” His voice is raised, his eyes are wide, his chest is heaving. “Maybe I’m the biggest idiot, rushing home last week to surprise you. Even brought you flowers. I just… Fuck!”
You don’t move, don’t blink, don’t breathe.
Bucky runs a hand through his hair, knuckles going white as he pulls on the tresses.
There it is again in his eyes, the accusation.
Even though he’s shaking his head, he steps closer.
The kitchen counter is right behind you, there’s nowhere for you to run.
The heels on your feet almost give out beneath you, you try to steady yourself with your hands.
Bucky has other plans and grips both your forearms.
“I am,” he repeats, softer. Slower. The icy exterior of accusation melts away to reveal vulnerability.
A hand meets your cheek and holds you like you are glass, breakable beneath his touch. Your heart’s in your throat, and there’s a current of electricity running down to your toes, and that neglected hunger in your loins creeps in again. His eyes search your face, while his thumb gently swipes over your bottom lip, prying it out an involuntary capture from your teeth.
It’s unclear who reaches for who first, whether he dips and takes possession of your mouth, or you grab him by the collar of his shirt and lay your claim over him. In a matter of seconds, a tentative press of lips against lips divulges into loss of breath, tongues in mouths, and fevered kisses.
The soldier kisses with starvation, like he has walked through the desert of loneliness and at last stumbled upon an oasis, like a bee seeking every last drop of nectar from a flower dying off with the spring, like a body clings to sleep in the throes of exhaustion. It’s a necessity, a human need, a matter of survival to keep your lips interlocked.
The hand on your face holds you steady as he tilts himself deeper into the kiss. Noses brush against the swells of cheeks, eyelids rest close, feet shuffle closer in search of eradicating the crevice of distance between you two. Metal fingers curl around the nape of your neck, a gesture you reciprocate while your spare hand lays flat-palmed against his beating chest. One of his legs winds up between yours and, as he shifts weight from one foot to another, there’s the faintest relief of friction against your cunt and a whine gets caught between your throat and Bucky’s eager mouth.
Despite how you chase his lips, he pulls back and grants you the sight of pure endearment.
“Look at you, whining already. Where’s all that fire gone?” It’s practically a whisper, spoken with fascination. “Or were you just needing Old Bucky to touch you, huh?”
Second-hand embarrassment burns the tips of your ears, while your own unspoken agreement to his question has your stomach twisting up. Survival instincts, that have never been much of a friend, scream at you to flee this feeling, to throw away Pandora’s box before you risk fully opening it and having it consume you.
Bucky intercepts your attempt to push out of his arms.
“Ah, ah, get back here. Not done kissing you,” his words divulge into a barely coherent mumble as he reconnects your lips.
Beneath the heat of his kiss, the discomfort in your chest turns to ashes. Because, while instinct tells you to run from danger, this is Bucky.
Bucky who fixes cupboard hinges, and sleeps with both eyes on the door. Bucky who carries all the shopping, and holds every door. Bucky who calls to hear your voice while he’s away endangering his life, and brings home the silliest trinkets he finds on missions. Bucky who wakes you when you miss your alarm, and knows if you’ve had a bad day simply from looking at your face.
How could you possibly be in danger when it comes to him?
While you’re overcome with epiphany, he’s taken to tracing his lips over the slope of your jaw and mouthing at the skin of your neck. It’s when he lifts you up onto the kitchen counter that your wandering mind is reeled back in, to the physical present where your legs rest on either side of the soldier and the prized possession of vanilla fudge once again sits within reaching distance.
“Are you stealing my ice cream right now?” His lips tickle your collarbone as he speaks, barely a moment after you’ve scooped the spoon into your mouth.
“I’m warm, and it's melting,” his head pops up just in time to accept the spoonful of vanilla you deliver. There’s a glow in his eyes, one that has you questioning if it's been there all along or if it's a consequence of touching your skin. “Don’t want it to go to waste.”
His mouth is on yours again, a rush of three chaste kisses seared against you before he replies, “Then let’s cool you down.”
At a teasingly slow pace, you feel his fingers tug down your dress’ straps, leaving the silky fabric to slip down your frame and pool around your hips. Under the golden hue of the kitchen lights, his gaze studies your bare skin like it's a work of art, an eighth wonder of the world, the greatest poem never written woven into it. Yet it still manages to pale against the face that overcomes him as he removes a final layer of lace.
Unlike Vince, he has no trouble removing your bra.
“So responsive,” he talks as though only his ears are meant to hear it, his vibranium palm gently taking hold of your left breast and rolling the hardening nipple between two fingers.
He’s studying your reaction, bewildered by the goosebumps spreading over your flesh.
When was the last time he truly touched another person? Weeks, months, years, decades? The thought of his hands on a faceless shape makes you sick. First with envy, and then with hypocrisy, an amalgamation of all the men you’ve taken to bed flashing before your eyes. But none of them ever touched you like you were porcelain, and none of them looked at you like you held the key to eternal pleasure. None of them were Bucky.
A chill runs down your spine and a gasp rips out your chest as Bucky swipes the spoon over your skin, leaving a trail of ice cream atop your right breast for his tongue to follow. He plants a garden of kisses along the swell of your chest before pulling away to give the left side equal treatment, another creamy river along your skin for him to clean up.
Moving at their own volition, your hips grind gently against his steady figure as Bucky coats your nipple in vanilla, moaning into your chest as he lays claim over you with his mouth. Spoiling you in his kisses, the soldier begins to yearn for friction, meeting the careful roll of your hips with his own.
Your hand finds his hair and his stare meets yours, intense and all-consuming as he releases your nipple with a scrape of his teeth. You want to soothe his kiss-swollen lips but they’re already wrapping themselves around your other breast, not even patient enough to lather you in the vanilla goodness this time.
Instead, the coldness on your skin stems from metal fingers, perched on your thigh and creeping up the length of it, inch by tormenting inch. A hesitant hand wraps around a vibranium wrist, tightening its grip before you begin guiding his touch inwards, upwards, to where you need it most. Bucky's stronger, more resistant, and holds off your interceptance, left hand continuing its intended path beneath the skirt of your dress and grabbing hold of your naked waist.
He’s everywhere, all over you. Mouthing at your chest, gripping at your hip, rutting into your pussy. The sweet drag of his bulge over your clothed core sires a wet patch against your thong and has your fingers tugging on the roots of his hair, winning you the hair-raising hum of a groan against your breast.
Desperate to feel more, you renew your efforts to lead his hand to the space between your legs and are met with a shake of his head.
“No,” he mutters, and robs you of a hand beneath your dress, using it instead to cradle your jaw while his lips skim over the shell of your ear. “Wanna feel you.”
The warmth of flesh brands your thigh, Bucky’s right arm now leading the charge beneath the silky fabric. With bated breath, you brace yourself against his strong chest and try not to squirm in anticipation of his touch. With one final squeeze at your inner thigh, the soldier’s hand engulfs your clothed cunt and his breath cracks in your ear, a strangled out, feral noise that has your toes curling.
“She’s so wet, darling,” his voice has you delirious, breathy against your ear. His fingers flex against your pussy and a moan catches in your throat. “You gonna let me touch her?”
Something about the way he’s speaking to you, the words he’s choosing, makes you want to fall apart. Your sex-life has always been liberal, you know what it is to have a man’s hands all over you, trying to take ownership of parts of you he thinks belong to him. Men who take, and take, and take, until there is nothing left of you to give, and not once do they care to win your favour, to plead for permission. But Bucky…
“Please, say I can touch her, wanna give her what she needs,” he’s pleading for it, begging for you — wrecked and desperate, breath run ragged from no more than the relief of rolling his groin against your thigh. “Promise I’ll be real sweat, make you feel good.”
Too caught up in his own head, he doesn’t notice you nodding, until you’re granting him salvation verbally, “Touch me, Bucky.”
He doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t waste time on taking off your underwear, just moves it to the side and drags the tip of his fingers down the inseam of your pussy. You hear it, more than you feel it, the moment he touches your opening, a sharp inhale at your ear telling you he’s exactly where he wants to be.
As his middle finger slips in, it’s hard to tell which of you reacts louder, both a mess of guttural moans. Once it's fully sheathed within you, he curls it and presses against your soaked walls, grinning against your skin at the reaction it coaxes out of you.
“Don’t hold back,” he chastises you as you bite back another pathetic whimper, a second finger slipping into you. “Let me hear what I’m doing to you.”
He must have a magic touch, you’re sure of it. Thick fingers that fuck into you at a steady pace, curling and teasing at that world-bending spot inside you, while his thumb makes itself useful against your clit, a firm force for your bucking hips to grind up into while you chase the pleasure he’s unleashing on you. In a matter of minutes, the room is alive with your melodic moans, Bucky’s endless hums of approval, and the damn-right embarrassingly loud squelch of him fingering your drooling cunt.
You make the mistake of letting your eyes slip shut, relinquishing yourself to the way he touches you with the rough hands of a soldier yet the delicate stroke of a musician playing his favourite instrument. He must feel the shift in you, for he’s instantly prying his face away from your neck and tightening the metal grip on your jaw, fingertips digging into squished cheeks.
“Look at me,” his words are both a command and a plea. An order you follow and a prayer you answer, eyelashes fluttering open to find his face in front of your own. His lips are a hard line, his brows furrowed in disapproval, and there’s a vein threatening to split down the middle of his forehead, but his eyes. His eyes are affection incarnate, two pools of lust and worship that pose no threat of drowning. “Do you want to cum?”
Never has a more needless question been asked.
You nod into the force of his vibranium hand, but that’s not what he wants, frown deepening.
“Say it,” needy, helpless, spoken like he’s the one on the brink of ecstasy. “Please.”
“Bucky,” it feels good to say his name like this, brain melting into mush and heart racing in your chest. “I want you to let me cum.”
“Let you?” He’s offended by the word, fingers burying impossibly deeper inside of you while he continues to stare you down. “I beg of you.”
No warning precedes the coil in you snapping. The muscles in your core tense, your back arches into his broad figure, your pussy squeezes at Bucky’s fingers with a death grip. He guides you through it, ignoring the cramp in his wrist in favour of continuing to fuck his hand into you, a smile finally cracking over his face as he watches you fall apart atop the counter, nothing but Bucky, Bucky, Bucky surrounding you.
He tries to give you reprieve, a moment to breathe and savour the buzz in your veins, the hand around your jaw shifting to stroke at your cheek while the hand between your legs soothes you with featherlight touches.
You don’t let him, hand pawing down his torso and gripping at the belt of his jeans, delighting in the familiar clang of a buckle being undone, nimble digits that tear leather out its loop and tug down his zipper. Bucky’s bringing his lips back against yours just as you palm at his bulge, his tongue licking into your mouth when you finally release him from the confines of his boxers.
Fingers coated in your own slick grip at your thigh while the soldier makes it his mission to steal your breath, rendering you blind to the sight of his cock. But you can feel it. The weight of it in your hand, the burn of want ingrained in his skin. The width of it, and the length of it, and the perfectly mushroomed tip that has him keening into your touch as your pointer finger drags over the head.
“Is this what I do to you?” Still lost in the maze of your orgasm, you manage to gain back crumbs of your usual confidence watching Bucky fall mute. When he merely nods, you play him at his own game, fingers back in his hair and forcing him to look you in the eye. “Say it.”
He doesn’t.
He says something much better.
“D’you even realise how many nights I’ve laid on that fucking couch, hard as a rock and willing you to come out your room?”
“That’s your generation's problem, you know?” You whisper teasingly, incapable of fighting off your own laughter. “You swear more than you breathe.”
“C’mere,” he’s rolling his eyes and pulling you in, kissing you like it’s been a milenia and not a minute, hand nudging yours out the way to take a hold of himself.
Your teeth graze over his tongue as he drags the head of his cock through your folds, and he groans into your mouth before pulling back. Resting his forehead against yours, he’s teasing you both as his tip brushes over your hole before continuing its rutt up, bumping against your sensitive clit.
A wicked voice takes control of your mouth.
“Lance would have fucked me by now.”
“Vince would have cum by now, too,” he’s still rocking his hips, no sense of urgency behind the way he soaks himself in you.
Meanwhile, you’re a handful of seconds away from screaming at him to just stick it in already.
“You- Oh!” Prayers answered, hallelujah, his cock finally sinks into you. It’s a shallow thrust, barely more than the tip before he’s retreating, yet it's enough to mess with your head. “You heard us?”
“Unfortunately,” and he means it, the most subtle of pouts forming on his lips before he feeds himself a little deeper into your pussy. “I’m not great when it comes to timing.”
“I only slept with Lance because you-” Right on cue, he fucks into you even deeper and your words dissappear before they can reach your tongue.
“New rule,” a hand rests on your knee and encourages you to spread your legs wider. “No speaking another man’s name when you’re in bed with me.”
“Technically, this is the kitchen counter-” The bastard does it again, cuts you off with his dick — if it didn’t feel so damn good, you’d slap him.
He’s bottomed out at last, buried himself fully in your cunt. Hands snake around your waist, one palm flattening against your lower back while the other rests a little further up and guides your spine to arch into him, closer, like there’s anymore space left between you to devour.
His pace is still slow, teasing. A toe-curling drag of his cock out of you, letting you feel every ridge and vein before his hips promptly snap back into you and send your eyes rolling back, your head falling back — and smacking loudly against the cupboard door behind you.
Bucky freezes, one hand quick to cradle the back of your skull while his eyes scan over you.
“Jesus, doll, you okay?”
“Please don’t stop,” you plead, ridiculously unfazed by the faint ache when you’ve got him inside of you.
Even though he rolls his eyes, he complies.
“Might have just given you a concussion and all you care about is getting fucked?” He asks, like you could possibly care about anything else when his arms are hooking themselves under your knees and rucking you up off the counter, away from any rogue cupboard that means you harm.
If anything, you’ll gladly shoulder the burden of any possible injury, if it means being granted the sight of his biceps tensing as he effortlessly stands there and fucks you down onto him. Were you in any sane state of mind, you wouldn’t think it, but god bless that super soldier serum.
“You can give me a cockcussion for all I care,” head perched on his shoulder, you watch your nails sink into the fabric of his shirt and wish it would disappear and gift you the naked view of his back.
“Adding that to the list,” he whispers against your forehead, pressing a kiss against it.
Legs bent at the knee, you watch how, with one particularly deep thrust, they bounce at either side of him and one of your heels clatters to the floor.
The room pivots as Bucky turns, you still in his arms and your ankles locked behind his back. At first, you believe he’s aiming to move things into the bedroom, where the only thing your head will be hitting is the mattress when he lays you down. He proves you wrong, however, the cold press of marble against you once more as he settles you down onto the kitchen island.
Much to your chagrin, he slips out of you, cock now sitting pretty against his clothed abdomen and glistening with the sheen of your essence. In the blink of an eye, the soldier is sinking to his knees, metal finger reaching back for your fallen shoe.
The scene plays out like something stripped right out of a morally dubious, low quality pornography retelling of Cinderella, in which Prince Charming has his dick out, Cinderella’s gown is half-way off, and the infamous glass slipper is just a pair of heels you bought on sale.
Bucky is delicate and slow, mouth tickling at your inner knee as he secures the shoe in place. He rests back on his haunches and fully takes in the sight of you, perched upon the counter, hands splayed out on marble, a tangle of silk around your waist, lips parted in search of steady breathing.
There’s an intensity to his gaze, burrowing itself beneath your skin and becoming part of your bloodstream, spreading throughout your body. It makes you want to hide, flee like you do best, but Bucky has other plans.
“The shoes stay on, but this,” Bucky’s fingertips tug lightly on the hem of your dress, exposing a sliver of new skin. “I need this gone. Am I allowed to take it off?”
There he goes again, face the model of innocence while he asks for permission to your body. If you weren’t already dripping against your panties, you would be now. Luckily, he doesn’t push you to verbalise your agreement this time, more than eager to comply the moment you nod your head.
You wiggle your hips as he pulls the fabric out from beneath you, his grip snagging on the waistband of your thong and dragging it away alongside the dress. When your ass cheeks press back down onto the cool of the counter, reality hits you like a freight-train: you’re completely nude, with Bucky on his knees before you, in the middle of the kitchen.
“Buck,” the y of his nickname disappears as you feel him peppering kisses of your leg, inching that little bit higher each press of his mouth. Squeezing your eyes shut, you try to remember where your rational thoughts are stored, conjuring up images of friends, of Sam sitting at this very surface. “I don’t think we should… I mean, people eat off this counter!”
“Don’t worry,” reaching the threshold of your thigh, his kisses seem to speed up, that sauve and composed exterior chipping away to reveal a man who no longer wants to take his time with you. “I intend to eat.”
No sooner than the words reach your ears, Bucky swipes his tongue up your pussy and any fight left in you melts away as you turn to putty beneath his touch, soft and malleable, willing to sit there and take whatever he wants to give.
Give, he most certainly does. Lips latch onto your clit, hands hold your squirming hips in place, tongue dances over your most delicate areas before dipping into your entrance. He drinks from you like you’re the sweetest honey, the richest of red wines, the Holy Grail promising an eternal youth to a man whose time was stolen from him.
“You should see her, doll,” there’s a rasp in Bucky’s voice, a feral undertone to the growl that rests in the back of his throat. One hand tugs his shirt off while the other snakes between your legs, two fingers spreading your lips open in an obscene gesture that has you clamping down on your bottom lip. “She’s drooling for me, all pretty and wet.”
Dropping both your legs over his shoulders, he tugs you right to the edge of the counter and dives back in. You feel his nose bump against your clit and your hand grabs onto your thigh, nails piercing into flesh as your mouth sings a whined symphony.
Vibranium curls around your wrist, prying harm away from your own skin and silently imploring you to hurt him instead, nestling your fingers back into his hair. He’s renewing his effort, a touch that’s more determined than ever to make you fall apart, on his knees and worshipping the altar of your body — fealty and devotion seared into each lap of his tongue, each brush of his lips, each stroke of his fingers.
Who are you to reject his piety? You welcome it, with closed fist and glassy eyes. The soldier shudders — a full-body shiver that shakes down his spine — as the point of your heel digs into his back and your fingers squeeze at his scalp, no mercy shown as you lose yourself in the throes of lust.
When you cum, a silent scream rips through your chest and a burning-too-bright white light turns you blind. He doesn’t let up, tongue still buried in your convulsing walls as your thighs clamp around his head and your feet kick at his back, shoes flying elsewhere into the kitchen. He pays none of it any mind, content to prolong your orgasm for as long as you’ll allow him, slowly rising off his knees with two hands pinning you back against the counter while he continues to feast on your pleasure.
“Ja-mes,” a fractured call of his name is all it takes for him to stop, pupils more black than blue as they stare down at the picture you paint atop the counter: teary-eyes, swollen lips, heaving chest.
He’s hardly the image of composure either, red lines along the expanse of his back, hair a tousled mess, the scruff on his face covered in a sheen of your juices. And, yet, never have you wanted to kiss him so bad.
All you manage, after minutes of floating atop the cloud of your peak, is a cheeky grin and a comment that makes him roll his eyes: “For a fossil, you’re pretty kinky.”
“War camps aren’t exactly known for being fun,” as he speaks, he slowly lowers your legs off his shoulder. “You find ways to keep yourself entertained.”
“Bet you were quite the pleaser, huh?” Trying your best to play it cool, you lay your head fully back on the counter and stare up at the ceiling, praying he doesn’t notice the hypocritical pit forming in your stomach as you listen to your own words. “Probably had all the prettiest nurses fighting over who gets to tend to your poor, aching, throbbing co-”
“Jealousy looks cute on you,” he interrupts, amused, as his hands soothe over your hips.
“I’m not jealous!” You exclaim, barely believing yourself.
One hand reaching out for him, you watch your fingers intertwine with the prosthetic digits and let him tug you back up, chest to chest when his hand finds your cheek.
“I was,” his confession is crooned whilst staring right into your eyes, the tiniest up-turn to his mouth. “Everytime you walked out the door to go date a new loser.”
“Who knew,” your voice is as gentle as his own, nonchalant as a finger dances down the well-defined muscles of his abdomen and elicits a groan out of him. “All along I had my own loser at home.”
Bucky opts for silence as your hand reaches his groin and pays no mind to his cock, red-tipped and leaking, flushed against his stomach. You’re more interested in his jeans — in removing them, to be exact. It doesn’t take much, a sharp tug at the hem before they’re slipping off, meeting restraint as they cling to his muscled thighs and implore him to finish the job on your behalf, shucking them off blindly to where the rest of your clothes lie.
You must have saved a village in a past life to be rewarded with the view of a completely nude Bucky Barnes, skin stained by lust and laced with gold beneath the kitchen light. You must have saved the rest of the world, too, to watch how his eyes roll back and his mouth falls slack when you take his length in hand and give one slow pump of your wrist, releasing it just to watch it slap back against his abdomen.
As you reach for his dick again, his hand secures itself around your own and guides it up and down the length of it. Once, twice, thrice, till he’s breathing heavily and dripping in pre-cum.
“You must be close,” a statement you make with his own bodily reaction as evidence to back it up, yet there’s still room for doubt — to what extent does that soldier serum interfere with him?
“Put me back down on my knees and I’ll cum to the taste of you,” the soldier certainly makes a tempting offer, one that it almost pains you to refuse.
Almost, if you hadn’t already felt the sweet stretch of him inside you.
“Pretty sure putting you back down on your knees might be considered elder abuse, ole buddy.”
“My age may be a hundred and six but-”
“Exactly my point.”
“But my body isn’t,” he’s using that stare of his, the one Sam always warns you about, while you’re full-on cheesing, a rush of adrenaline shooting through your veins as you wind him up.
“Remind me, who threw their back out a few weeks ago pulling a tray of muffins out the oven?”
His flesh hand grips behind one of your knees and tugs you right to the edge of the counter, while his left one, still clasped over your own, drags his tip over your folds.
“I don’t remember hearing you complain when you drunkenly ate half the tray and then threw up over the rest,” admittedly, not one of your proudest moments.
“Shut up and fuck me, Barnes.”
“Yes ma’am.”
Just like that, you’re drowning in him again, gasping for breath as you lose yourself in a flood of lust. Bottomed out, stuffing you full, Bucky barely graces your pussy with the chance to adjust to his stretch once more before he’s moving, the sweet graze of every inch being dragged along your sensitive walls.
Your nerves are still reeling from his mouth, a quiet hum of electric pleasure reawakened by his throbbing cock and his vulgar mouth.
“She fits me like a fucking glove,” his hands are pawing at your waist, your breast, your face, never in one place for too long as he begins to settle into a rhythm of thrusts. “Doing so good for me, darling.”
The softness put into his term of endearment births an ache in your chest, one that will accept no medicine other than your arms around his neck and his lips on yours. Mouths tangled in kisses and sweat dripping down your skin, Bucky halts — your hips pressed together, the swell of his balls resting right against your swollen cunt, the head of his cock resting right against your sweet spot — and grinds.
Slow, deliberate, delicious. You whine into his mouth and feel how he swallows it, feasts on your ecstasy with a willing tongue, and a smiling mouth, and possessive teeth that tug at your lip as he pulls back. He stretches out the feeling, grinding a second time as your noses bump against one another.
“Bucky,” his name is an anchor, a paperweight, something to ground you amidst the floaty feeling of being two orgasms deep with a third approaching any time now.
“I know,” he says, and you believe him. Believe that he knows, that he’s known, that he always knows when it comes to you.
You lay your head to rest upon on his left shoulder when he returns to chasing a high between your thighs, a renewed vigor behind each thrust that has your hips rolling to meet his and your nails raking over the straining muscles of his back.
“I lied,” an unprompted confession stumbles out his mouth, fingers flexing into their grip on your waist. “About the apartment viewing. I didn’t go.”
“Bucky,” is all you can manage, branded into his skin with a kiss along his neck.
“Is that all you can say? Huh?” His voice carries a teasing lilt, paired to perfection with the pad of his thumb rubbing at your clit. “I’m giving pivotal revelations here, and you’re just gonna reply with that?”
Another echo of his name, walls fluttering around his dick.
“Bucky, Bucky,” he’s mocking you, a torturer’s laugh as he moans his name into your ear. “Keep going, you sound so pathetic it’s almost cute.”
Beyond words and beyond sense, you give in to the weight of his palm splaying against your stomach and guiding your back down onto the island. The soldier hooks your legs over his elbows, deepening the angle that his cock fucks into you, and you swear you see stars dance along the kitchen ceiling.
A hand smooths over your gut and you look back at Bucky to find adoration in his eyes.
“You see that?” You almost want to cry when his movement switches back to a slow drag — innnnn and outtttt — until you notice it: the smallest hint of movement beneath your flesh, a subtle visual of the outline of his tip bulging against your skin from inside you. “See how full she is, how good I’m making her feel?”
Pressing your hand against it, you can’t help but giggle as you feel him poke at your palm, only to fall back into a puddle of incoherent noises when he keeps pushing at that sweet spot, over and over. Harder and faster with each draw back of his hips, you feel rivulets of your own arousal roll down your ass and onto the marble, tainting the counter forevermore in the sins the soldier commits against you, the sins you welcome with open legs.
You’re near the edge again, and he feels it, pushing you closer and closer as he slowly spirals into a mess of phrases that barely begin before he’s cutting them off with something new.
“Don’t deserve this-” He catches himself, rips the insecurity in his voice out by the roots. “C’mon, let me see it one more time. Need to see you fall apart.”
“Want you to fall apart too,” you manage to beg, unwilling to watch him hold back or pull out before he finishes. “Please!”
Like any good soldier, he obeys.
Crashing over you like a wave, he’s doubled-over by the waist and sandwiching you between the counter and him. You feel him spill into you, hot ropes of cum painting your walls white as a third crescendo washes over your body.
Both of you seek out the other as his thrusts grow languid and your walls spasm, milking him for every last drop he’s got. When your mouths meet, it’s less of a kiss and more of you simply breathing into the other, exchanging air and body heat.
“So,” you croak eventually, exhausted and spent atop the counter yet completely unwilling to relinquish him from blanketing you. “Are you gonna do that every time I steal your ice cream?”
Somewhere between jello-ed legs and cold compresses, you wind up in bed.
Skin clammy, lips swollen, lust satiated, you practically melt into the buttery softness of your bed sheets as Bucky lays you down. Despite how you’re still basking in the glow of your third and final orgasm, the soldier seems to think, for a second, you can handle another.
With gentle hands prying open your thighs and a curious tongue diving in for a second helping, licking up the dribble of his own cum spilling out your hole, he’s quick to be corrected when you roll away from his touch with a whine and a plea, “think I might actually die if you make me cum again, Buck.”
He’s unbothered by the rejection, wholly embracing it as he curls up behind you and snakes his arms over your naked skin. It’s you who drags the sheet up and over you both, turning in his arms to plant your head on his chest. His heart races beneath it, but you hold off on teasing — your own isn't any better.
“Sam’s going to kill me,” you whisper out into the room, when moonlight is peeking through your curtains and both of your heartbeats have calmed down.
“I’m sorry,” you feel him shift beneath your head and, though you can’t fully see him, you feel that blue gaze land on you. “Have I not made it clear enough what name you should be saying in bed?”
“There’s a serious chance I’ll die and you’re thinking with your dick,” he squirms as you pinch at his nipple. “You’re no better than the men on your list, Barnes.”
Silence floats back in between you for a moment, peaceful as the slow stroke of his fingers dancing up your spine.
“Why would Sam kill you?” He pauses, hand pressing a little harder down against a knot in your shoulder. “He knows you have a crazy guard dog.”
Your crazy guard dog just pressed a kiss against your forehead, how frightening.
“He made me swear I wouldn’t get involved with you. He said you weren’t in the headspace for a relationship, that you needed to focus on inner peace first.”
“Turns out inner peace is being inside of you,” you pinch at his nipple again. This time, he doesn’t run from it. This time, you almost swear you hear a little moan creep up his throat. “So, Wilson’s to blame? I can get behind that.”
“To blame for what?”
His hand’s now running up and down the back of your arm, leaving goosebumps wherever its tender touch goes.
“Why it took you so long to jump my bones.”
“You think I jumped your-” Your head rises off his chest and you stare into the navy darkness of the room, trying to make a concrete shape out where you see shadows of his face. “Wait, so these past few weeks, I’ve not been hallucinating? You’ve been… flirting?”
“It’s been more than a couple weeks, sweetheart,” Bucky seems to have no problem finding you in the dark, hand cupping your cheek and dragging you up to press a chaste kiss against your mouth. “You don’t seriously think I waited until morning to check that sink without hoping to be caught, do you?”
“So you were slutting yourself out on the kitchen floor!”
“Think the kitchen’s seen worse,” worse might be the understatement of the century.
Clothes still lay discarded, counters unwiped, ice cream completely melted. Cleaning you up had been the soldier’s only priority, and you weren’t in the mood or the mindstate to argue with him on that.
A fingertip tickles down the slope of your nose.
“Stop fighting it, you’re tired,” you hear him whisper.
“I want to hear more about your desperate efforts to get my attention,” it’s nothing but a weak protest.
“We have all the time in the world for that. Sleep,” you don’t hesitate to comply when Bucky’s hand presses you back down against the warmth of his chest. “You’re going to need it. Our upstairs neighbours still need a taste of their own medicine.”
+ extra hyde !
· 70% of this fic is just dialogue, these two losers would not stfu!
· writing banter + sexual tension feels more exposing than writing literal porn.
· lore accurate photo of me whenever bucky barnes exists:
Pairing: Avenger!Bucky Barnes x Avenger!Fem!Reader
Summary: Valentina warned you both: no kinky side quests. You hadn’t planned on it—until her words lit the fuse. The mission went perfectly. The real side quest? Very much in progress.
Note: This was something I've written in parts before I took the time for myself and vanished. Any mistakes would all be mine. Hope you'll enjoy whatever this was 💜
You were deployed to clear a simple task with Bucky, your boyfriend—though sometimes it still felt unbelievable that you’d scored him at all. Valentina had given you both that flat stare before you left the Watchtower briefing room, like she could see straight through you.
“No kinky side quests,” she’d said, pinning you both with her glare.
You and Bucky had both nodded like good little agents. Really, you hadn’t planned anything. It hadn’t even been on your mind… until she reminded you. Until she said it out loud, and your entire body remembered you were ovulating. Remembered you hadn’t fucked him in days. Remembered how hungry you’d been for him last night when you’d come to bed late and he’d just curled around you to sleep, murmuring he was too tired to start anything.
You’d promised yourself you’d wait. Get through the mission. Earn your prize. You’d ask for him to rail you stupid after you both got home safe. That had been the plan.
But Val’s warning had lodged itself in your skull like a dare.
You’d kept your head in the game right up until you were actually in the car. Just a normal sedan—sleek and fast but nondescript enough for local traffic. Bucky had insisted on driving, fingers loose on the wheel, eyes sweeping the road in practiced arcs. He was so good at this part, so focused it made you ache.
It should only be forty-five minutes to the drop point. Easy. But you were in the passenger seat fidgeting your fingers in your lap like a kid. Trying not to look at him too much. Trying not to think about his thighs in those dark tac pants.
Because while your mind was set on the assignment, your traitor of a heart had latched onto Val’s rule like it was a forbidden fruit. It wouldn’t stop playing the what-if game.
What if he let you?
What if he wanted it too?
Bucky cleared his throat at the wheel. His gaze didn’t even flick to you, but you knew him—he’d been watching you out of the corner of his eye for the last ten minutes.
“Baby,” he drawled, voice low and gentle. “What’s on your mind?”
You swallowed, eyes snapping to the side mirror instead of him.
“Mm. Nothing.” You shifted your hips in the seat, realizing too late you’d been leaning toward him like gravity had given up on pretending.
He huffed a faint, knowing sound, thumb tapping the wheel.
“Something wrong?” he pressed, voice rich with genuine concern. Not annoyed. Not suspicious. Just… worried about you.
You hesitated.
Your brain screamed don’t say it. Don’t ruin the mission. You’d promised yourself. You were going to wait until the op was over.
But you’d been so wound up. So deprived. So embarrassingly wet for him for days now that your mouth betrayed you.
You twisted in your seat to face him fully, fingers clenching in your lap. Your voice cracked with nerves.
“Can I… suck your cock before we get there?”
It dropped into the quiet like a grenade.
Bucky actually flinched. You saw it—a tiny twitch of his jaw tightening, a hard swallow.
For one harrowing second you thought you’d fucked everything up.
But then he let out a short laugh—just air, really, a puff of relief, as his shoulders eased.
“Oh, sweetheart,” he murmured, and this time he finally glanced at you properly, eyes soft, mouth curved in that tired but patient little grin he reserved for you alone. “That was what was bothering you?”
You squirmed in your seat, cheeks on fire. Couldn’t look at him for a second.
You nodded anyway. Shame was there, hot in your belly, but so was something else—so was the defiance of I want you.
Technically, you hadn’t arrived at the drop yet. This was just transit. Not the mission. Not really.
Bucky’s brow furrowed for a split second like he was actually considering the ethics of it. But then he huffed again, softer this time. Like he’d decided.
“C’mere,” he said.
He took his right hand off the wheel—his warm flesh hand—and reached across to your restless fingers, prying them gently apart. He squeezed your hand once, firmly. Grounding.
Then, without breaking eye contact, he guided your palm down.
Down to his lap.
Pressed it flush over the front of his pants.
You felt the heat there immediately. Even soft, he was thick. Heavy. But under your hand he shifted and you felt it twitch—just a little at first, then again, firmer. Filling.
You bit back a whimper, heat roaring through you.
He didn’t say anything for a moment. Just let you feel it. Let you watch the way his eyelids went half-mast as his cock stirred and hardened under your palm.
It was wordless permission.
But he still gave you the grace of saying it.
“My cock’s all yours, baby,” he said quietly. His voice was impossibly tender. “If that’s what you need, take it.”
That undid you.
Your hesitation shattered, replaced by raw, urgent want.
You fumbled at his fly, unzipping him with shaking fingers. He lifted his hips just enough—obedient, helpful, letting you work without rush—to free him from the confines of his tactical pants.
And there he was.
Big. Thick. Gloriously hardening in the dark of the night.
Ready for you.
—
You didn’t rush.
You made yourself pause. Forced yourself to just look at him.
Your breath caught when you took in the sight of his cock, freed from his tactical pants—thick, veined, standing proud and heavy. Even in the near-dark of the car, you could see it: the occasional slash of passing streetlights cast pale ribbons across his lap, glinting off the slick wetness gathered at the tip. It curved ever so slightly toward you, shameless in its want.
Your mouth actually watered.
God. It was big. So fucking big. It always struck you just how massive he was, the kind of size you could never forget once you’d taken him. Exposed like this, twitching for you, he looked almost vulnerable. Needy.
You wondered—not for the first time—if the serum had anything to do with it. If it had made every part of him harder, stronger, bigger. Or if he’d always been this blessed.
Either way, you were the luckiest woman on Earth.
You owned this cock. Like a queen. Like it was a gift he’d given you to worship and keep.
You flicked your eyes up.
Bucky kept his gaze on the road, hyper-aware of their route even now. But you saw the tension in his jaw, the way the streetlights striped over the hard line of his throat when he swallowed.
His shifted his flesh hand on your back.
He was holding you there, palm warm and firm between your shoulder blades, thumb stroking slow, calming circles over your spine like you were the one who needed reassuring. It made you shiver.
The car’s interior was shadowed and private except for those brief sweeps of city glow through the windshield. You felt hidden and exposed all at once.
“Easy, doll,” he rumbled, voice low and husky but so soft. “Take your time.”
You let out a breathless, shaky laugh, your lips hovering inches from his cock.
“Don’t tell me that unless you mean it,” you warned, your voice cracking with how badly you wanted him.
His hand squeezed your back, fingers flexing a little like he was fighting to stay gentle.
“I mean it,” he promised, voice firm but warm. “I want you to enjoy it.”
That ruined you.
You bent closer, deliberately slow, letting your lips ghost over the tip in the barest, most teasing kiss. The salty smear of his pre-cum met your tongue when you finally flicked it out to taste him.
Bucky sucked in a sharp breath through his teeth, grip tightening reflexively on your back.
“Fuck,” he whimpered.
That sound went straight to your core. You fucking lived for those rare cracks in his control.
You licked him again, circling the head, savoring the heat and weight of him, feeling the slight tremor that ran through his thighs. He pulsed in your hold, swelling even harder.
His hand pressed you just a little closer, not forcing but anchoring you to him. His thumb traced slow circles over your spine, soothing in direct contrast to the filthy act you were committing in the front seat of a moving car.
“Good girl,” he murmured so low you barely heard it over the hum of the tires on asphalt.
It burned through you like fire.
You moaned softly against the head of his cock, the vibration making him twitch, before finally opening your mouth wide and taking him in.
He was so fucking thick your lips stretched around him, your jaw ached immediately in that delicious, obscene way you craved.
Bucky let out a strangled groan above you, deep and broken, his fingers digging lightly into your back.
You bobbed your head slowly at first, letting him feel the searing heat of your mouth, your tongue pressing flat along the underside of his shaft as you sucked him in. The wet, sloppy sounds filled the darkened car, mixing with the low, even roar of the engine.
His hips shifted once, restrained—like every part of him screamed to fuck up into your mouth but he wouldn’t let himself.
“Jesus, baby,” he rasped, voice rough as gravel. “Just like that. So fucking perfect.”
You moaned around him, eyes fluttering shut at the praise, your own hips squirming in the seat as slick gathered hot and heavy in your panties.
You let your right hand slide down, wrapping tight around the thick base of his cock, your fingers barely meeting. You stroked him in perfect rhythm with your mouth while your left hand pressed hard into the muscle of his thigh, feeling it tense under your touch.
He was so hot. So alive. So yours.
You needed air. You pulled back with a wet pop, strings of spit stretching between your swollen lips and his glistening cock.
You let your tongue swirl around the tip, gathering more of his salty pre-cum and spreading it with relish.
“God,” you groaned, voice breaking on a whimper. You leaned in to press wet, open-mouthed kisses along his shaft between words. “I missed your thick, fat cock… too fucking much.”
Bucky’s chest rose in a ragged inhale. You saw the way his nostrils flared, eyes tight as he forced himself to keep them on the road.
“Fuck,” he muttered, voice cracking. “You’re gonna kill me, doll.”
You moaned at that, licking deliberately slow down his length, tracing every pulsing vein, every ridge, until your mouth reached the base. Your breath was hot and greedy, your mouth glistening as you finally pulled back just enough to see his ruined expression reflected in the side mirror.
“My cock,” you sighed, nearly sobbing with want, before swallowing him whole again in one greedy slide.
Bucky groaned. A low, wrecked sound.
You worked him harder now, your head bobbing faster and wetter, your tongue pressing and flicking under the crown with every stroke. Your hand twisted at the base in perfect rhythm, squeezing tight, milking him.
You felt it when he lost the battle for control. The way his hand on your back shook before squeezing you tighter, pressing you close in silent desperation.
“Baby, fuck,” he gasped, voice going hoarse with strain. “That feels so good. So fucking good.”
You popped off just long enough to pant out a feral little laugh, lips slick and spit-drenched.
“I know,” you breathed, eyes glittering as you licked him from base to tip again, before plunging your mouth back down.
Your pace turned relentless.
Wet, obscene slurps filled the car, the only soundtrack to your sin. His ragged breathing cracked and broke, mixing with the constant rumble of the road beneath you. Your own cunt clenched around nothing, neglected, soaked through, but you didn’t care. You’d make him fall apart for you.
You felt him start to pulse, harder, thicker on your tongue.
His voice hitched, went ragged.
“I’m gonna fuck you so hard once we’re back,” he groaned, the threat edged with promise, with desperate need.
You moaned around him, the vibration making him jerk in your mouth.
Your hand at the base squeezed tighter, stroking faster, matching your mouth’s relentless pace.
“Let go for me, baby,” you slurred around his cock, words muffled but clear. You pulled back just enough to meet his blown pupils in the mirror, your lips swollen and wet, your breath coming hard.
“Come for me, Bucky.”
And then you swallowed him whole again, eager and hungry, determined to take everything he gave you.
—
You felt it the moment he lost the last scrap of control.
Bucky shuddered hard, the tremor rolling through his thighs, his hand clenching against your back in a bruising grip as he choked out a guttural moan.
You didn’t slow. Didn’t stop.
His cock twitched once—twice—and then he was coming in your mouth, thick and hot, salty and utterly his.
You swallowed automatically, greedy, taking as much as you could. But there was so much of him, and you’d pushed yourself so deep that some of it leaked from the corners of your mouth, sliding down to your hand still pumping him at the base.
He cursed—low, strangled, wrecked.
“Fuuuck—baby—”
You finally let yourself pull back, gasping a breath as you tried to swallow the last of it, licking your lips shamelessly. You felt it smear on your chin and thumbed at it, giggling a little breathlessly despite how hard your own cunt clenched at the taste.
God. He always tasted good to you. Like an appetizer crafted just for you.
Your eyes flicked up to his face, taking in the sight of your normally stoic, disciplined supersoldier boyfriend looking… ruined.
His cheeks were flushed, eyes half-lidded and glassy from release. A faint sheen of sweat caught the occasional streetlight slashing through the windshield. But to your infinite jealousy, he wasn’t panting or out of breath. His chest rose and fell evenly. Enhanced stamina, you thought with a petty, hungry little growl in your head.
He was already recovering.
You wiped at your mouth with the back of your hand, only smearing a little more of his cum over your thumb before popping it into your mouth, sucking it clean deliberately, knowing he was watching.
Bucky’s jaw flexed hard.
“Fuck, baby,” he finally managed, voice raw and ragged. “That was so good. But…”
He swallowed, voice going lower, darker, more dangerous.
“I need more.”
Your heart skittered at that tone.
You let out a breathless laugh, reaching over him for the small pack of tissues you kept in the door pocket. You flicked one free and carefully wiped the remaining mess off his flushed cock, cleaning him up with an absurdly tender touch. He lifted his hips obediently, giving you access, hissing as the tissue dragged over oversensitized skin.
“Easy,” he breathed.
“Don’t ‘easy’ me,” you teased, voice husky. “You came so much I almost choked.”
That earned a strained chuckle from him, one that ended in a low groan as you tucked him back into his tac pants, carefully zipping him up.
You tossed the used tissue aside and smirked, settling back into your seat, your eyes bright and wicked in the glow of the passing streetlights.
“I know you need more,” you purred. “So let’s get this shit done ASAP.”
You leaned in closer, until your mouth brushed the shell of his ear. Your voice dropped to a filthy whisper, warm and mean and so needy you almost trembled saying it.
“Then you can fuck my wet cunt so hard you break me apart.”
He let out a noise halfway between a laugh and a growl, teeth bared in a grin that was feral and fond all at once.
“Oh, sweetheart.”
He didn’t even hesitate.
His right hand—his warm, calloused flesh hand—slid right back to you. You grabbed it, guiding it ruthlessly between your legs, pressing it tight over the seam of your tactical suit.
He could feel the heat. The damp. Even through the heavy-duty fabric, there was no hiding it.
Bucky sucked in a breath, thumb twitching experimentally over you.
“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, voice cracking with lust. His eyes flicked to you briefly before darting back to the road, like he couldn’t afford the distraction.
But you didn’t miss the way his pupils blew wide.
“See what you do to me?” you teased, grinding just once against his palm before pulling back, breath shaking.
His fingers curled reflexively, wanting to follow, to press harder.
“Oh, I feel it,” he rasped. His tone was low, dark, but the smile tugging at his lips was all Bucky. Soft. Devoted. “I’m going to fuck you relentlessly.”
You shivered at the promise.
He punctuated it with a single, deliberate kiss to your left cheek—a press of warm, slightly chapped lips that felt less like affection and more like sealing a contract.
You felt your heart kick against your ribs, your whole body thrumming with anticipation.
Sex for hours. That was the deal now.
And you’d be damned if you didn’t earn it.
You settled back in your seat, trying to calm your breathing, a determined glint in your eyes.
Your brain was already plotting the mission, calculating shortcuts, prioritizing targets.
For the good of the assignment.
And for the goddamn sex, you thought, biting back a delirious grin.
—
You and Bucky handled the assignment a little too quickly, if you were being honest.
Like the perfect, ruthless duo Valentina trained you to be.
Intels extracted. Servers wiped. Physical evidence torched. The drop point reduced to smoking debris in the darkness after Bucky triggered the silent detonator, both of you already on the move before the muted whump even finished echoing.
No one saw a thing. No cameras left to prove you’d even been there.
You tapped the comm in your ear, eyes scanning the dark street as you headed back to the car.
“Mission complete. Back to HQ,” you reported, voice low and steady.
Valentina’s cool voice crackled back a moment later.
“Copy. Don’t make me regret pairing you two alone.”
You smirked as you shut the comm off with another tap, cutting the line.
Beside you, Bucky did the same, pulling out his own in-ear and tucking it in his pocket. You saw the way his mouth quirked despite himself, even as he scanned the perimeter one last time.
Professional to the end.
But when you finally got back in the car, the doors shutting with dull thuds in the night, it was like all that icy discipline melted in an instant.
You tugged your tactical gloves off and dropped them on the dash with a clatter. The car reeked faintly of gun oil, burnt electronics… and sex.
You didn’t even try to be subtle about inhaling.
You glanced at Bucky as he started the engine, headlights cutting through the dark. Streetlights flicked past in rhythmic sweeps, carving his face into alternating slices of shadow and gold.
His lips were still a little swollen. You felt your own throb in sympathy.
He caught you staring. Didn’t say a word. Just smirked—slow, knowing.
That smirk widened when he reached across the center console and took your left hand in his, squeezing your fingers.
But he didn’t keep it there.
Instead, he let go and dragged his big, calloused palm right to your lap, pressing between your thighs.
You whimpered.
His fingers grazed the seam of your tac pants, right over your cunt, even through the thick material sending a sharp jolt of heat straight up your spine.
You gasped, pressing back against the seat, hand grabbing his wrist to either stop him or guide him—you couldn’t tell which.
“Still damp,” he said, voice low, cracked with hunger.
You swallowed hard.
“From sweat,” you tried to lie, your tone cracking in embarrassment, knowing full well he could practically smell you.
He huffed out a disbelieving laugh, deep and rough.
“Nah,” he said, voice going even lower, his grin turning feral as streetlights washed his face in amber. “Smelled too fucking sweet for sweat.”
You shuddered at that, your thighs instinctively pressing together around his hand.
Bucky’s fingers moved. He pressed more firmly, dragging slow, heavy lines along the seam of your tac pants, forcing a muffled moan from you.
You squirmed in your seat. The thick, tight fabric was torture. Too much and not enough.
You let out a frustrated sound and reached for the fly of your pants with shaking fingers, unzipping them with a harsh zzzzp.
Bucky’s eyes cut to you once, quickly, heat banked in his stare, before flicking back to the road.
“Good girl,” he murmured, voice almost lost under the hum of tires on asphalt.
You wiggled your hips in the seat, shoving the tac pants down just enough to free your cunt—still covered by the thinnest pair of dark stretch shorts you wore underneath.
They were drenched.
The proof was in the way the fabric clung wetly to you, your slick staining it in a dark patch that even the dim streetlights couldn’t hide.
Bucky let out a harsh breath at the sight, his hand immediately dropping to press right against it.
He grunted, fingers flexing hard.
“Jesus,” he rasped. “So fucking wet for me?”
Your moan was half-words, half-desperation.
“Always,” you managed, your voice wrecked.
You didn’t even try to be coy. Your own fingers closed around his wrist, dragging his hand tighter to you. You ground shamelessly against his palm, feeling the heat of him even through the thin damp shorts.
You hissed at the friction, head falling back against the seat, eyes fluttering closed.
He didn’t move away. Didn’t tease. He let you use him, fingers pressing in harder, tracing the soaked line of your folds through the fabric with slow, deliberate pressure.
“Look at you,” he murmured, voice going even rougher, ruined with affection and lust all at once. “So needy you’re fucking yourself on my hand in the front seat.”
You let out a strangled sound that might have been his name.
His thumb found your clit through the damp cloth and pressed just firmly enough to make your hips jerk.
You bit your lip to stifle the whine that threatened to escape.
He chuckled darkly, that sound so deep it rattled you.
“Better hope no one’s watching,” he teased, glancing at you sidelong, eyes glittering with heat and mischief as the streetlights cut over his features.
Your breath hitched, heart hammering.
You smirked through the haze of lust, voice shaking but defiant.
“Drive faster, Sarge,” you managed. “Or I’ll make myself come before you even get me home.”
Bucky’s grin turned savage at that.
“Oh sweetheart,” he crooned, voice so low it felt like velvet dragging over your skin. He pressed even harder, thumb circling your clit, slow and merciless. “You’re not coming without me. That’s a promise.”
Your answering moan was wanton and helpless, your fingers still gripping his wrist as you rutted against his hand.
And Bucky just smiled, turning back to the road, driving into the night with one hand on the wheel—while the other stayed buried between your legs, making sure you remembered exactly who you belonged to.
—
Bucky didn’t finger you.
No matter how badly you whined. No matter how your voice cracked, wrecked and breathless, your hips rolling up shamelessly into his touch.
He just kept his fingers right there over your soaked shorts, teasing the seam of your folds through the wet fabric but never pushing inside.
“Please, baby,” you panted, your voice a broken plea. You grabbed his wrist tighter, forcing his fingers to press harder until you felt them sink into the dip of your folds—even through the thin, soaked barrier of your shorts. Your clit throbbed at the friction. “Fuck—please, finger me.”
He huffed out a breath that was half a laugh, half a strained groan.
“No,” he said, voice so low it felt like it vibrated straight through you.
You let out a desperate little whine.
He glanced at you sidelong, jaw tight, eyes flashing as another passing streetlight cut across his face.
“Not here,” he growled. The words were soft, but they snapped like a command. “I’m not giving you that in the damn car.”
Your nails bit into his wrist.
“Bucky—”
He exhaled sharply, his hand flexing against you just once before he dragged his palm away.
“I said no,” he repeated, this time softer, more patient, the dominant control edged with fondness. “I’m gonna fuck you so hard once we’re home. That’s it. That’s the deal.”
You grunted in frustration, biting back a curse as your hips bucked one last time. You could feel the slick mess you’d made in your shorts, heat and wetness smearing against his palm before he pulled away completely.
You shivered, angry at the loss.
But you didn’t want to risk making him change his mind.
With a ragged groan, you finally reached down, yanking your tactical pants back up. You wriggled your hips in the seat to get them over your ass, cursing quietly as the wet fabric clung to your folds in the worst way. You fumbled with the zipper, finally sealing yourself back up—like it made any difference now.
Your pussy ached.
Bucky didn’t help, either. He just gave you this smug little sideways look, his lips curling at the edges in a knowing grin.
But his eyes were dark.
Hungry.
You swallowed and shifted again in your seat, trying to get comfortable even as you stayed pressed close enough to grip his hand. You clung to it, even after zipping up. Even after you’d shoved down the raw want just enough to stop begging.
He squeezed your fingers.
Hard.
Reassuring. Possessive.
The rest of the drive back to the Watchtower was torture.
Because you didn’t stop.
Neither of you did.
You whispered every filthy promise you could think of, voice ragged with need. You told him exactly what you wanted—what you needed from him the moment you got through that door.
How you wanted him to shove you against the wall.
How you wanted his cock so deep you could barely breathe.
How you needed to taste yourself on him as he fucked your mouth raw.
How you’d been thinking about him all week, even on missions, touching yourself in the shower and whining his name.
Bucky listened. He didn’t shut you up.
He just smiled.
That little wolfish grin breaking out whenever your words got especially dirty. His jaw flexed tight when you moaned out your filthiest demands.
And all he did was grunt, voice rough, promising you over and over:
“Yeah?”
“You want all that?”
“You’re gonna get everything, sweetheart.”
He leaned heavy on everything, each time making your stomach swoop, your pussy clench.
“Everything you want. Once we’re home.”
You could barely sit still. The seatbelt felt like a restraint you wanted to tear off.
Your fingers stayed knotted together, his thumb dragging slow circles over your knuckles, deceptively gentle.
—
By the time you pulled into the Watchtower’s garage, you were shaking.
Bucky parked in the same precise, methodical way he did everything, even though you could see the tension in his arms, the white-knuckled grip on the wheel.
When you finally stepped out, your legs felt like jelly.
But you forced yourself to walk normally beside him through the darkened hallways, past the security doors.
The elevator ride up was somehow worse.
Your body screamed to press against him. To climb into his lap and grind down until you soaked his pants.
You wanted to maul him. Bite his bottom lip. Kiss him sloppy and breathless.
But you didn’t.
You couldn’t.
Valentina had cameras in all the common areas.
You felt her ghost in the walls even now. Watching. Judging.
So you stood there beside Bucky, trying to look normal. Professional.
Except your thighs kept pressing together in helpless, instinctive pulses. Your breath was too fast. Your face too hot.
Bucky noticed. Of course he did.
He let out a single, low chuckle that rumbled in his chest.
He gripped your hand tighter, fingers interlacing with yours so firmly you couldn’t pull away.
“Behave,” he murmured, voice so soft no one else could hear.
You shivered.
But you didn’t dare meet his eyes.
If you did, you’d lose it.
You didn’t know he was struggling too.
That behind that cool, battle-hardened expression, he was undone.
That all he wanted was to drag you back into that car, crawl over the center console, and fuck you right there until you couldn’t walk.
But he didn’t.
Because you both knew the rules.
For now.
But the moment that elevator door opened?
All bets were off.
—
As soon as the door banged shut behind you, Bucky didn’t waste a second.
He spun you around and pinned you hard against the door, his metal arm braced beside your head to cage you in. His right hand flicked the light switch on in one smooth motion, flooding the room with warm brightness before it immediately dropped to curl tight around your waist, holding you in place.
You didn’t even have a second to register the room before his mouth crashed into yours.
It was sloppy, messy, starved—all teeth and tongue and wet, hungry sounds. Your lips smashed together so hard it hurt, but you moaned anyway, clawing at the thick fabric of his jacket to pull him even closer.
He sucked your bottom lip into his mouth and bit it, just hard enough to make you gasp.
But then—just when you thought you’d drown in the filth of it—he gentled.
His lips softened against yours, his tongue slowing, licking lazily into your mouth like he was savoring you. Like he couldn’t get enough.
Your whole body trembled.
You felt his crotch grow against you—no other word for it. His cock hardened rapidly in his pants, thick and pressing into your stomach through both your suits. You couldn’t help it—you rolled your hips against him, needing anything, groaning at the friction even though the layers between you made it frustratingly dull.
“Fuck,” you panted, breaking the kiss for air, your head thudding back against the door.
Bucky pulled back just enough to look at you.
His pupils were blown wide, nearly eclipsing those blue eyes. His mouth was wet and red from your kisses, stubble scratching deliciously along your jaw.
He licked his lips once.
“You asked for this, baby,” he growled, voice low, gravelly, dangerous but so fucking tender underneath. His lips curled into a knowing, vicious little smile. “No backing out. I’m gonna fuck you so hard you forget your own name.”
Your breath hitched.
“Please,” you whispered, completely wrecked already.
That did it.
He grabbed you under your thighs and lifted you like you weighed nothing.
You immediately hooked your legs around his waist, ankles locking behind him, grinding your soaked pussy shamelessly against the hard ridge in his pants. He groaned, fingers digging into the meat of your ass to hold you up as he turned and carried you toward the bathroom.
You didn’t stop kissing.
You attacked his mouth over and over, teeth clacking, tongues tangling, panting breath filling the narrow hallway. Every time you rolled your hips into him, you felt him jerk slightly, his cock pressing harder into you.
“Fuck—so needy,” he growled, breathless this time.
“Yours,” you gasped. “I’m yours, Bucky. Always.”
That made him snarl low in his throat, and he crushed you harder to his chest as he kicked open the bathroom door.
He set you down only long enough to rip at your clothes.
Your fingers were shaking so hard you fumbled the zipper on your tactical suit. Bucky didn’t wait. He grabbed it, yanking it down so fast the teeth nearly split.
“Off,” he ordered, voice so low you felt it in your cunt.
You obeyed, peeling it away, your soaked shorts practically peeling off your sticky folds with a wet noise that made you whimper in embarrassment. The cold bathroom air hit your soaked pussy and you hissed, thighs instinctively pressing together.
But Bucky was already shrugging out of his jacket, tossing it aside. You helped him with the rest, fingers frantic as you unbuckled his belt, shoved his pants down.
His cock sprang free, fat and flushed and so fucking hard it slapped against his lower belly. You both paused for half a heartbeat just to look.
It twitched.
You moaned, biting your lip, fingers already reaching for it before he caught your wrists.
“Shower,” he ordered.
You whimpered.
He didn’t let you protest.
He hoisted you up again, your legs wrapping automatically around him, and reached behind you to flick the shower on.
Warm water blasted from above immediately, steaming the room. It hit your back first, making you gasp, then sluiced over Bucky’s broad shoulders and the hard planes of his chest. His hair slicked back against his head, water streaming down his stubbled jaw.
He pressed you against the tile, shifting you slightly higher on the wall, your slick folds lining up perfectly with his length.
You couldn’t help it—you shifted your hips, dragging your soaked, desperate pussy along his thick shaft, smearing your slick all over him even as the shower rained down.
You both moaned, loud, unfiltered.
“Fuck—baby—” he panted, voice going wrecked.
You felt him adjust, one hand bracing you under your ass, the other reaching between you to grip his cock, lining it up.
You barely had time to suck in a breath.
He shoved in.
You screamed.
Your head thunked back against the tile, eyes rolling as his fat cock split you open, inch after inch pressing impossibly deep until he bottomed out.
“Fuuuuck,” you sobbed, nails raking his shoulders.
“Yeah?” he growled, breath ragged against your ear. “That what you wanted?”
“Y-Yes—fuck—Bucky—”
He pulled back and slammed in again, the wet, filthy slap of your bodies colliding echoing off the tile walls.
He fucked you relentlessly.
He set a brutal pace, hips snapping forward with hard, wet slaps, your breasts bouncing wildly between you. Water splashed off both your bodies, steam billowing around you.
Your nipples grazed his chest, slick and swollen. Once, they smacked against his face as you jolted in his hold, and he groaned—open-mouthed and hungry—before burying his face between them.
He sucked a nipple into his mouth hard enough to make you wail, his teeth scraping, his tongue swirling messily.
Your moans turned into raw, broken sobs of his name.
“Bucky—Bucky please—fuck—so deep—”
He snarled, mouth muffled against your tits.
“Mine,” he growled, words wet, hot breath burning your skin. “All fucking mine.”
Your cunt spasmed around him, milking him as you clenched so hard you almost forced him out.
He held you pinned to the wall with sheer strength, thrusting deeper, harder, until your vision went white.
You screamed for him, voice cracking, nails digging so hard you drew blood from his shoulders.
He let out a strangled groan against your chest, his thrusts turning erratic.
Then he froze.
Burying himself as deep as he could, cock pulsing hard as he came inside you, heat flooding your core.
You felt every twitch, every thick spurt filling you, even as the shower water washed over you both.
You moaned for it. Wanted it. Loved it.
You clung to him, legs still locked tight, until you both finally sagged.
He held you there, breathing hard against your collarbone, his cock still buried inside you, softening slowly as your walls milked out every last drop.
When your legs finally gave out completely, he eased you down gently, arms wrapped around you to keep you steady.
You both wobbled under the spray.
He tucked a wet strand of hair behind your ear with shaking fingers, pressing his forehead to yours.
“You okay?” he rasped.
You nodded weakly, still shivering with aftershocks.
“Fuck—yeah,” you whispered. “More than okay.”
He smiled. Soft. Gentle.
“Good.”
He helped you finish showering after that, washing you carefully, checking you for any bruises he’d left. You washed him too, fingers tender as they traced over the strong lines of his chest, the scars you both knew by heart.
Finally you both stepped out, skin pink and steaming, drying off just enough to wrap yourselves in thick, fluffy bathrobes.
You were both still flushed, still breathing too hard, still so far from finished.
But that was for the bedroom.
And as he toweled off his hair, watching you with those blown, heated eyes, you both knew you were about to ruin the bed next.
—
You didn’t bother pretending anymore.
He dropped the towel, letting it fall to the floor in a heavy, wet heap. Bucky’s gaze tracked every inch of you, unapologetic, hungry.
Your bathrobe followed with a flick of your wrist, sliding off your shoulders like it offended you. His fell away too, careless, pooling at his feet.
And you both lunged at each other.
Mouths smashed together in another sloppy, wet kiss—needy, uncoordinated, breathless. His hands roamed your body without hesitation, palms hot, fingers digging in to leave bruises.
Your own hands scraped through his damp hair, tugging him closer until your teeth clicked.
He growled low against your mouth, nipping at your lip before sucking it into his own, tongue tracing the sting he left behind.
Your bare, slick bodies pressed together, chest to chest, skin sliding wetly. His cock, still soft from the aftershower, twitched between you, thickening almost instantly from the friction of your bellies rubbing together.
You moaned at the sensation of it hardening right there, growing against your stomach, the heat of him unmistakable.
You fumbled backwards, lips parting just enough to pant for breath before you fell back onto the bed with a bounce.
You lay there, hair splayed on the sheets, chest heaving, legs instinctively parting wide in invitation.
Your eyes locked on him.
He stopped, looming at the foot of the bed, gaze dropping to your glistening cunt.
His pupils were blown wide, nostrils flaring as he sucked in a deep breath.
“Fuck, doll…” he rasped.
His right hand, flesh and warm, wrapped around his own cock. He stroked it slowly, deliberately. The head already leaking, pre-cum beading before smearing over his thumb.
You watched, moaning at the sight, your own walls clenching in empty need.
“Bucky,” you whimpered.
That got his attention.
He climbed onto the bed, bracing himself over you, his cock dragging against your belly as he lowered his mouth to yours again.
You kissed hungrily, teeth clacking, breath mingling.
Your hand snaked between you, fingers wrapping around his slick length, feeling the heat, the pulse. You stroked him slowly, thumb smearing the wetness over the head.
He groaned into your mouth, hips twitching.
“Fuck—baby—”
You broke the kiss with a gasp.
“Please… finger me,” you begged, voice cracking with desperation. “I need it so bad.”
He stilled for just a second, eyes searching yours, face tightening with lust and affection all at once.
“Yeah,” he breathed. “I got you.”
He shifted, bracing himself better. He knelt between your parted thighs, feet anchored into the mattress for leverage. His flesh hand cupped your breast, thumb brushing over the taut peak while he supported himself on his elbow.
The metal hand slid down your belly, cool and hard and precise, making your muscles twitch.
You whimpered, hips rolling up to meet him.
He paused, watching you squirm.
“Spread,” he ordered softly.
You obeyed instantly, thighs falling wider apart.
He hummed his approval and pressed one cold vibranium finger to your slick folds, sliding it through the mess you’d already made.
You moaned, head falling back, eyes rolling.
He traced your entrance before pressing in slowly, one thick finger stretching you open, the temperature contrast making you gasp.
You clenched around it reflexively.
“That’s it,” he crooned. “Open up for me.”
You keened as he started pumping slowly, his metal thumb rubbing teasing circles around your clit.
“More,” you whimpered. “Please, more.”
He rewarded you immediately, sliding in another finger.
You cried out, walls fluttering around the intrusion, slick dripping onto his hand.
Bucky bit his lip watching you, the cords of his neck standing out with restraint.
“You look so fucking good like this,” he muttered.
You could barely answer, only managing a desperate moan.
He kept going, pumping those two thick metal fingers in and out, dragging them along your walls, feeling you squeeze down on him. His flesh hand squeezed your breast firmly, thumb and forefinger pinching your nipple hard enough to make you jerk.
“Bucky—fuck!”
“Such a good girl,” he praised, voice cracked with hunger. “Taking my fingers so well.”
You could hear the wet, obscene sounds of your cunt being fucked on his fingers.
You grabbed at his ass, nails digging in, pulling him closer.
He chuckled, low and mean.
“You want more?”
“Please,” you sobbed.
He rewarded you with a third finger.
You wailed, back arching off the bed as he stretched you wide.
“Fuck, fuck—baby—it’s so full—”
He curled his fingers deliberately, finding that spot inside you that made your vision shatter.
Your body locked up, breath stuttering.
He didn’t let up.
He kept thrusting, harder, faster, the cold metal unrelenting.
Your moans turned to screams, nails dragging red lines down his ass.
He dropped his head and took your other nipple into his mouth, sucking hard, teeth grazing before soothing it with his tongue.
Your entire body convulsed, muscles seizing as pleasure detonated.
He felt it, the way you clenched and spasmed around his fingers, and curled them even harder.
“Come on, baby,” he growled against your breast. “Come for me.”
You did.
You came so hard you saw stars, your pussy squirting wetly around his fingers, slick splashing onto the sheets in messy, humiliating waves.
He kept working you through it, thumb circling your clit, mouth latched onto your breast like he couldn’t get enough.
Your cries broke into choked sobs of his name.
“Bucky—baby—please—”
He finally slowed his thrusts, your cunt still spasming weakly around his fingers, making obscene wet sounds that filled the room.
You felt your walls clench one last time before going slack.
He drew his metal fingers out of you deliberately, slowly, letting you feel every ridge and bump as they dragged from your soaked, oversensitive entrance.
They left with a wet, filthy squelch that made your face burn with embarrassment. Strings of slick clung between his fingers and your pussy, stretching and breaking, leaving messy strands smeared across your inner thighs.
You shuddered helplessly.
Bucky's eyes never left yours.
He lifted his metal hand, studying the mess you’d made of him with hungry, approving eyes. Then he brought those slick-coated fingers to his mouth.
He licked them clean slowly, tongue dragging over the metal with practiced precision, making sure you saw every movement.
You whimpered at the sight, body twitching weakly on the sheets.
He smiled around his fingers, pulling them free with a soft pop.
“Still with me, sweetheart?” he rasped, voice thick and ruined with pride and lust.
You swallowed hard, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes from how overwhelming it all felt.
You nodded shakily.
“Yeah,” you breathed out, voice cracking.
That earned you a low, satisfied rumble from his chest.
He shifted his weight on the bed, knees sinking deeper into the mattress between your spread thighs as he leaned over you. His warm, flesh hand braced beside your head, metal arm planting firmly next to your hip to cage you in.
Then he bent down and kissed you.
It was slow. Tender. A total contrast to how he’d just wrecked you.
His lips moved gently over yours, patient and grounding, letting you taste yourself on his tongue.
You whimpered again, your hands fluttering up weakly to clutch at his damp hair, nails scraping lightly along his scalp.
He hummed against your mouth, nuzzling you with the tip of his nose, pressing sweet little kisses to your lips, your cheeks, your jaw.
But even as he comforted you, you felt it.
His cock.
Hard as granite. Pressed hot and heavy against your thigh. Twitching every time you squirmed, smearing his pre-cum onto your skin.
He wasn’t even pretending to hide it.
And you both knew—
He wasn’t even close to done with you yet.
—
You were still shaking.
Your whole body felt boneless, oversensitive. But the ache between your thighs wouldn’t quit. Even as the aftershocks made your cunt twitch and flutter, you felt yourself need again.
Bucky noticed immediately.
His thumb brushed your lip, swollen from his kisses, and you sucked it automatically.
Your hips squirmed, legs twitching open.
He watched your expression melt into need.
“Oh, you’re not done,” he rumbled softly, smiling darkly.
Your answer was a half-sobbed whine.
“I need more.”
He chuckled, deep and knowing.
“I’ll wreck you, baby.”
You let out a broken laugh, grabbing at his shoulders for leverage.
With all the strength you had left, you shifted, shoving him back against the bed. He let you, grinning, his big frame relaxing against the pillows with his arms spread wide in invitation.
You climbed over him on trembling thighs, straddling his chest for a moment. He grabbed your hips immediately, fingers digging in to hold you steady.
You kept going, shifting your weight until your dripping pussy hovered directly over his face.
He groaned the second you lined yourself up.
“Fuck,” he whispered, eyes blown wide as he stared up at your glistening folds. “Look at you.”
You didn’t wait. You sank down onto his mouth.
Bucky growled so deeply it vibrated right through your cunt.
You gasped, hands flying to the headboard for support as he immediately got to work.
His tongue was expert, sliding through your folds, flicking your swollen clit with practiced precision. The hot, wet strokes made your thighs clamp around his head.
He loved that, humming deep in his chest so the vibration traveled straight into you.
He slurped noisily, unbothered by the mess, his mouth smearing your slick everywhere. He devoured you like a man starved, dragging his tongue through the spill from your last orgasm, licking you clean only to make you messier.
You moaned, half-choked, rolling your hips desperately over his face.
“Baby—fuck—Bucky—”
He pulled you down harder, metal hand bracing one thigh while his flesh hand gripped the other, keeping you wide open for him.
Then he changed tactics—his tongue pushed inside you.
You nearly screamed.
He tongue-fucked you hard, messy, deep, alternating with dragging licks up to your clit before plunging back inside. Your hands scrabbled at the headboard, trying to get away and get closer all at once.
He didn’t let you move.
He moaned into your pussy, filthy and approving, eyes fluttering shut as if savoring you.
“Fuck—please—I’m gonna—Bucky—”
You couldn’t finish.
You broke apart on his tongue, cumming with a raw wail, grinding desperately against his mouth as your juices spilled.
He didn’t stop.
He licked you through it, swallowing everything you gave him, the obscene wet sounds echoing in the room until you were practically sobbing above him.
When you finally slumped forward, twitching and wrecked, he only gave you a second.
His arms tightened, lifting you like you weighed nothing.
You whimpered as he dragged you lower, lining you up with his cock, so hard it slapped wetly against your thigh.
He didn’t tease.
He shoved in.
You both moaned—his a guttural, broken sound, yours a strangled cry.
You barely had time to adjust before he was fucking up into you from below.
Your body jolted with every savage thrust. You tried to ride, but your thighs trembled uselessly.
Bucky noticed, smiling through gritted teeth.
“Too fucked out to move, baby?”
You mewled, half-sobbing.
He slowed, stopped.
But only to shift.
He sat up, his hands bracing under your ass, lifting you until only the tip remained inside.
“Hold on,” he ordered.
You barely had time to obey before he slammed you back down onto his cock.
You screamed, walls clenching violently around him.
He lifted you again, set the pace himself. Up. Down. Faster. Harder. Using his strength to fuck you on his cock.
Your breasts bounced, slapping his chest and face. He buried his face between them, biting and sucking, leaving raw marks that made you keen.
“Mine,” he growled, voice muffled. “All fucking mine.”
You nodded frantically, tears leaking from the corners of your eyes.
“Yes—Bucky—yours—fuck—”
He panted, hips slamming up to meet you, cock driving so deep you swore you could feel it in your throat.
Your own movements grew sloppy. You tried to ride him back, changing the rhythm—slamming down, grinding in circles that made you both curse, then bouncing again.
Your cunt squelched wetly, obscene, soaking his cock and thighs.
You felt him twitch inside you, cock pulsing.
He stopped again only to reposition.
He lifted you, arms flexing hard, standing up from the bed in one smooth motion.
You clung to him, arms around his neck, legs around his waist.
He walked you to the nearest wall and slammed you against it.
You gasped, head falling back.
“Bucky—please—”
He didn’t answer with words.
He fucked up into you, pinning you to the wall with raw, bruising thrusts.
Your back scraped the wall lightly with every slam. His cock pistoned in and out with wet slaps that filled the room.
You were crying out openly now, voice wrecked.
“Bucky—Jesus fuck—please—fuck—so deep—”
“Yeah?” he growled, teeth bared in a savage grin. “That’s what you want? You want me to breed you? Fill you up?”
You sobbed.
“Yes—please—fill me—want it—want you to come in me—”
That broke him.
He rammed in hard, deep, so deep you saw stars.
Your orgasm ripped through you violently, making you scream his name over and over.
He groaned, voice cracking as he spilled inside you, cock jerking, flooding you with thick, hot spurts of cum.
He held you pinned there, buried to the hilt, making sure you took every last drop.
You shook in his arms, twitching, boneless.
He stayed like that, breathing hard against your neck, his cock still sheathed inside your spasming cunt.
He kissed your temple, breath shaky.
“Good girl,” he rasped. “My good fucking girl. Took all of it.”
You whimpered, pressing your forehead to his.
His hands caressed you slowly, thumb stroking your thigh where it was wrapped around him.
He didn’t rush to pull out.
He just stayed buried in you, letting you both come down, letting your cunt milk him for every last bit of heat he’d given you.
And when he finally carried you back to bed, lowering you onto the sheets, his cum still leaking from you, he kissed you tenderly.
Like you were the only thing in the world.
—
Your body was limp, boneless. You felt the wet smear of him between your thighs, hot and sticky on the sheets, but you couldn’t even bring yourself to care.
Your lids felt impossibly heavy. You tried to fight it, blinking slow and sluggish.
“Mmh… Bucky, I’m—s’fucked up,” you mumbled, voice thick and slurred, the words tumbling clumsy and broken from your slack lips.
Your eyes only opened halfway before fluttering shut again.
Bucky let out a soft, breathless chuckle.
“Yeah, baby,” he rasped, voice hoarse but warm with amusement. “You are. Did say I was gonna fuck you so hard.”
You made a small, helpless noise of protest, shifting weakly on the sheets but barely moving.
He pressed one last kiss to your temple before pulling away carefully.
“Hold on,” he murmured.
You heard him pad to the bathroom, the water running briefly. He wet a face cloth just enough to make it damp and warm, squeezing it once before turning off the tap.
He came back to you immediately, dropping to one knee at the edge of the bed, eyes soft but focused.
“Easy, sweetheart,” he soothed.
He parted your thighs gently with one big hand, the other carefully wiping you clean.
You whimpered faintly at the contact, twitching once from oversensitivity, but you didn’t fight him.
“Shh,” he hushed you. “I know. Just cleaning you up.”
He was thorough but gentle, wiping away the messy streaks of his cum still dripping from your swollen, used cunt. He made sure you were as comfortable as he could make you, murmuring little reassurances under his breath.
Your breathing evened out, eyelids fluttering but too heavy to keep open.
“Mmh… i—sleep… you…” you tried again, the words falling apart, unintelligible.
But Bucky understood.
“Yeah,” he murmured. “I know, baby. Sleep.”
He tossed the dirty cloth aside onto the floor without caring, then crawled fully onto the bed beside you.
He settled on his back first, then turned onto his side to face you. His metal arm slid carefully under your neck like a pillow, the cool vibranium pressed against your flushed, overheated skin. His flesh arm curled around your waist, dragging you gently but firmly into his chest.
You melted instantly.
Your head rested on his shoulder, nose pressed to his throat, inhaling the raw, spent scent of sweat, sex, and his skin.
He pressed a lingering kiss to your hairline, nose buried in your damp hair.
His fingers found your hair at the back of your head and began to play with it slowly, combing through the strands to soothe you.
Your breathing slowed even more, going soft and steady.
He felt you go heavy in his arms.
“Good girl,” he whispered so quietly it was almost for himself.
Your lips parted, a final sleepy huff of breath warming his skin, and you went fully limp, finally out.
Bucky smiled.
He let his eyes drift shut, fingers still tangled in your hair, body wrapped around yours like a shield.
He could feel the faint wetness still smearing between your thighs, his cum still inside you.
The thought made something possessive and hungry coil in his gut, even through the exhaustion.
He sighed, pressing another kiss to your forehead.
Tomorrow.
There would be tomorrow.
Rounds. Plural.
He fell asleep knowing full well he was going to fuck you stupid all over again come morning.
synopsis: After you confided in Bucky about your past, he began to ice you out - shooting you dirty looks instead of his usual smiles... especially when he sees you blushing for Steve.
warnings: 18+, angst, smut (fingering, oral - f receiving, masturbation, dirty talk, softdom!bucky, possessive sex, maybe slight size kink ish? but about bucky being big, blushing kink? is that a thing? if it is, bucky has it), references to past violence committed by bucky and accidental destruction / injury caused by reader, cursing, jealous!bucky, shy!reader, panic attacks, no use of y/n, eventual fluff, reader is down so bad for bucky
word count: 12.2k
note: i have just started using tumblr in the last few weeks and this is my first ever time writing an x reader fic / smut so please be kind, this is scary!! if i have done anything wrong in terms of formatting, tagging etc. please let me know bc i am still learning the ropes!
Bucky had shown you something like kindness once. Being the newest recruit to the team and joining under the circumstances that you did, it had seemed like he understood you and your baggage better than the others did back then. Not that there were ever any grand gestures of goodwill; there never was with Bucky. But he would pick you up something for lunch without you having to ask, make you a coffee in the morning, ask how you were doing. And when you told him, he listened - as in, actually listened. Thinking back on everything you told him made you feel so brainless and short-sighted; made you feel like you had given up something deeply personal you couldn’t now claim back.
Nowadays, he brushed off any attempt at conversation. He wasn’t the most forthcoming conversationalist with anyone but he was particularly cold towards you, sometimes going so far as to completely blank you when you would ask him a direct question. And that was fine - just fine. But you couldn’t quite pretend you didn’t still look for him in every room. Couldn’t pretend you didn’t look at him first when anything significant happened, even when it hurt.
“Maybe you should spar with Steve today,” Natasha suggested not-quite-indifferently, popping a hand on her hip. “Change things up a bit, you know.”
You felt the traitorous heat flood to your face before you had even really processed the comment. You knew the formula by now; someone would make a teasing comment about Steve, your entire face would light up red with heat, the whole team would try to suppress a smirk (or pretend to try), and then Steve or Wanda would show mercy by changing the subject.
You hated Bucky more than ever in those moments. Because your eyes would instinctively move to him, in time to see the disgusted expression on his face, as if he couldn’t believe anyone was entertaining the idea of you and Steve. You hated him, but you also hated yourself. Because of how inferior it made you feel - because of how far under his thumb you were, even after all of his stony silence.
“She’ll be training with me again,” Wanda said, voice light and airy, before turning to you. “You’re not free of me until you move that damn elevator.” You jumped on the escape she offered with a reply about the assignment, your face pink and body numb with embarrassment. You could hear Nat and Sam snickering behind you as you walked with her toward the back of the room. Steve was shushing them about as effectively as a substitute teacher.
“Such an open book.” Wanda laughed as you both came to a stop by the elevator, brushing a strand of your hair behind your ear affectionately. “Now let’s try to open your mind.”
You focused your attention on the elevator - prodded the corners of it with your mind, felt its crushing weight on your tongue… and pushed.
Your telekinesis hadn’t suddenly appeared the night you tore down your college dorms. You had been in the business of ignoring it and covering it up throughout your childhood and young adulthood; hoping it would just go away. But it didn’t. It lingered and grew like a tumour until it was no longer possible to shut your eyes to it. The day your old life ended - that day in the NYU dorms - was the worst of your life. It wasn’t just the calamity and ruin - the total destruction of the building - and it wasn’t even the subsequent confinement by SHIELD. It was those endless, agonising hours that you spent in your own dorm room, books and stationery flying everywhere, feeling that the pot was boiling over, feeling that the force inside you was reaching a glorious, devastating crescendo and trying your best to stop it.
Wanda had been trying to help you tame this force, turn it into something palatable that SHIELD could bend to its own will. But Wanda’s powers were different to your own - easier to manage. You couldn’t yet say how well this taming was working.
“You almost had it. Try again.”
You sighed, bone-tired after the mental gymnastics of attempting to send a ten-ton freight elevator up 80 stories without the adrenaline rush of being on the field. You stretched your shoulders and glanced around, eyes catching Steve and Bucky sparring at the opposite end of the gym. Bucky barked a loud, rough laugh watching Steve charge at him. He moved as rapidly as an arrow from a bow, sending Steve flying past him. He turned swiftly to kick his backside on the way. Steve stumbled and Bucky smirked wickedly.
There was something wolf-like about Bucky. His fierce, blue eyes maybe, or his stern bearing. But looking at him now, with his wide-mouth grin, shoulders loose and his eyes soft with no fixed gaze - he looked more like a playful dog. You had never seen him look that way before, not even when you first joined the team. He was all dark clouds and edges sharp enough to cut yourself on, but right now it all cleared up for just a moment. He was beautiful. It sent the breath right out of your lungs.
You had hardly committed the view to memory when Bucky caught your gaze. He stopped short, caught off-balance, and the two of you stood on opposite ends of a long hall, staring for just the blink of an eye. And then his expression changed; the relaxed grin turning to a straight line, the brilliant gleam in his eye extinguishing. You were met with that revolted expression he seemed to save especially for you.
You caught fire. You could feel your veins bulging, straining against the skin on your temple - fury and humiliation congealing to replace any awe or admiration you had been experiencing. The injustice of the whole affair was gnawing at your insides.
You remembered what it was like to confess everything to Bucky. You laid bare all your sins - some that you hadn’t even been able to mention in your court-mandated therapy sessions. You remembered the look of understanding and empathy that had bloomed in his blue eyes that night, only for him to give you the cold shoulder the very next day.
A throbbing rage was working its way up your gullet. Hadn’t he said that he understood? That he, of all people, knew what it was like to live with the remorse and agony of inflicting pain and suffering to others against your will. You hated him. You hated him.
“You did it!”
The fire died immediately. You swung round to look at Wanda who was ogling you in wonder and exhilaration. It was only then that you noticed the digital indicator above the elevator displayed the number 80. You had moved it up without even realising. Without even trying.
“Yeah, finally.” You smiled tightly at her. She was beaming at you with pride that made it impossible to admit that it had been a fluke.
“I’m so proud of you,” she gushed, grabbing you into a hug. “Go to your room for a nap, you must be exhausted. We’ll practice again tomorrow.”
You didn’t hesitate.
“To recap, the objective is simple: kill the power, get inside, reach the 40th floor and extract the data from the mainframe - quietly. Leave no trace, no noise, not even a shadow. Needs to be clean and tight. You will have a team, led by Garcia, but they’ll all be offsite. You’ll be going in alone.”
Bucky shot up abruptly from the meeting room table. “With all due respect…” he said, throat bobbing up and down while he seemingly considered his words. “I think I might need someone with a little more experience on this one. Doesn’t sound like we can risk anything here.”
You bit your cheek and watched the pen in front of you twitch and shake of its own volition. You focused on not sending it flying across the room.
“No.” Maria said. “You have both been picked specifically for this mission. The stairwell is monitored by cameras that are run by backup power systems so the stairs is not an option. Once that power goes out, you’ll need someone who can move that elevator up to your floor. And like I said, you will have Garcia with you remotely.”
Daniel Garcia, a non-commissioned army sergeant around your own age, stood at the back of the room, nodding resolutely to confirm his confidence in the plan.
“Well then maybe Steve-“
“No.” she repeated with finality. “You have been assigned this mission for your stealth. We can’t afford any loose ends. You’ll get the detailed brief after the meeting.”
You saw as Bucky cringed at the word ‘stealth’. His clean-up jobs as the Winter Soldier had been plenty stealthy. He knew that was what she was referring to. Everyone did. A beat passed while he seemed to weigh up his options and then he sat down.
You willed away the humiliation that sat heavy in your stomach and forced yourself to keep your face impassive. You could feel the eyes around the table trying to catch a subtle look at you.
You had moved the elevator a few more times since your first accidental success, but never with ease and never in the timeframe specified by Maria just now. As Maria moved on to discuss the next mission, you glanced over at Wanda, who was looking at you with absolute confidence you wished you could have a share of.
You had done the regular SHIELD field training - they had practically kept you in solitary confinement for three years after the NYU disaster, which gave you plenty of time to learn the ropes. But you had never been assigned a mission that relied solely on your ‘powers’, as they called it. Sure, it came in handy to be able to throw someone around like a ragdoll in combat without lifting a finger, or drop a car on someone who was about to let it rip with a machine gun. But if all else failed, you could still go on like a regular field agent. Your telekinesis had never been an absolute requirement for the success of a mission before and you wondered what might happen if, in the critical moment, you simply couldn’t. You looked over at Bucky who was already staring directly at you, and you knew he was already thinking the same thing.
Bucky, along with most others on the team, was clued into just how unpredictable this power of yours was. Before you had begun to train with Wanda, it appeared exclusively in times of emotional turmoil, which made it difficult to control or forecast. Even now after all of your training, those times were still when the power was at its highest… strong enough to bring down an entire building, brick by brick.
And therein lay the crux of the issue.
You knew the reason why everyone wanted you to be with Steve, even if nobody would say it out loud. He was so boyish, so All-American. His stable, grounded nature - it would make sense to put you both together. He would always make sure you don’t fly off the handle. He would know how to tame that little troublesome force of yours, would be able to subdue it with nothing but soft smiles and reassurance. And recently, you had been considering it.
You blushed at the team’s comments about Steve only out of embarrassment and diffidence. But you caught the way Steve had been suppressing a smile recently when the teasing started, even while trying to change the subject. The way he had been targeting you with those boyish smiles more frequently, as if waiting for you to be brave enough to smile back in the same way. And you started thinking maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to spend more time with someone like Steve - someone who could help you domesticate that creature inside you.
But if coming clean to Bucky had changed him from a friend to someone who detests you so abruptly, you didn’t want to think about the reception you would get from someone as pure and good Steve. Bucky’s body had been used for almost seventy years to murder targets and civilians alike - but you could still feel the look of disgust from the far end of the table slithering up your spine.
The heat in Serbia was utterly oppressive. It was the middle of the night, but the heat still pressed on you like a weight, sizzling all your nerve ends and heightening your agitation. Dampness collected at the back of your neck, curling those small hairs that were not long enough to be tied into your neat plait. You had woken up in a Belgrade hotel that morning, sheets soaked and eyes crusted shut with perspiration. It had only become hotter since.
You had been searching despairingly for something to say to Bucky for the last hour, but everything you thought of came off as a bit desperate and the heat was making you flustered. So you just kept your mouth shut instead. Bucky was wired like a barbed fence - you worried one wrong move would make you bleed. And besides, he would have to say something eventually.
Minutes passed. Every second was fraught with tension - you both knew this was it, you two would have to speak for the first time in weeks. You were both standing alone in a blind spot, four blocks away from the building you were targeting.
He puffed out a breath. “Into position. They’re ready for us.”
You gave him a curt nod. How goddamn anticlimactic. You trailed behind him as the team in your ear got ready to shut out the power to the building.
“Get movin’.” he barked at you without looking in your direction. You scowled to yourself.
“Shut up,” you whispered, not intending to be heard. He shot you an unforgiving look - his stern brow furrowing intimidatingly. It made your cheeks flame and you sped up, embarrassment settling in. Just like a child who had cursed under their breath. You noticed Bucky grinning slightly in your peripherals but you were too sheepish to feel at all astonished.
The tower you stopped in front of was robust and imposing; it wasn’t half the size of Stark Tower, but looked far more intimidating. It stood tall, brutal and grey, asserting itself proudly amongst the other smaller buildings. Your heart thumped out of sync with the rest of your body as you glanced upwards.
“You ready?” Bucky asked, searching you intently with his eyes as you approached a side entrance. You just blinked back at him. You hadn’t been expecting that.
If you were surprised by the question, you were immensely more so when Bucky refused to move. Like he was really waiting for your answer. His eyes held yours steadily, with none of the usual revulsion. You just nodded at him once, not able to manage much more.
He searched your expression one last time before nodding back and shooting a quick ’Now’ to Garcia in his ear. He waited for the red light on the door handle to go out and pushed it open.
The building was pitch black, but still cool from the AC that had been running seconds prior. The drastic change in temperature induced small bumps to surface over your arms.
There were still a few people in the building - security and late workers. You could hear a few of them call out in surprise in the otherwise deathly quiet. Maria had briefed you both to expect this. Bucky didn’t delay for a second, following the directions he had been provided with certainty, even in the complete absence of light. You followed closely after him, the tactical light on his gun showing you the way.
It took you a second to realise you had made it to the elevator hall when Bucky stopped. You looked around at them all and felt them with your mind, working your way around their edges and weighing them up: 6 options, all passenger lifts, all 2 tons or less.
Easy. If Bucky would stop looking at you.
You focused your attention to one of the elevators and attempted to pick it up with your mind. But at each attempt you struggled to blot him out. You could see him without looking, gazing at you with thinly veiled disapprobation and judging the worth of your abilities on these few seconds. It weakened your will.
“Performance anxiety?”
“Shut up,” you snapped, eyes flicking over to him. “You’re being intimidating on purpose.”
“Am I really that scary, darlin’?”
Your breath caught. Something about the way he said it - low and dangerous - made your stomach wound tight, betraying your own brain. His eyes were boring into you in the same stony way as always - but in that moment, in the darkness of that hall, it didn’t look like disgust or disapproval. It looked more like hunger.
He was closer to you than you had noticed. You could hear his breath, coming out in steady puffs. Could feel the heat radiating from his body in waves and caressing your skin. You wanted - you needed him to be closer. You trembled under the intensity of the gaze, feeling that familiar heat rushing to your cheeks. His eyes followed it, pupils dilating - blowing so wide as if trying to swallow the picture. You couldn’t help it - you let out a breathy gasp. It was quiet, probably imperceptible to anyone but Bucky. But something snapped. You watched as the look in his eyes went from hunger to all-out desire. There was no denying it anymore. You watched his hand twitch, as if deciding whether to reach out and touch -
There was a shout in the distance. Something in Serbian. You did not understand but Bucky seemed to.
“Get the lift.” he said, his voice low and cold. “I won’t look.”
You blinked dumbly at his composure. Your body was still in flames while his had turned to stone in an instant. You could already see his jaw twitching with impatience as you gathered yourself. Your breath was coming out in mortifying pants.
It did not take you long to summon the elevator this time. You pried apart the doors with ease, stepped in with Bucky, and sent it up to floor 40. You were still too dazed to even feel a sense of accomplishment after stepping out.
Bucky stalked over to the mainframe immediately while you hung self-consciously by the elevator, holding it up where it was with practiced ease. You tried not to think about him - about what just happened between the two of you, but you couldn’t help but be hyper aware of him. You weren’t even looking at him but you could feel him. Could almost still feel the heat radiating from him.
You were in agony as the seconds dripped by steadily. You had your back to Bucky, holding your breath - somewhere between stillness and frenzy. You waited to hear a soft sound, a step, a thought. But he worked quickly and silently before returning to your side, tucking the small hard drive into a pocket. It must have taken him less than five minutes in total.
You were about to say something - you weren’t even sure what it was - but booming male voices emerged nearby. In immediate and blind panic, you let go of the elevator and listened to it rattle, tumble and fall 40 floors to the ground. You froze for a beat, processing what you had just done.
Bucky grabbed your waist with bruising strength and jostled you into a corner. You weren’t completely out of sight but it was all you had time for. Three men - two of them burly and one thin - came sprinting to the platform and peered down the elevator shaft, shining industrial flashlights at it and speaking in rapid Serbian. You couldn’t understand what they were saying - it was all that you could do to lock eyes desperately with Bucky, grasping at any shape of composure while anxiety clawed its way up your chest. He was staring right back, maintaining your gaze steadily. His strong hands were still on your waist, gripping you tightly, as if he thought you might run if given the chance.
The darkness of the building was your best friend. If any of them moved their heads just slightly to the right, they would have seen you. And then it would all be over. Not that you would be in any danger, necessarily. Bucky could take all three out so quickly and so quietly, it would hardly cause even the slightest fuss.
But that wasn’t the objective. The objective was to keep it clean, tight, quiet. You had already fucked that up. Royally.
Something appeared to have been decided and the three men darted to a door across the hall. Bucky immediately dislodged himself from where he held you in the corner and took your hand gently instead to pull you out in front of the elevators again. The adrenaline was withdrawing from your body so rapidly that you felt faint.
“They think the elevator plummeted because of the power outage but they’re going down to the ground floor to take a look. We gotta get down there before them or we will be stuck here. I need you to call up another elevator. You think you can do that for me, doll?”
You think it was the confidence and calm in Bucky’s face that gave you the strength to rally. You weren’t entirely certain that he wasn’t faking it, but if he could watch you mess up so badly and still be able to appear to have faith in you, then you should be able to suck it up.
You nodded once and moved on autopilot. The elevator was summoned, the doors were pried apart and the two of you went hurling at breakneck speed towards the ground floor. Once you got to the platform, you made sure to close both doors behind you - leaving no trace, though you supposed it hardly mattered at this point. Bucky grabbed your hand again and the two of you went sprinting through the same door you came in.
The journey back to your hotel was a dim and blurry haze. You allowed Bucky to communicate with the team while you focused on your shame alone and tried not to let it swallow you whole. There was nothing to be said between the two of you; everything was perfectly understood. You had compromised the two of you and Bucky had been forced to save both the mission and your skins. The moment you shared before any of it went down felt like another timeline now - all you could think was that you had now finally proved to him once and for all that you had earned his disgust and distrust.
You were trembling by the time you made it back to your hotel room, hanging on to your emotions by the smallest thread that was slipping through your grasp by the second. When you opened the door to the dingy apartment, you hadn’t expected to see Bucky marching in behind you as you went to close the door. He was still chatting busily on the phone.
“Yes. Yeah, all secure. No complications in that regard. Can’t we discuss this in the brief once we’re back, Garcia?”
You glanced at him warily and you saw him glance warily back. You hadn’t heard him bring up your fuck-up yet, but there was always time to think about that later. Right now, you just needed him out.
“No, it’s fine. Ok. Talk later.”
With the phone back in his pocket, yourself and Bucky both blinked at each other. The silence was unrolling itself across the two of you - stretched, thin, awkward.
“I’d like to be alone, please.” you said. Your voice sounded pathetic and small even to yourself.
Bucky shifted on his feet, blue eyes flitting across the room. “They thought it was the power outage that caused it. I heard them say it.”
You didn’t have the patience to be comforted awkwardly by Bucky out of obligation right now - or the time. You could feel that familiar pot threatening to boil over, felt unreleased energy sparking in your temples and fingertips. You needed him gone before he could witness whatever it was that was about to burst forth.
You could have borne it, maybe, could have folded up the shame and tidied it away to deal with later - had it been anyone else there with you but him. But knowing how well acquainted he was with your sins and the guilt that they inspired meant you couldn’t hide from him. He had even heard it told from your own lips - long before he became a ghost to you.
He saw you for what you were. You felt it in every glance he shot your way, his face plastered with resentment. In the long, cold silences. In his unadulterated horror at even the smallest suggestion of a relationship between you and his friend. You didn’t need him to tell you what he saw; you already knew.
“I’d like to be alone, please.” you repeated. Your voice didn’t waver this time, but you could feel your eyes lose focus - becoming glazed with your blind panic.
“You might wanna be, but it doesn’t look like you should be.” was his gruff response.
The energy in your temples was spreading its way down your throat and to your chest - electricity was sizzling and bubbling inside you. “Why are you here? We’re not friends.”
You were snapping at him now. You needed him gone.
A clothes hanger soared out of the open wardrobe and you knew it was too late. Knew there was no time now to get him to leave.
You sat on the end of the bed and brought your knees to your chest, pressing your forehead to the top of your knees, allowing your face to touch the bare and warm skin below the hem of your shorts.
You tried this every time. It never worked.
The bedside lockers began to inch forward, as if being drawn by an attached rope. You didn’t see or hear this, all you could hear was a whirring - but you could feel yourself doing it with your mind. As if you were pulling them with your own hands by no choice of your own.
Bucky’s hands - warm and calloused - pulled your face free from where it was locked to your thighs. He cradled your cheeks with both hands and forced your eyes to his own.
“I’m gonna need you to calm down for me, doll. Can you do that?”
His hands were rough on your skin, the kind that belonged to years killing - but they cradled your face like you were something sacred. It struck you sideways, the strangeness and gentleness of it, before a vase went pummeling to the floor and the panic pulled you back under.
“You don’t need to be nice.” you forced out, your voice muffled and strange. “Just let me deal with it.”
The speed was picking up. The framed posters were flying from the walls, clothes were shooting out from your suitcase. Trying to stop it from exploding was the worst part. You knew you were trying to fight the inevitable but it seemed that to just resign yourself to it would be unforgivable, even if it was like trying to plug a river with your thumb.
Bucky’s hands moved from your face to your hands, clutching them with a numbing grip. You were briefly surprised to glance up and find him unshaken. His jaw was clenched, but you couldn’t see any other signs of unease. His blue eyes were trained on you with unaffected calmness and care. His voice was low and subdued, almost a whisper, when he spoke.
“It’s not your fault, darlin’. Shit happens and we deal with it. You got us outta there, didn’t you? We got it done, didn’t we?”
A beat passed while you just looked at him.
He slowly let go of your hands, bringing his flesh arm to your back and metal arm to the underside of your knees. The metal was pleasantly cool against your skin. Lifting you with impossible ease, Bucky tentatively brought you to his lap. Slowly, giving you plenty of time to look or sound an objection, he covered you in an embrace.
Without thinking, you wrapped your arms around him and breathed him in, suppressed shakes and sobs escaping from your body. You scramble to get closer, to feel his body beneath your touch - warm and solid. Bucky didn’t say much - he murmured a few encouraging words, repeating that it is not your fault, repeating that you got them out of there. But it felt like he was holding all your pent up silence, your pain, your guilt, just for a few moments. It felt like you were able to put it down and let him take it on for you temporarily.
You weren’t sure when the objects stopped flying across the room. You surrendered your power to Bucky, and sobbed into his shoulder until you were worn out.
When you woke up, everything was put back into its rightful place. The objects you broke were either mended or cleared out. You found yourself beneath the duvet.
And Bucky was gone.
Bucky had been extracted from Serbia early.
There were still some loose ends to tie up in Belgrade but this was evidently below his paygrade. You were left to wrap up the mission with the rest of the team.
Dan Garcia was more than happy to keep your mind occupied with conversation while his team worked. You found that it was no wonder he worked his way up the army ladder so young, being as he was; handsome, charming, and very personable. You could admit, however, that his charm as it was applied to you sometimes tested the bounds of friendliness or professionalism, and you sometimes came away from the workday with a headache that was not only induced by the Serbian heat. But at least it kept you busy.
You knew your own feelings well enough to identify that emptiness you felt when you discovered Bucky had left the hotel room and the country.
You were in love with him.
You thought maybe you always had been, since the very first day he took you under his wing at Stark Tower.
You hated him for it, but hated yourself more.
If you were pathetic enough to let a love like this survive the cold-shoulder Bucky had been giving you, maybe you needed a bit of a reality check.
In a way, you supposed it was better like this. You needed a few days to get your head around what had happened between the two of you anyway and steel yourself to the fact that it will never mean anything. Because you’re still you and he’s still disgusted by all your baggage and guilt and yes, okay, maybe somewhere in the darkest recesses of your brain, you sometimes thought that you shouldn’t really be allowed to love someone and be loved back anyway. The force with which you wanted him was humiliating and unrelenting, but at least in Serbia you didn’t have to dread bumping into him over breakfast.
By the time you did make it back to Stark Tower, you were all anxious uncertainty. Not only about how Bucky would react after your episode, but also about what the team knew of the events. You knew Bucky would have told them about the elevator but the hotel? Would he have said anything about that?
When, however, you walked into the kitchen on the evening of that first day and were met with a host of congratulations, coupled with some not-very-subtle digs at Bucky for initially doubting you, you knew he hadn’t said a word about any of it. Not the elevator, not the hotel. Nothing.
You weren’t sure if this concealment was a wise decision on his part, but as the decision was already made (and admittedly because it yielded the best outcome for you), you elected to say nothing of the events to anyone else.
Bucky hung back while you spoke to the rest of the team. You were sure that he had concealed the events in Serbia for your benefit, but you could not reconcile this man who refused to even look in your direction with one that would be so kind to you. You could reconcile this man even less with the one who held you close to him just a few short days ago.
He didn’t sit down at the table with the rest of the team and the message was clear. Nothing had changed.
When Steve winked at you and said, “It was all my training, of course.”, Bucky audibly scoffed from where was standing. The team pretended not to notice, but you could see the way their movements slowed down. Sam looked over at Bucky, perplexed. Bruce kept his eyes to his food but didn't eat. You were worried Bucky would say something - expose your failure from Serbia - when Wanda contributed a second scoff. “You wish, Rogers.”
You smiled and took a swig of your drink, but it felt like razorblades going down.
You saw Dan Garcia walking past the door to the kitchen as you were finishing up your meal. He peered in the door to smile at you and a sense of obligation, as well as a desire to escape Bucky’s presence, propelled you out of the room to greet him.
“Hey. Wasn’t expecting to see you here.”
“Maria called me in to deliver the report.” he said, holding up a thick manilla envelope for display. “I guess email feels too impersonal.”
He was on the wrong floor for that, but you didn’t point it out.
“Right,” you laughed. “Maybe she wants to do some team bonding.”
He rolled his eyes, a smile etching itself on his face.
“Hope you’re getting the hero’s welcome you deserve,” he said.
You shifted. “That’s a bit generous.”
“Come on,” he pressed on, not catching the way your eyes were flitting towards the door. “You did a great job. You deserve a bit of credit.”
He was clearly also not aware of the elevator incident. You paused, hoping he would change the subject. When he didn’t, you simply said, “Couldn’t have done it without you, Garcia.” because no other response was immediately coming to you.
He dismissed this and emitted a booming laugh, but the compliment was felt. He lost a fight against a grin and stood straighter, his chest puffing forward like a pigeon.
“Please,” he scoffed. “I sat in a truck talking to a pretty girl who knew exactly what she was doing. Very humbling.”
Your face went hot. You hadn’t meant to embolden him with the compliment - had rather meant to change the focus away from your own fake accomplishments.
You floundered a bit and Garcia, likely mistaking this for flattery, puffed his pigeon chest out a little bit more.
You hadn’t taken any heed of Bucky walking towards you - not until he was standing directly in front of you.
All 6 feet and 5 inches of Bucky’s figure was imposing and intimidating. It was always stupefying to see him and feel the power of his presence, no matter how accustomed to him you were. You were also well used to his formidable glares, but you weren’t used to seeing them directed at someone else. Garcia didn’t notice that anything was amiss, still smiling at you.
“Hi, Barnes. How’s it going?”
“What are you doing here?” he asked, voice sharp enough to cut glass.
Now, Garcia looked at him properly. You could identify the second that he registered Bucky’s severe countenance, losing his smile, chest deflating. He blinked.
“Have to drop a report to Maria.” he said, smiling with forced ease.
“Better get to it then.” It was a command. A dismissal, flat and unmistakable.
You watched Garcia’s mouth open and close. Bucky wasn’t like this with him, ever. You had seen the way they got along. He treated the agents well - always steady, calm, fair, even when annoyed. He never pulled rank on him like this.
Garcia turned to you with a tight, polite smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “See you later.”
You murmured a goodbye and watched him take off down the hall, shoulders tense.
Yourself and Bucky stood across from each other as his footsteps faded, neither of you speaking. Bucky’s cold expression attached itself to you in the absence of Garcia, and you waited for him to explain what had just happened.
Instead of explaining and without even offering an excuse, Bucky took one last glance at you before taking off down the opposite corridor. You watched him go with astonishment - had almost let him disappear out of sight - but your legs moved quicker than your mind.
He was a fast walker. You ran to keep up.
“What the fuck, Bucky? What was that?”
He didn’t look at you, just continued walking down the corridor. You felt your blood pressure spike, a rattling pain entering into your head and your vision blurred with anger. You felt you might have started screaming at him, then and there - demanding explanations and apologies - but he spoke.
“He shouldn’t be here. This is our floor.”
You rolled your eyes.
“When has that mattered before? We get visitors up here all the time.”
“Visitors are invited.” he snapped. “He isn’t wanted here.”
Bucky made it to a door and began to open it, but you slammed it shut again using your mind. It wasn’t necessary - you knew that - but you put so much weight behind that slam, it physically pushed him back. For just a beat, his eyebrows raised and he looked at you in complete astonishment.
You refused to feel embarrassed anymore. You refused to keep playing on his terms.
“Why do you get to decide that he wasn’t wanted here? Why do you get to make that call?” You were cracking open now; the boards of your restraint were splintering. You weren’t really talking about Garcia anymore - didn’t give a damn about him - but Bucky chose not to notice.
“Don’t be stupid.” he barked. Energy was surrounding you both, whirling around the two of you and capturing you both in a bubble. His voice lowered now, sending your heart rate skyrocketing. He came closer, towered above you.
He was looking at you with a deep heat that settled in your bones and warmed you from the inside. His eyes looked the same way they did in Serbia, that moment before the world came crashing down. Hungry.
Your entire body flushed. You wished more than anything that you could control your reaction to him - wish you could fight that pierce of want he sent through you.
“You really think he was here for paperwork? I know what those sergeants are like, doll. I used to be one of them. He was here for you.”
Your courage was leaving you fast. Your face tingled and went pink with heat as you felt his words low in your abdomen. You watched his sharp, stubbled jaw twitch as he focused on the blush on your cheeks, his eyes blowing dark and wide.
Oh…
Something about the way he was entranced by your blush was lighting a fire in your skin and coiling something up tight in your belly.
“What if that’s what I want?” you managed cautiously. You were bluffing.
He reached out and finally - finally - touched you, his large, calloused hand enveloping your face and running his thumb over your blushing cheek. The warmth of his hand travelled to your stomach and nestled low. You fought to stay still, to hide how badly you wanted him, but tremors were running through you.
“It’s not though, is it darlin’?.” he whispered, his low voice spreading over your body like honey.
You felt completely bare and exposed to him - you couldn’t hide anything from him, couldn’t pretend any longer.
“Kills me to see you give those pretty little blushes away to Steve but I can almost believe he deserves them. They aren’t meant for boys like Garcia.”
He leaned closer before you could process his words and placed a featherlight kiss on the edge of your neck. You gasped, the feeling of his warm lips sending shockwaves all the way down to your navel.
Bucky pulled away from you, breathing heavily and completely broken. You blinked back at him, struck dumb by the feeling of him so close and desperate for him to continue. It took you a second to realise that you were surrounded by broken ceramic.
You glanced dimly at the now-broken vase on the floor. It had flown from the table and hit the wall less than ten feet from you. You could feel small, beige pieces of clay crunch beneath your shoes as you shifted uncomfortably. A sudden chill came over you, wiping out all the heat left by Bucky’s kiss to your neck. You recognised it as the same Japandi sculptural vase that littered every floor on the building - nothing special or irreplaceable about it. But the moment was over.
You stumbled awkwardly away from Bucky, watching his metal fingers twitch, as if aching to grab you again. It was almost comical how quickly you had gone from wanting him closer - willing to do anything to have him - to wishing he was a million miles away.
You squirmed for a bit, reluctantly looking over at him. He was now also looking at the fragments on the carpeted floor. You struggled to get a read on him, like he was retreating into himself and going to a place you could no longer reach. If anything, he just looked tired.
This was too much. You squeezed your eyes shut and tried to force your mind blank, squashing down your embarrassment and shame. The last thing you wanted was to send the table flying with it.
“I’ll, um…” you staggered out, “I better go ask someone to help clean that up.”
You shuffled down the corridor quickly, ignoring Bucky’s voice calling your name behind you and thanking your blessings that he did not decide to follow.
You were wretched. Completely immoveable.
Steve’s text inviting you to join the team for some beers in the communal area had been unanswered for the last hour. You didn’t consider the offer for even a second but you did wonder if Bucky was down there with them. You doubted it.
You didn’t even have the energy for your telekinesis to play up and throw some shit around. All you had the energy to do was to replay your conversation with Bucky over and over again - the arguing, the look he gave you when you blushed, his lips on your neck. You could still feel it as if it left a bruise.
His words: Kills me to see you give those pretty little blushes away to Steve but I can almost believe he deserves them.
What did that mean?
You thought maybe you knew but it felt too ludicrous, like something you invented to make yourself feel better. Your stomach capsized each time you replayed it.
You couldn’t understand what his feelings were - maybe it was pointless to even try.
He could pretend that nothing happened between the two of you in front of the elevators in Serbia. Could even say that the way he held you in your hotel room that night meant nothing - that he was just doing his job. But he couldn’t pretend now - not after his lips had touched you the way they did.
Your phone lit up from your pillow.
STEVE: Come on down
STEVE: Don’t make me come get you!
You sighed.
You couldn’t really fool yourself into believing you ever felt anything more than friendship for Steve, but it was nice to think about sometimes. Like, the thought of being with someone who actually wanted you back made you feel hopeful about your future. The idea that some day you could fall for someone who didn’t look at you with disgust while thinking of your past transgressions - like you could be normal.
Damn Bucky for ruining that for you. One sentence from him and now you can’t even think of anyone else without a dull ache forming in your chest.
You didn’t even know how long you had been horizontal for, but it was too long. You fought every muscle in your body to haul yourself out of your bed and to the kitchenette. You knew there was nothing in your fridge worth eating but you looked anyway: sour cream, half a jar of pasta sauce and some peaches that were probably gone off. Nope.
A knock at your door made you stand up straight, closing the fridge. Annoyance prickled at your skin.
“I’m tired, Steve.” you called out, hoping it would be enough to deter him but doubting it. “I think I’ll stay in.”
“Maybe later.” you added gently when you didn’t get a response.
Dead silence from outside your door. You rolled your eyes and mouthed a silent ‘Fuck this’. Begrudgingly, you trudged over to the door, ready to shoot down his ploy to get you out the door.
Bucky stood in front of you, somber and irritable. He looked down at you grumpily, his jaw clenched and a wrinkle between his brows. His hair was mussed up, like he had been running his hands through it. Your heart lurched.
“Not Steve. Sorry to disappoint.” he grumbled.
You were stunned. You fumbled for a bit, feeling awkward and out of place in your own skin, but could eventually do nothing but absently step aside and allow him to enter.
He crossed the threshold hesitantly and when you closed the door behind him, you turned to observe him. It was so bizarre to see him in your room. He was almost too big for it, towering over everything and taking up your space. You watched his eyes travel around the studio, fixing themselves to your recently-vacated bed, to the books on your shelf, to the pictures on the walls of your loved ones who you hadn’t called in far too long, to the dishes in your sink.
You wondered if this was just as strange for him. You wondered if he had ever pictured what your room might look like. You had imagined his. In your mind, Bucky’s room had no pictures or posters. His shelf was filled with books - modern classics and sci-fi - which kept his mind occupied when insomnia had its grips on him. It was neat and tidy aside from a leather jacket draped over the arm of his sofa and a lazily made bed.
Bucky fixed his sullen stare on you.
“I wanted to apologise.”
You weren’t sure what you were expecting. Not that.
“What for?”
“For…” You had never seen him in as much discomfort before. And you had seen him get shot. “I shouldn’t have gotten close to you… like that. Earlier.”
“You shouldn’t have got-? Oh fuck you, Bucky.”
You could think of plenty of things he could apologise for, but that wasn’t one of them. For a moment, you just stared at his astonishment. He was surprised by the fury and humiliation he found buried in your voice. It almost made you more enraged that he was surprised. Like he didn’t know what he was doing when you were feeling every bit of the blow he just dealt you.
The anger was helping you ignore the brutal chasm in your chest but didn’t quite do enough to fend off the humiliated tears.
“Do you think I’m some sort of machine? That I don’t have feelings? I know what I’ve done, I know what you think of me. I don’t need you to make me pay for it every day - it haunts me enough, Bucky! Do you think I am heartless enough to not feel this by myself? Because you’re wrong. I have as much heart as you, and if I can see yours past everything you have done, then you should be able to see mine too.”
You didn’t fully know what you were saying. If you had been thinking, you might have regretted bringing up his past but all you could think about was your own pain. You could hear glass smash somewhere behind you but you didn’t look. Bucky was startled, his blue eyes distraught, hands reaching out for you.
“I don’t expect anything from you, but this is cruel, Bucky, it’s not fair.” you wailed, squirming to evade his grasp. “You can’t play with my feelings like this and expect me to- let me go!”
You could see Bucky through blurry eyes, even as you did your best to wiggle out of his grasp. He said your name like a plea, but you could barely hear him. He had gone pale, face awash with panic and mouth ajar.
“No, that’s not-” he ushered out, desperately. His eyes were searching for yours but they wouldn’t meet him. “I never thought less of you for anything that happened in your past. How could you think that? Me, of all people.”
You froze finally, slightly dazed.
“What?” you tried to say, but it came out as a croak.
““I can’t help but want you, but I can’t let myself have you. I’m no good for you, sweetheart. No good for anyone, but definitely not you.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I love you.”
The words fell in front of you and landed at your feet.
You finally looked at him. He was looking down at you, brooding and handsome. You had never seen him like this, so hopeless and scared - it terrified you. Your mouth filled with cotton.
“That doesn’t make sense.”
“I know,” he laughed bitterly, with a sad, resigned smile. You hated how cavalier he was being about this. Was this some sort of joke to him?
His grip on your forearms loosened as he became sure that you wouldn’t bolt, but he didn’t drop them.
“If you… then why…” you couldn’t get the words out. Your tongue suddenly weighed a ton in your mouth.
“You gave me a look, couple months ago.” Bucky said, mouth twitching at how ridiculous it sounded. “When you were telling me about your past. Looked at me like I could… I dunno, kiss the pain away or something. Killed me, darlin’. Because I know I’ll just make it worse. I’ve got too much shit to…”
Bucky was struggling. You could see him grapple with his words, force them out. He was so pathetic and beautiful, you had to stop yourself from leaning into him.
“Because you should be with someone like Steve. Someone who’s good, all the time.” he said coldly and his brow furrowed like he didn’t want to admit it. “You said you wanted to feel normal again. That’s not something I can help with.”
You bit your cheek hard until a bitter, metallic taste flooded your mouth. Something was blooming inside you as much as you tried to suppress it.
All that shame, all the ruminating over how you had shared too much… all for nothing. He loved you.
“You’re idiotic.” you breathed.
An attractive little line formed in between his brows and he pouted, uncharacteristically boyish.
“I don’t want Steve. Never have.” you said. “I can’t feel normal around someone who is good all the time - it makes me feel, like, some freak of nature or something. I have only ever felt normal when I’m with you.”
The words swim between you for a moment.
Bucky was ravaged. His pretty, blue eyes met yours in what you now recognised to be adoration. He was almost dazed at your confession. You could tell he was uncertain of how to act, what to do. You looked at him for a beat.
“Did you have to choose that day to go cold on me?” you continued. “I spilled my guts and you just… I thought…” you couldn’t finish your thought because his face crumpled as he seemed to understand all at once. The way his constant rejection retraumatised you, made you feel subhuman.
“I’m so sorry, sweetheart.” he said, voice low and gravelly. His face was twisted with agony and he wiped a large hand over his face. “I never meant to make you feel that way, I just thought you would be better off with space. Every time I looked at you, I just thought about how you would be happier with someone else and it made me feel sick. Jesus, I’m sorry. Nothing you said changed how I feel about you. I think nothing could.”
It was too late for this, right? It should be, but…
You stepped closer to him, shoes touching and faces a hair’s breadth apart. Slowly, hesitantly, your hand travelled up between the two of you. Bucky’s throat bobbed up and down as he watched it move and you felt a shallow gasp escape him when it landed on the side of his neck, gently cupping the skin there. His eyes fluttered closed, like he had been waiting for this for years.
You stood there for a second, bathing in the reaction he had to your touch.
You wished you could have made him sweat a bit more, maybe even beg. But you knew this would be the outcome whatever way you swung it. Knew it would end up with his hot skin on yours, and you had waited for that long enough. You couldn’t help it. Something about him was made just for you, molded specifically for you to love and keep.
“I love you too.” you whispered.
He leaned forward to kiss you then, his hand guiding your face to his carefully and pressing his lips to yours with great restraint. The other hand went to your waist and pulled you towards him.
The feeling of his coarse lips, the scrape of his dark stubble against your jaw - it was unearthly. Your heart was pounding and you knew he could hear it. Your lips moved tentatively against his at first. Slowly.
You couldn’t quite believe that this was happening. It felt like something from one of your dreams. You almost expected to wake up, bedsheets soaked and a hollow throb wracking your body.
His lips were so sweet against yours and you thought you could feel every ounce of his love in the gesture. You wanted to stand there with him - just like this - all night.
But the heat in your stomach slowly melted its way between your legs. Your brain went haywire. You couldn’t think - couldn’t even feel anything except his hands, his lips, his body against yours. He was overwhelming your senses and sending you into overdrive.
Bucky made a low, dark sound against your lips, feeling you respond to him, and you stilled. You parted from him for just a second, breathing heavy. His eyes were dark, glassy, focused on you - traveling your face and heavy with desire. He was a man possessed. You knew there was no going back now. Couldn’t if you tried.
When you kissed him again, there was nothing tentative about it. It was messy and raw. Hands reaching to his neck, chest pressing up against him, thighs pressing together, desperate for friction. Closer, closer, closer. The need for him was building in you. You were afraid to ever stop, in case he walked away again.
“Tryin’ to be a gentleman here.” he said between kisses. You didn’t stop.
You could feel Bucky’s restraint breaking. His hands travelled downwards and you could feel the imprint of each individual finger grip possessively on your hips and he pulled you closer and, shit, his hands felt beautiful on the flesh of your hips. He lifted you with almost impossible ease and you instinctively wrapped your thighs around his waist. You could feel him stiff against you when he sat you both down on your unmade bed, you now straddling his lap. It sent a thrill up your spine, your whole body wired with nothing but pure want while his hands stroked and squeezed your bare thighs.
The way his mouth moved against yours was sinful and he felt so big and broad against your touch. You had thought about him like this almost obsessively. You wanted more. You wanted everything he had to give you.
The thumb of his metal hand dipped into your loose lounge shorts and caressed a line where your abdomen cascades down to your groin. You gasped at the sudden cold sensation, pulling out of his kiss and throwing your head back. He attacked your neck, lathering kisses there instead. Lips, tongue, teeth.
You had lost all sense of yourself, completely immersed in him. You jumped, feeling his hand enter your underwear and his thumb brush your clit lightly. It knocked the wind out of you - forced a moan from your lips. A frame came crashing down from the wall with a loud thud but neither of you paid it any attention. Bucky responded with a groan of his own and ground his finger down harder. The metal ridges on his hand created a friction you had never before in your life experienced.
Bucky raised his head. “Can you feel how wet you are, sweetheart?” he murmured, eyes half-lidded and hazy with desire.
You could. You were dripping. You could see the evidence on his jean-clad thighs.
He continued to rub loving shapes inside the now-transparent fabric of your underwear. You saw stars. “Making such a mess. I’ve barely touched you yet.”
Yet.
“Look at that.” he murmured, brushing a finger of his unoccupied hand over the heat that was blooming in your cheek. “Going all pink for me.”
You squirmed and whined and bucked desperately for him, hips canting and gyrating, feeling completely out of your mind. You were embarrassed by Bucky’s vulgar words and his probing focus on your face but you didn’t have the power to hide anything from him.
He slipped a finger inside you and you felt a streak of white-hot pleasure burst through you. You gripped him and grinded down, almost against your own will. The cool metal finger was delicious against your warmth. Bucky sighed and you felt the gust of breath hit your mouth. You kissed him again.
“You should see yourself right now, baby. Cute and shy and blushing while you wiggle around, trying to take my finger deeper. So perfect.”
He was torturing you. He smiled wickedly and refused to move a muscle, basking in how you whined and twitched for him. You knew he was waiting for you to beg for him to move but you couldn’t form words.
You were past embarrassment, too far-gone. You grabbed his large shoulders and began to grind your hips up and down pathetically, whimpering his name.
Bucky was clearly not expecting this. His eyes blew wide as he watched you feverishly, drinking in your movements. “So pretty fucking yourself on my finger.” he whispered and you were suddenly landing softly on the bed.
Bucky was standing above you, towering over. You hadn’t really thought about how you might be affecting him, too focused on the bruising pleasure he was sending through your veins. But he looked wrecked. Messy hair, swollen lips, dark eyes piercing through yours with desire. You could see the large, hard outline of him through his jeans, his crotch and thighs now wet and sticky with the evidence of your burning need for him. All traces of that cocky superiority were gone, replaced with a sort of desperation.
“Can I make you feel good? Please?” It came out as a plea.
You thought about teasing him, saying something cheeky and coquettish, making him beg. But he had already knocked any resemblance of control out of your head. You weren’t even sure if you could pretend anymore. You just nodded.
With painful leisurliness and precision, Bucky lifted you into the centre of the bed. His strength was always a surprise to you, even knowing that he was a super soldier. He lifted your entire body like you weighed no more than a feather.
You tugged at the fabric of his t-shirt and he pulled away to raise an eyebrow at you, but lifted it off, followed by his jeans. He was left in only a pair of black briefs. You had been around Bucky while he was shirtless before, but had never been brave enough to let yourself look for more than a few seconds at a time. His arms supported his weight as he covered your body with his own on the bed, hills and valleys of huge, tanned muscles pulled tight. You let your eyes fall to his chest, where his dog tags sat, wet with perspiration, between huge pectoral muscles. His thighs were large and all muscle and you pictured yourself sitting on them. But it was his underwear that caught your attention, really. The black fabric was straining against the giant outline of his cock. You couldn’t look at it too long - you were already shaking with want. He was so big and pretty and yours.
He smiled at your wandering gaze and pressed his lips to yours again, swallowing each noise you made hungrily. You sank your head into the pillow and let him kiss you, feeling lightheaded and gooey at the reverence you could feel coming from him in waves. His mouth felt so right on yours, it almost made you angry. How could he have made you wait so long for this?
You would give him hell later, maybe. Right now, he was moving his kisses down your neck, leaving a trail of sizzling skin behind him. When he reached the top of your crewneck, he played with the hem, eyes looking up to you for a split-second for permission. Your lips twitched into a smile. His finger had already been inside you.
He seemed to understand and pulled your top over your head gently, under which your breasts were bare. Reaching down with both hands, he slid your drenched shorts and panties down your legs until you were completely bare before him.
He pulled up onto his knees to stare at you like this for a moment, drinking you in lazily with dark eyes. His eyes paused at your breasts and travelled down your stomach slowly before catching on your glistening heat. He made a strangled noise at the back of his throat as he saw it properly for the first time. You flushed under his gaze, a hint of self-consciousness tugging at you suddenly.
“I love it so much when you blush for me, sweetheart. Hated seeing you get all hot and bothered for Steve. I’ll keep this pretty pussy so busy, you’ll never think about him again.”
You hadn’t noticed his arm moving down until his hand found your clit again, calloused fingers clutching and rubbing with jealous vigour on your clit. You were so wet, he had to grind down hard to find the right friction.
You cried out and heard a loud crash somewhere in your apartment, making Bucky chuckle.
“Never felt like this for Steve.” you said, voice breathy and whiney. “Was just- ah- was just embarrassed. By everyone…”
You couldn’t finish your sentence. Bucky was grinning wide at you, possessive and wolfish, rewarding you for your confession by sliding one finger into you and then two. You thought your eyes might have rolled back momentarily but you weren’t sure.
“Thought you got sick of waiting for me. Moved on to Steve.” he growled, pushing his fingers in and out of you with punishing languidness. “But the whole time you were just mine, weren’t you?”
“Yours.” you agreed, nodding frantically.
“Fuck.” he moaned, wide eyed, flushed, desperate. “I’ll give you everything you want. I love you.”
You thought you might want to hear that again, and again, and again.
Bucky pulled you to the edge of the bed and got to his knees in front of you. He began to kiss your breasts, taking each nipple into his mouth briefly before continuing on his way down your stomach, nipping the skin there lightly with each kiss. You lay back and could feel his cold dogtags trailing against your skin. When he lingered for a second on the basement of your stomach, you could feel them knocking against the heat between your legs. You shivered.
Finally, finally, he looked up at you, caught your eyes, and lowered his beautiful mouth to where you needed him most.
The sounds you made were obscene but you had no control over them. Instinctively, you tried to close your thighs, feeling overwhelmed by the pleasure he was affording you, but he pried them apart instantly while licking a stripe up your pussy.
You felt his finger probe your entrance lightly, teasing you with just one inch while he latched on to your clit and sucked.
He could have made you come apart at the seams in a matter of seconds and he knew it, slowing down or stopping when your moans became a little too whiney.
“I think about seeing you like this all the time.” he admitted in between kisses and licks to your clit. He gave you another few inches of his finger and stroked your walls. “Legs spread and whining for me like a brat. Can’t sleep without thinking about making you come on my tongue.”
The image of Bucky alone in bed, thinking about you like this with a metal hand on his cock, had you gasping. Your mind instinctively tossed over your bedside locker. It landed on its side with a loud thud. It sounded like the leg might have snapped off.
Bucky barked out a laugh, seeing it collapse beside him where he was kneeling at the floor. For probably the first time in your life, you laughed at this strange, troublesome power of yours too.
It lasted only a second.
Bucky pulled his finger out completely before adding another, pushing both in to the hilt. They were so long and thick - you all but screamed at the sudden fullness. A dish exploded in the sink.
“So responsive.” he said, awe-struck. “You only have two of my fingers, sweetheart. Can’t wait to see how you take my cock. Maybe tomorrow. I’ll fill you up so good.”
His words were striking you dumb. It occurred to you briefly in your pleasure-drunk haze that you would probably never again be able to be with anybody but him. Not after feeling what it was like with Bucky. It wasn’t like this with anyone else. This was it.
“I love you.” you whispered to him, brushing your hand through his dark hair. The look he gave you in return was so adoring and soft, it almost made you burst into tears. You didn’t know you could be loved like this.
But then he was grinding his fingers in and out of you and you yelped at his exquisite, excruciating pace. You grinded down further on his fingers and you were speaking in tongues, babbling nonsense.
“I love you, I’m yours, Bucky. All yours. I love you, please, feels so good, I love- ah”
You suddenly jerked on his fingers, laying up on your elbows and noticing that Bucky had his unoccupied hand in his underwear, stroking himself to the sight of you, the feel of you, your words.
The hand Bucky had inside you slowed - almost stopped - to prevent you from coming. You were so close. You wanted to see what he was doing under his briefs. Wanted his tongue back on you. Wanted to come. But you didn’t have the words, your debilitating shyness overriding anything.
He saw your flustered state and smirked, continuing to stroke himself at a brisk pace, almost gloating.
“What’s wrong, sweetheart? You want my tongue back? Gonna have to use your words.”
“Bucky, please.” you begged.
“Please what?” he mocked you, throwing his head back at the pleasure he was giving himself.
You flashed red and he breathed a laugh. Irritation flashed through you quickly and before you could think about it, your mind was probing out gently. With great carefulness, you used all your concentration to slowly and gently push Bucky’s head downwards.
All amusement fleeted from his face and was replaced immediately with a dark kind of astonishment. “Fuck, baby,” he sighed, completely ruined. “Not so shy when you need me this bad, huh?” You saw his hand grip himself tighter. He surrendered himself to your power.
He allowed his head to be pushed down, immediately pressing his tongue flat and sloppy against your clit, circling. His fingers sped up inside you, pistoning in and out with a desperate and mismeasured pace.
“You’re so messy, sweet girl.” You felt his words vibrate against you.
You looked down. A mix of your slick and Bucky’s spit was spilling all the way down your trembling thighs and onto the floor. You might have cared even a few moments ago but you were too far gone, slurring praises and ‘I love you’s.
“You gonna come, baby?”
You nodded, not checking whether he saw. He was making beautiful noises against your clit.
“Good. I’m about to spill into my underwear at the taste of you.”
Your vision went white and you fell apart. When your orgasm took you, you grabbed his hair instinctively and screamed, cunt pulsing and squeezing around his fingers, bucking your hips up to grind against his mouth. You dimly heard furniture and decorations and tableware crashing around you but you barely noticed it. If anything, it just reinforced that the world was crashing down around you with the intensity of the experience.
He was talking you through it, telling you how good and messy and pretty you were. He continued to make out with your pussy as he spilled into his underwear, muttering filthy praises about how good you tasted.
It took you a moment to come to. When you finally opened your eyes, you saw he had moved you back into the bed and under the covers. The room was in tatters, clothes strewn everywhere, furniture in pieces, broken glass on the floor.
Bucky let out a throaty laugh, watching you look around the room in astonishment. “You made a mess in more ways than one.”
Heat began to bloom in your abdomen and face again at his words and he laughed again. “Give this old man a chance to recover, sweetheart.”
You giggled and looked at him with shy interest, not sure where exactly to go from here. You wanted him closer but didn’t know how to ask.
Bucky smiled, staring down at you with such a loving gaze, it made you feel like you were floating. “Still shy? After all that?”
“Stop.” you groaned, slapping his bicep. You forced him closer using your mind, and he slipped towards you with a yelp, blue eyes wide with fascination. “I’ll never get used to that.”
“I’ll never get used to this.” you sighed, nuzzling into his chest and breathing in his smell.
“Well you better.” He placed a kiss on the top of your head and you melted. “Because I’m done with all that self-sacrificing bullshit. I’m all yours now. But I think we better fuck in a padded room from now on.”
When you sat down at breakfast with the team the next day, you affected a casual indifference. You didn’t arrive with a pep in your step, didn’t send any moonstruck looks Bucky’s way, didn’t chat any more or less than normal. You sat beside Steve, same as always. Chatted with Wanda, same as always. Ignored Bucky, same as always.
It was inevitable that the team would eventually find out about yourself and Bucky. But, for now, it felt like an electric, intoxicating secret - something just for the two of you.
Bucky wasn’t quite as good as you at hiding his stares. You felt his stare prickle and light up your skin, but nobody else seemed to notice.
Sam called for your attention and you turned to him, still laughing at something Wanda had said. “What the hell did you do to Steve?”
“When?” you asked, raising a perplexed eyebrow.
“Last night. He went to go get you for beers with all of us. Poor guy came back without you, red as Tony’s goddamn suit. Wouldn’t tell us anything except that you were busy.”
Your head snapped over to Steve who was sinking in his chair, looking like he wanted to slip and melt into the ground.
Your face exploded with heat and your eyes shot to Bucky instinctively.
All eyes one-by-one followed yours to Bucky, who was leaning back in his chair with a self-satisfied smirk dancing on his lips.
synopsis: Everyone knows that yourself and Steve should never have been put on the same team; you fight like dogs and spark like live-wires. But maybe not all of that tension is hate.
warnings: enemies to lovers, smut smut smut (fingering, oral - f receiving, unprotected p in v, creampie, size kink, mild spitting, rough sex, hate sex but add yearning, slight exhibitionism & public sex & risk of getting caught - fawking in the workplace), canon-typical violence (nothing graphic), description of gunshot, a lot of fighting but they are closeted cutiepies, cursing, steve rogers is a MUNCH and that's canon (to me),
word count: 12.3k words (literally 5k is smut. i wish i was joking. i have no impulse control)
a/n: i tried to do a bit of an inverse on the whole 'steve rogers is a golden retriever' thing in this so there are way too many references to dogs lmao (see: title). i physically cannot write hate sex without yearning bc i am a lover girl. someone release me from these shackles.
Steve has a big fucking issue with you.
You can’t remember exactly when it started but you do know that you liked each other just fine before you joined his team. Back then, you’d thought his unyielding, boy-scout-adjacent sense of duty and honour was kind of cute. He’d hold doors, call you ma’am, talk about doing the right thing as if it was just easy in a job like this. As if it was always clear as day what the right thing to do was.
Now, his virtue is just exhausting.
You’re watching him spar with Sam from the corner of the training floor as dusk descends outside the window and the training room becomes a sort of cave. Dim yellow light is spilling over the room, drowning it in a blurry smog. People are clearing out for the day, but not Steve. Each of his punches are pulled, each strike carefully calculated to inflict just the right amount of force in order to win but not injure. Steve could have Sam pinned in two minutes flat and both of them know it. The frustration in Sam’s expression is tickling you - you recognise it well.
You used to taunt Steve for this kind of thing during training runs and team building events, and he’d tease you right back. That boyish smile would give way to something a bit more wicked and an unnamed heat would pool low in your stomach at his crack in composure. You had been sure he was only days away from asking you out - some very proper invitation to the pictures with an assurance that he would drop you back by a reasonable hour, most likely. But then you got a promotion and came under his leadership.
He moves through missions like he’s got some do-gooder checklist in his head, and you can feel him watching every corner you cut. He doesn’t have to say a word (though he often does); the disapproval is baked into the air between you. Whatever spark had been building between the two of you got buried somewhere between all his rules and all the ways you’d break them.
A side-mission from Fury here, a refusal to wait for backup there - and suddenly you two are enemies. Or adversaries, at the least
You remind him frequently, in the throes of fiery screaming matches that make the rest of the team avert their eyes, that this is the way SHIELD trained you. He is the one going against the grain, not you. But it doesn’t seem to matter to him because his trusty moral compass never points him wrong, it would seem.
Things have gotten so bad by now that you think Steve, patient and tolerant as he is, might have even considered requesting that you be transferred if you weren’t so damn good at your job.
And you are good. That can’t be denied.
But there’s something about working with Steve that makes you great. When you’re not at each other’s throats.
You move around each other on missions as if performing choreography that only you two have rehearsed. You’ve saved his ass more times than he has ever acknowledged or thanked you for, but he has done the same for you. You have a deep understanding of how he works, mind and body. He keeps his moves varied as a rule, but you have learned to read the minute shift in his centre of gravity before he strikes, the smallest drop in his hips that means he’s about to duck, the tightening of his frame before he lunges. Equally, you know when he’s running multiple scenarios behind his eyes, when he’s processing angles before he commits.
It makes you his best possible partner on the field and the biggest pain in his ass in training.
“You’re up,” Steve mutters to you while Sam limps to the corner of the room, grumbling something about how next time Steve needs to stop dragging this shit out before he gets a leg cramp.
You haul yourself up slowly, moving to the centre of the gym with exaggerated languor just to piss him off, rolling your shoulders as you go. His sweat is making his white t-shirt entirely transparent, the thin fabric sticking to his defined pectorals and torso. He shakes his head, spraying sweat over the mat. It should be kind of gross, really, so you’re a bit disgusted by how hot it is. You see his jaw tick with impatience, and you begin to stretch your calves, too.
“You couldn’t have done this while you were waiting?”
“And risk seizing up again while you played with your food?”
“Just because I don’t use full force, it doesn’t mean I’m ‘playing with my food’,” he says, frowning at you in that disappointed-teacher way of his “Every time you all fight a super soldier, it makes you better. I use more force every time.”
You say nothing, only because you’re cautious about baiting him too much ahead of the ass-whooping you’re about to get. You roll your shoulders one more time, looking up at him.
“Let’s go.”
Steve lunges, coming at you hard and fast. A blur of muscle flies past your eye-line, fist cutting into the air where your jaw had been just half a second before. The force of it sends a gust that moves wisps of your hair and the speed of your dodge sends your boots skidding across the mat. You raise an astounded eyebrow at him and he shrugs with a tight smile.
On days like this, when his restraint is frayed and he is too irritated to be sanctimonious, you are reminded that he can be a little bit fun.
When you slide by his guard again, your eyes catch his for a fraction of a second before he lands a surprise hit to your abdomen that pummels the wind right out of your pipes. You groan but stop yourself from bowling over right into his knee that comes shooting up for you. You see him bear left and you glide away in the opposite direction.
“Testy today,” you say, but you can’t hit the patronising tone you are aiming for. Your voice comes out scratchy from the knock you took. He says nothing but leaps at you again.
You lean back and dodge the hit but go sprawling to the floor. Before he can pin you, you sweep a foot under his. It’s not enough to knock him in itself but he blunders for a bit and with one more kick, you send him to his ass. You get a foot in his side and hear Sam hoot in delight as he clears out of the training room with the remaining agents.
Steve’s on his feet in a flash, but by then, so are you. There’s a glimmer of something on his face, like surprise or maybe excitement. You try not to get too arrogant.
And it’s a good thing you don’t. Because after five minutes of hits and dodges, he has you on the ropes again. You’re giving it as good as you’re getting but you don’t have his stamina or pain tolerance. You can feel your equilibrium slipping, movements getting sloppy. You’re over-balancing, tumbling instead of landing.
There’s something about the current between the two of you today that makes you want to win in a way you never do with Steve. You had never even really seen it as a competition before, safe in the conclusion that he and all his serum-amplified testosterone will have you beat eventually. It was always a matter of if, rather than when.
But Steve is coming at you properly today, not pulling his punches (as much), not giving you the space to recover before he’s on you again like a hound on fresh blood and it’s making a sort of swooping adrenaline sing in your blood.
You don’t think too much about it, sweeping behind his back and hooking a leg over his. The serum means you don’t have enough strength to bring him down, but the confusion makes him stumble. With two hands on his shoulders, you climb his broad frame, boots digging into flesh, hands ploughing through his hair. He reaches a hand back to peel you off with bruising strength, but you have an iron clasp. His fingers dig into your t-shirt with almost enough force to pull it clean off.
You eventually reach the peak of him with immense difficulty. You are able to lock your thighs around his broad neck and curl your knee around his throat, squeezing hard. It’s not enough. His hands are pulling at your legs, but he’s not tapping out. You can only hold this grip for a matter of seconds, before your muscles loosen, and Steve will have your tired body pinned.
Impulsively, you dive backwards, head swooping down towards the floor. The force of it sends Steve flying back with you and you vaguely feel three taps - a victory - against your thigh before you both hit the floor.
You crash hard on your back. Your head takes a small bump to the mat and black dots dance behind your eyes for just a second, but your ass and shoulder blades take the brunt of it. It’s far from the worst injury you’ve received in training, but it’s been a while since you’ve received more than a hit. You take a few deep breaths to centre yourself, groaning once air returns to your body. Only then do you realise that Steve’s head is planted firmly on your lower stomach, neck still pressed up between your thighs. You scramble away with what you hope is a collected suavity, all bones and muscles shrieking in opposition to the sudden movement.
When Steve spins around, you know you’re in for it.
“What the hell was that?” he spits, picking himself up from the floor. His eyes are blazing, hands on his hips while he looks down at you where you are sprawled out on the mat. You close your eyes and let out a long, deliberate sigh - precisely the response you know will drive him crazy.
“That was me winning, Steve,” you say, ignoring your groaning limbs to pull yourself up. He does not offer you a hand up.
“No,” he said, voice strained and thick with irritation. “That was you trying to get yourself killed. Are you insane? You could have a concussion.”
“I know a concussion from a small bump,” you say, brushing him off with a limp hand. You move over to get your water, trying not to stagger. “Don’t be dramatic.”
“This is your problem, you know that? You always think you know best and everyone else is just dramatic or not seeing your vision, or whatever it is. You’re a good agent, but that’s not enough. You’re going to get yourself killed some day and it won’t be some great, heroic gesture like you probably think. It will be something stupid like this.”
His speech might have made a mark on you if it had been the first time you had heard it. As it stands, you just roll your eyes and take a sip from your bottle to look busy. The water mixes with blood from where you had bitten the inside of your cheek. It tastes bitter and metallic going down.
“God, you’re-”
You glance warily at Steve, wondering whether he is about to curse at you for the first time since that mission in Moscow. He swallows it. “You don’t listen.”
You shrug with a smile, watching his face go from a blushing red to a deep crimson. His eyes narrow and he spins around, broad back tensing as he storms out of the gym.
“Steve?”
He stops, twisting ever-so-slightly.
“You not gonna congratulate me on my first ever win?”
You think he might have given you the finger if he was anyone but himself.
You do end up grumbling your way over to the med bay eventually, but only because Steve threatens to suspend you from any further missions. You turn out to not have a concussion so you feel perfectly justified in scowling at him days later from across the quinjet the whole way to the shipyard two states away.
The air is warm despite the February frost splotched on the grass below. The hour is getting late; the setting sun turns the lakes and rivers a deep orangey red.
You hadn’t expected Steve to bow down or apologise, but you did expect him to ignore you. Instead, he’s watching you with a detached curiosity, like you’re some rare lab specimen or an interesting insect.
“I know you’re not seriously mad at me for sending you to the med bay,” he says. “Because that would be insane.”
“They did a whole medical evaluation, Steve,” you snap at him. “I was in there well over an hour. All for fuckin’ nothing because I’m healthy as a horse, apparently.”
“Well you missed your last mandatory check-up. So you’re welcome,” he says, his lips stretching into a handsome little smirk.
You frown. You are usually the one provoking him and you’re not overly fond of how it feels to be on the receiving end. You can feel Steve’s eyes on you, heady and pleased. He’s leaning back with his arms crossed, lofty thighs spread open with an abnormal arrogance. One that would not be on display if the rest of the team were with you.
You can fully appreciate his size from this angle, the fabric of his t-shirt straining against his biceps, his wide shoulders holding strong like an impenetrable wall of muscle and brawn. He looks particularly good when he smiles - even if it’s at your expense. He could have passed for a Gladiator, or some Greek god in another universe - the kind whose likeness would be captured in marble for future generations to marvel at and admire. It wracks you how unfair it is that he can be so irritating but still look like that.
Have you thought about him bending you over? Sure. Many a time. But you still can’t stand the guy.
“You still seeing that guy in R&D? Uh- Mark, or whatever.”
You give him a side-glance. Steve doesn’t forget anyone’s name. He is the kind of guy to be introduced to a hundred-man team and be asking Lucy for a debrief and thanking Jim for the coffee the very next day. You think he might be on a first-name basis with everyone he’s ever met. So you know that he knows his name his Mike.
“No,” you mumble. “We broke up last month.”
“Why?”
“None of your business, Rogers,” you say. You’re trying to appear unbothered, but you’re a little rattled. Your teeth are grinding. “What about you? Any dates recently?”
“A couple.”
“And how were they?”
“Good.”
You scoff. “You talk this much with them? Your chattiness might scare them off.”
“The ladies I take on dates might not have the same preferences as you, you know,” he says with a raised eyebrow. Your lips twitch at that term - ‘ladies’. How old-school.
“No, I’m sure they love one-word answers and taciturn grumbles.”
“I’ve had no complaints.”
Your mouth opens and closes stupidly. The shells of your ears prickle with heat as Steve just grins wider, shifting his hips to lean further back. He looks so goddamn cocky, so punchable. You wish you could take a picture and show him to all those trainees you had heard refer to him as a ‘golden retriever’. He seems more like a Mastiff to you; huge, stubborn, impossible to deal with.
You purse your lips together, eyes dropping to his army dog tags. The chain droops down his tanned, fabric-clad chest, the tags sitting neatly in the deep groove between his pectoral muscles.
“Why did you and Mike break up?”
Your cheek twitches up. “So you do know his name.”
“Tell me.”
You turn your gaze away from him to watch the sun set out the window, even if it makes your retinae burn. “My fault, mostly. I don’t really, uh- know how to do it.”
“What? Relationships?”
“Yeah, I guess. I’m not used to having to let someone know when I’ll be home or making sure I have time for them between back-to-back missions. I blame my career choice.”
“Maybe you just didn’t care enough.”
Your eyes snap back over to him, eyebrows shooting straight to your hairline. “What?”
“I’m just saying. It’s not your career choice. Lots of people in this line of work have relationships that they prioritise.”
“What, you’re suddenly Dr Phil or something? It’s not like you know the ins and outs so don’t-”
“Dr Phil?” A cute little line forms between his brows.
“He was this-” You pause, heaving a frustrated breath out your nose. “You know what? Never mind.”
“My point is,” Steve continues. “I think you would want to do all those things for someone you cared enough about, even when it’s difficult. It wouldn’t be some tick-the-box.”
All traces of arrogance are gone from Steve’s expression, only genuine interest remaining as he scans your face like he’s trying to solve some puzzle. It makes you uncomfortable - you would prefer for him to laugh at you or lecture you.
“I could be dating Brad Pitt and I still would not care enough to answer a text about what’s for dinner when I’m busy.”
He frowns. “Who is Brad Pitt?”
“Don’t worry about it.”
The walk to the shipyard is quiet. Silent, if not for the steady scratch of Steve’s boots grinding against the gravel. The hum of the quinjet dulls the farther you walk.
You may not particularly like Steve, but you appreciate him at times like these. You couldn't be more perfect mission partners for each other if you tried. The way you fall into your posts quickly and seamlessly, giving each other the space and silence to focus on preparing for the mission while also trusting that you will speak up if the situation calls for it.
Your methods and routines are practically identical. It’s almost a shame that the moment things break open, that quiet alignment shatters.
Steve holds a fist up, signalling you to stop. You do, falling in behind him. You’re not sure what he’s hearing, but you trust him implicitly when he makes the motion for you to duck behind a flatbed truck. You press yourself against the cool metal and Steve plunges in after you, his warm chest and stomach caging you. Hardly a second later, you hear what he had - a door clanging open, boisterous voices spilling out, all speaking over each other in Russian.
Steve meets your eyes, gives you a silent signal and you nod, moving out from behind the truck as silently as a deer and blending into the night. You weave through the shipping containers with practiced alacrity. You don’t need to look to know Steve is right behind you; you can feel him.
You split angles without having to speak. Steve covers the high runways while you sweep the lower lanes between cargo. The night has cooled and the wind is vicious now, needling the hulls of the half-empty freighters and blowing the hook block of the crane overhead until it swings like an unsteady pendulum over the flooded pier. Steve is keeping close. His hot breath feels sharp on your neck against the biting wind.
You get within five hundred feet of the main electrical substation before you’re spotted. A pair of guards open fire from the building behind you, spraying an uncoordinated bouquet of bullets in your direction. You find cover effortlessly and huff with humour at the sloppy execution. They had just revealed that they are aware of your presence without allowing you to get close enough for a good shot.
“Idiots,” Steve mutters, as if he’s genuinely disappointed. You smile up at him, almost expecting him to say something about how he expected better from them.
You easily dodge their fire as you advance leisurely and safely, winding in and out from behind shipping containers. You decide that you’re not in the mood to go at it with Steve today, so you take his lead even if it’s significantly slower than how you would choose to do this yourself. You don’t worry about the shots that get too close - whatever you can’t dodge, Steve fends off with his shield.
You are out of the gunmen’s range when you make it to the ladder that leads up to the platform you need to get to, but you have no doubt they are headed your way. You go first, taking your gun from its holster, aiming it upwards, and heaving yourself onto the ladder. The iron bars are slick with seawater and heavy fuel oil; you have to grip tight so you don’t slip.
You’re making careful progress up the ladder with Steve behind you, eyes pointed upwards for any sign of unwanted company. The metal feels slithery beneath your fingers and it takes you an extra few seconds to climb each step. It’s shuddering under each step and you wonder vacantly whether Steve’s weight will make it collapse.
You don’t have much time to prepare for the gunman that approaches above you. Your fingers are still clumsily fidgeting, trying to aim your gun while also grasping the slippy bar of metal. You get your shots off at the same time; yours hits, his does not.
What it does do, though, is make you dodge. Your body bears left, foot skidding on a rung of the ladder and suddenly you’re slipping downward, stomach swooping as your body collides with Steve’s.
He scarcely reacts, catching you with one arm, using little to no exertion. His fingers clamp around your waist, steadying you. For a fraction of a second you both freeze - your breath catching, his jaw tensing, bodies flush together, faces inches apart. Every hard plane of his body is pressed up against you. There is a throbbing warmth low in your stomach.
“You good?” he asks, breathy and deep.
“Move,” you say, voice tight, shaking out of his grasp and climbing up once more. He sighs and mutters something under his breath but you can’t make it out. Your heart is galloping, your pulse thundering in your ears.
You barrel over the platform, and go running towards the tower just as another guard reaches the door, attempting to get to the breaker panel before you have the chance to disable it. He locks the door behind him but Steve kicks it in with a crash. You slide low, sweeping the guard’s legs. Steve disarms him before he can even hit the floor.
There’s no need for discussion as you both fall into your respective roles. The room is oppressively grey and layered with multiple wires, but you find your way to the breaker panel. You work on planting the shutdown device on the primary switchgear while Steve holds off reinforcements, laying enough suppressive fire to keep three guards pinned behind a forklift.
You’re more aware of his presence than usual while you work. He sits like some nagging instinct in your head, telling you to look. You know if you do, all you will see is his back, a heavy fortification of muscle and hard lines and sweat. You don’t need that kind of distraction. Your nerves are already fried from the uncomfortable consciousness of how his body felt pressed tight against yours.
You step back, watching the disruptor activate and the power shut down around you with a whining drone. The grey space becomes black and for just a split-second, yourself and Steve stand alone in the dark, no sounds pervading the room except your laboured breaths. The street lamps outside have extinguished - the bullets outside pause while the gunmen assess their situation.
Steve moves, shattering the stillness. He grips your wrist and pads quietly out the door, taking full advantage of the blackness to make a discreet getaway. You grab your wrist violently out of his grip but you follow him silently. You can’t see anything very well, but you think he might roll his eyes.
The shipyard is drowned in darkness, the only light the thin silver sheen of rain on metal. You move with Steve between the towering containers, keeping low. Every small sound seems deafening now - the clink of a loose cable swaying in the wind, even your own breaths.
A pair of guards drift close, their flashlights slicing through the blackout. You flatten against the cold steel wall, willing yourself still as the beams skim past, bright enough to catch the rivets beside your cheek. When the voices fade, Steve breaks across an open stretch at a quick, silent sprint. You follow.
You’re not sure why you do it. It’s usually Steve’s job to scan the high ground. His serum-enhanced eyesight can catch movement long before you can. But Steve is preoccupied with sweeping for guards on ground level, so you do it instead out of pure intuition. And you see it: a sharp, unmoving glint on the crane platform above.
Your pulse spikes.
There’s a shooter.
You had caught sight of him too late to find cover. You are out in the open. You can’t see the shooter well, but you know who their target will be and it’s not you. Steve is too far ahead to be able to warn him in any sufficient way.
In a moment of complete and utter instinct, and maybe more than a little stupidity, you raise your gun and shoot. You miss.
The shooter turns their attention to you now. You fire another, miss again.
The hit slams into your shoulder so hard, it immediately steals your breath. You stagger forward, fingers going numb. The gun drops from your clasp.
You try to breathe, but the pain is sharp and choking. Your vision wavers from blood loss and the sheer, overwhelming burn tearing through you. Steve’s gun cracks somewhere to your left but the sound bends around the pain, distant and warped. You can’t lift your arm. You can’t even unclench your jaw.
You wait to feel the blood clot around your wound but it’s slow and reluctant. You hold on for one more second, and then blackness swallows you.
The only thing that you’re aware of when you open your eyes is the pain. Not the cold, harsh light of the hospital. Not your family and team members that sit around you, looking morosely at the floor and bouncing their legs. Not even that Steve is absent.
For some length of time that feels very long, you exist in that state; slinking in and out of consciousness. But the pain never disappears, not even the bouts of darkness. In those moments of oblivion, the pain goes behind a cloud, but it always returns with a violence. You get to know this in a vague sort of way, feeling dumbly grateful when the pain is at bay but never being so naive as to think yourself free of it.
Although you will later find out it is only two days, it feels like a small eternity before you can clear the film that feels like scum from your throat and croak anything out. You must not be of fully sound mind yet or maybe the painkillers are making you loopy, because the first thing you say to the room, crammed with familiar faces, is; “Steve?”
You’re assured by someone - Maria? Natasha? - that he got you out. That he’s ok.
And then that grey cloud descends once again. The pain and the haze return.
It’s not that you care that Steve doesn’t come to visit.
It turns out that your wound is just a through-and-through shot to the top of your shoulder. One centimetre in any direction and the bullet might have lodged itself firmly into your neck or paralysed your arm for good. The area is packed densely with muscles and nerves so you are wreaked with pain, but as it stands, it did no permanent damage.
So, really, there is no need for him to visit. And you definitely don’t care. You just think it’s bad leadership is all. You would have showed up for him if the roles were reversed, no matter how much of a pest he is. Would have sent a card. Even a text, at the very fucking least.
You leave the hospital after the dullest week of your life. You hadn’t, until that point, realised how tangled your life purpose is with your career. You feel rabid after just a day or two of consciousness, restricted to your bed with no files to review, no cases to crack open. Just you, a few beat-up novels you had been meaning to get around to reading, and whoever decides to drop by to see how you were doing.
Maria lets you know that you are required to take another two weeks of leave before returning to work. Standard policy. Your requests to be forwarded files related to your ongoing cases are rejected. You can’t even enter the building to go to the gym.
In the absence of anything better to do, you watch films back-to-back. Try some recipes you had earmarked. Visit the new museum that had opened in the next block over. Wait to hear from family, friends and colleagues. But not Steve. You’re definitely not waiting to hear from Steve.
You’re not usually great for following orders but you follow the doctor’s instructions closer than you have abided by anything in your entire life. By the time you return to HQ, the pain in your shoulder has flattened to a dull ache and you have formed a resolution to try to find some sort of hobby outside of work. You had no idea your real life is that grim.
Maria meets you with a distant smile at reception.
“Welcome back,” she says pleasantly, turning to walk with you through the building. Quiet conversation, the rustling of paper and the heavy clicks of agents suiting up covers the space you walk through. “We’ll do a mini induction and then I’ll let you get to it.”
Maria’s office is pristine. The door clicks shut behind you, muting all murmured voices outside. Everything looks recently straightened, recently dusted, recently organised. Sticky notes, task lists and cables are perfectly spaced out into their correct positions. The files stacked on the shelves are bound and appear to be in alphabetical order. You picture your home office space with a dim sort of shame as you sit down in front of her.
“How is your shoulder?” she asks without much interest.
“Much better, thank you. Should be able to get back out there now.”
She opens a cabinet in her desk and pulls a bloated yellow file. “That won’t be possible. We have made the decision to transfer you to another team. You’ll need a few weeks to catch up on the ongoing cases.”
“Another- what?”
Your brain is whirring, trying to catch up with what Maria just said. She doesn’t reply, just watches you buffer.
“You’re really taking me off the team on my first day back? Am I being punished for getting shot?”
“Not punished, no,” she assures you patiently. “You’re not being demoted, your day-to-day won’t even change very much but you’ll be working under Romanoff now. It was just decided that you would be a better fit somewhere else.”
“Decided by who?” you ask, even though you know the answer.
“By the leadership team,” she replies diplomatically.
Your gaze narrows on her but she is unperturbed. The sound of the seconds ticking by on the clock are suddenly deafening. You’re engaging in a sort of silent stand-off with her and you’re certainly not winning.
“Where is he?” you ask at last.
“On assignment.”
“When will he be back?”
She smiles at you tightly and you realise she can no longer tell you. You’re not on his team anymore.
A wild instinct runs through you; you feel you might be a few seconds away from stomping your feet like a child, shouting at her that it’s not fair! and he started it!
Instead, you huff out a harsh breath and snatch the file up from the desk.
The hour is late and night is spilling through the windows. Yourself and Nat are the only ones left in the room; maybe the only ones left in the building. She lounges against the opposite row of lockers, boot propped up, grinning like you hadn’t just run a mission that by all rights should’ve ended in a four-page incident report and at least one formal reprimand.
“We are a match made in heaven,” she says with a dreamy sigh.
You snort. “Tell that to the clean-up team.”
“Let them file a complaint,” Nat says, waving a dismissive hand. “Clean exit, no casualties, minimal property damage. Made decent time too.”
“Mm.”
It had gone well. Better than well. Nat works like you do - zippy, instinctive, a little unhinged when the situation calls for it. There had been no questioning glances when you made a split-second decision, no screaming matches in lieu of a debrief. Your third mission back was a big fat success. You should be overjoyed.
But as you wipe the shower-water from your skin and peel your top on, all you can summon is a hot, directionless anger. Or, maybe not entirely directionless.
Because for the most part, you can direct it towards Steve. Your shoulder has mostly recovered with only a mild stiffness left to show for it but you’re still suffering from a wounded pride. The fact that he didn't bother to check up on you and requested a transfer after you quite literally risked your life for him is bad enough. But he’s been a ghost to you in the three weeks since you returned to work.
That first week, he had been on assignment in Hungary. You had gone on a hunt for him as soon as word got around that he was back, but he was nowhere to be found. All his usual conference rooms were vacant and he had clearly started training elsewhere. You have not been able to track him down in the weeks since and you have no doubt in your mind that his sole intention is to avoid you.
Because he feels guilty for what had happened? Or maybe because he doesn’t want to have to thank you? You’re not sure. But you’re pissed.
And not just at him either. At yourself too.
Because, alongside that anger, there’s an uncomfortable hollowness tugging at you. You bring it with you everywhere you go. It weighs you down like a chain. He won’t vacate your brain no matter what you do and you can’t quite deny that maybe you might miss him. Just a little.
The anger is not the worst of it; it’s that other thing - the tiny, shameful spark fluttering under your ribs when Natasha lets you rove free instead of testing you, challenging you, making you better. It’s the way your life feels just a bit emptier without someone to tease and provoke.
And it’s humiliating, because - seriously? How original. You really had to go and join the queue of people pining after the tall, hot, golden-boy with perfect manners and stupidly earnest eyes and muscles so perfect that only scientists could have sculpted them. Brilliant. Groundbreaking. As if you don’t already hate him enough without adding that to the mix.
“I was gonna drag you for a drink but the energy you’re giving off right now is rancid,” Nat says, walking towards you with her towel in hand. She snaps it at you but you jump out of the way before she can make contact. “You’re so pissy all the time since you got transferred.”
“I’m not pissy,” you snap, obscurely aware that you’re proving her point.
“Why do you even care? You and Rogers fight like dogs. You never wanted to be part of his team in the first place.”
You’re purposely avoiding her gaze, but you know the exact look that Nat is giving you based on her tone alone and you hate it with a burning passion.
“I don’t care. It’s just not fair, but it’s whatever.”
She sighs, picking up her duffle bag and flinging it over her shoulder. “I’m gonna leave you to whatever this is,” she says, waving her hand vaguely in your direction. “Get eight hours tonight and try to come back less cranky.”
She walks out, hips swinging, and you wait another moment or two before following suit.
HQ feels different at this time of night. The overhead lights seem a shade too bright without bodies moving through them and your footsteps sound sharper against the floor. The whir of a printer on standby and the buzz of a monitor stand out more. Clean, white light is shining on empty desks.
There is a weight on you as your make your way through the carpeted corridors, passing empty offices and meeting rooms. Nat is right - you are pissy. You’re so goddamn angry and mortifyingly upset, crucifying yourself with mental images and memories you would do anything to be rid of. You had always been mildly curious about those feelings that you observed in movies, the ones all your friends used to rave about when they met someone they fell head over heels for. You have dated, have even been in a few serious relationships. But you always knew there was a big gap between what you had witnessed and what you had experienced.
You wish someone had told you how stupidly painful and embarrassing it could be. You would have tried harder to steer clear of it.
You almost think that you’re imagining the picture of Steve in the meeting room to your right, framed by the semi-frosted window in the door. For just a split-second, you think it might be another one of those humiliating daydreams. But no - he’s burning the midnight oil; his neck is craned over a file, a small lamp pouring light over his handsome features.
You’re not one to question your instincts. You hurl the door open with an aggression that has Steve’s head snapping up in shock, pen falling from his hand, mouth parting. You listen to the door tumble closed before you realise dimly that you have no idea what to say to him. You’re floundering a little, but you keep your expression steady.
He breaks the silence first.
“You’re here late.”
“Just wrapped an assignment with Nat,” you say, hand on hip. “Turns out we make a pretty solid team. It’s refreshing.”
His jaw ticks, but he gives nothing else away. He looks back to his papers, as if dismissing you. “Glad to hear it.”
That’s it? That’s really all he’s giving you?
You can feel fiery heat crawling up your neck and you try to stop the furious shake in your hands. Composure is becoming more difficult to maintain and you know that you’re about a second away from bursting but his gall is astounding. He really has nothing else to say? After everything?
“You got me kicked off the team.”
“You didn’t get kicked off anything,” he sighs, leaning back in his seat. His eyes are travelling your form warily, like he isn’t quite sure where you’re going with this. “You got transferred.”
“Yeah, transferred out of the team.”
“I thought you would be happy,” he says wryly. “You were always complaining about having to work with me. I think you even said you’d rather work with Natasha a few times.”
“I am happy!” It comes out as a bark. You’re embarrassed by your petulance even though you can’t cork it. You know that you’re acting like a child. Steve’s lips are creaking upwards, his eyes lit up in amusement.
You clear your throat. “I am happy,” you repeat, in a low, controlled voice this time around. “It just feels a bit ungrateful is all.”
The way Steve’s poise breaks, superior grin twisting itself into a snarl, is hugely satisfying. You are self-aware enough to know that you’re being hugely immature, but it just feels so good to drag him down to your level.
“You think I should be grateful that you almost got yourself killed on a mission?” he snaps, standing up from the meeting room table and walking towards you. You meet him half-way, until you are inches from each other. Your neck stiffens with how it bends up to meet his enraged eyes. Your body is humming with this familiar rhythm, as if fighting with Steve is the only thing that makes you feel alive.
“Well, I got shot saving you, so yes - I would say that’s a pretty good reason to be grateful,” you snap back, eyes narrow.
“Don’t be dense.” His voice is tight and poisonous in a way you have rarely ever heard before. “That was a really fuckin’ stupid decision and you know it. You took a bullet for the super-soldier with accelerated regenerative healing and a vibranium shield. Does that sound like a good decision to you?”
He sounds more furious than you have ever heard him in your life - and you have made him mad more times than you can count. He had cursed at you. He hasn’t done that since Moscow.
“I knew what I was doing,” you spit back with equal fury. “That shooter had all the time in the world to get into position; they would have been aiming for your head and they would have hit their mark, too because you weren’t paying enough attention to raise your shield. I knew that pulling them over in my direction meant that they would shoot me but they would have less time to aim. Just because you think I’m stupid doesn’t mean I am, you jerk.”
He is struck dumb momentarily, brows furrowing and lips pursing in thought. You are close enough to see the twitch of his mouth, to feel his disgruntled puffs of breath against your skin. Contentment slithers up your spine. Seconds tick by in silence; Steve pensive and stoic, you smug and satisfied. You have won this round and decide to go out with a bang.
“But I guess I should be thanking you because I have a new team lead now who trusts my judgement and doesn’t pick a fight every five minutes. So thank you. And go to hell.”
You turn on your heel, already halfway into your stride, and his hand shoots out so fast it must be instinct - large, calloused fingers closing around your arm before you’re even finished the pivot.
There is a second where he just glares hard. His blue eyes eat up every inch of your face.
And then your body meets his chest and his lips are instantly on yours in a heady explosion of fire - it’s a violent, fervid thing and you surprise yourself with how quickly you return his passion. You had imagined this moment in the last few weeks - in all your dirtiest daydreams, you made him sweat it out a bit, even beg. But maybe you can make him beg later - you had missed him too much to turn him away now.
Your lips move like it’s another one of your fights, faces pressed against each other in a messy battle of lips, tongues and teeth. His hands travel to your hips and pull you flush against him while you fist his crisp blue shirt, folding wrinkles into the perfectly ironed fabric.
Your feet leave the ground as he lifts you with irritating strength, pushing you onto the meeting room table and settling himself between your legs. His sheer power - the way he can lift you like you’re absolutely nothing - makes heat pool in your tummy, something stirring low. You’re pushing your lips against his fiercely, channeling all the pent up anger from the past number of weeks.
He isn’t gentle. He’s rabid as a stray dog. His fingers grasp harshly onto your hips with bruising strength. Despite the fact that you’re already pressed up against him, he tugs you tighter to his body, like close is not close enough. You can feel the large swell of his cock against your thigh, hard as a rock, and you have to stop yourself from adjusting your position and grinding down on him. You’re eager enough to do it, but he can't know that.
Your hands travel around his chest and shoulders, fingers delving into every curve of muscle there. He feels so big and broad against your touch and it turns you on so much that it almost pisses you off.
“You’re such a dick,” you gasp, the sound muffled against his lips.
“I know,” he says back between kissing, his mouth not moving from yours.
“Didn’t even visit me in the hospital.”
“I know.”
“I hate you,” you say, aiming for a sharp tone. It comes out breathy. He’s still kissing at your mouth, lips moving wildly - out of sync and jumbled.
“Shut up,” he grunts, hand going to your lower back and pushing your pelvis forward so you grind against him. An embarrassing whine rips itself from your throat as pleasure sparks through you, lighting up your body. You grind down again, addicted to the feeling, and Steve groans against your lips, hips jerking up.
It prompts something filthy; the two of you still fully clothed, bucking and grinding against each other like feral animals. There is a delicious throbbing in your core, your entire body crying out for more of him. His left hand is still on your hip, encouraging your body to continue grounding down against his hard cock through layers of cotton, but his right hand moves up to grab your jaw with a possessive force. You are giving it back to him too, hands clutching and grasping at him with a brutality.
He pulls away to lift your top over your head, eyes levelled at you with a burning intensity. His pretty blues are darker now, less earnest.
“Steve, we’re in the office,” you object, fingers reaching out to grab it back. He tosses it to the floor before you can.
“Don’t care,” he says, reattaching his lips to yours, fingers crawling to the waistband of your trousers. “Gonna fuck you right here.”
Your stomach clenches. It’s a strange role reversal. You’re not accustomed to being the one who stops and thinks about things before acting - that’s always Steve’s remit. You should be concerned that his perfectly constructed control has been tossed out the window, but it only makes you more excited. You know that there is something dangerous deep underneath each layer of restraint that Steve exercises. You have always known you’re better at digging it out than anyone else in this world. When you do, it’s a beautiful thing.
How can you do anything but give in?
Steve’s fingers play with the button of your jeans, popping it open with an effortless tug before he slides them down your legs along with your shoes. You’re left in just your underwear, splayed open before a fully-clothed Steve Rogers like you’re some sort of offering. He watches you with dark eyes, something between worship and hunger enveloping his features.
His eyes zero in on your bra-clad breasts. “Take it off,” he says, voice strained, and you reach up with urgency to unclip it, tossing it carelessly somewhere across the table.
“Suddenly so good at taking orders.” His hand reaches up to palm your breast, the other playing with the waistband of your panties. Your body arches to his touch involuntarily. “Should have done this months ago. Might have made you behave.”
He can probably tell you’re about to say something snarky, because his lips meet yours ferociously yet again and what would have been a rude retort turns into a moan when his thumb presses down on you over your panties.
Steve pulls away, eyes catching yours with surprise before dropping down to your core, covered in a thin layer of now-transparent fabric. “You’re soaked through,” he breathes, awe colouring his tone. “See how wet you are for me?”
Hot humiliation floods your face. “Fuck you.”
He gives you a slow smirk, eyes glinting. His tongue pokes out to wet his lips, leaving them glossy and shiny, and you realise he enjoys this as much as you do. His head dips down, lips just brushing over your neck, breath caressing your skin, before he’s lathering kisses there. He hooks his fingers over your underwear and yanks it down aggressively. You watch it cascade down your legs pathetically, chest heaving with the pressure of his lips under your ear and his fingers sliding down your stomach torturously slow.
His fingers just graze over your wet heat and your blood is singing in your veins. You feel overpowered by him in the most mouth-watering way; his large frame trapping you, caging you in. He presses two fingers in, harsh and sudden, and you gasp.
“You get so turned on fighting with me, don’t you sweetheart? I knew it. Knew you were getting all wet every time I raised my voice at you. You pretend you don’t like me but you love when I boss you around.”
You want to slap him, but he’s right. And you consider that if you do, he will stop. His fingers are so big and calloused inside you and it simply feels too good to ever stop. You’re breaking into a sweat while he pumps in and out of you, your slick spilling onto his perfectly tailored work slacks while your walls clench around him.
When his other hand reaches down to grind down on your clit with vigorous strokes, a burst of white-hot pleasure works its way through you, licking up your spine. You pull hard at his hair, looking for anything to anchor yourself and hear him hiss a moan against your neck. The sound makes you clench around him and his fingers pump into you with renewed roughness in response.
You’re absolutely ruined. He has turned you into a complete wreck. You can no longer deny how badly you want him nor how much you need this; you don’t even try anymore. Your hips are wiggling down, trying to take him deeper. You have lost all semblance of shame, too taken up by the pleasure that his fingers are delivering you.
“Look how desperate you are,” he says, eyes caught where he is filling you. You don’t want to look down, shame working its cruel way through you at his taunting, but he grasps your jaw, tilting your head downwards. His fingers are warm and wet with your slick.
His two fingers are enough to stretch you out - they almost look too big for your hole. You shudder at the sight of them sliding in and out, knowing his cock will stretch you out all the more. Steve’s staring at your pussy like a man who is starving.
His fingers pull out from your heat quite suddenly. You’re hazy and confused until he lowers to his knees on the ground in front of where you are perched on the table. Your eyes connect in a moment of explosive intensity. His pupils are blown wide and when yours begin to flutter shut, he pinches your thigh gently in warning. You are forced to stare while he lowers his face between your thighs, eyes gleaming.
“Gotta taste you,” he says, almost to himself, and then that stupid fucking mouth that pisses you off so much every single day meets your cunt.
The sound that comes out of your mouth is unintentional and would be entirely mortifying if you were thinking straight. Your head falls back, eyes shutting. He pinches your thigh again, harder this time.
“Eyes on me, sweetheart.”
You eyes spring back open, twitching as you fight the instinct to squeeze them shut. He holds your gaze captive while licking a messy stripe up your folds. You can feel sweat collecting at the top of your forehead at the sensation. He is ravenous and unrelenting, sucking on your clit before soothing it with soft kisses. Exploring your folds with his lips. Dipping his tongue inside and gently nipping, testing your limits.
He’s eating you out in a way you never have been before; it’s not some repetitive flick of the tongue against the clit, picked up from porn and designed to make you cum as fast as possible so he can get the hell up and get his own rocks off. Steve is learning you, watching your expression closely to see what makes your breath catch. You feel him grin against your pussy as a moan slips out reluctantly when he drags his teeth over the hood of your clit, offsetting the pleasure with the tiniest bit of pain. He groans when you lose control and your eyes roll back in your skull.
He pulls back just a few inches and you watch him spit a thick glob of saliva straight onto your cunt. He’s still holding intense eyee-contact with you when he runs his fingers through your slit, mixing your wetness with his own. It’s sliding down through your ass and onto the table, reminding you exactly where you are. The fact that you are doing this in a meeting room in your place of work makes it seem even dirtier.
He shoves two fingers back into you without warning and your hips buck. He continues to mouth at your clit in the most beautiful patterns and you truly feel like he is doing this purely for himself, like he’s enjoying it as much as you are.
He sucks hard, sliding your clit into his mouth and you’re not in control of the words or sounds that spill out of you. You’re telling him how amazing you feel and how fucking good he’s eating you, but you realise you might have fucked up because you can just feel his arrogance. It’s pissing you off. You need to remedy it quick.
“Maybe I should keep you down here like this all the time, Steve. What do you think? Can’t bitch at me when your mouth is busy. And you’re just so good at it too.”
You can feel the smug smile melt into something more sinister. His eyes grow darker, but he never moves them from yours. He continues to lap at you, but his mouth is more aggressive now - a stormy sort of warning. You ignore it.
“Bet you’d let me put you on your knees after every mission if I wanted.” Your voice is coming out a bit too breathy for the sort of control you’re aiming for, but you continue regardless. “Keep you there for hours if I need to.”
Steve is standing up faster than you can register, a rough scowl painting his face. “Fucking brat,” he grunts, voice low. Your pride does not allow you to complain about how close you were to coming on his tongue.
He’s unbuttoning his shirt with rapidity and you get the message, part terrified and part exhilarated by what’s to come. You go to work on his belt in the meantime, clumsy fingers frantically unbuckling so you can yank his trousers down his legs.
Steve shrugs out of the sleeves of his shirt, you almost groan. It is just so utterly unfair. It’s not like you’ve never seen him in this state before - missions sometimes require you both change clothes in less-than-ideal settings. But seeing him in this context, a thin sheen of sweat coating his pecks, an enormous bulge in his underwear that you know you have inspired; it’s unearthly. It’s only for you. You want him in wicked, sinful ways. And you’re determined to have him.
You try to hide the shake in your hands as you reach towards his underwear. Time slows down as you pull down it down to reveal his cock - what had been a frenzied blur of limbs and clothes patters off into cautious movements, heavy breaths.
You actually groan when you see it; standing tall and fucking huge, slightly curved, subtle veins running lines up to the tip. A pearl of liquid has collected at the tip, smudged on the swollen head. It’s so pretty, you can feel your eyes becoming a bit hazy. The light in the room seems to ripple and bend around it.
Your fingers reach out tentatively, dragging down his length. He hisses, hips jerking up to your touch when you wrap your fingers around him. You can barely wrap your hand around it and you’re startled by how small your hand looks in comparison.
“You think you can take it?” Steve asks you.
“I can,” you confirm with certainty.
“Let’s see about that, sweetheart. I think I might break you,” he returns and you wonder vaguely whether Steve is just baiting you, taking advantage of all your stubbornness to make sure you push yourself past your limit.
His body brackets yours again, leaning over your body to give you a filthy kiss. His mouth is absolutely dripping with the evidence of your arousal and his own spit. You can taste yourself on his tongue, mixed with something that is pleasant and categorically Steve Rogers. His lips move hot and dirty against yours, tongue pressing in on yours while his cock nudges your entrance. You gasp against his lips.
“Yeah?” he murmurs against your lips. “You ready for me?”
You nod furiously and he reaches down to fist his cock. You feel his thick length begin to nudge at your entrance, the head slipping in slowly. Your cunt pulses with anticipation as you feel the sweet ache of him breaching you. You let out a low whine, caught somewhere between pain and pleasure, as he pushes in further, the thickness of him stretching your walls.
It’s a tight fit. He gets just less than half-way, before your pride breaks and your hips jump away from his at the burn. His jaw twitches, blue eyes fluttering closed for just a second.
Steve reaches down to stroke at your clit and the rush of pleasure makes you loosen up just enough for him to notch in a few inches further. “C’mon, sweetheart. Thought you said you could take me.”
“I can,” you say, the words pattering off into a whine. “Just big, is all.”
“Sure is,” he says, pushing in further and smiling wickedly at you. “And I’m gonna make you take it all, baby. Gonna make you feel it here.” His fingers press down hard on your tummy.
His cock is stressing its size inside you, hitting places previously untouched. You can’t quit believe that he still has more to give you but he does. You’ve never felt anything like this before, never had anything this big inside you and it hurts in the most delicious way.
“Fuck,” Steve spits, breathless. “Yeah, okay, I think you can take me all the way. Just a little bit more, sweetheart. Let me in.”
If he hadn’t eaten you out until you were an inch from nirvana, you’re not sure this would be possible. But as it stands, he bottoms out and you feel like you’re floating. Your hips are twitching, unsure whether to escape or grind down harder.
“Squeezing me so tight, baby. Think you were made for my cock,” he hisses, his face tightening with a primal need. “You okay?”
You’re not sure that your vocal cords are still working so you just nod and listen to his deep breaths. Your back arches when he presses sloppy kisses to your neck while you adjust to him. It feels as if he is moulding you around him.
Your fingertips drag down his back and he shivers, jerking his hips forward involuntarily. “Sorry- ah, fuck-” he groans, face clenched tight.
He withdraws a couple of inches, cock dragging through your walls, before slamming himself back in. He looks down at you like a kicked puppy when he hears your strangled gasp. “Feels too good. Gotta- agh. Can’t help it, sweetheart. I’m sorry.”
You like this side of him, you think idly. You had seen Steve in many different moods, but never like this. Apologetic and pleading. He is a boulder above you; 6 foot something of pure brawn, but begging you so nicely to take his cock. “I know it’s big but you’re such a pretty little thing for me. Have to move.”
You still can’t talk so you nod at him in encouragement and watch relief pour over his face. He kisses you again with intention, bucking his hips into yours with beautiful friction. You are stuffed so full, it feels like he’s everywhere at once. This whole thing is becoming far sweeter than you were expecting.
Steve finds a leisurely, pulsing rhythm as he rocks himself into you, lathering kisses over your lips in a way that is entirely too romantic for the setting. He rubs tantalising circles on your clit, helping your walls to relax into him - helping you let him in until you find your voice, babbling about how much you want him and how good he’s making you feel.
You’re becoming aware that he owns you now; that maybe he always had. He thrusts into you with a beautiful sort of reverence and you know that you are ruined. Sleeping with anyone else would feel like a brutal punishment after you felt him like this.
A noise from outside - the faint tread of boots on the ground - makes you both stop cold. Steve freezes completely, his dick coming to a stand-still inside of you. They are faint but getting closer by the second. Your eyes meet Steve’s wide ones. He starts looking around the room. at your intertwined bodies. You can see him assessing the situation, working out solutions, but a smug part of you notes that he still doesn’t pull out of you. He dick doesn’t soften; you actually feel it twitch inside you.
Your pussy jumps at the realisation that he’s excited by it. Maybe he doesn't even know it yet, but he is. You know it by the way his hips give involuntary, shallow thrusts. By the way his pupils grow impossibly darker.
So you do what any sane woman would do with Captain America’s cock buried deep inside her. You grind down.
Steve eyes snap back to yours with astonishment. He looks wild; entirely out of control and somewhat furious. He brings a hand to your hair, tugs it with a warning that you don’t pay any heed to.
You grind down again, this time removing your right hand from his broad shoulders and bringing it slowly down to your clit. You rub and squeeze there, using his cock to get yourself off. The way his eyes are burning as he watches you only makes it so much hotter. You feel yourself approaching your peak.
The steps get louder until you see a flash of cherry red pass the window and you know it’s Natasha. She’s on her way back to the locker room, perhaps to check if you’re still there. You don’t stop moving on his cock even as she passes by you and the locker room door swings open and shut.
“Are you insane?” Steve spits in a low whisper. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”
You just smile back at him because you can see his eyes growing hazy. You not sure he even realises that he himself has begun to thrust into you again. A flush is working its way up his neck and you wonder whether it’s anger or arousal. Maybe both.
You’re halfway through a moan when the door to the locker room swings back open and Natasha begins walking out again with a huff. Steve’s hand goes up to cover your mouth, so large it almost envelopes your entire face. He’s giving you look like he’s disapproving of this development but he doesn’t stop fucking you.
Natasha’s footsteps stop for a split-second. You feel a disinterested sort of confusion, too wrapped up in the way Steve’s cock feels as it drags through your walls.
Something spasms between your legs and you realise you’re about to cum. Your blood freezes. You feel Steve tense, breath snagging in his throat. You’re sweating now - praying that all those gasps you can’t mute are not audible from outside.
You hear Nat let out a long, irritated sigh from outside, but you’re too far gone to even care about the consequences anymore. You squeeze around Steve’s length once and then your eyes are rolling back into your head while she resumes moving down the hall. As she approaches the glass window of the door, you try to crouch, as if that would prevent her from seeing your and Steve’s very naked bodies as he fucks you through your orgasm. You can see the faint shadow of her figure sliding across the frosted glass. For one horrifying second, you’re sure Nat will glance in.
But she doesn’t. She keeps walking, footsteps fading with distance until the hallway is left silent again and your pussy is squeezing with aftershocks.
“You’re seriously fucked up, you know that?” Steve asks, but there’s more awe in his tone than malice. “You really get off knowing someone could walk in here and see me fucking you?”
You don’t even know how to answer him. He’s given you no time to recover from your orgasm, fucking into you again with a renewed vitality. You’re overly sensitive, the pressure of his massive cock inside you bullying your sensitive hole. It shouldn’t feel good, it should be too much too soon - but it’s not because it’s Steve. And you don’t think you could dislike anything that he chooses to do to you.
“You wanna be fucked like a whore? Fine,” he says, pulling his cock out of you with lightning speed and flipping you around on the table so your ass is arched up for him. He takes a second to look at you, squeezing at the skin of your ass, dragging his thumb all the way up from your clit, past your wet heat and through your ass. He’s mumbling something unintelligible. You clench and shudder, a moan breaking out through your lips.
When he fists his cock and presses into you again, all that slow romanticism from earlier is gone. He is fucking you hard and fast, his thick cock pressing into a heavenly spongey spot that you didn’t even know existed. “Fuck Steve!” you cry out, ass working its way back on him of its own volition.
“Such a fucking brat. Couldn’t even wait patiently for me to fuck you for one minute. Too desperate for my cock.”
You want to argue that he was also fucking you, but your brain is not working fast enough to come up with the words. All you can focus on are his dirty words, the obscene squelching noises of him filling you, and how it feels to be taken by him.
“Maybe I should punish you for that. Always so disobedient. Maybe I’ll leave you high and dry here, fill you up and not let you cum.”
“Try it,” you growl, brain suddenly fully operational. “I’ll make you regret it.”
You hear him huff a laugh from behind you. “You’re adorable. Fucked out on my cock and still think you’re in charge. I’ll make you cum sweetheart, but only because I want to see you fall apart. Next time you won’t get this lucky.”
His cock hits a spot inside you that almost makes you see god. His hands are so tight on your hips as he fucks himself into your body that you’re sure you’ll have bruises tomorrow. You hope you do.
“That’s it, isn’t it baby? That’s your spot. Fuck. Maybe I should reward you, now that I think of it. All my sweet girl wanted was to get caught getting fucked by me. You just wanted to show everyone that you’re mine. Want everyone to see me fucking that attitude right outta you.”
Being called his coils your stomach in a way you’d rather not examine. Instead, you twist your head back and scowl.
“Fuck you,” you spit, voice strangled.
He chuckles again, but it’s strained. He’s pounding you with a force that you feel all the way up to your belly, all the way up to your teeth. You know you’re not far from coming again and neither is he.
“Is my pretty girl gonna cum on my cock again?” he asks, patting and squeezing your ass encouragingly. You nod, eyes squeezed shut, not even sure that he can see it from his angle. A desperate whine escapes.
“Good fucking girl. ‘Cause I’m about to come inside you. Want you walking out of here with me dripping out of you. Gonna fill you up so good, keep you topped up for every mission. Make you mine.”
That sends you tumbling over the edge, white-hot pleasure soaring through you. Your cunt clenches down hard on him and you feel him burst, spilling sticky ropes of cum into you. He groans loud, telling you how good you are for him while holding your hips with a bruising power, fucking into you violently. He shudders behind you, and eventually his aggressive thrusts patter out and slow into shallow jerks.
Dark spots are exploding behind your eyes for a while as you come down, chest heaving as Steve drives his cum back into you slowly. You feel your mixed spend dripping down your thighs, spilling onto the wooden floors below. Steve hisses as he steadily pulls himself from your tight heat. He stops momentarily while he, presumably, watches his cum drip out of your hole.
And then he reaches down to grab his underwear. He wipes it across your privates and thighs as a makeshift towel. It is decidedly not romantic, but the fact that he’s willing to go home in soggy underwear just to clean you up makes your chest tighten with affection regardless.
Steve begins to dress but it takes you another minute to gather the strength in your limbs to haul yourself up. Your hands are shaking as you yank up your panties and try to buckle your bra. Steve is fully dressed now, watching you intensely, thighs spread out on an office chair.
You’re feeling slightly awkward in a way you never do around Steve. You’ve never been short of quips or insults to throw at him, but the air has changed now and you’re not sure where you stand or how to navigate this.
You have just tugged on your jeans when Steve leans forward to grab your hips, pulling you onto his lap. You hadn’t realised that you were waiting for him to do it until he does. You go with no objection, curling into his chest. It feels strangely natural for how combative you’ve always been with him. He nuzzles his face into your neck with a shy affection.
“I’m sorry for requesting the transfer. I regretted it immediately after if I’m honest.”
“Why did you? It was kinda fucked up, Steve. And you didn’t even come to visit me when I got shot. It hurt my feelings because I would have been there for you.” You can’t even look at him when you say it. You are vastly uncomfortable being this vulnerable with him, but you suppose if there’s ever a time for venturing into uncharted territory, it’s now. Steve was right about what he said regarding your past relationships - you just never cared enough before. But you do now.
“I stayed there until you were stable,” he says. “I was just so angry that I couldn’t even look at you. The idea that you risked your life for me killed me. I hate the way you risk so much on missions. It makes me feel like I can’t protect you.”
“But sometimes you can’t, Steve. I know I should be less reckless. Being away from you for the last few weeks made me realise that. But I have to be able to make my own decisions too.”
“I know. I know it’s just part of what happens on missions but I can’t deal with you getting hurt for me. Not with you. Because I…”
He swallows hard, eye downturned. He fidgets against your thigh and it makes your heart ache. You’re feeling embarrassingly gushy, watching him be this fragile and open. You’re taken off guard by it.
“Because you want me?”
He gives you a tight, sad sort of smile.
“I want you so bad, I’m not even sure ‘want’ is the right word for it anymore.”
You’re fighting a goofy grin but it’s beaming out of you like sunshine. You kiss him nice and slow, feel his lips move ardently and reverently against your own. Your heart flutters where it presses against his chest, as if trying to fly its way closer to him.
You pour every ounce of your adoration into the kiss and feel Steve's grin against your lips as a response.
You pull away only when your phone buzzes with a text.
NAT: so i see you’re out of the doghouse
NAT: and now i need to find a new partner. goddamn.
a/n: initially this had bucky instead of nat but i kept accidentally creating sexual tension between him and reader lmao i can't help myself with that man
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