reader who is a huge cuddle bug but is constantly shy to ask bucky if he wants to cuddle with her. and bucky who, every single time, just melts when she stumbles through asking him for cuddles.
You’ve been thinking about it for the past ten minutes.
Well, thinking about it, circling it, building it up into something much bigger than it actually is. Because it’s just cuddling. Just asking your boyfriend if he wants to hold you for a little while. That’s normal. People do that all the time.
But your brain doesn’t really care about “normal.”
Your fingers twist in the hem of your sleeve as you sit on the couch, angled just slightly toward him. Bucky’s sprawled beside you, long legs stretched out, one arm hooked over the back of the couch like he owns the space without even trying. There’s a quiet movie playing on the TV, something neither of you are really paying attention to. His attention keeps drifting back to you anyway—little glances, soft and curious.
You notice every single one of them.
You always do.
Your knee bumps his accidentally and your heart jumps like you’ve done something wrong. He doesn’t pull away, though. If anything, his leg shifts just a little closer, pressing more firmly against yours.
God.
You swallow.
“Buck?” you try, and immediately want to hide.
His head turns toward you instantly. “Yeah, doll?” His voice is soft, warm in that way that always makes your chest feel too tight.
You open your mouth.
Nothing comes out.
Because suddenly the words feel embarrassing. Too needy. Too much. What if he doesn’t want to? What if he’s comfortable like this and you mess it up? What if—
You shake your head quickly. “Nothing. Sorry.”
You turn your attention back to the TV like you didn’t just implode right next to him.
There’s a beat of silence.
Then, quieter, closer—“Hey.”
His hand finds your wrist. Not grabbing, not forcing. Just there. Thumb brushing gently over your pulse like he’s checking in.
“You sure?” he asks.
You nod too fast. “Mhm.”
Another pause.
His thumb keeps moving.
“Because,” he says slowly, like he’s choosing his words with care, “you’ve been fidgeting for the last ten minutes. And you keep lookin’ at me like you’ve got somethin’ to say.”
Your face burns.
“I—no, I haven’t.”
Bucky huffs out a quiet, amused breath; eyes twinkling in fondness.
“Doll.”
And that’s it. That one word, all warm and coaxing, and you crumble.
“I just—” you start, and your voice immediately gets smaller. “I was just wondering if, um—if you maybe wanted to—like, if you’re not busy or anything—”
His brows pull together, not in frustration, just confusion. “Not busy,” he repeats gently.
“Right, yeah, I know, I just mean—if you didn’t want to, that’s totally fine, I just—”
“Hey.” His hand slides up from your wrist to your arm, grounding. “Slow down. What’re you askin’ me, sweetheart?”
Sweetheart.
You might actually pass away.
You take a breath, staring determinedly at a spot on the couch instead of at him.
“Can we… cuddle?” you mumble, so quiet it barely counts as sound. “Just for a little bit. If that’s okay.”
Silence.
Oh God.
You knew it. You knew you shouldn’t have asked. You start to pull back, already preparing to laugh it off, to say you didn’t mean it, to pretend—
“Oh.”
It’s soft. Almost breathless.
You risk a glance up.
Bucky looks like you just handed him something precious.
His expression has completely melted. There’s no other word for it. The sharp lines of his face have gone soft, eyes wide and warm and a little bit awed, like he can’t believe you just asked him that.
“Yeah,” he says immediately. Then, a little stronger, like he needs to make sure you hear him properly, “Yeah, of course we can.”
Your shoulders loosen just a fraction. “Really?”
“Really?” he echoes, almost incredulous. “Doll, you never gotta ask like it’s a big favor.”
“I just didn’t wanna bother you,” you admit, voice small again.
That does something to him.
You see it, the way his jaw tightens just slightly.
“You could never bother me,” he says, quiet but firm.
Before you can overthink it again, he’s already moving.
His arm drops from the back of the couch, sliding around your shoulders, guiding you gently into him. Like he’s giving you every chance to change your mind, even though you never would.
You go easily, curling into his side.
And the second you settle against him, it’s like something in him gives.
He exhales, long and slow, like he’s been holding that breath all day. His arm tightens around you, pulling you closer until you’re practically draped over him. His hand comes up to cradle the back of your head, pressing you into his chest.
“There we go,” he murmurs, more to himself than anything.
You can hear his heartbeat. Feel it under your cheek—steady, strong.
Safe.
Your hand curls against his shirt, bunching the fabric lightly as you relax into him. The earlier nerves start to fade, replaced by something warm and soft that spreads through your chest.
“You okay?” he asks after a moment, voice low.
“Mhm,” you hum. “Sorry I made it weird.”
He lets out a quiet laugh, the sound vibrating through you.
“You didn’t make it weird,” he says. “You made my day.”
You tilt your head just enough to look up at him. “I did?”
“Yeah.” His thumb starts tracing slow, absent circles against your arm. “You askin’ for this? Means you want me close.” A small pause. “I like that.”
Your face heats again, but it’s softer this time. Less panic, more… something shy and happy.
“I always want you close,” you admit.
That completely ruins him.
You feel it in the way his hold on you tightens, not enough to hurt, just enough to keep you there. Like he’s not letting go anytime soon.
“Then c’mere whenever you want,” he murmurs, pressing a soft kiss to the top of your head. “Don’t make yourself nervous over it, alright?”
You nod against his chest.
“Okay.”
His fingers drift through your hair, slow and careful, and the movie continues playing in the background, forgotten.
You stay tucked against him, warm and quiet, listening to his heartbeat.
summary: your first demon hunt goes wrong but somehow you're safe. but the panic of almost dying hits you. your boyfriend sam is your anchor during it.
warnings: nasty demons, choking by demon, first hunt with the boys, panic attacks, angst to fluff,set around s3, loving bf sammy<3, protective sam and Dean.
a/n: finally wrote for my baby sam😭. I'm irrevocably in love with this man.
The motel room smelled like old coffee and gun oil, and Dean had the map spread across the bedspread with three empty beer cans anchoring the corners so it wouldn't curl up on itself.
You sat cross legged near the headboard with a stack of lore books balanced against your knee, and you had been circling the same paragraph about crossroads demons and territorial disputes for the last twenty minutes without actually absorbing a word of it. Your stomach had been doing slow, nervous flips since Sam had asked you to come along on this one.
"You're gonna wear a hole through that page," Dean said without looking up, tapping his pen against a spot on the map that you assumed marked the abandoned grain silo where three farmhands had gone missing over the past month.
"Relax, sweetheart, we're not sending you in solo."
"I know that," you said, and you did know that, logically, but knowing something logically had never once stopped your body from being an idiot about it.
You had spent the better part of two years being the researcher, the one who dug through county records and dusty occult texts and translated Latin incantations at three in the morning while Sam and Dean did the actual dangerous part of the job. You were good at that part. You trusted your own instincts when it came to books and patterns and knowing exactly which page of which grimoire held the answer they needed.
Standing in an open field with a demon-killing knife in your hand, waiting to see if you could actually use it when it counted, was an entirely different kind of test, and you weren't sure yet whether you would pass it.
Sam noticed the way your knee had started bouncing before you did. He crossed the room and settled onto the mattress beside you, close enough that his shoulder pressed warm against yours, and he reached over to gently pull the book out of your hands and set it aside on the nightstand.
"Hey," he said, low enough that it felt like it was just for you even with Dean five feet away.
"You're gonna be fine. You've trained for this. You know the ritual, you know the weak points, and you're not gonna be more than fifteen feet from either of us the entire time."
"I know," you said again, and this time you let yourself lean into him a little, let his hand find yours and give it a squeeze.
"I just don't want to be the reason something goes wrong out there."
"You won't be," Sam said, and there was no hesitation in it at all, just that steady certainty that had always made you believe him even when you weren't sure you believed yourself.
"The only reason we asked you to come is because this demon's smart, and smart demons like to split their targets up and pick them off one at a time. Three of us watching each other's backs is safer than two. That's it. That's the whole reason."
He pressed a kiss to your temple, quick and easy, the kind of gesture that had become so natural between you that you barely noticed it happening anymore except for the small warm bloom it always left behind.
"Besides, I've seen you put a stake through a vamp's heart from twenty feet with a crossbow you'd never touched before that week. You've got good instincts. Trust them."
Dean cleared his throat loudly from across the room, not quite hiding a smile. "As riveting as watching you two make heart eyes at each other is, we've got a demon possessing a rotating cast of grain silo employees, and sundown's in about two hours. Can we focus?"
You laughed despite the nerves still sitting heavy in your chest, and Sam squeezed your hand one more time before letting go and reaching for his own duffel bag. The three of you spent the next hour going over the plan in detail: the devil's trap chalked out in advance on a section of the silo's concrete floor, the exorcism ritual you had memorized cold months ago, the salt lines and the holy water and the demon knife that Dean insisted you carry even though you'd protested that you were mostly there for the ritual work.
By the time you loaded into the Impala and headed out toward the edge of town, the sun was already beginning its slow slide toward the horizon, painting the empty fields in long orange light, and your nerves had settled into something more like focus.
The silo itself was exactly as unsettling as you had expected it to be, a rusted metal husk rising up out of overgrown grass with one door hanging crooked on its hinges and a smell of rot and something sourer underneath drifting out from the darkness inside. Dean went in first, flashlight sweeping the interior, with Sam close behind him and you bringing up the rear with your own light and the demon knife gripped a little too tightly in your free hand. The devil's trap was already chalked onto the floor near the center of the space, drawn earlier that afternoon while the silo's current occupant was elsewhere, and the plan was simple enough on paper: lure the demon inside, get it trapped, and you would read the exorcism while Sam and Dean kept watch for anything the demon might try to throw at you in the meantime.
For the first ten minutes, the plan held together beautifully. You heard the demon before you saw it, a low guttural laugh that echoed strangely off the metal walls, and then it came stalking out of the shadows wearing the body of a heavyset man in overalls, its eyes flashing black in the beam of Dean's flashlight.
Sam stepped forward immediately, putting himself slightly ahead of you, and Dean circled wide to try to herd the thing toward the trap. The demon snarled something in a language you didn't recognize and lunged at Dean, and that was when everything fell apart at once.
A second demon came out of nowhere, dropping down from the rafters above where it had apparently been waiting the entire time, and it slammed into you with enough force to knock the knife clean out of your hand and send you skidding across the concrete floor into the darkness of a side corridor you hadn't even known was there. You heard Sam shout your name, heard the scrape of Dean's boots as he spun toward the sound, but the impact had knocked the wind out of you and by the time you managed to drag air back into your lungs, a heavy metal door had swung shut between you and the two of them, cutting off their flashlight beams and leaving you alone in the pitch black with something that was decidedly not human closing in.
"Well, well," the demon said, and its voice seemed to come from everywhere in the darkness at once, low and amused in a way that made your skin crawl.
"The little researcher. I've been wondering what you'd taste like scared."
You scrambled backward across the floor, your hand searching desperately for the knife you'd dropped, but your fingers found only cold concrete and loose gravel. The demon's footsteps circled somewhere close, unhurried, savoring the fact that it had you cornered and alone, and every instinct you had screamed at you to run even though you had no idea which direction led back to Sam and Dean.
You pressed yourself against a wall of rusted metal, your breath coming fast and shallow, and you tried to remember everything you had ever read about demons, every weakness, every trick, but your mind had gone frustratingly, terrifyingly blank.
The demon found you a moment later, closing a cold hand around your throat and lifting you half off the ground with a strength that no human body should have possessed, and you clawed uselessly at its wrist as your vision began to blur at the edges from the lack of air, your legs flailing in the air. It was saying something else, something mocking about how Sam and Dean would find you too late, but you barely registered the words over the roaring in your own ears. Just as the darkness at the edges of your sight began to swallow everything else, a burst of light exploded through the corridor and the demon shrieked, released you, and you dropped hard onto the concrete floor while somewhere above you, Latin words rang out in Dean's rough voice and black smoke poured out of the possessed man's mouth and vanished into the ground with a final furious howl.
"I've got her, go! Dean finish the other one," Sam's voice said, closer than you expected, and then his hands were on you, careful and shaking slightly despite how steady he was trying to sound, checking your throat and your face and your arms for injuries even as he pulled you up into his lap.
Dean's footsteps retreated back down the corridor toward wherever the fight with the second demon was still winding down, and then it was just you and Sam in the dim spill of his flashlight, and the moment your front hit his chest and his arms wrapped fully around you, something inside you that had been holding on by sheer force of will finally broke apart.
Your breath started coming in short, ragged gasps that didn't seem to actually fill your lungs no matter how hard you tried, and your hands began to shake so badly that you couldn't even grip the front of Sam's jacket the way you wanted to. The edges of your vision swam again, this time not from lack of oxygen but from pure overwhelming panic, and distantly you were aware of tears streaking down your face and your own voice making small broken sounds you didn't recognize as yours.
You slumped hard against Sam's chest, your whole body trembling, and for one disorienting moment you genuinely could not tell whether you were still in danger or whether the danger had actually passed.
Dean appeared at the mouth of the corridor a few seconds later, having finished the exorcism on the second demon, and he took one look at you shaking apart in Sam's arms and immediately stopped in his tracks. "Hey, is she—"
"She's okay, she's just panicking, give us a minute," Sam said over his shoulder, his voice pitched low and even despite the worry etched across his face, and Dean nodded once, understanding immediately, and backed quietly out of the corridor to give the two of you space, murmuring something about checking the perimeter that you barely registered.
"Okay, baby, I need you to listen to my voice, can you do that for me?" Sam said, shifting you so you were facing him more directly, one big hand cradling the back of your head while the other rubbed slow steady circles against your back.
Your breath was still coming too fast, too shallow, and you shook your head against his chest because you couldn't imagine being able to focus on anything right now, but Sam just kept talking, patient and unhurried, like he had all the time in the world and nowhere else he needed to be.
"I know it feels like you can't breathe right now, but you can, I promise you can, you're just gonna have to trust me for a second. We're gonna do the five senses thing, okay? The one we practiced. Can you try that with me?"
You managed a small, jerky nod against his shoulder, and Sam pressed a kiss to the top of your head before continuing, his voice never wavering from that same gentle, grounding rhythm.
"Good, that's so good, love. Okay, first thing, I need you to tell me five things you can see. Doesn't matter how small, just look around and tell me."
"Y-your jacket," you managed, the words coming out broken and thin, but Sam squeezed you gently in encouragement and you forced yourself to keep going, forced your eyes to actually focus on the dim shapes around you instead of staring blankly into nothing.
"The, um, the flashlight. The wall. Your hands. Dean's boot prints in the dust."
"Perfect, you're doing perfect," Sam murmured, and you could feel the words rumble through his chest as much as hear them, and something about that dual sensation, feeling his voice as much as hearing it, helped anchor you just slightly more firmly into your own body.
"Now four things you can hear."
You concentrated, forcing your racing thoughts to slow down enough to actually process the world around you instead of the panic still clawing at your ribs.
"Your heartbeat," you said first, because you were pressed so close against his chest that it was impossible to miss, steady and strong beat even though you knew he had to be worried sick underneath that calm exterior.
"My own breathing. Wind outside. Dean, somewhere, moving stuff around."
"There you go," Sam said softly, and you felt him press another kiss to your hair, lingering this time.
"Three things you can touch."
"Your jacket," you said again, your fingers finally finding enough coordination to actually curl into the fabric the way you'd wanted to earlier. "The floor. Your hand on my back."
"Two things you can smell," Sam prompted, and his voice had softened even further, gone almost tender in a way that made your chest ache with how much you loved him even in the middle of falling apart.
You breathed in, actually breathed in this time instead of just gasping, and found that your lungs cooperated slightly better than they had a few minutes ago.
"Gun oil," you said. "And you. Whatever soap you use."
Sam laughed quietly at that, a small huff of air that you felt more than heard, and the sound of it, so warm and so achingly familiar, loosened something further in your chest.
"Okay, love, last one," he said, pulling back just enough to look down at your face, his hazel eyes soft with a mixture of concern and something deeper that always made you feel steadier just from being on the receiving end of it.
"One thing you can taste."
You opened your mouth to answer, to say something about the metallic tang of adrenaline still coating your tongue or the dust from the silo floor, but before you could get a single word out, Sam leaned down and kissed you instead, slow and careful and unbearably gentle, one hand coming up to cradle your jaw like you were something precious he was terrified of breaking.
It wasn't a kiss meant to spark anything urgent or heated; it was steadying, deliberate, the kind of kiss meant to pull you fully back into your own body and remind you exactly where you were and who was holding you. When he finally pulled back, just far enough to rest his forehead against yours, your breathing had evened out almost completely, and the trembling in your hands had settled into something much more manageable.
"There she is," Sam whispered, brushing his thumb along your cheekbone to wipe away the last of the tear tracks there, and the fondness in his voice made your throat tighten all over again, though this time for entirely different reasons.
"You did so good, sweetheart. You're okay. You're safe. I've got you."
"That's cheating," you said weakly, your voice still a little rough but steadier now, more like yourself. "The taste one isn't supposed to involve you kissing me."
"Sue me," Sam said, and the small crooked smile that pulled at his mouth made your own lips twitch upward despite everything. "Figured it'd work better than making you lick the floor."
You laughed then, a real laugh even if it came out watery and a little hiccupped, and Sam gathered you in closer against his chest, tucking your head under his chin and just holding you there while your heartbeat slowly returned to something resembling normal.
"I was so scared," you admitted quietly into the fabric of his jacket, the confession feeling easier to make now that the worst of the panic had passed. "I couldn't find the knife, and it had me by the throat, and I thought—"
"I know," Sam said, and his arms tightened around you, just enough to let you feel how much the thought of nearly losing you had shaken him too, even though his voice stayed calm for your sake.
"I know, baby. But you're here. You're okay. Dean and I got to you in time, and that's what matters. You didn't do anything wrong out there. That demon splitting the group up wasn't something you could've predicted or prevented, that's just how smart ones like to fight."
Dean's voice carried faintly from somewhere down the corridor, deliberately loud enough to announce his approach without actually interrupting.
"Everybody decent? I've got the car running and I would very much like to leave this creepy murder silo before something else drops out of the rafters."
"We're good," Sam called back, though he made no immediate move to actually let go of you, and you found you didn't particularly want him to either. He helped you to your feet a moment later, one arm staying wrapped securely around your waist as you both made your way back through the silo toward the exit, and when Dean caught sight of you walking under your own power, color back in your face, he visibly relaxed in a way he clearly hoped wasn't as obvious as it was.
"Nice going back there, by the way," Dean said as you climbed into the Impala's back seat, sliding in close beside Sam out of habit more than necessity now that the danger had passed.
"Once you got your bearings you actually landed a decent kick on that thing's meatsuit before Sam and I got the door open. Didn't know you had it in you."
"I panicked and flailed, Dean, that's not the same as landing a kick," you said, though the small swell of pride at his words was hard to entirely suppress.
"Panicked flailing that connects still counts as offense in my book," Dean said with a grin, glancing at you in the rearview mirror before pulling the car out onto the dark highway.
"You did good tonight, kid. Seriously."
Sam's hand found yours in the space between you on the seat, lacing your fingers together with the same steady warmth that had carried you through the worst of the last hour, and he pressed a soft kiss to your temple as the silo disappeared into darkness behind you.
"You did great," he echoed quietly, just for you this time. "And for the record, love, next time we're not splitting up. I don't care how smart the demon is."
"Deal," you murmured, letting your head rest against his shoulder as the Impala's engine hummed steady beneath you, the adrenaline finally bleeding out of your body and leaving only exhaustion and the warm, grounding certainty of Sam's hand wrapped around yours the entire way back to the motel.
summary: your first demon hunt goes wrong but somehow you're safe. but the panic of almost dying hits you. your boyfriend sam is your anchor during it.
warnings: nasty demons, choking by demon, first hunt with the boys, panic attacks, angst to fluff,set around s3, loving bf sammy<3, protective sam and Dean.
a/n: finally wrote for my baby sam😭. I'm irrevocably in love with this man.
The motel room smelled like old coffee and gun oil, and Dean had the map spread across the bedspread with three empty beer cans anchoring the corners so it wouldn't curl up on itself.
You sat cross legged near the headboard with a stack of lore books balanced against your knee, and you had been circling the same paragraph about crossroads demons and territorial disputes for the last twenty minutes without actually absorbing a word of it. Your stomach had been doing slow, nervous flips since Sam had asked you to come along on this one.
"You're gonna wear a hole through that page," Dean said without looking up, tapping his pen against a spot on the map that you assumed marked the abandoned grain silo where three farmhands had gone missing over the past month.
"Relax, sweetheart, we're not sending you in solo."
"I know that," you said, and you did know that, logically, but knowing something logically had never once stopped your body from being an idiot about it.
You had spent the better part of two years being the researcher, the one who dug through county records and dusty occult texts and translated Latin incantations at three in the morning while Sam and Dean did the actual dangerous part of the job. You were good at that part. You trusted your own instincts when it came to books and patterns and knowing exactly which page of which grimoire held the answer they needed.
Standing in an open field with a demon-killing knife in your hand, waiting to see if you could actually use it when it counted, was an entirely different kind of test, and you weren't sure yet whether you would pass it.
Sam noticed the way your knee had started bouncing before you did. He crossed the room and settled onto the mattress beside you, close enough that his shoulder pressed warm against yours, and he reached over to gently pull the book out of your hands and set it aside on the nightstand.
"Hey," he said, low enough that it felt like it was just for you even with Dean five feet away.
"You're gonna be fine. You've trained for this. You know the ritual, you know the weak points, and you're not gonna be more than fifteen feet from either of us the entire time."
"I know," you said again, and this time you let yourself lean into him a little, let his hand find yours and give it a squeeze.
"I just don't want to be the reason something goes wrong out there."
"You won't be," Sam said, and there was no hesitation in it at all, just that steady certainty that had always made you believe him even when you weren't sure you believed yourself.
"The only reason we asked you to come is because this demon's smart, and smart demons like to split their targets up and pick them off one at a time. Three of us watching each other's backs is safer than two. That's it. That's the whole reason."
He pressed a kiss to your temple, quick and easy, the kind of gesture that had become so natural between you that you barely noticed it happening anymore except for the small warm bloom it always left behind.
"Besides, I've seen you put a stake through a vamp's heart from twenty feet with a crossbow you'd never touched before that week. You've got good instincts. Trust them."
Dean cleared his throat loudly from across the room, not quite hiding a smile. "As riveting as watching you two make heart eyes at each other is, we've got a demon possessing a rotating cast of grain silo employees, and sundown's in about two hours. Can we focus?"
You laughed despite the nerves still sitting heavy in your chest, and Sam squeezed your hand one more time before letting go and reaching for his own duffel bag. The three of you spent the next hour going over the plan in detail: the devil's trap chalked out in advance on a section of the silo's concrete floor, the exorcism ritual you had memorized cold months ago, the salt lines and the holy water and the demon knife that Dean insisted you carry even though you'd protested that you were mostly there for the ritual work.
By the time you loaded into the Impala and headed out toward the edge of town, the sun was already beginning its slow slide toward the horizon, painting the empty fields in long orange light, and your nerves had settled into something more like focus.
The silo itself was exactly as unsettling as you had expected it to be, a rusted metal husk rising up out of overgrown grass with one door hanging crooked on its hinges and a smell of rot and something sourer underneath drifting out from the darkness inside. Dean went in first, flashlight sweeping the interior, with Sam close behind him and you bringing up the rear with your own light and the demon knife gripped a little too tightly in your free hand. The devil's trap was already chalked onto the floor near the center of the space, drawn earlier that afternoon while the silo's current occupant was elsewhere, and the plan was simple enough on paper: lure the demon inside, get it trapped, and you would read the exorcism while Sam and Dean kept watch for anything the demon might try to throw at you in the meantime.
For the first ten minutes, the plan held together beautifully. You heard the demon before you saw it, a low guttural laugh that echoed strangely off the metal walls, and then it came stalking out of the shadows wearing the body of a heavyset man in overalls, its eyes flashing black in the beam of Dean's flashlight.
Sam stepped forward immediately, putting himself slightly ahead of you, and Dean circled wide to try to herd the thing toward the trap. The demon snarled something in a language you didn't recognize and lunged at Dean, and that was when everything fell apart at once.
A second demon came out of nowhere, dropping down from the rafters above where it had apparently been waiting the entire time, and it slammed into you with enough force to knock the knife clean out of your hand and send you skidding across the concrete floor into the darkness of a side corridor you hadn't even known was there. You heard Sam shout your name, heard the scrape of Dean's boots as he spun toward the sound, but the impact had knocked the wind out of you and by the time you managed to drag air back into your lungs, a heavy metal door had swung shut between you and the two of them, cutting off their flashlight beams and leaving you alone in the pitch black with something that was decidedly not human closing in.
"Well, well," the demon said, and its voice seemed to come from everywhere in the darkness at once, low and amused in a way that made your skin crawl.
"The little researcher. I've been wondering what you'd taste like scared."
You scrambled backward across the floor, your hand searching desperately for the knife you'd dropped, but your fingers found only cold concrete and loose gravel. The demon's footsteps circled somewhere close, unhurried, savoring the fact that it had you cornered and alone, and every instinct you had screamed at you to run even though you had no idea which direction led back to Sam and Dean.
You pressed yourself against a wall of rusted metal, your breath coming fast and shallow, and you tried to remember everything you had ever read about demons, every weakness, every trick, but your mind had gone frustratingly, terrifyingly blank.
The demon found you a moment later, closing a cold hand around your throat and lifting you half off the ground with a strength that no human body should have possessed, and you clawed uselessly at its wrist as your vision began to blur at the edges from the lack of air, your legs flailing in the air. It was saying something else, something mocking about how Sam and Dean would find you too late, but you barely registered the words over the roaring in your own ears. Just as the darkness at the edges of your sight began to swallow everything else, a burst of light exploded through the corridor and the demon shrieked, released you, and you dropped hard onto the concrete floor while somewhere above you, Latin words rang out in Dean's rough voice and black smoke poured out of the possessed man's mouth and vanished into the ground with a final furious howl.
"I've got her, go! Dean finish the other one," Sam's voice said, closer than you expected, and then his hands were on you, careful and shaking slightly despite how steady he was trying to sound, checking your throat and your face and your arms for injuries even as he pulled you up into his lap.
Dean's footsteps retreated back down the corridor toward wherever the fight with the second demon was still winding down, and then it was just you and Sam in the dim spill of his flashlight, and the moment your front hit his chest and his arms wrapped fully around you, something inside you that had been holding on by sheer force of will finally broke apart.
Your breath started coming in short, ragged gasps that didn't seem to actually fill your lungs no matter how hard you tried, and your hands began to shake so badly that you couldn't even grip the front of Sam's jacket the way you wanted to. The edges of your vision swam again, this time not from lack of oxygen but from pure overwhelming panic, and distantly you were aware of tears streaking down your face and your own voice making small broken sounds you didn't recognize as yours.
You slumped hard against Sam's chest, your whole body trembling, and for one disorienting moment you genuinely could not tell whether you were still in danger or whether the danger had actually passed.
Dean appeared at the mouth of the corridor a few seconds later, having finished the exorcism on the second demon, and he took one look at you shaking apart in Sam's arms and immediately stopped in his tracks. "Hey, is she—"
"She's okay, she's just panicking, give us a minute," Sam said over his shoulder, his voice pitched low and even despite the worry etched across his face, and Dean nodded once, understanding immediately, and backed quietly out of the corridor to give the two of you space, murmuring something about checking the perimeter that you barely registered.
"Okay, baby, I need you to listen to my voice, can you do that for me?" Sam said, shifting you so you were facing him more directly, one big hand cradling the back of your head while the other rubbed slow steady circles against your back.
Your breath was still coming too fast, too shallow, and you shook your head against his chest because you couldn't imagine being able to focus on anything right now, but Sam just kept talking, patient and unhurried, like he had all the time in the world and nowhere else he needed to be.
"I know it feels like you can't breathe right now, but you can, I promise you can, you're just gonna have to trust me for a second. We're gonna do the five senses thing, okay? The one we practiced. Can you try that with me?"
You managed a small, jerky nod against his shoulder, and Sam pressed a kiss to the top of your head before continuing, his voice never wavering from that same gentle, grounding rhythm.
"Good, that's so good, love. Okay, first thing, I need you to tell me five things you can see. Doesn't matter how small, just look around and tell me."
"Y-your jacket," you managed, the words coming out broken and thin, but Sam squeezed you gently in encouragement and you forced yourself to keep going, forced your eyes to actually focus on the dim shapes around you instead of staring blankly into nothing.
"The, um, the flashlight. The wall. Your hands. Dean's boot prints in the dust."
"Perfect, you're doing perfect," Sam murmured, and you could feel the words rumble through his chest as much as hear them, and something about that dual sensation, feeling his voice as much as hearing it, helped anchor you just slightly more firmly into your own body.
"Now four things you can hear."
You concentrated, forcing your racing thoughts to slow down enough to actually process the world around you instead of the panic still clawing at your ribs.
"Your heartbeat," you said first, because you were pressed so close against his chest that it was impossible to miss, steady and strong beat even though you knew he had to be worried sick underneath that calm exterior.
"My own breathing. Wind outside. Dean, somewhere, moving stuff around."
"There you go," Sam said softly, and you felt him press another kiss to your hair, lingering this time.
"Three things you can touch."
"Your jacket," you said again, your fingers finally finding enough coordination to actually curl into the fabric the way you'd wanted to earlier. "The floor. Your hand on my back."
"Two things you can smell," Sam prompted, and his voice had softened even further, gone almost tender in a way that made your chest ache with how much you loved him even in the middle of falling apart.
You breathed in, actually breathed in this time instead of just gasping, and found that your lungs cooperated slightly better than they had a few minutes ago.
"Gun oil," you said. "And you. Whatever soap you use."
Sam laughed quietly at that, a small huff of air that you felt more than heard, and the sound of it, so warm and so achingly familiar, loosened something further in your chest.
"Okay, love, last one," he said, pulling back just enough to look down at your face, his hazel eyes soft with a mixture of concern and something deeper that always made you feel steadier just from being on the receiving end of it.
"One thing you can taste."
You opened your mouth to answer, to say something about the metallic tang of adrenaline still coating your tongue or the dust from the silo floor, but before you could get a single word out, Sam leaned down and kissed you instead, slow and careful and unbearably gentle, one hand coming up to cradle your jaw like you were something precious he was terrified of breaking.
It wasn't a kiss meant to spark anything urgent or heated; it was steadying, deliberate, the kind of kiss meant to pull you fully back into your own body and remind you exactly where you were and who was holding you. When he finally pulled back, just far enough to rest his forehead against yours, your breathing had evened out almost completely, and the trembling in your hands had settled into something much more manageable.
"There she is," Sam whispered, brushing his thumb along your cheekbone to wipe away the last of the tear tracks there, and the fondness in his voice made your throat tighten all over again, though this time for entirely different reasons.
"You did so good, sweetheart. You're okay. You're safe. I've got you."
"That's cheating," you said weakly, your voice still a little rough but steadier now, more like yourself. "The taste one isn't supposed to involve you kissing me."
"Sue me," Sam said, and the small crooked smile that pulled at his mouth made your own lips twitch upward despite everything. "Figured it'd work better than making you lick the floor."
You laughed then, a real laugh even if it came out watery and a little hiccupped, and Sam gathered you in closer against his chest, tucking your head under his chin and just holding you there while your heartbeat slowly returned to something resembling normal.
"I was so scared," you admitted quietly into the fabric of his jacket, the confession feeling easier to make now that the worst of the panic had passed. "I couldn't find the knife, and it had me by the throat, and I thought—"
"I know," Sam said, and his arms tightened around you, just enough to let you feel how much the thought of nearly losing you had shaken him too, even though his voice stayed calm for your sake.
"I know, baby. But you're here. You're okay. Dean and I got to you in time, and that's what matters. You didn't do anything wrong out there. That demon splitting the group up wasn't something you could've predicted or prevented, that's just how smart ones like to fight."
Dean's voice carried faintly from somewhere down the corridor, deliberately loud enough to announce his approach without actually interrupting.
"Everybody decent? I've got the car running and I would very much like to leave this creepy murder silo before something else drops out of the rafters."
"We're good," Sam called back, though he made no immediate move to actually let go of you, and you found you didn't particularly want him to either. He helped you to your feet a moment later, one arm staying wrapped securely around your waist as you both made your way back through the silo toward the exit, and when Dean caught sight of you walking under your own power, color back in your face, he visibly relaxed in a way he clearly hoped wasn't as obvious as it was.
"Nice going back there, by the way," Dean said as you climbed into the Impala's back seat, sliding in close beside Sam out of habit more than necessity now that the danger had passed.
"Once you got your bearings you actually landed a decent kick on that thing's meatsuit before Sam and I got the door open. Didn't know you had it in you."
"I panicked and flailed, Dean, that's not the same as landing a kick," you said, though the small swell of pride at his words was hard to entirely suppress.
"Panicked flailing that connects still counts as offense in my book," Dean said with a grin, glancing at you in the rearview mirror before pulling the car out onto the dark highway.
"You did good tonight, kid. Seriously."
Sam's hand found yours in the space between you on the seat, lacing your fingers together with the same steady warmth that had carried you through the worst of the last hour, and he pressed a soft kiss to your temple as the silo disappeared into darkness behind you.
"You did great," he echoed quietly, just for you this time. "And for the record, love, next time we're not splitting up. I don't care how smart the demon is."
"Deal," you murmured, letting your head rest against his shoulder as the Impala's engine hummed steady beneath you, the adrenaline finally bleeding out of your body and leaving only exhaustion and the warm, grounding certainty of Sam's hand wrapped around yours the entire way back to the motel.
warnings: porn without plot (literally zero plot), biting kink, unprotected piv(wrap it before you tap it), I hc switch!dex?, creampie, chokehold with them delicious biceps 😋, fem!reader, dirty talk, cursing. mdni!
word count: 1.2k
a/n: this was written just cus I had horny thots. do what you want with this. Requests are open!!!
masterlist bullseye masterlist
"Mhm baby you like that?" Dex says holding your hips as he sinks in from behind slowly, pushing his length in savouring the feeling of your walls clenching.
A soft, broken moan escapes your lips as he fill you, the sheer size of him stretching you to you absolute limit. "God, Dex... yes, please," you whimper, your fingers digging into the sheets as his rhythm begins to pick up. You can feel the heat radiating off his skin, and the way his heavy weight presses against your back makes your head spin. You shift your hips, trying to tilt yourself just right to take every inch of him. You glance back over your shoulder, your eyes hazy with lust as you catch a glimpse of his focused expression. "Don't stop... just keep going exactly like that."
Dex lets out a low, guttural growl, the sound vibrating deep in his massive chest as he hears your desperate plea. "I ain't stopping for shit," he grunts, his voice thick with a primal sort of hunger. He reaches forward, his thick, corded arm sweeping around your neck to pull you upright, his bicep bulging like a mountain of hard, tanned muscle right in your line of sight. The sheer scale of him is overwhelming; his skin is slick with sweat, and the scent of musk fills your lungs.
As he hammers into you from behind, his thrusts become heavy and punishing, his large cock bottoming out against your cervix with a wet, slapping sound. "Fuck, you feel so tight... so fucking good," he pants, his head tossing back as he loses himself to the friction. He’s vocal, letting out sharp, uninhibited moans every time he slams his hips against your ass. He feels your gaze fixated on his arm, and he flexes harder, the muscle peaking right before your eyes. He loves how much you crave his strength, driving himself even deeper to hear you break.
A choked, needy sound tears from your throat as his heavy thrusts send jolts of electricity straight to your core. Your vision swims, but your eyes are locked onto that massive, pulsing bicep anchored around your neck, the sheer power of it making your heart hammer against your ribs. You can't help it; the sight of that thick, hard muscle is driving you insane. Leaning forward into his hold, You turn your head and sink your teeth into the peak of his bicep, biting down hard on the warm, sweating flesh.
Dex lets out a sharp, strangled roar of surprise that quickly melts into a deep, gravelly groan of pure pleasure. The sudden sting of your teeth sinking into his bicep sends a jolt of electricity straight to his groin, making his cock swell even larger inside your soaking heat. He doesn't pull away; instead, he leans into the sensation, his muscles rippling and hardening under your teeth as he flexes even harder, practically offering the thick mass of his arm to you.
"Fuck! You're gonna drive me fucking crazy biting me like that!" he bellows, his voice cracking with raw lust. The sensation of your mouth on his skin, combined with the tight, rhythmic clenching of your walls, pushes him toward the edge. He abandons all restraint, his thrusts becoming violent and frantic. He slams his pelvis against your ass with bruising force, the wet, slapping sound of skin hitting skin echoing through the room.
"Yeah, eat it... bite me, Fuck, you feel so goddamn good!" He’s panting heavily, his breath hot against your ear, as he drives himself into you with an unhinged intensity, desperate to lose himself in the friction and your tight, pulsing walls. He can feel the friction of your teeth against his skin, a delicious sort of pain that makes his vision blur.
"God, fuck... you're so fucking greedy," he gasps, his voice a ragged, broken mess of sound. He's losing control, his heavy, rhythmic pounding turning into a desperate, frantic scramble to reach his peak. He’s close, so fucking close, and the way you're clinging to him, biting and moaning, is pushing him over the goddamn precipice. "I'm gonna...baby, fuck, I'm gonna blow!"
A high, keening wail breaks from your throat as his words hit you, your entire body trembling under the sheer force of his frantic pounding. "Then do it! Fuck, Dex, just give it to me!" you cry out, your voice cracking with the same desperation that’s tearing through your chest. You don't let go of his bicep; instead, you squeeze even tighter, your teeth grazing the skin as you arch your back to meet every punishing lunge of his hips.
The sensation of him bottoming out inside you is so intense it feels like your soul is being pulled through your skin. You can feel your own climax building, a tidal wave of heat crashing against your hips, and you tilt your head back to find his mouth, needing to taste the sweat and the hunger on his lips. "Don't hold back... Baby."
"Don't hold back? Fuck, you don't have to tell me twice!" Dex roars, his voice a primal, unhinged sound that vibrates through your very bones. He meets your desperate command with a final, violent surge of strength. His massive hand on your hip squeezes so hard his knuckles turn white, anchoring you as he delivers a series of rapid, punishing thrusts that feel like they’re trying to fuse your bodies together.
As your lips find his, he crashes his mouth against yours in a messy, hungry kiss, tasting the salt of his own sweat and the pure, unadulterated lust on your tongue.
With a guttural, soul shaking groan, Dex finally breaks. "Fuck Fuck Fuck!" he bellows, his entire muscular frame shuddering as he hits his peak.
He thrusts one last time, burying his thick, heavy cock as deep as humanly possible, bottoming out with a force that makes your vision go white. He lets out a long, ragged cry of release, his hips pulsing rhythmically as he pumps hot, thick ropes of hot, thick ropes of cum deep inside your soaking, twitching walls. He groans, a long, low sound of pure, unburdened ecstasy, as his entire body goes rigid. You can feel the sheer volume of him filling you, the heat of his seed pulsing against your cervix in heavy, rhythmic waves.
Dex collapses forward, his massive, sweat slicked chest pressing hard against your back, pinning you into the mattress as he tries to catch his breath. His heart is thundering like a drum against your spine, and his breath comes in ragged, heavy gasps against the crook of your neck. He doesn't pull out immediately; instead, he stays buried deep, letting the sensation of his cock inside you settle.
"Fuck... baby..." he wheezes, his voice a wrecked, gravelly shadow of its former self. He nuzzles into your hair, his large arm still draped heavily over you, the bicep you were just biting now soft and trembling from the exertion. He lets out a shaky, satisfied chuckle, his hand moving from your hip to gently stroke your stomach. "You're a fucking animal, you know that? Biting me like a little predator... god, you're something else entirely. A goddamn dream."
He lets out a long, shaky exhale, his forehead resting against the back of your shoulder as the adrenaline slowly begins to ebb, leaving only a heavy, blissful lethargy in its wake.
summary: You have one rule: nothing comes before earning your place at the crown princess's side. Then Benjamin Poindexter enters the training yard — cold to everyone but you, dangerously skilled, and impossible to ignore. A medieval rivals-to-lovers slow burn of stolen glances, guarded hearts, and one final duel that will decide everything.
I'd like to think his partner doesn't wear heavy perfume or scents because he has very sensitive senses. But they have this distinct scent that only he can sense, which helps calm him down. This also means he loves smelling you.
His prayers to God immediately started including you the moment he realised you're his person.
He loves having his hands on you. Not always in an explicit sense. He loves tracing all the small details, be it the way the corners of your eyes wrinkle when you smile, your knuckles when you flex it, your pulse beating faster under your skin when he's near.
Before you start dating, while still friends, he picks up on your mood changes instantly and does whatever he can to make you comfortable. This carries on in your relationship.
He loves listening to you sleep. It's not creepy, never with him. he loves the little sighs, grumbles, and coos and wonders what you're dreaming about.
You forget even though he's blind he still can see you. This happens when he quietly sneaks behind you and wraps his arms around you. He laughs softly in your ear when you get startled.
He loves calling you his sweetheart more than anything
He's a light sleeper and anytime you move in the middle of the night, he instantly tightens his arm around you, burying his head between your shoulder and neck.
He acts like his wounds hurt more than it does whenever he comes back from daredeviling just to have you coddle him.
Whenever he's overwhelmed after a fight, he tunes out all the noise and listens to your heartbeat to calm himself down even if he's far away from you.
pairings: Knight!Benjamin poindexter x Knight!fem!reader
summary: You have one rule: nothing comes before earning your place at the crown princess's side. Then Benjamin Poindexter enters the training yard — cold to everyone but you, dangerously skilled, and impossible to ignore. A medieval rivals-to-lovers slow burn of stolen glances, guarded hearts, and one final duel that will decide everything.
warnings: rivals to lovers, misogyny (not from dex), era (in)appropriate behaviour (doesn't mean it's excused), annoying ahh knights, weapons mentioned, shitty authority figure, baddass reader who doesn't take shit from anyone, protective dex, kind of obsessed, cuties in love, slowburn, lady and her husband ;) , dex and not knowing what he's feeling.
word count: 8k
a/n: finally got the dex fic out. writing more as we speak. as always requests are open lovelies!!
The morning that you arrived at the training grounds of Aldric Keep, the mist was still clinging to the stone walls like something that refused to let go of the night before, and you remember thinking that the weight of your own armor felt heavier than it ever had during your years of preparation in your father's modest courtyard back home.
You had ridden for three days straight to reach the capital, sleeping only a handful of hours each night beneath the open sky, because you knew that if you arrived even a single day late, the men who ran the selection process would use it as one more excuse to send you home.
Your horse's hooves clattered against the cobblestones of the courtyard as you dismounted, and immediately you felt the stares settle upon you the way flies settle upon meat left out too long in the sun, curious and unkind and entirely too comfortable in their judgment.
You straightened your spine, adjusted the strap of your scabbard, and walked forward with a steadiness you did not entirely feel inside your chest, because you had learned long ago that the moment you let your posture falter was the moment they would decide you belonged somewhere else, somewhere smaller, somewhere far away from swords and shields and the chance to stand beside royalty.
The commander who greeted the new recruits was a broad man named Sir Aldous, whose beard had gone the color of iron and whose eyes carried the particular exhaustion of someone who had trained a thousand boys into soldiers and never once expected a woman to walk through his gates asking to be trained the same way. He looked you over slowly, the way a merchant might look over a bolt of cloth he suspected was damaged, and then he asked you flatly whether you understood that this was not a place for seamstresses or kitchen maids, and you answered him just as flatly that you understood perfectly well what this place was for, because you had spent the last six years of your life training for exactly this moment and did not intend to waste it explaining yourself to a man who had not yet seen you lift a blade.
Several of the other recruits laughed under their breath at the exchange, arms crossed and shoulders shaking with quiet amusement, but you kept your gaze fixed on Sir Aldous and refused to let your face show even the faintest tremor of the humiliation curling in your stomach. It was in that same courtyard, standing near the well with his arms loosely folded and his head tilted with open curiosity, that you first noticed a young man watching you with an expression unlike any of the others, something more like fascination than contempt, though at the time you paid it no particular mind because you had far larger battles to fight than the attention of one more knight in training.
His name, you would learn later that same day, was Benjamin Poindexter, and he had already earned something of a reputation among the other recruits for being unnervingly precise with a blade and unnervingly quiet about everything else. Where the other men bragged loudly about their lineage or their victories in whatever minor skirmishes they had survived, Dex simply watched, and when he did speak it was usually to say something so bluntly honest that it left people uncertain whether he meant to be cruel or whether cruelty had simply never occurred to him as a concept worth avoiding.
You would come to understand, in the months that followed, that there was something different about the way his mind worked, something that made him excellent at reading the mechanics of a fight but strangely lost when it came to reading the feelings of the people standing in front of him.
That first day, however, you knew none of this, and all you registered was a tall, sharp-eyed young man who did not laugh along with the others, who instead studied you the way a hawk studies the wind before it decides whether flying is worth the effort.
The training regimen at Aldric Keep was designed to be brutal by intention rather than accident, because the men who oversaw it believed that only the cruelest trials could produce a knight worthy of guarding royalty, and you quickly discovered that every single day would demand more of you than the day before had.
You woke before dawn to run the outer wall three times before breakfast, then spent the morning hours practicing footwork drills that left your calves burning and your lungs aching from the cold air, and only after all of that were you permitted to pick up a blade and begin the sparring matches that determined where each recruit stood in the unofficial hierarchy of skill. It did not take long for you to realize that you were being paired against the largest and roughest men on purpose, because the instructors wanted to see whether you would break, and you made a private vow to yourself on your second night there that you would rather shatter every bone in your own hand than give them the satisfaction of watching you quit.
Dex was paired against you for the first time on your fourth day of training, and the moment the instructor called both your names, a ripple of anticipation moved through the gathered recruits, because everyone already understood that he was among the most gifted fighters in the entire yard.
You remember the way he rolled his shoulders before stepping into the sparring circle, loose and easy, as though the entire exercise amused him more than it concerned him, and you remember thinking that his calm was going to be the thing that either made him unbeatable or made him careless. The match began the way most of your matches began, with the other recruits assuming you would tire quickly and fold under the pressure of a stronger opponent, but you had spent years learning to fight smaller men who relied on speed and precision rather than brute strength, and you used every trick you owned to keep him constantly adjusting to a rhythm he could not predict.
Dex, for his part, seemed to grow more delighted rather than more frustrated with each exchange, his blade meeting yours again and again with a controlled, almost playful aggression, and at one point when you managed to knock the practice sword from his hand entirely, the yard fell into a stunned and heavy silence that neither of you seemed to notice because you were both too busy staring at each other, breathing hard, sizing each other up in a way that had very little to do with strategy anymore.
"You're better than they said you'd be," he told you afterward, once the instructor had called the match and the other recruits had begun drifting back toward their own drills, and there was no mockery in his voice at all, only a plain and startling honesty that caught you off guard because you had expected some kind of backhanded insult wrapped inside the compliment.
You told him you didn't need his approval to know your own worth, and he simply tilted his head at you again, that same considering look from the courtyard, before saying that he hadn't offered approval so much as an observation, and that you should learn the difference before you decided to be offended by it.
It was infuriating, the way he spoke to you as though every conversation were a puzzle he was still working out the rules to, and yet you found yourself unable to stop replaying his words later that night as you lay on your narrow cot in the shared barracks, wondering why his opinion of your skill had settled into your chest with such stubborn warmth when you had told yourself, quite firmly, that no man's opinion of you mattered here except the king's.
The weeks that followed only deepened the rivalry between the two of you, because it became clear almost immediately that you and Dex were consistently ranked above every other recruit in the yard, trading the top position back and forth depending on the day and the drill and the mood of whichever instructor happened to be judging.
The other men resented this in different ways, some by whispering that you had only ranked so high because the instructors pitied you, others by openly challenging you to matches meant to embarrass you in front of the group, and you endured every single one of these small cruelties with the same tight-jawed patience because you refused to let anyone see how deeply their words could still cut.
Dex, oddly enough, was the one person who never engaged in this particular game, and more than once you caught him stepping between you and a recruit who had gotten too aggressive with his words, not with any dramatic show of force but simply by positioning his body in a way that made the other man reconsider whatever he had been about to say.
You told him more than once that you did not need him defending you, that you had been handling insults from men far crueler than any recruit in this yard since you were old enough to hold a wooden sword, and he would only shrug and say that he was not defending you so much as removing an obstacle that was slowing down the natural order of the training, though the way his jaw tightened whenever another man spoke to you unkindly suggested his reasons ran a little deeper than he was willing to admit.
The matter of your sleeping arrangements became a point of tension almost immediately, because Aldric Keep had never before housed a female recruit and therefore possessed no separate quarters designed for you, which meant you were assigned a cot in the same long barracks room as every other trainee, separated from the nearest man by nothing more than a thin wooden partition that did little to muffle sound and even less to offer any real privacy.
You changed into your sleeping clothes each night behind a curtain you had rigged yourself out of an old blanket, and you kept a dagger beneath your pillow not because you distrusted every man in that room but because you had learned, through hard experience, that trust was a luxury you could not always afford to extend freely. Several of the recruits made their discomfort with your presence known through petty acts, moving your belongings when you were away at drills or making a great show of complaining to the barracks master about the impropriety of housing a woman among them, though none of them seemed to consider that you found the arrangement just as uncomfortable as they claimed to.
Dex's cot, as it happened, was situated only a few feet from your own, and it did not take long for you to notice that he had quietly appointed himself something like a sentry over your side of the room, though he never announced this intention outright and would likely have denied it if you had asked him directly. You woke one night to hushed voices near your curtain and found him standing between your cot and two recruits who had apparently thought it would be amusing to disturb your rest, his voice low and even as he told them that if they wanted to test their courage against someone, he would be a far more interesting opponent than a sleeping woman, and something about the flatness of his tone convinced them to retreat without further argument.
When you sat up and asked him, with more irritation than gratitude in your voice, why he insisted on inserting himself into matters that were not his concern, he answered with the same startling directness he always used, telling you that watching people underestimate you was the single most predictable and therefore most boring pattern he had observed since arriving at the keep, and that he preferred to remove boring things from his environment whenever possible.
"I don't need a protector, Dex," you told him one evening, weeks into your training, as you sat cleaning your blade by the low light of a single candle while the rest of the barracks slept around you, your voice pitched quiet enough not to wake the others but sharp enough to carry the full weight of your frustration.
He had settled onto the edge of his own cot across from you, elbows braced on his knees, watching you work the oiled cloth along the steel with an attention that felt entirely too focused for such a mundane task, and when he finally answered, he said that he understood you didn't need one, that he had watched you disarm three men twice your size without so much as raising your voice, and that his presence beside you had very little to do with what you needed and a great deal more to do with something he did not yet have adequate words to explain.
You asked him, half amused despite yourself, whether that was the closest he had ever come to admitting he cared what happened to another human being, and he considered the question with the same careful seriousness he gave to everything, finally admitting that caring was not a sensation he experienced often or comfortably, but that whatever this was, it did not feel like the absence he was used to.
Those quiet nighttime conversations became something of a ritual between the two of you over the following months, stolen minutes after the rest of the barracks had gone silent, when you would speak in low voices about everything from the particulars of swordplay to the strange, half-formed shape of your ambitions, and you found yourself confessing things to Dex that you had never confessed to another living soul, including the bone-deep fear that no matter how many times you won a sparring match or outperformed a drill, some part of the men around you would always see you as an intruder rather than a knight.
Dex listened to these confessions with an intensity that unsettled you at first, because he never offered the easy, hollow reassurances that other people offered when they wanted a conversation to end quickly, but instead asked pointed questions that forced you to examine your own fears more closely than you had ever wanted to.
You began to understand, slowly and with no small amount of resistance, that Benjamin Poindexter processed the world differently than everyone else around him, that emotions arrived to him sideways and distorted, and that the plain, blunt way he spoke to you was not carelessness but rather the only honest language available to him.
You had explained to Dex, on one of those quiet nights, exactly why you could not allow yourself to be distracted by anything, including him, and the reason was simple enough to state though it had cost you years of discipline to live by. Every man in that training yard needed only to be competent to be considered for the position of the crown princess's personal knight, but you understood, with a clarity that had hardened into something like armor around your heart, that you would need to be extraordinary, flawless, and utterly beyond reproach before the king would ever consider placing a woman in a role so close to his daughter.
You told Dex that you could not afford the luxury of falling in love, that every hour spent daydreaming about a person was an hour stolen from the discipline required to prove yourself worthy, and that you had watched enough women in your life lose themselves entirely to the demands of men who claimed to love them, and you refused to become another cautionary tale whispered about in kitchens and stables.
Dex listened to this explanation without argument, though you could see something shift behind his eyes as you spoke, a kind of quiet calculation that you would later recognize as him rearranging his own understanding of what he wanted from you into a shape that would not violate your carefully constructed rules.
He told you, in that same unflinching honesty that had become so familiar to you by then, that he did not fully understand why affection and ambition needed to exist as opposites, since in his experience the things a person wanted rarely announced themselves so neatly, but that he respected the goal you had set for yourself enough to keep whatever he felt contained until you decided otherwise.
It was a strange kind of comfort, hearing him say this, because it meant that he was not going to pretend the tension between you did not exist, but he was also not going to pressure you into acknowledging it before you were ready, and that restraint, coming from a man who seemed to struggle with restraint in nearly every other aspect of his life, meant more to you than any romantic gesture could have.
The tournament that would determine the princess's personal knight was announced during the height of summer, a full year after you had first arrived at Aldric Keep, and the announcement sent a current of nervous energy through every recruit in the yard because everyone understood that this single event would define the rest of their careers within the royal guard.
The rules were simple in structure though brutal in practice: every recruit would compete in a series of trials testing combat skill, strategy, endurance, and loyalty, with the final two competitors facing each other in a public duel before the king himself, who would then choose the victor to serve as the princess's own sworn protector.
You and Dex both understood, without needing to say it aloud, that the two of you would almost certainly be the ones standing in that final duel, and the knowledge settled between you like a stone dropped into still water, sending ripples of both excitement and dread through every interaction you had in the weeks that followed.
"I want you to know that I intend to win," you told him one afternoon as you both cleaned your equipment after a particularly grueling drill, your voice steady despite the nervous energy thrumming beneath your ribs, because you needed him to understand that whatever existed between you would not soften your resolve.
Dex nodded slowly, setting down the whetstone he had been using on his blade, and told you that he intended to win as well, that he had never once considered losing to be an acceptable outcome in any contest he entered, but that if the final duel came down to the two of you, he wanted you to know that he would not hold back simply because of what he felt, because doing so would be an insult to everything you had built with your own hands.
You found yourself oddly grateful for his honesty in that moment, because it meant you could compete against him without the added burden of wondering whether he was letting you win, and it meant that whatever victory either of you claimed would be entirely, unquestionably earned.
The trials leading up to the final tournament tested every recruit in ways designed to expose weakness, and it was during the endurance trial, a grueling three-day march through the forested hills surrounding the capital while carrying full armor and provisions, that you first saw Dex's composure crack in a way you had never witnessed before.
On the second night of the march, your group was ambushed by a band of common bandits who had apparently heard rumors of the tournament and decided that wealthy knights-in-training made for easy plunder, and though the fight itself was over quickly thanks to your combined training, one of the bandits managed to land a glancing blow against your side before you disarmed him, opening a shallow but bloody gash along your ribs.
Dex's reaction to seeing you wounded was immediate and startlingly intense, his usual calm detachment replaced by something sharp and almost frantic as he knelt beside you in the firelight, his hands hovering over the wound as though uncertain whether touching you would help or hurt, and you realized in that moment that whatever emotional distance existed between Dex and the rest of the world simply did not apply to you.
"It's a scratch, Poindexter," you told him, trying to keep your voice light even as pain throbbed along your side, because the expression on his face had gone somewhere you had never seen it go before, somewhere raw and unguarded and frightening in its intensity.
He did not answer right away, instead tearing a strip of cloth from his own tunic with far more force than the task required and pressing it carefully against your wound, his hands surprisingly gentle despite the tension radiating through the rest of his body, and when he finally spoke his voice came out rougher than you had ever heard it, admitting that watching the blade connect with your side had produced a sensation in his chest that he did not have a name for and did not particularly enjoy experiencing.
You reached up and covered his hand with your own, partly to still his frantic movements and partly because you needed, in that moment, to offer him some kind of reassurance, and you told him softly that you were going to be fine, that you had survived worse than a bandit's blade, and that he did not need to carry the weight of your safety on his own shoulders.
That night, sitting beside the campfire while the rest of your group slept, the two of you talked for hours in a way you never had before, the careful walls you had both built around yourselves thinning just slightly in the aftermath of fear and adrenaline. Dex told you, haltingly and with none of his usual bluntness, about the years before he arrived at Aldric Keep, about a childhood spent learning that affection was conditional and violence was a language he understood far better than kindness, and about how meeting you had introduced a strange kind of confusion into a mind that had always prided itself on clarity.
You listened without interrupting, understanding on some instinctive level that this vulnerability cost him more than any physical wound could have, and when he finally admitted that he did not know what to do with feelings that refused to organize themselves into anything useful, you found yourself reaching for his hand again, holding it gently in the firelight, and telling him that not everything needed to be useful to matter.
"I've never wanted anything the way I want to be near you," he said quietly, staring into the flames rather than at you, as though looking at you directly while admitting such a thing might be more than he could manage. "And I don't know how to want something without also wanting to win it, to earn it, to prove that I deserve it more than anyone else does. I don't know how to just have a feeling without turning it into a competition."
You told him, your own voice barely above a whisper, that you understood exactly what he meant, because you had spent your entire life turning every emotion into fuel for ambition, and that perhaps the two of you were more alike than either of you had wanted to admit when you first met in that misty courtyard.
Neither of you kissed the other that night, though the air between you felt heavy with the possibility of it, and instead you simply sat together in silence until the fire burned low, your hand still resting in his, both of you unwilling to disturb the fragile, unspoken understanding that had settled between you.
Not every moment between you and Benjamin carried the weight of angst and unspoken longing, and in fact some of your favorite memories from that year of training were the small, ordinary moments that had nothing to do with rivalry or ambition at all.
There was the afternoon when you discovered, quite by accident, that Dex had an inexplicable talent for whittling small wooden animals from scraps of firewood, a skill he claimed to have picked up during a particularly boring winter years earlier, and you spent an entire rest day sitting beside him in the shade of the training yard's single oak tree while he carved you a small wooden fox with a patience and gentleness that felt entirely at odds with the sharp, dangerous precision he brought to every sparring match.
He handed the little fox to you without ceremony, saying only that its cleverness had reminded him of you, and you found yourself laughing harder than you had in months at the sheer, unexpected sweetness of the gesture, tucking the little carving into your pack where it remained for the rest of your training.
There was also the evening when the two of you snuck away from the barracks to watch a traveling troupe of performers who had set up in the village just beyond the keep's walls, both of you wrapped in plain cloaks to avoid recognition, sharing a small paper cone of honeyed nuts purchased from a vendor while acrobats tumbled and jugglers tossed flaming torches into the darkening sky. Dex, you discovered that night, had a dry and unexpectedly sharp sense of humor once he relaxed enough to let it show, offering quiet, deadpan commentary on the performers that had you pressing your hand over your mouth to muffle your laughter, and at one point when a particularly dramatic juggler dropped one of his torches into a nearby bucket of water with a hiss of steam, Dex turned to you with such perfectly timed mock solemnity that you nearly choked on a honeyed nut trying not to laugh too loudly.
Walking back to the keep afterward, your shoulders brushing companionably with every step, you realized that Dex made you feel something you had rarely felt in your adult life, a kind of easy lightness that had nothing to do with proving your worth to anyone.
There was a morning, too, when you woke before dawn to find that Dex had already risen and left a small bundle beside your cot, wrapped in cloth and containing a portion of honeyed bread he had clearly saved from his own rations the night before, along with a scrap of parchment bearing a single line in his cramped, careful handwriting that read simply, "You forget to eat when you're nervous. Today is a trial day."
You sat there in the gray morning light holding the bundle, oddly moved by the fact that he had noticed something about you that you had never mentioned aloud, a small habit you had assumed no one else had ever paid close enough attention to catch, and you ate the bread slowly while watching him across the barracks, pretending to still be asleep though you could tell by the faint tension in his shoulders that he knew you had found the gift and was simply waiting to see what you would do with it.
These small kindnesses accumulated over the months into something you could no longer pretend was simple rivalry or professional respect, though you continued to insist to yourself, late at night when your thoughts refused to settle, that whatever existed between you and Dex would have to wait until after the tournament, until after you had secured your place beside the princess, until you had finally proven beyond any doubt that you belonged in that training yard as much as any man who had ever walked through its gates.
Dex never pushed you to reconsider this timeline, though you sometimes caught him watching you with an expression of such open, unguarded longing that it made your chest ache with the effort of maintaining your own resolve, and more than once you found yourself wondering whether the promise you had made to yourself years ago was truly serving you anymore or whether it had simply become another kind of armor, one you were no longer certain you needed.
As the tournament drew nearer, the training intensified to a degree that left every recruit exhausted and raw-nerved, and the competition between you and Dex sharpened correspondingly, though the nature of that competition had changed since the early days of your rivalry.
Where you had once fought each other with something bordering on hostility, testing each other's limits out of a desire to prove superiority, you now fought with a mutual respect so deep that your matches had become something closer to a conversation conducted entirely through steel and movement, each of you pushing the other to become better rather than simply trying to win.
Sir Aldous himself remarked, during one particularly intense sparring session, that he had never in all his years of training knights witnessed two recruits elevate each other's skill so dramatically, and though he delivered this observation with his usual gruffness, you could hear something almost like reluctant admiration buried beneath his words.
The strategy trial, held two weeks before the final tournament, required each recruit to lead a small squad through a simulated defense of the castle's eastern gate against a mock invading force, and it was during this exercise that you and Dex found yourselves unexpectedly working alongside each other rather than against each other, since the instructors had paired the two of you together to command a joint squad as a final test of your ability to cooperate under pressure.
You expected the exercise to feel strange, given the tension of impending rivalry hanging over both of you, but instead you discovered that commanding alongside Dex felt as natural as breathing, his sharp tactical instincts complementing your own understanding of terrain and timing so seamlessly that your squad completed the exercise faster and with fewer simulated casualties than any other pairing that day.
Watching him direct the squad's movements, calm and precise even under the chaos of the mock battle, you felt a fresh wave of the same fascination that had first caught your attention in that misty courtyard so many months earlier, and you found yourself thinking, with a mixture of hope and terror, about what it might mean to fight alongside this man for the rest of your life rather than against him.
"We make a good team," Dex said afterward, as the two of you walked back toward the keep together, still breathing hard from the exercise, and there was something almost shy in the way he said it, an uncharacteristic hesitation that told you the words had cost him more than his usual directness required.
You agreed, admitting that you had not expected to enjoy commanding alongside him nearly as much as you had, and for a moment neither of you said anything further, simply walking in comfortable silence while the setting sun cast long shadows across the training yard. Then Dex stopped walking entirely, turning to face you with an expression more serious than you had seen from him in weeks, and told you that regardless of what happened in the final tournament, regardless of which of you the king chose to serve as the princess's knight, he needed you to know that competing against you had been the truest joy of his life, and that whatever happened, he did not intend to let the outcome of one duel determine whether you remained in his life or not.
You did not have a ready answer for him in that moment, your carefully maintained resolve wavering dangerously under the weight of his sincerity, and instead you simply reached out and squeezed his hand once, briefly, before telling him that you needed time to think, that the tournament was close enough now that you could not afford to let your guard down, not even for him.
He nodded, understanding written plainly across his face, and told you that he would wait for as long as you needed, though the slight tightness around his eyes betrayed how difficult that patience was proving to be for a man who had never before had to wait for anything he wanted badly enough.
The night before the final tournament, sleep proved impossible for nearly every recruit in the barracks, and you lay awake on your cot staring at the wooden beams of the ceiling, running through every possible strategy Dex might employ against you and every counter you might use in response, your mind refusing to quiet even as exhaustion pulled at your limbs.
Sometime past midnight, you heard the quiet creak of Dex's cot as he shifted, and when you turned your head you found him already looking at you across the darkened space between your beds, his eyes catching what little moonlight filtered through the high barracks windows. Neither of you spoke at first, simply looking at each other in the darkness, and then Dex rose quietly from his cot and crossed the small distance to sit on the edge of yours, careful not to wake the sleeping men around you.
"I keep trying to imagine what tomorrow will feel like," he admitted quietly, his voice barely above a whisper, "and every version I imagine ends with losing something, either the tournament or you, and I find that I don't know which possibility frightens me more." You sat up slowly, pulling your blanket around your shoulders against the night's chill, and told him honestly that you shared the same fear, that the ambition you had nurtured for years now felt tangled up with a longing you had never expected to feel, and that you no longer knew how to separate the two cleanly the way you once had. Dex reached out, hesitant in a way that felt entirely unlike his usual confidence, and brushed a strand of hair away from your face, his fingers lingering against your cheek for a moment longer than the gesture strictly required.
"Whatever happens tomorrow," he said, his voice rough with an emotion he clearly still struggled to name, "I need you to know that I have never wanted to defeat someone and be defeated by them in equal measure the way I want it with you. I don't fully understand this feeling, and I'm not certain I ever will, but I know that it doesn't feel like the emptiness I used to carry before I met you, and I know that whatever you decide about us, that emptiness is never coming back the same way it was."
You felt tears prick unexpectedly at the corners of your eyes, moved by the raw honesty of his confession, and you told him softly that you felt the same unfamiliar fullness whenever he was near, that the ambition which had once felt like the only thing keeping you steady now felt incomplete without him standing somewhere close beside it.
He leaned forward slowly, giving you every opportunity to pull away if you wanted to, and when you did not, he pressed a gentle, searching kiss to your lips that tasted like salt from unshed tears and felt like the closing of a door you had kept locked for years.
The kiss did not last long, both of you pulling back after only a few moments, breathless and uncertain in the darkness, and you told him quietly that this could not change what needed to happen tomorrow, that you still intended to fight him with everything you possessed, and he nodded immediately, telling you that he would expect nothing less and would be disappointed in you if you offered anything less than your full effort simply because of what had passed between you tonight.
You settled back against your pillow eventually, and Dex returned to his own cot, though neither of you slept easily that night, both minds turning over the strange, fragile new understanding you had reached even as the looming tournament pressed against your thoughts like a stone.
The morning of the tournament dawned clear and bright, the kind of crisp summer morning that seemed almost mockingly cheerful given the weight of what the day would decide, and by midmorning the castle's central courtyard had filled with nobles, commoners, and every recruit who had competed in the trials leading up to this final contest. The king himself sat upon a raised dais overlooking the dueling ground, the young princess seated beside him wrapped in fine silks, her expression a mixture of curiosity and quiet dignity as she watched the proceedings that would determine who would spend the rest of their life standing at her side.
You had expected to feel nauseous with nerves as you stood at the edge of the dueling ground, watching Dex take his position across from you, but instead you felt a strange and settling calm descend over you, the same steady focus that had carried you through every trial and every insult over the past year, and you met his eyes across the packed dirt of the arena with something that felt almost like gratitude.
The duel began at the herald's signal, and from the very first exchange it became clear to every spectator watching that this would be no ordinary contest, because you and Dex had trained against each other so thoroughly over the past year that each of you could anticipate the other's movements with an almost supernatural precision, your blades meeting again and again in a rhythm that looked less like combat and more like an intricate, dangerous dance.
The crowd fell increasingly silent as the duel wore on, captivated by the sheer skill on display, and you found yourself entirely absorbed in the fight, every ounce of your attention narrowed down to the flash of Dex's blade and the subtle shift of his weight that telegraphed his next move a fraction of a second before he made it.
Dex fought with everything he had, exactly as he had promised he would, pressing you harder than he ever had in training, his usual playful confidence replaced by a fierce, focused intensity that spoke to how much this moment truly meant to him.
The turning point came nearly twenty minutes into the duel, when Dex attempted a move that had worked against you twice before in sparring matches, a quick shift to the left designed to draw your guard open before he pivoted right for the decisive strike, but this time you recognized the pattern a heartbeat before he committed to it, having spent enough nights lying awake analyzing every one of his tendencies to know exactly what he intended.
You countered his pivot with a movement of your own, using his own momentum against him in a maneuver your father had taught you years before you ever set foot in Aldric Keep, and the practice blade spun free from Dex's grip to clatter against the packed earth of the arena floor.
A roar went up from the crowd as Dex froze, disarmed and breathing hard, and you stood across from him with your own blade lowered slightly, both of you staring at each other in the sudden, ringing silence that followed the crowd's initial burst of noise.
You could have pressed your advantage immediately and demanded the herald call the match, but instead you found yourself hesitating, watching Dex's face for some sign of what he was feeling in that moment of defeat, and what you saw there surprised you: not anger, not resentment, but something that looked almost like pride shining through the disappointment.
"Finish it," he told you quietly, his voice carrying just far enough for you to hear over the murmur of the crowd.
"You earned this. Don't you dare hold back on my account now."
You nodded once, understanding that offering him anything less than your full victory would be an insult to everything he had helped you become over the past year, and you raised your blade to signal your intention to the herald, who stepped forward and declared, in a voice that carried across the entire courtyard, that you had won the final duel and would be granted the honor of serving as the crown princess's personal knight.
The formal ceremony took place later that same afternoon, after the crowds had been given time to disperse and the king had retired briefly to confer with his advisors, and you stood alone before the raised dais in your finest ceremonial armor, your heart pounding with a mixture of triumph and lingering disbelief as the king rose to address you directly for the first time since your arrival at Aldric Keep a year earlier. He spoke at length about the unprecedented nature of your achievement, acknowledging openly that he had harbored significant doubts about a woman's place among his royal guard when you first petitioned for entry into the training program, and admitting with a candor that surprised the assembled court that watching your performance throughout the trials, and especially in the final duel, had entirely reshaped his understanding of what a knight could be.
The princess herself stepped forward at her father's gesture, offering you a warm and genuine smile as she told you that she looked forward to having a protector who understood, in ways the men around her never quite could, what it meant to prove yourself worthy in a world eager to assume the worst of you before you had even begun.
You knelt before the king as he formally bestowed upon you the title and duties of the princess's personal knight, the weight of the ceremonial sword he placed across your shoulders feeling lighter than any practice blade you had swung throughout the entirety of your training, because this weight represented not a burden but the culmination of every sacrifice you had made to reach this moment.
As you rose to your feet, you allowed yourself, for the first time all day, to search the crowd for Dex, and you found him standing near the back of the assembled recruits, his expression carrying none of the bitterness you might have once expected from a rival who had just watched you claim the prize he had wanted equally badly. Instead, he was watching you with an open, unguarded warmth that made your chest tighten with an emotion far gentler than the fierce ambition that had driven you for so many years, and when your eyes met across the courtyard, he offered you a small, genuine smile that felt like a private conversation conducted entirely without words.
After the formal proceedings concluded and the court began to disperse toward the evening's celebratory feast, you sought Dex out immediately, finding him near the same well where you had first noticed him watching you a year earlier, and the symmetry of the moment was not lost on either of you as you approached.
"You didn't have to look so pleased for me," you told him, though your own voice carried a warmth that undercut any real accusation in the words, and he shook his head slowly, telling you that pleased did not begin to describe what he felt watching you claim a victory you had worked harder for than anyone else in that entire courtyard, that whatever disappointment he felt about his own loss had been entirely overshadowed by the fierce, unexpected pride swelling in his chest as he watched you rise.
He admitted, with the same blunt honesty that had first drawn your attention all those months ago, that some part of him had suspected all along that you would be the one to win, and that he had made his peace with that possibility long before the duel ever began, because watching you succeed had somehow become more important to him than succeeding himself.
In the weeks that followed your appointment as the princess's personal knight, you discovered that your new position, rather than pulling you away from Dex as you had once feared it might, instead brought the two of you into closer and more frequent contact than ever before, since the king had appointed Dex to serve among the royal guard's elite ranks in recognition of his own considerable skill, placing him regularly within the same corridors and courtyards where your new duties required you to walk.
The rivalry that had once defined your relationship had transformed, in the aftermath of the tournament, into something steadier and more settled, a partnership built on the deep, hard-won respect the two of you had earned for each other across a year of matched steel and shared confessions. You found that you no longer needed to hold your feelings for him at arm's length the way you once had, because the position you had fought so desperately to secure was no longer threatened by the possibility of loving someone who understood your ambition as intimately as his own.
One evening, several months after the tournament, you found yourself walking with Dex along the castle's outer wall as the sun set over the distant hills, the same wooden fox he had carved for you tucked safely into a pouch at your belt, a small habit you had never quite managed to break even after all this time. Dex walked quietly beside you for a while before finally speaking, admitting that he had spent the months since the tournament trying to understand exactly what it was he felt whenever he was near you, and that the closest word he had found for it was something like completion, a sensation of the scattered, disconnected pieces of himself settling into a shape that finally made sense.
You reached for his hand as he spoke, lacing your fingers through his own, and told him that you understood completely, that the ambition which had once felt like the entirety of your identity now felt like only one part of a much larger, richer life, a life that included him standing steadily beside you rather than across from you.
"I used to think that loving someone would make me weaker," you admitted, watching the last light of the sun disappear behind the hills, "that it would soften me in all the ways that would make it easier for men like the ones who mocked me in that courtyard to prove themselves right about me. But loving you hasn't made me weaker at all, Benjamin. If anything, I feel steadier than I ever have, like I finally have someone standing at my back who understands exactly what it cost me to get here."
Dex turned to face you fully then, lifting your joined hands to press a soft kiss against your knuckles, and told you that he intended to spend the rest of his life standing at your back exactly where you needed him, not because you required his protection, but because there was nowhere else in the entire kingdom he would rather be than beside you.
The two of you were married the following spring, in a ceremony attended by the king and the princess herself, who insisted on personally arranging the flowers that lined the small chapel where you exchanged your vows, and as you stood across from Dex repeating the words that would bind your life to his and declare you lady and husband.
You thought back to that misty morning a year and a half earlier when you had first ridden into Aldric Keep's courtyard, bracing yourself against the judgment of men who assumed you did not belong.
You had proven every single one of them wrong, not by abandoning the parts of yourself that made you fiercely, uncompromisingly ambitious, but by discovering that ambition and love were never truly opposites at all, and that the same fierce determination which had won you a place among the king's most trusted knights had also, quite unexpectedly, won you the heart of the one man who had ever looked at you and seen not a rival to be defeated but an equal worth standing beside for the rest of his life.
pairing: Nerd!Bucky x Roommate!Reader
wc: +10k
summary: After finding your roommate in a compromising situation, you volunteer to give him a hand… and a mouth, kickstarting the most tumultuous semester in your friendship with a sexual benefits deal; wisely, some rules were established. But would those rules be enough to keep you just friends?
a/n: Part of Midterms & Metal Arms A College AU Marathon. Beta read by @buckysdecaflove, @w1nter-fairy, and @kileyking.
warnings/tags: College/University AU, Nerd Bucky Barnes, Roommates to FWB to Lovers, no use of y/n, smut, secret crush, accidental voyeurism, Bucky calls reader Bunny, grinding, masturbation, use of sex toy, oral sex, sexual free use, breast fucking, thighs fucking, praise kink, eventual p in v, breeding kink, crossposted on ao3, english is not my first language.
The commute from the building where your last lecture was held to your off-campus department was 25 minutes on a regular day using your bike. In Bucky’s case, he took 15 minutes due to his way of driving his restored car.
You knew that.
Your roommate knew that.
That knowledge made it easier to predict when the other would arrive at the apartment. It helped to avoid awkward encounters, like the time he had found you making out and half naked, with your classmate on the couch. Or when you saw him butt-naked as he got out of the shower because he had forgotten his towel in his room.
The only flaw in this?
Yelena.
Yelena, your classmate and best friend, had started seeing a girl who lived near you. This meant that she could drive you home on her way to meet with her new fling.
The day that changed everything had been one of those days. Your lecture would be cut short, and Yelena had been texting Kate as soon as the professor had announced that the class would wrap up early. Leaving at that hour meant less traffic, and to your luck, every traffic light had been green.
“Is this our lucky day? Should we buy a lottery ticket?” Yelena exclaimed after the third green light.
Inside your building, your luck continued because Mrs. Park held open the elevator for you the moment you crossed the front door.
You arrived at your door 10 minutes before your class usually ended. You had just opened your mouth to let out your usual “Hey, Buck” to announce your arrival when you heard it.
A moan coming from down the hall.
You widened your eyes; your keys slipped from your grip, landing on the rug with a dull noise. You knelt to pick them up, eyes scanning the living room frantically.
You noticed Bucky’s books were scattered over the dining table. His reading glasses were there, forgotten by his economics book. A single can of soda was near it.
There was no sign of any other person inside the apartment.
Another moan.
You should have turned around and left, given him the privacy he needed, and come back later. But you didn't. You stood up, and with your keys in hand, you padded silently down the hallway to your room.
The door of his room was slightly open as you passed.
More whimpering, followed by a curse.
You should have ignored it, continued your path, and hid in your room. Instead, you froze, turning to the source of the noise.
Spread over his bed, Bucky was lying down over his covers; his sweatpants and boxers were rolled down to his knees, and his shirt was forgotten on the floor. His fist was gliding up and down his cock, neck exposed as he pushed his head back. His eyes were closed, mouth open, letting every whimper out freely.
Heat pooled in your stomach, your breath turned shallow and rapid as you watched him jerk off.
This was wrong.
You shouldn't be standing there, watching him, and much less getting worked up because of it.
He was your roommate. Your friend. Bucky wasn't even your type for fucks sake — he wasn't an athlete, with a chiseled body comparable to a Greek statue; he wasn't the most confident man out there either, smugly flirting with every skirt with legs.
Bucky was a textbook nerd. Always with his nose buried in a book, a cute stuttering mess, he triggered your cute aggression, not the I want to climb you like a tree and bounce on your cock type of aggression.
“Please, please —ngh,” He begged, tearing up.
You didn't know why you did it, but hearing his pleas broke your control. Carefully, you crept into his room until you were standing a few feet away from the foot of the bed.
In bed, his phone went off with an alarm he had set up before he had fallen into his lust. He reached his hand blindly, turning the alarm off, lost in whatever fantasy he had conjured behind his closed eyes.
You’ll be home in 10 minutes.
“Fuck, I need to — ah, please.”
“Do you need help?” You said softly, in the same tone you always used with him. Warm. Open. Sweet.
His eyes snapped open, finding you standing near him. Your name left his lips, neediness laced with each letter.
“I'm sorry, I shouldn't — You're here early, you were supposed to…” He stuttered, covering his dick with his hand and reaching behind him to take a cushion.
“I can help you.” Your tote bag, filled with books, landed on the rug next to your feet with a thud, and your keys followed. He froze. “You said you needed something.”
His throat bobbed.
“Bunny…”
He said your nickname, the one he had started using after he had met you at Yelena’s birthday party in your first semester. You had been wearing a last-minute costume — white bunny ears with a simple white short dress — because your original one had gotten ruined early that day. Bucky had been hiding out on the second floor, nursing a can of beer and hoping that his friends wouldn't find him after dragging him to the party already. Since he couldn't register your name over the loud music, he had called you Bunny the entire party. From there, it had stuck.
“Tell me, Bucky. What do you need?”
“I—” He shook his head.
You tutted. “House rules, remember? Hmm? Always be honest with each other. Tell me.”
“I need… I need to cum. So bad…”
“Thank you for telling me.” You placed a knee on the mattress between his legs, and slowly, you climbed the bed. “Now, let me help you.”
“Bunny.” He whimpered when you removed his hand from his crotch.
“Let me. That's what friends do, right? Help each other out. Always.” You said, tracing your fingers along his leg, getting higher and higher. “Can I?”
“Bunny…”
“Bucky.”
“Please.”
You smiled, and then moved your hand over his length; his cock twitched in respond of your touch, beads of pre cum leaked out of his reddish tip.
“Tell me if you want me to do anything different, okay?”
He nodded, but he was still tense.
“Hey, you can close your eyes and imagine I’m someone else; I don't mind. This is just to help you finish.”
Bucky took a deep breath and threw his head back, closing his eyes. You leaned in, taking his cock in your hands; you began peppering kisses on its tip. Bucky moaned in response.
You dragged your tongue along the vein on its underside, and then you guided it into your mouth.
Bucky cursed, digging his hands into the mattress.
You bobbed your head up and down, slowly taking him inch by inch until you could take most of him into your mouth comfortably.
Bucky was big, with a girth that made your pussy clench in wonder at how it would feel inside you, stretching you until you were a babbling mess.
“Shit, I’m close.”
You hummed with him still in your mouth, agreeing with him since you could feel him throbbing. His hips jerked up in search of the warmth of your mouth; you increased your movements, your hands giving attention to his balls and stroking the rest of his cock.
“Bunny, bunny, I’m…” He groaned, and for the first time, he reached his hand to tap your shoulder.
You removed your mouth with a pop, and kept stroking him as you said: “It’s okay, you can finish in my mouth.”
Before Bucky could reply, you took him into your mouth again and down your throat until your nose touched his pubic bone. Tears gathered in your eyes at the intrusion, but you didn't care; you kept bobbing your head until he spilled inside your mouth with your name on his lips.
You kept sucking him until you swallowed the last drop of his seed, and he was too overwhelmed after who knows how much time he had been working himself up. You took him out of your mouth, feeling him softening in your palm as his breath steadied.
Once you were on your feet, you knelt down to take your stuff up and took his shirt with your hand. When he opened his eyes, he saw you wiping the fabric of his shirt on your mouth, cleaning every remaining fluid from your face. Then you turned around and walked to the door.
“Bunny, wait!” He rushed to put his boxers and sweats back on.
You looked at him over your shoulder, “Yes?”
“You can't go.” You raised a brow.
“You needed to cum, and you did. I helped you out, didn't I?”
“Yes, you did. But, don't you want to… talk about it?”
Even if his skin was all flushed, his pupils still blown, and his clothes were poorly on him, he looked at you with pure worry.
You smiled fondly at him. “We are friends, Bucky. Nothing has to change.”
“You sure?”
“Positive, now… can I go?”
He exhaled in relief. “Yes, you can. Thank you, Bunny.”
“Any time.” You grabbed the door to close it. “It’s your turn to cook dinner, by the way.”
“Right! Uh, pasta? My mom’s recipe?”
“God, yes, please. I’ll take a shower in the meantime; see you in a bit.” You closed the door behind you after hearing his goodbye and then rushed to your room.
Luckily for you, your room had its own bathroom, away from the door that led to the hallway, which meant that while Bucky cooked dinner, he didn't hear you masturbating in your shower under the sound of the running water.
Even if you tried to push the memory into a box and forget it in the back of your mind, you couldn't avoid replaying the scene in his room, nor the way he had moaned your name as he came. And you definitely ignored the way you had to bite your lip to stop yourself from moaning his name as you fucked yourself with your fingers.
Once you were satisfied and clean, you left your room wearing your pajamas. During dinner, things were a little bit awkward, but it slowly got better as you fell into your familiar dynamic. He yapped about his next exam, and you ranted about your lecture that day. The conversation moved to the kitchen, as both cleaned before going back into your rooms.
You and Bucky just clicked together; you had done so since you met. Living together, even if it had been by pure luck — a month into your friendship, you had ranted that your landlord had raised your rent, and he had confessed he was looking for a place off campus; it had been a no-brainer to accept becoming roommates — had amped that. As the months and years progressed, you had gotten to a point where you understood each other and knew exactly what the other needed without the need for words.
He knew when you were stressed and needed silence, reassurance, or when you needed space. But he also knew when you were feeling homesick and needed a hug or a cuddle.
Two days after you gave him a blowjob, you learned that he also knew when you were needy and how to make you cum in record time.
You had been lying on the couch, reading a book on your e-reader after you had been stressing out over an exam. Bucky looked at you from his spot on the other end of the couch, where he had been playing a game on his phone.
“Everything okay there?” He asked, looking at you up and down.
You swallowed, shifting your legs again. “Yeah, why did you ask?”
“Bunny, house rules.” He rolled his eyes and put his phone on the coffee table.
“I'm not lying.” You scoffed.
“You are. You had been sitting there for the past five minutes, rubbing your legs together, and sighing like you're out of a romantic soap opera.” Bucky grinned. “Oh, my lovely Bunny, what are you reading? Is it one of those smutty books of yours?” he wiggled his eyebrows.
“Shut up.” You attempted to kick him with your leg, but he grabbed you by your ankle, stopping you from hitting him.
“You are.” His eyes sparkled with a mischievous glint. “Are you horny, Bunny?”
You shut up, locking eyes with him as he angled his body towards you.
“Do you need help with that?” He lowered his voice.
“With what?” You croaked, mouth dry.
“To get off. I can return the favor right now.” His fingers, that had been wrapped around your ankle, moved up, stroking your leg. “Besides, you know what happens when you orgasm. How the neurotransmitters that are released when you climax help you reduce your stress, sleep better, and help you relax — we share a wall, Bunny. I can hear you on the other side, still up in the middle of the night.” He called you out.
He continued moving his hand up your thigh until his fingertips grazed the hem of your shorts.
You didn't stop him.
“So, can I? You can imagine it's one of the characters of that book… You can keep reading it while I taste you.”
“You’re joking. Making fun of what I said and did that day.” You huffed and shifted your eyes away from him.
He shook his head. “It's just me. We're just friends, right? Helping each other out. I love helping you, you know that.”
You met his eyes again and then nodded, “Okay, make me cum.”
“I thought you’d never ask.” He joked and then positioned himself between your legs. “Go back to your book; you can even read it out loud. Guide me if you want to try something out.”
“Shut up.” You chuckled, and then returned your eyes to the screen.
Bucky grabbed the waistband of your shorts and pulled them down your thighs until they were dangling off your ankle. He leaned in and started kissing your now exposed skin until he was close enough that you could feel the warmth of his breath and his nose bumping over your panties.
You kept reading, pressing your lips together to avoid making a sound. He kissed over your panties, and then he removed them. The first drag of his tongue made you open your mouth in a silent cry.
Bucky held you open; his hands were under your hip, in full control of the angle. You had been wet as you read your book, wondering if the main character in your book would be a whimpering mess like Bucky was as the female character rides him; now you were dripping, clenching around nothing, begging in your mind to be fucked on your couch.
No.
No.
It's the hormones talking. I'm just horny.
Having his dick inside you would be too much. If the line in your friendship had blurred, penetration would mean total erasure. But to be honest, it wasn't as if his dick wouldn't be doing something much different than what his tongue was doing right now.
Oh God, where had he learned to do that?
“Fuck, Bucky.” You groaned. Loudly. Throwing your head back.
Bucky removed his head from between your thighs to stare at you when he heard your e-reader hit the ground.
“Is something wrong? Want me to stop or change something?”
You looked at him as if he had grown another head out of his neck, and with your hands, you pushed back between your legs.
“Shut up. Keep doing that. Don't stop.” You panted, treading your fingers in his hair as your hips jerked against his mouth. He lapped his tongue over your sensitive clit, alternating with sucking it and shaking his head to add more depth to his attacks. “Oh fuck, mmm, yes, yes, Bucky, that's so good.”
He shifted, sinking his knees on the couch. Then he grabbed your legs and placed them over his shoulders; after that, he pulled your hips up, half-strengthening his back. He pressed your thighs together against his face, suffocating himself.
The new angle made you gasp; you braced yourself on the arm of the couch. You were now openly mewling. Your loud moans were barely overpowered by the obscene sound of his mouth on you.
You came not too long after that, panting and with your legs trembling over his shoulders. Before he let you down, he grazed his teeth with a playful bite and then kissed the spot.
Your breath was still ragged when you accepted his bottle of water that he had offered. You took a sip of water and then looked back at him.
“Why the fuck did Dot break up with you if you could do that?” You asked, stunned.
He had the decency of looking shy, scratching the back of his neck.
“She broke up with me because I wasn't very social, you know me; she wanted me out with her every single week to a party, and that drains me too much. I can only handle too much socialization.” He explained with a shrug.
“What an idiot, believe me, I’d have compromised my social life if my amazing boyfriend could make me cum as hard as you just made me do. And with only your tongue!” You exclaimed as you put back your underwear and shorts. You would have to run back to your room to take a shower and change in a minute because the stickiness between your legs would drive you crazy.
He took a thrown pillow and hit the side of your leg. “Shut up, Bunny!”
You snorted. “I’m serious. I already knew she had lost a great guy; this just adds more stupidity on her side.”
“Thank you, I suppose.” He blushed.
“Just take the compliment, Buck. It's house rules.” You returned the hit with the thrown pillow and ran to your room, squealing and dodging another hit from him.
The agreement was made that same week, officially getting added to the house rules. You would help him take the edge off, and he would help you, too. Easy. Efficient. Complete trust and free use in the apartment unless stated otherwise.
There was one catch, though: no penetration, no kissing. You were friends at the end of the day, and you didn't want to mess that up.
So you let him do everything else, except put his cock inside you.
He would fuck your tits after hitting a wall while doing an essay, eyes closed as he fought the urge to come on the spot at the sight of your glistening skin and your eyes looking up at him as you pushed your tits together. He had made the mistake of looking down the other day, and after batting your eyelashes to him in an oh-so-innocent way, you had put your tongue out just as he pushed in and took an experimental kitten lick over his tip. He had come in that moment, painting your face and tits with his seed. Laughing, you had continued stroking him until he was overstimulated.
One particular time that you had been stressing because your teammates were useless, you were ranting about it with him sitting next to you after you had finished eating dinner while watching a series.
“Do you wanna forget about it?” Bucky asked after you had finished ranting, and he had already tried to cheer you up, given you his advice, and even offered to help you with your project.
“Please.” You sighed.
“How do you need me?” He asked.
“Just stay still.” You said, climbing into his lap.
“I can do that.”
“And stay quiet.” You added, narrowing your eyes.
“Oh, I thought you liked it when I talk dirty. I felt you clench on my fingers when I talked like that and when I praised you.”
You slapped his chest. “Since when are you this smug? What did you do to my best friend?”
“Since you complimented my oral skills.” His grin widened.
You rolled your eyes.
“What? You had been trying since we met to boost my confidence; it's finally working.”He said, putting a strand of hair behind your ear. “Take the win, Bunny.”
“Fine, you can talk. Can I hump you now?”
“I’m all yours.”
You chuckled and braced your hands at each side of his head, grabbing the back of the couch.
You rolled your hips, feeling him getting hard under you.
“Fuck, Bunny, why do I feel this is helping me more than it's doing for you?”
“Believe me, it is helping.” You whimpered with eyes closed, leaning towards him. “So much.” Your voice cracked.
“You’re doing so well.” He praised.
“Thanks for the help, Bucky.” You huffed a laugh.
“I can help you even more, if you want.”
You straightened your back and stared down at him. “How?”
Bucky guided his hands and grabbed the hem of his your oversized shirt, taking it off and leaving you half naked, since your bra had been removed earlier that day.
“I can put my oral skills to use.” He cupped your breast and guided your nipple to his mouth, just brushing his lips against it. “I’ve been wanting to give them the attention they deserve since I noticed how… sensitive they are.”
With the tip of his tongue, he circled your nipple, keeping eye contact with you. You stared down at him, biting your lip to hide your smile, shaking your head slightly at his smug behavior.
You liked it.
Confidence suited him well.
He blew air over your wet skin. “Keep going, Bunny.”
You whined when he took your nipple into his mouth, sucking at it while playing with his tongue over it. You leaned into him and continued dry-humping him.
“Turn around.” He ordered after a few minutes.
“Huh?”
“You still have that frown on your face; you're still thinking about it. Let me help you.”
You sighed and then turned onto his lap, his hard cock snuggled under your ass.
“What now?”
He placed his hands on your waist and pulled you to him. “Lean back, Bunny.” You did so, until your back hit his chest, and your head could rest over his shoulder. “Now relax.” He kissed your naked shoulder.
He returned his attention to your breast, alternating to not leave any too long neglected. With his other hand, he traced lazy figures on your navel and, slowly, oh so painfully slowly, he guided his hand under your clothes.
Your hips jolted at the feeling of his fingers grazing your clit.
“Open your legs, let me touch you.” He mumbled in the shell of your ear, and you complied, spreading your legs over his, his knees under you, locking you in place. “That’s it, good Bunny.”
You whimpered, responding to each movement of his fingers with a roll of your hips, grinding on his cock. His ragged breath on your neck gave him away as to how worked up he was, so you decided to give him a hand. Literally.
You shifted forward to give enough space for your hand to sneak between your bodies, and began stroking him under his pants.
“Fuck, Bunny, this is about you.”
“I want you to feel good too.” You muttered.
He pushed two fingers inside you, matching each stroke you gave his cock with the pumping of his fingers. In. Out. In. Out. Each time you rubbed his tip, he curled his fingers, pressing them on your sweet spot.
“Oh, that feels good.” Your head lolled back, eyes fluttering shut as you got lost in the sensation.
“Yeah, bunny? That's good, you're doing so well.” He cooed.
Your free hand gripped the couch, as fireworks went off inside you; the lewd sound of his fingers inside you increased when you gushed around his fingers.
“That’s it, Bunny, let go.”
As you squirmed over his lap, your hold on his cock tightened; his hips jolted forward, fucking himself on your fist, and seconds later, he came.
Your breath was still uneven when you let out a soft chuckle, resting your head on his shoulder.
“You okay?” He asked, puzzled by your sudden laugh.
“Why was I even stressed about?”
He mirrored your chuckle. “I dunno.”
You turned, your nose slightly brushing his face. He did his best not to kiss you right there. To his surprise, you kissed his cheek.
“Thank you, Bucky.”
“The pleasure is mine, literally.”
You giggled and peeled yourself off him. You reached for the tissue box that you had placed on the coffee table since all this started, and cleaned your hands, as well as your inner thighs. When you were done, you passed the box to Bucky to clean himself.
“Shower and a movie in a few minutes?” You suggested, standing up and stretching, still topless.
“Of course.” He said, keeping his eyes down.
You narrowed your eyes at him, “Don't make it weird; you're acting as if you didn't have your mouth attached to my chest like 5 minutes ago.”
“If I look up, I’d want to do it again.”
You thought he was joking, so you slapped his arm playfully. “Of course, Buck, whatever you say.” Your shoulders were still shaking with laughter as you walked to your room, leaving him in the living room to contemplate if all of this had been a mistake.
It became a regular thing then.
You got better at it, reading each other and finding stolen moments to get each other off. Trouble, of course, appeared sooner rather than later — because obviously, none of you had told any of your friends.
Steve was the first to almost catch you, and it had been your fault. That day, on your way home, you had texted Bucky, asking him if he was home after a stressful day. You made the mistake of not reading his text, and when you got to your apartment, you had walked down the hallway straight to his room.
“I’m home,” you said, removing your jacket and throwing it to the floor. You began undoing the buttons of your shirt as you pushed his door open. “You won't believe the day I had. I’m gonna need you to— Steve! Hi!” You widened your eyes and quickly covered your already exposed bra when you found Steve sitting at Bucky’s desk.
Steve blushed and said your name, gesturing a hello. You thanked God that you hadn't entered his room without pants, as you two had begun to wander inside the apartment in your underwear with nothing more than an oversized shirt in your case or sweatpants and a shirt in his.
“Bucky didn't tell me you would be here.” You said under a fake smile.
Bucky got back into the room, finding you standing by the door.
“I guess you didn't get my text,” Bucky mumbled in equal shock to you.
“I did not.” You turned on your heels, giving your back to Steve. “I’ll be in my room.”
Bucky mouthed sorry to you, and you quickly scrambled out of the room. When you took out your phone, his text mocked at you, reading that Steve had come to the apartment by surprise since he needed some tutoring, and that he would be more than happy to help you out as soon as he walked out.
Another time, not as embarrassing as that one, had occurred on campus. You and Yelena were eating some ice cream that the student committee had been giving out when Bucky found you.
“Hi, Bunny.” He greeted you, standing right in front of you.
“Hi! Want some?” You offered your cone as you had done multiple times in the past. He nodded, but instead of taking the cone from your hands, he leaned in, covering your hand with his as he licked a strip of melted ice cream and then sucked some more, all while staring right at you.
“Mmm, my favorite.” The tip of his tongue peeked out of his lips, collecting any residue of the cold dessert, as he kept eye contact.
Fuck me.
You might as well have combusted in the spot; you were horny as fuck since you hadn't had any action since your period started, contrary to him, who had been on the receiving end of your blowjobs.
“I’ll be staying after class at the library. Text me what you want me to get to dinner, okay?”
You hummed, still staring at his mouth. He dared to smile.
“Good.” He finally turned to see Yelena, who had watched the whole exchange like a hawk. “Yelena.” He nodded at her. “Catch you later, Bunny, thank you for sharing.”
And then he was gone.
“The fuck was that?” Yelena exclaimed.
“I don't know what you're talking about.” You busied yourself back into finishing your ice cream, ignoring the way her eyes were burning the side of your head.
“Are you guys fucking in your apartment? Is that why we haven't done a sleepover recently?” Yelena accused, making you choke on your ice cream.
“What the fuck, Lena?” You coughed. “We haven't done any sleepovers because you have been sleeping at Kate’s since you started hooking up.”
“Hey, we sometimes stay at mine. And don't change the subject; you didn't answer.”
“We’re not. We’re roommates, and he's my best friend.”
“I’m your best friend too, but you don't look at me like that, do you?” She wiggled her eyebrows. “If that wasn't sexual tension, I don't know what it was.”
“Maybe you're projecting."
She slapped your arm. "Shut up. But you might be right; thankfully, my period is over, so..." she grinned, already thinking of her date night with Kate.
"Lucky girl."
"Going back to you and Bucky. Why the hell does he even keep calling you Bunny?" She scoffed. "It sounds so… sexual, you know?"
"I already told you, he has been calling me that since your birthday. He couldn't hear my name over the music, so he called me by my costume."
"I know that, but that was during the first semester, ages ago, before you two lived together. He knows your name by now."
"It's just a cute nickname. I like it." You shrugged, but you couldn't lie; the nickname had begun to sound more intimate the last couple of weeks, especially since each time he said it with a much more sultry voice than he did before, it took you back to not-so-innocent moments.
"Dot and every guy you had dated hated it, which reminds me — Do you want to go out on a double date with Kate and me? She has this friend that I'm sure is your type. Who knows, Bob might give you a hand and break your dry spell."
You scrunched your nose at her suggestion. Something about someone else touching you in a sexual context made you sick. "I'm fine, Lena. I'm good with my own hands and toys, thank you very much."
"Ugh, you're no fun." She groaned. "The offer is there. Bob is a great guy, but Bucky isn't a bad choice either, if you two decide to finally start dating."
You gave her a shoulder check and resumed your walk towards your next lecture.
If only she knew.
You two were just having fun, helping each other out. You reminded yourself frequently.
You made each other get the edge off… in the kitchen, in the dining room, in the living room, in the hallway, in his room, in the laundry room, in the hallway, in his car. While, after, and before studying or going to work.
His gaming sessions weren't an exception.
Usually, even before you started this, while he was playing video games in his room, you would find your way there and read on his bed or play one of your cozy games on your portable console. Sometimes you would grab popcorn and other snacks, sit next to him, and watch him play.
It stopped being innocent one time you were reading another smutty book that got you so worked up that you ended up touching yourself on his bed. Bucky had looked over his shoulder after you let out a whimper before covering your mouth. He muted himself and asked you to approach. Once you were next to him, he patted his thigh and asked you to sit facing his setup.
“Grind, Bunny. Make yourself feel good.” He muttered before he lowered his mic again and unmuted, going back to his game. You rolled your hips over his thigh, leaving a wet spot on his skin. You leaned on his desk and buried your head in your arms to muffle your cries.
Since both of his hands were occupied, he gave you his attention by kissing your shoulder from time to time. Whenever he was killed in-game and had to spectate his teammates, he took you by the hips and aided you in your movements — sometimes he would die on purpose early on the match so he could play with your clit with one hand and cover your mouth with the other.
When you were close to your climax, he muted his mic, and with his warm mouth in your ear, he praised you as you came, ignoring the trash talk from Sam and Steve about how shitty he was playing that day. In return for the favor, you had sunk to your knees under his desk and suck him off while the other match started, making him lose again and bark an excuse to his friends to disconnect, and then took you to his bed to make you sit on his face while you kept his cock deep in your throat.
The first night Bucky slept with you in your bed after this agreement started hadn't been planned. You had slept together before; naturally, after so much time knowing each other, you had taken naps on the living room couch, or in his bed if you fell asleep there, but your room had been the exception — until that night.
"Hey, are you still awake?" Bucky asked from the other side of your door.
"Come in." You replied with a yawn.
"Did I wake you up?" He peeked his head out, opening the door slightly.
"You didn't. What's up?"
He was standing by the door, visibly nervous.
"Bucky?"
"Can I lie down with you?" He sounded tired. You knew he hadn't been sleeping well, too stressed about his projects. He always pressured himself; you had called him out many times, but he had been raised this way, and old habits died hard.
"Of course you can."
He climbed into your bed and lay down under the covers behind you since you were on your side. His arms quickly wrapped around you, one tucked under your head and the other around your waist, pulling your back into his chest.
You stayed silent in that position, caressing his arm around you, feeling his warm breath on the back of your neck.
“They will still love you if you don't get straight A’s, you know?” His hold around you tightened.
“I'm not so sure about that.” He replied, his voice sounded so… small.
“Well, I do. Because I don't care if you get an A or a C. You're still you, and I love you for that.” You said. “You’re kind, gentle, and yeah, you're a little awkward, and sometimes you forget how to socialize properly—”
You smiled triumphantly when he chuckled.
“Shut up.”
“You are funny, smart, and the best human being that I know of — not because you are perfect, but because you get up every morning and just… try.”
“Bunny…”
“And if your parents don't see that, fuck them, seriously. You don't need to go back there during the break. You can stay here, or go with me to my hometown, or even better, we can both take that trip you always tell me about.”
You couldn't see him, but you felt him melting around you, embracing you close as his breath eased.
“I'm so lucky to have you as a friend.” He mumbles
“Of course you are. I'm amazing.” You chuckled.
“Yes, you are.” He kissed your shoulder over your pajama shirt. "I hope you know all those wonderful things also apply to you. In fact, let's add it to the house rules.”
“What do you suggest?”
“No more stressing over school; we are allowed to fail. How about that?”
You hummed, “I like that. Took us long enough, but it's a good rule now that it's our final year.”
“Let’s try to sleep, Bunny.” He said, closing his eyes.
“I'm trying, but a big nerd came into my room in the middle of the night and won't stop talking.”
“Shut up.” He kicked your leg.
You returned the kick. “You shut up.”
“Shh.”
Stillness lasted almost an hour; you both were already drifting in your sleep when you shifted your hips slightly, brushing against his front. You stayed like that until you fell asleep.
In his sleep, Bucky jerked his hips forward in a sloppy rhythm, which woke you up eventually. Your eyes adjusted to the dark of the room, unable to move since he had you trapped against him.
“Mmm, Bunny.” You heard him whine; his hips were thrusting against your ass, his cock hardening with each movement.
You blinked away sleep and turned over your shoulder; to your surprise, he was asleep, mouth slightly open and chest rising in a steady rhythm.
He moaned your name, and you wouldn't lie, having him basically humping you from behind and moaning in your ear was making your panties wet.
His hand, that had been resting heavily over the curve of your waist, moved down, resting lower, dangerously close to your pussy.
“Bucky, wake up.” You managed to say, biting back a whimper from your part. “Bucky.”
“Mmm?” He hummed, keeping his eyes closed.
“You’re…” You squeezed his arm, but he didn't let you finish. As soon as he regained consciousness, his throbbing cock called his attention; the need to cum ran hot all over his body.
He tensed when he realized what he had been doing.
“Oh shit, I’m sorry, Bunny.” His voice was thick with sleep. He moved his hips away from you, but yours followed. “Bunny?”
“Wait. Do you need help with that?” You whispered, wiggling your ass against him.
He choked a moan.
“Bunny…”
“I can help.”
“We said no penetration.” He sounded pained.
You bit your lip and then shifted, angling yourself so his cock was nuzzled right below your ass cheeks.
“You don't need to put it in. Just… use my thighs.” You offered.
He was speechless.
“Did you read that in one of those books?” He teased.
“Shut up. Do you want to try it or not?” You wiggled your ass again, making him jolt forward.
“Fuck, wait, don't we need lube or something?”
You looked over your shoulder. “Bottom drawer, behind you.” He looked at you. You rolled your eyes. “I use it with my sex toys, dumbass.”
He would definitely ask about it later, maybe even ask you to give him a demonstration.
Bucky peeled himself from you to reach the drawer. When he opened it, he saw some silky bags of different sizes, a bottle, and a small towel. His curiosity won over, and he took one of the smaller bags, as well as the bottle of lube and the towel.
You turned on your back when you heard the shuffling behind you; he had turned on the lamp on your bedside table.
“I told you to grab the lube.” You scolded him.
“Which one is this?” He held the silky bag high so you could see it.
Your eyes trailed from the bag to his eyes. “My vibrating bullet.”
You saw the devilish grin that appeared on his face. He could picture you perfectly, on your back in your bed late at night after he had fallen asleep next door, holding the vibrator under your panties, your mouth hanging open in a silent cry, brows knitted in the expression he had come to learn like the back of his hand.
His cock twitched.
“Can you use it while I fuck your thighs?” He asked, even if the warm soft light only lit one side of his face, you noticed his heavy-lidded dark eyes; the bright blue was only a slim ring around his blown pupils.
You sighed through your nose, but nodded. The idea sounded really, really good. You lifted your hand and gestured for him to give you the bag.
Bucky let out a happy noise and then proceeded to free his hard cock. He put some lube on his palm and then smeared it along his length. He positioned himself back into position and then slid his cock between your thighs.
You were looking down, watching as his wet tip peeked between your plush skin. You lowered your hand and teased his tip when it peeked out.
“Fuck, Bunny.” He groaned behind you, resting his forehead against your shoulder as he rolled his hips. “Use it, make yourself good, please.”
You complied, taking out the vibrator from the bag after he handed you the lube.
The moment the added stimulation registered in your body, your hips jolted back, meeting his thrust and making both of you moan in unison.
Bucky gripped your hips, keeping you steady as he fucked himself between your legs. With the angle you held your hips, the bottom side of the vibrator brushed his tip when he rutted in.
“Fuck, Bunny, you're taking me so well.”
You whimpered his name, turning your head slightly and kissing his arm that was still tucked under your head.
“Keep going, don't stop.” You encouraged him, tightening your hold around his cock by crossing your legs.
He cursed, digging his fingers into your hips.
“Oh God, I’m not gonna last.”
“It's okay, cum Bucky, cum for me.”
He came with a groan, his hips jerked in sloppy thrusts until every drop dripped between your thighs. With his hand, he turned your face, and keeping eye contact, you came undone, with hot pleasure ripping you apart and pulling you back together for his eyes only.
Mouth hanging open.
Lips trembling.
Brows knitted.
Bucky really wished he could've kissed you in that moment. Muffle your cries with his lips, drink up your moans, and your taste.
But he didn't.
He just stared at you in awe, and if he hadn't just come, he was sure he would've reached ecstasy the moment your eyes locked in his.
He held you in his arms until you came back into your body, and after a few minutes, he got up with the towel in his hand. He emerged from your bathroom after cleaning himself, with your towel now warm in his hand.
Bucky climbed the bed, and mumbling praises, he cleaned the residue of his spent and lube from between your thighs, then he removed your soaked panties, and cleaned the evidence of your arousal.
He discarded the towel, and after roaming in the drawer you pointed out, he took a new pair of panties and, to your surprise, he put them on you, leaving a kiss on your inner thigh when he was done.
Back in your bed, he took his place behind you and cuddled you, holding you in his arms as sleep took over.
Those nights repeated, especially once the semester got to that point where both of you lived and breathed projects and heavy assignments.
Sometimes he would find his way into your room, giving you an orgasm or two before falling asleep. Morning with him also meant waking up with his mouth on you, kissing down your body, or tongue deep in your pussy.
“I like to taste you first thing in the morning. Works better than caffeine.” He had said the first time you had woken up with him under the covers.
You returned the favor, of course, waking him up, stroking him, or with his cock deep in your throat.
The mornings in your room together led to a shower together — only when your shower routine allowed it — and then to the kitchen, where both worked on breakfast. It was easy, the domesticity of all; it made your heart gallop and stop at the same time.
You knew things had changed; god, they probably changed before this whole agreement, somewhere between doing groceries and movie nights with your roommate.
Of course, you weren't the only one who had noticed that change.
“Okay, spit it out, tell me what's going on?” Yelena asked, rolling the grocery cart.
Bucky’s birthday was the following day, and you had been working on his surprise party, which meant an express grocery visit to buy all the last-minute items.
“I don't know what you are talking about.” You muttered, taking several bags of chips and dumping them on top of the napkins.
“Oh, but you know. You had been glowing this past week, and I know you; I know when you're hiding something.”
“Lena, just drop it; nothing is going on.”
She hummed.
You thought she had, in fact, dropped it. She didn't.
“You know,” she said once everything was loaded in her car, and she got ready to drive out of the parking lot. “Jason asked about you.”
“Jason?”
“Tall guy, huge biceps, dreamy eyes. You hooked up with him during first year.” She detailed, keeping her eyes on the road.
Oh.
Jason.
The one Bucky had found you tongue deep in his throat.
That Jason.
“I remember.”
“Well, he is a friend of Kate. I met him at a reunion with her group of friends.”
“Sounds like you're finally going steady.”
“Stop deflecting.” She said, giving you side-eye. “He recognized me, asked about you, and I invited him to Bucky’s party, so you can reconnect.”
You widened your eyes. This was the last thing you needed.
“Yelena Belova.” You scolded.
“Wow, full government name.”
“Why the fuck did you invite him? He doesn't even know Bucky!”
“Kate also doesn't know him, and she's going.”
“That's different! She's your girlfriend.” You slapped her arm. “Uninvite him! I don't care! He's not coming.”
“Jesus, woman, I’m just trying to help you out! Exams had been stressful; maybe you need to fuck the stress out, you know.”
“Well, don't. I'm totally fine, I do not need more help.” The words spilled out of your mouth, blinded by the successful rage bait that your friend just did.
Yelena grinned.
“So you are getting help with that. I knew it. You looked extra chirpy these last months.” You widened your eyes in horror. “So who's the lucky guy?”
She glanced at you for a second, a quick read of your face, and then her jaw dropped.
“Oh, my God! Are you and Bucky finally together? Is this why I haven't been at your apartment? You don't want me to disrupt your love nest!”
You buried your face in your hands. “Shut up.”
She squealed.
“That’s not a no!”
“Lena, we are not together… we are just having fun.”
“You don't sound like you're having fun.” Her brows knitted with concern. “Babes, what’s the problem?”
“We are fuckbuddies. But I’m not sure if he wants more.”
“Have you asked him?”
“No. Well — I suggested some rules at the beginning; he agreed.”
“God, babes, for someone so smart, sometimes you do be an idiot.”
“Excuse me?”
“Haven’t you stopped to think that maybe he agreed and you put those rules, because both of you thought that was the only way the other would agree to be that close to actually being something real?”
You shook your head.
“Babes, that guy has been head over heels for you since that night you met. And you had been too!” You opened your mouth. “Don’t even try to deny it.”
You rolled your eyes and huffed a breath out of your nose. “I actually was about to agree with you.”
“That's a first. Continue.”
“I’m such an idiot, but how do I even start undoing it?”
Yelena parked her car right outside your building.
“Maybe start undoing all those rules of yours.” She shrugged.
And you took it literally.
Maybe it was a mistake, and you should have stopped to think about it more clearly, but you were desperate.
Yelena left after she helped you take all the groceries upstairs and hide everything out of Bucky’s sight — which, in retrospect, wasn't necessary since Bucky knew you always threw a party for him. The only surprise was the theme.
And this year, the last birthday being a college student, the theme was costumes.
Just like the day you met.
Bucky arrived at the apartment a few hours later, coming back from hanging out with Steve, who, as every birthday week of his, was tasked with keeping him busy and out of the apartment if needed.
“Bunny! I’m home!” Bucky exclaimed, peeling off his jacket.
“In my room!” You shouted without peeking out.
You heard him padding around the apartment, and just as you predicted, he opened your door seconds later.
“Bunny…” Bucky mumbled, flabbergasted.
You were standing just outside of your bathroom, resting with one hand extended towards the wall. You were wearing a white lacy set of lingerie, paired with an open silky translucent robe that framed your body. On top of your head, like a crown of a queen, were the same bunny ears that you had been wearing the night you met.
“Happy early birthday, Buck.” You said with a smirk.
“Angel…” He said, mouth dry.
“Wasn't I your Bunny?” You pouted.
“You look like an angel.” You chuckled, walking barefoot towards him. “I have died, and I’m in heaven.”
“Easy, you're not dead yet.” You stopped in front of him, standing on your tiptoes to kiss his cheek. His hands shot to hold your naked waist to keep you steady; he didn't remove them even when your heels touched the floor. “This ain't your birthday gift, though; this is a sneak peek at your party tomorrow. You have to pick a costume.”
His eyes widened. “You’ll be wearing this tomorrow?”
“The bunny ears. But this will be under the dress.” You winked at him.
And he whimpered.
He actually whimpered.
“That's torture. Do you know how hard it would be to keep my hands away from you, knowing that?”
Maybe you don't need to. You wanted to say.
“Someone will have to restrain me so I don't end up giving a show out there.” He added.
You laughed.
“Yeah, maybe you should keep that for the bedroom.”
“Or at least until we are alone.”
“Smart.”
“Is that why you're showing me now?” He asked, his hands pulling you closer to him, forcing you to look up to meet his eyes. “To taunt me.”
You nodded. “That, and because I wanted to try out something.”
“What?” He scanned your face, stopping for several seconds at your lips.
You took it as a green light.
You stood again on your tiptoes, resting your hands over his shoulder and the nape of his neck.
And then you kissed him.
He gasped in your mouth, but then he melted in the kiss, cupping your head to control the angle, deepening the kiss.
Heat spread all over your body, overheating you to the point you felt like you were on fire. Without leaving his lips, you removed your robe and then pulled him from his collar, guiding him to your bed until he was lying over you.
“Bunny… the rules.” He said, pulling himself away from your lips, a pained look on his face.
“Forget them.” You guided him back to you, and he surrendered.
Your hands traveled around his body, touching whenever they could reach, pulling at his clothes to remove them.
“I want to feel you.” You whimpered.
“Okay.” He nodded, kissing your neck. He removed his shirt; his jeans followed shortly after, landing near his shoes and socks.
“Boxers too.” You mumbled against the crook of his neck.
Kissing and nipping the tender skin and making him groan.
He lay naked over you, your legs parted and hugging his hips, pulling him close until he could feel the growing wetness in your panties. Bucky moaned in your mouth, as you bucked your hips; the friction over his erection made him see stars.
This was new.
You knew it. He knew it.
Even when he fucked your thighs, he was never that close to your pussy. And when you were in a similar position, there were always at least two layers of clothes between you.
His hips rutted against you, and then you guided your hand between your bodies, pulling your panties to the side.
He gave you a puzzled look.
“Are you sure?” He asked.
“More than anything. I want to feel you.”
He whimpered, and after a nod, he resumed his grinding. You mewled as his heavy cock glided between your folds, kissing your clit with each dive.
“More, I need more.” You moaned. “Please, Bucky, give it to me.”
Bucky sat on his heels, looking down at your squirming figure, but you followed him up, meeting his lips in a passionate kiss. He got distracted, lost in your lips, to the point that when you pulled apart to lie back down, your panties and bra were gone, your glistening pussy exposed, weeping to have him inside.
The groan that left him was borderline animalistic. Knelt before you, he grabbed his cock with his fist and began rocking his hips, the tip of his cock hitting your clit with more pressure and precision. You spread yourself open for him, with your hands hooked behind your knees and holding your legs up.
“Bucky, please.” You groaned.
“What do you need, Bunny?”
“You, please, inside.”
He whined, “Bunny, no…”
“Why not?” You cried out.
“The rules.” He said simply.
“Fuck the rules.” You groaned. “I want you, all of you. Please, Bucky.” You begged.
He stilled his hips, needing to focus and think with his brain and not his other head. Because he wanted to feel you, too, bury himself in your heat.
“What if you regret it?” He searched your eyes, his concern only confirming what you already knew.
“I won't.” You worked to steady your breath. “Because I’ve been wanting these since I met you. Especially once I realized how much I love you.”
He shifted, too lost in his mind to realize he had done it, making his cock nuzzle between your folds and kiss your clit. You swallowed your moan.
“You love me?” His blue eyes, obscured by his desire, were bright with unshed tears.
You nodded frantically, and a chuckle escaped you, letting go of the strain of your legs but keeping yourself open. “So much it made me scared to lose you and stop myself from saying it out loud.” You confessed.
“Bunny —” He looked at you with a bright smile. “You don't have any idea of how much I love you.”
“I think I might have.” You smiled. “And I’m pretty sure that anyone who has met both of us knows how much we love each other.”
“Do you think that me gifting you flowers, any chance that I had, was too on the nose?” He scrunched his nose, leaning in and placing a hand next to your head.
You laughed, throwing your head back, making the bunny ears — that until that moment were forgotten — shift, and dig into your skull. Bucky noticed the discomfort in your face and reached out to place the bunny ears back in place.
“Yeah, probably. But me throwing myself in your arms right after might have contributed.” You said, lost in the tender way he looked at you.
“So we are both idiots, keeping each other away from what makes us happy.”
“Pretty much.”
“What now?” He looked at you.
“Well, right now we can continue what we were doing.” You bucked your hips, feeling the delicious drag of his cock against you. “After that, we can talk more about it, but let me tell you, I’m tired of the rules, tired of being a dirty secret, tired of loving you in the shadows.”
“I agree.”
“Do you want to be—” You clamped your hand over his mouth.
“Don't you dare ask me to be your girlfriend when we are about to have sex.” You threatened, and then you removed your hand.
“Later then.” He smiled. “Where were we?” He knitted his brows, feigning ignorance.
“I don't know, where do you think we were?” You teased.
“I think, Bunny.” He leaned in, brushing his lips against yours with each word he said. “I was about to fuck you.” His smug smile was bright when he pulled back enough to see your reaction. “Am I right?”
“Mhm.”
“Tell me if you need me to stop or change anything.” He instructed, lining himself with your entrance.
“Wait.” You gasped when you felt his tip tease your opening. He stopped, pulling back away from you. “Slow, please… You are big.”
He nodded, and then he pushed inside. Your mouth gaped, feeling your walls fluttering around him to accommodate his girth inside you.
“More.” You whined after a few shallow thrusts with only his tip inside you.
He sank deeper, your slick adding to the intrusion. Your hand shot to grip his forearm next to your head.
“You’re taking me so well, Bunny.” He praised. “My pretty Bunny, so wet and tight for me. Breathe, baby, you can do it.”
You mewled, feeling him reach deeper until he was buried to the hilt.
“That's it, so good, such a good bunny.” His voice cracked, pleasure ripping down his spine after a few thrusts.
Your legs returned to the initial position. Spread open, legs up. You felt him reach deeper, each drag adding pressure to your sweet spot.
“Oh fuck, right there.” You whined.
His pace fastened, tightening the coil in your belly with each drill of his hips. He rocked your entire body, making your breasts jiggle with each movement that made your ass hit his thighs, to the point that if he hadn't been holding you in place, he would've already pushed you out of bed.
You were creaming around him, mixing with his precum, forming a ring of slick at the bottom of his cock. The wet clap of skin against skin was loud, mixing with your moans and cries.
“Oh, Bunny, you feel so good. You're gripping me so tight, you don't want to let go, don't you? You want me to stay right there, nuzzled inside you.”
“Yes, ah, yes!” You cried out, wrapping your legs around him with a leglock, heels pressing his butt.
“Bunny, baby, I need to pull out,” Bucky said, groaning.
“Cum inside me, please, breed me.”
“Oh, Bunny.” He whimpered, his self-control snapping like a twig. “Is this why you said no penetration before — mmm, because you knew how much you'll want my cum inside you.”
You nodded.
“Please, I need it.”
His pace grew more erratic; he leaned in, arms braced so he could piston harder. Your arms wrapped around him, nails digging in his skin.
He knew very well that you were on the pill since long before you met him; still, the fantasy of getting you pregnant, marking you as his for the world to see, was making him dizzy in pleasure.
You were babbling now, too cockdrunk to even speak without slurring words that weren't yes, please, Bucky, fill me.
“Such a needy, Bunny.” He taunted you. “Come for me, baby, let me feel you.”
He felt you coming around him first, then he saw your pretty face contorted with pleasure.
Mouth hanging open.
Lips trembling.
Brows knitted.
Your legs trembled as you came, gushing around his cock. Your back arched.
And finally, he achieved what he had only been dreaming of. He kissed you, swallowing your moans.
Your climax triggered his, milking him as he spilled his seed inside you, filling you to the brim. His hips jerked; shallow thrusts made to pump his cum inside you and make it stay there.
“That’s it, Bunny. Take every drop.” He groaned, burying his face in the crook of your neck.
“Thank you, thank you, thank you.” You slurred, still on the peak of your climax that had prolonged with the joy of being bred.
You came down slowly, falling back into his arms as he cooed praises. He stayed buried inside you, just shifting enough to make you moan, and making sure not a single drop was wasted.
“That was…”
“Intense.” Bucky completed.
“Very much. When can we repeat?” You joked, making him laugh over you.
“My bunny and her jokes, I swear.” He kissed your lips. “I love you, baby.”
“I love you more.” You giggled when he kept peppering kisses all over your face and neck.
He pulled back slightly so he could see your whole face. “Are you okay?” he asked, straightening the bunny ears again.
“Never have been better, but I think my legs are cramped now.”
“Shit, Bunny!”
Bucky quickly straightened his back, bringing you up with him until you were sitting in his lap; the shift made some cum drip around his cock and down to the sheets.
“Better?” He kissed your shoulder, and as you got comfortable with your arms around him, he placed one hand on the curve of your ass, and the other caressed down your spine with lazy strokes.
You nodded, feeling sleepy and satisfied.
“Happy early birthday, Bucky.” You mumbled, reciprocating the caresses on his broad back.
“Thank you, Bunny. Best birthday present.” You nuzzled into his neck. “We are gonna have to explain a lot tomorrow.”
You considered lying, but you knew it would eventually come out.
“Yelena already knows.” You confessed. “She rage-baited me today until I spilled it out. I didn't tell her all the details — but she inferred we were sleeping together. She also helped me see how stupid I was not to tell you how I feel.”
He hummed.
“Why do you look so calm about it?” You narrowed your eyes at him, meeting his eyes and watching him blush. “Barnes?”
“Sam and Steve also know, superficially, nothing in detail. They've been nudging me to confess how much I love you for the past year, but I didn't want to risk our friendship.”
“Oh God, I can't believe our brain cells canceled each other.” You whined, mortified.
“If it helps, you're way smarter than I am; you at least made us progress — I was about to take my feelings to my grave.”
You slapped his arm. “Dumbass.”
He laughed.
“Ready to move?” You nodded against his shoulder. “What do you think about a bubble bath, soaking there until we look like raisins, and then we watch that movie you told me last time? I bought that ice cream you love.”
“Fuck me, you know me so well.”
“Of course I do, I’m your best friend.” He kissed your temple. “And your future boyfriend.”
“Yes, you are.” You smiled at him, and before he helped you stand up, you kissed him.
You were getting addicted to his kisses, you realized, which in part was great because you had so much time to make up for that you would be surprised if you ever were more than a few minutes without feeling his lips on you.
Time for new house rules.
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