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Synopsis: What starts as lingering touches and unspoken promises slowly turns into something real, or so you think. When Steve finally says he wants to take things seriously, you let yourself believe him. But one misunderstood moment in an empty classroom is all it takes to unravel everything.
Tags: Miscommunication (im sorry!), Angst with a Happy Ending, Situationship to Lovers, Emotional Vulnerability, Hurt/Comfort, Soft Steve Harrington, Confession Scene
Warnings: Emotional Distress, Arguments, Feelings
Words: ~10k
A/N: everybody trust me i hate miscommunication tropes as much as you do but this came to me in a dream!! trust me plsss
There are some things Steve Harrington does that feel like promises, even when he never says the words.
Like the way his hand always finds the small of your back in the hallway, thumb brushing slow, absent-minded circles against your spine as if he’s reminding himself you’re real. Like the way he leans in when he talks to you, even when the hallway is crowded, his shoulder brushing yours, his voice dropping just for you. Like the way he says your name, soft, familiar, like it belongs to him.
And yet.
You’re still nothing official.
Hawkins High hums around you, lockers slamming, laughter echoing, someone’s radio blaring from a car in the parking lot, but Steve’s attention is fixed on you like the rest of the world has gone slightly out of focus. You’re leaning against your locker, pretending you’re listening to him ramble about something, Tommy, maybe, or his shift at Family Video, while your brain is busy cataloging every little detail.
The way his chestnut hair, perpetually imperfect, falls into his eyes when he tilts his head to emphasize a point, and the subsequent, effortless sweep of his fingers to push it back.
The faint, clean scent of his cologne, something warm with sandalwood and soap, mingled with the unique, essential scent of him, a familiarity that makes your lungs feel tight.
The deliberate, casual way his knee nudges yours, a gentle tap-tap-tap of denim against denim.
You do realize.
You always do.
“- and then he has the nerve to tell me I should’ve locked up earlier,” Steve finishes, scoffing. “Like I don’t already do everything around there.”
You hum in response, smiling up at him. “Sounds rough.”
He grins back at you, and it’s a thing of devastating, effortless beauty, the kind that still liquefies your insides and sends a flock of wings beating against your ribs, even after all these months of nearness. His eyes crinkle at the corners. “You saying that,” he murmurs, leaning in an inch, “just made my whole day, y’know. Single-handedly.”
Before you can respond, he steps closer, too close for just friends, not close enough for something more, and his fingers hook into the belt loops of your jeans. It’s familiar. Easy. Intimate.
Possessive.
Your breath catches despite yourself.
Steve doesn’t pull you all the way in. He never does, not here. Instead, he leans down just enough that his mouth brushes your ear as he murmurs, “You busy after school?”
Your heart stutters.
“Depends,” you say carefully. “Why?”
“Thinking we could hang out.” His fingers tighten briefly, a silent punctuation. “Just us.”
Just us.
Those two words are your entire lexicon. They are the title of your story so far. They mean his couch and shared bowls of popcorn, the quiet of his empty house, his arm around your shoulders while a movie plays unseen. They mean everything and they promise nothing, all at once. They are the haven and the torture.
“Yeah,” you say, hoping he can’t hear the way your voice softens. “I’d like that.”
He smiles again, satisfied, like he’s already won something, and finally lets go, just as someone walks past, glancing at the two of you with raised eyebrows.
Steve doesn’t notice.
Or maybe he does, and he just doesn’t care.
You sit with your friends at lunch, poking half-heartedly at your food while they watch you with the kind of knowing expressions that make your skin itch.
The cafeteria is loud, trays clattering, someone laughing too hard at the next table, the distant echo of a basketball bouncing somewhere in the gym, but at your table, it feels like everything has gone uncomfortably quiet. You can feel their eyes on you every time you push a pea around your plate instead of eating it.
You don’t need to look up to know why.
“So,” Robin says finally, breaking the silence as she steals one of your fries without asking and pops it into her mouth. “Let me guess. Steve walked you to class again?”
You let out a slow breath through your nose. “He was already going that way.”
Robin hums, unconvinced.
Robin lifts her drink, watching you over the rim. “Funny how he’s always already going that way.”
You stab at your food a little harder than necessary. “It’s not like that.”
“Mmhmm,” Robin says, smirking now. “And let me guess, he touched you?”
Your fork freezes halfway to your mouth.
“Robin,” you warn, heat rushing to your face.
She leans back in her chair, utterly unapologetic. “What? I’m just saying. Shoulder? Waist? Hand on your back like he’s guiding you through a crowd that doesn’t exist?”
You don’t say anything, just staring back at Robin.
“That’s a yes,” she says, grinning when you don’t answer fast enough.
“It doesn’t mean anything,” you say quickly, too quickly, the words tumbling over each other like if you say them fast enough they might become true. “Steve’s just… like that.”
The second the words leave your mouth, they feel thin. Hollow.
Robin arches an eyebrow. “Doesn’t it?”
You drop your gaze to your tray, suddenly fascinated by the unappealing texture of cafeteria mashed potatoes. “It’s just… Steve.”
Nancy’s smile softens, the teasing giving way to something more careful. “That’s the problem,” she says gently. “Steve is great. Steve is also… Steve.”
You know exactly what she means.
Steve Harrington is warmth and easy smiles and hands that linger like he doesn’t know how not to touch you. He’s late-night drives with the windows down, his jacket draped over your shoulders without a second thought. He’s leaning in too close when he laughs, his thumb brushing your knuckles like it belongs there. He’s kisses that feel slow and deliberate, like he’s memorizing you.
And then he’s the way his voice goes light whenever things get too serious. The way he dodges questions without technically avoiding them. The way he says we’ll see instead of yes or no.
He kisses you like he means it.
He holds you like you’re something precious.
He looks at you like he’s already halfway in love.
But he never says anything that might actually define what the two of you are.
Every time you get close, every time you feel the words building in your throat, he does something that makes you forget why you were nervous in the first place. A stupid joke whispered against your ear. A kiss pressed to your temple. A soft hey like he’s afraid you might disappear if he doesn’t say it just right.
“He hasn’t said anything,” you admit quietly, the confession settling heavy in your chest. “Not really.”
Robin’s expression softens instantly, all the teasing slipping away. She nudges your arm with her elbow. “You deserve clarity, you know.”
You nod, because you do know. You’ve known for a while now. It’s just easier to ignore when Steve’s hands are warm and familiar and he looks at you like you’re the only person in the room.
“I think…” you start, then stop, chewing on your bottom lip. “I think he’s just scared.”
Robin tilts her head. “Of what?”
You don’t answer right away.
Instead, you think of the way Steve’s hands settle so naturally on your waist, like he doesn’t even think about it anymore. The sound of his laughter in your ear when you say something stupid. The way he always finds his way back to you, no matter how busy his life gets.
You think of how careful he is with you when it matters most.
“Of messing it up,” you say finally.
Robin sighs. “Or of having something real.”
You look up at that, startled, but she just offers you a small, knowing smile.
“Those two things tend to look pretty similar,” she adds.
You don’t know whether to laugh or cry.
Instead, you glance across the cafeteria without meaning to, and your breath catches when you spot Steve a few tables over, leaning back in his chair, laughing at something Tommy said. His eyes flick up for just a second, instinctively finding you like they always do.
When he sees you, his smile changes. Softens.
Your heart stutters traitorously in your chest.
Robin follows your gaze, then looks back at you. “Just… don’t let him keep you in the gray forever.”
You nod again, even as hope flickers stubbornly to life in your chest.
Because despite everything, despite the doubt and the uncertainty and the way your heart feels permanently suspended in mid-fall, Steve Harrington keeps choosing you.
And for now, that feels like it has to mean something.
The parking lot after school is a smear of late-afternoon gold, heat still trapped in the asphalt even though the day is slipping toward evening. Cars cough to life in uneven bursts. Someone yells goodbye across three rows of vehicles. The last bell feels like it’s still vibrating in your bones.
You’re halfway to your own car when you realize Steve hasn’t said a word since you stepped outside.
That’s not like him.
Steve Harrington usually fills silences like he’s afraid they’ll swallow him whole, complaining about teachers, talking about work, narrating his entire thought process with an easy grin. Today, he’s walking beside you with his hands shoved in his jacket pockets, shoulders tense in a way that doesn’t match the sunlight.
You sneak a glance at him.
His hair is a mess from running his fingers through it all day, curls catching the light. His jaw works like he’s chewing on something he can’t swallow. When he notices you looking, he flashes a smile so quick it’s almost automatic.
Too automatic.
“You okay?” you ask softly.
He blinks, like you’ve pulled him out of a thought he shouldn’t be having. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m good.” He pauses, then adds, too fast, “Just tired.”
You hum, letting it go because you’ve learned when to press and when to let Steve have his space. It’s a careful dance. One you’ve gotten too good at.
You reach your car. Your keys are already in your hand when Steve speaks again.
“Hey,” he says.
Something about his voice makes your fingers still.
“Yeah?”
He nods toward the far end of the lot, where the gym doors cast a long shadow across the pavement. “Can we… not leave yet?”
Your stomach flips, that familiar mixture of hope and caution. “Like… hang out?”
Steve’s smile twitches. “Yeah. Just… for a minute. Somewhere quiet.”
Somewhere quiet with Steve Harrington is never just somewhere quiet. It’s stolen moments that feel like secrets. It’s the soft, slow slide of your name from his mouth like he’s tasting it. It’s everything you tell yourself not to expect and everything your heart insists on wanting anyway.
You nod, trying to look casual. “Sure.”
Steve’s shoulders loosen a fraction, like he’s relieved you didn’t say no. He turns and starts walking, and you follow him without thinking twice.
He leads you around the side of the school, past the dumpsters and the faculty parking spots, where the noise of the lot fades into something distant. The air smells like cut grass and warm brick. A cicada buzzes somewhere nearby, loud enough to fill the silence between you.
Steve slows as you reach a back entrance, one of the doors that’s supposed to be locked but never is, not really. He glances over his shoulder like he’s checking if anyone’s watching, then pushes it open.
“Steve, ” you start.
He holds up a hand, a quiet wait, and there’s something in his eyes that makes you stop.
Inside, the hallway is dimmer, cooler. The hum of fluorescent lights buzzes overhead. The school feels different when it’s emptier, like a place you’re not supposed to be.
Steve walks ahead, footsteps soft against the waxed linoleum. He doesn’t look back to see if you’re following. He doesn’t have to.
He stops at the end of the hallway, where a classroom door is cracked open. The room beyond is dark except for the slant of sun coming through the blinds, striping the floor in pale gold.
Steve pushes the door open and steps inside.
You hesitate for a half-second before you follow.
The classroom smells like chalk dust and old paper. Desks sit in neat rows, untouched. The air is warm where the sunlight hits, cool in the shadows. It feels too intimate, too quiet, like the world has pressed pause just for you.
Steve closes the door behind you, not all the way, not with a click, just enough that it’s mostly shut. Enough to make the room feel like a pocket of privacy.
He turns to face you.
For a second, he just… looks at you.
Not the quick, teasing glance he gives you in the hallways. Not the lazy, half-lidded look he gets when he’s flirting.
This is different.
His eyes flicker over your face like he’s trying to memorize it. Like he’s searching for something. His hands hover at his sides, uncertain.
Nervous.
You’ve seen Steve nervous before, before games, before fights, before anything he actually cares about.
You’ve never seen him nervous like this.
Your heart starts to beat harder, a little too loud in your chest. “Steve… what is this?”
He swallows. “Nothing. I mean, ” He exhales, sharp and frustrated, as if annoyed with himself. “It’s not nothing.”
Your fingers curl around the strap of your bag just to have something to hold. “Okay.”
Steve drags a hand through his hair, and the motion is so familiar it almost makes you smile, until you see the way his hand trembles slightly when it drops back down.
He laughs once, breathy. “God. This is stupid.”
“It’s not stupid,” you say immediately.
He looks at you, and something in his expression softens at the way you say it. Like he didn’t expect you to be gentle.
Steve steps closer, slowly, like he’s testing whether you’ll back away.
You don’t.
He stops close enough that you can smell him, warm cologne and something clean beneath it, soap maybe, the faintest hint of cigarettes from someone else’s jacket he’s been standing near. His presence fills the space in front of you in a way that makes everything else feel smaller.
His gaze drops to your mouth. Your breath catches. Steve lifts his hand. His fingers brush the side of your neck, just below your ear, light as if he’s afraid of hurting you. The touch is so gentle it makes your skin prickle.
And then his hand slides to cup your head, palm settling at the base of your skull. It’s a protective hold. Intimate. Reverent.
Your throat tightens.
Steve’s thumb strokes once, slow, along the edge of your hairline.
“Is this okay?” he asks, voice quieter than you’ve ever heard it.
You nod, too quickly. “Yeah.”
His eyes flicker to yours, searching, making sure. When he seems satisfied, his hand tightens a fraction, not rough, just… certain.
He pulls you toward him. Not rushed. Not hungry. Like he’s been waiting.
Your body moves with his like it already knows how. Like you’ve done this a hundred times and still never quite get used to the way it makes you feel.
Steve leans down, slow enough that you could stop him. His forehead almost brushes yours. His breath fans across your lips.
And then he kisses you.
It isn’t the kind of kiss he gives you in his car when the radio is too loud and his hands are everywhere and everything feels like fire. This kiss is quieter. Deeper. Like he’s trying to say something without words.
Steve’s mouth moves against yours with careful patience, as if he’s learning you again. His hand stays on the back of your neck, thumb stroking, grounding you. The other hand hesitates at your side before settling lightly against your hip, not gripping, not claiming, just holding you there, like he can’t bear the thought of you drifting away.
You melt into him before you can stop yourself.
Your hands lift, finding his jacket, fingers curling into the fabric because you need something to anchor you. Steve makes a sound, barely audible, almost a sigh, and deepens the kiss slightly, like your touch gives him permission.
It’s all so slow it feels dizzying.
When he finally pulls back, it’s not sudden. He rests his forehead against yours, eyes closed. His breathing is heavier now, steady but purposeful, like he’s trying to calm himself down.
You’re still, caught between hope and fear, waiting for whatever comes next.
Steve opens his eyes.
They’re softer than usual. Unshielded.
“Hi,” you whisper, because the word is the only thing you can manage.
Steve gives a small, shaky smile. “Hi.”
You let out a breath that sounds too much like a laugh. “What are you doing?”
Steve’s smile fades, replaced by something serious. “Trying to not screw this up.”
Your stomach drops and flips at the same time. “This?” you echo, voice barely there.
He swallows, gaze darting to your mouth again, then back up like he’s afraid if he looks away you’ll disappear.
“Us,” he says.
It’s only one word, but it lands like something huge.
You feel your pulse in your throat. “Steve…”
His hand remains at the back of your neck, warm and steady. “I, ” He exhales, eyes squeezing shut for a second like he’s bracing himself. “I’ve been thinking.”
You search his face for the usual escape routes, humor, flirting, anything that might turn this into a joke.
There are none. Steve looks… scared.
“Thinking about what?” you ask softly, even though you’re not sure you want the answer. Because answers change things. They make it real. They make it something you can’t pretend doesn’t matter.
Steve’s throat bobs. “About how I keep… doing this.”
“Doing what?”
He laughs again, but there’s no humor in it. “Pulling you in and then acting like it doesn’t mean anything. Like we’re just, ” He shakes his head, jaw tight. “Like I can just keep you in my pocket whenever I want.”
Your chest tightens. “Is that what you think you’ve been doing?”
Steve’s eyes snap to yours, sharp. “No.” The word is immediate, fierce. “No, that’s not what I want. That’s-, ” He stops, frustration flashing across his face. “That’s not what you are to me.”
You swallow hard. “Then what am I?”
The question slips out before you can stop it, raw and honest and dangerous.
For a moment, Steve just stares at you.
You can see him thinking. Wrestling with it. The effort of it makes his brows draw together, makes his grip at the back of your neck tighten slightly like you’re the only thing keeping him steady.
Then he leans forward, not to kiss you, not this time, and speaks so quietly you almost don’t hear it.
“I want to take us seriously.”
The words hit you like a wave.
Your mind goes blank.
Your heart stutters, then starts racing so hard you can’t tell if you’re breathing right.
You blink. “What?”
Steve’s mouth twitches, as if he expected you to laugh at him. He doesn’t pull away, though. He stays right there, close enough that his breath still brushes your lips.
“I want to take us seriously,” he repeats, a little firmer now. “I want… I want to actually be with you.”
Your throat tightens painfully.
Because it’s everything you’ve wanted to hear and everything you’ve been afraid to hope for.
Because you’ve built a whole world in your head out of little moments, his hands on your waist, his jacket around your shoulders, his laugh in your ear, and every time you tried to turn those moments into a real sentence, you stopped yourself.
You told yourself not to be greedy.
Not to ask for more.
Not to make it complicated.
But Steve is standing in front of you, looking at you like you’re something worth risking everything for, and suddenly all of your careful self-control feels paper-thin.
“Steve,” you whisper again, because his name is still the only thing you have.
He nods, like he’s bracing for impact. “I know it’s, I know it’s kind of out of nowhere.”
“It’s not,” you say, voice shaking. “It’s not out of nowhere. I just, ”
You stop, because the truth sits heavy on your tongue: I didn’t think you’d ever say it.
Steve’s eyes soften, as if he hears the unspoken words anyway.
His thumb strokes at your hairline again. “I’ve been an idiot,” he admits quietly. “I’ve been acting like… like if I don’t label it, it can’t break.”
Your breath catches. “And now?”
Steve hesitates.
The hesitation scares you more than anything else.
But then he exhales and looks at you with something almost desperate. “Now I’m tired of pretending I don’t care.” His voice drops. “Because I do.”
Your chest aches, sharp and sweet.
You imagine it, just for a second.
Steve walking with you openly, hand in hand, not caring who sees. Steve introducing you as his girlfriend, boyfriend, whatever you’d be. Steve showing up at your door in daylight, not sneaking in through windows like a secret.
You imagine not having to wonder if you’re allowed to want him.
You imagine a future that includes him on purpose. It’s terrifying. It’s beautiful.
And it makes your eyes burn.
You laugh weakly, shaking your head. “You’re serious.”
Steve’s expression turns almost offended. “Yeah. I’m serious.”
You stare at him, trying to find the catch. The joke. The moment where he backs out.
Steve doesn’t. He just looks at you like you’re the only answer he’s ever had.
“I want you,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. “I want… you. Not just, ” He gestures vaguely, frustrated. “Not just this. Not just whenever. I want it to be real.”
Your heart twists.
Steve Harrington, who looks like he belongs on magazine covers, who has half the school still acting like he’s the center of the universe, looks at you like you are the one he’s afraid to lose.
“You’re crazy Steve Harrington,” you whisper automatically.
Steve gives you a look that says be serious.
You huff out a small laugh, then go quiet again, hands still gripping his jacket like you’re afraid if you let go, you’ll wake up.
Steve tilts his head, watching you like he’s trying to read your thoughts. “Say something,” he murmurs. “Please.”
You open your mouth. Your brain is full of static.
“What if…” you start, voice trembling. “What if you change your mind?”
Steve’s face softens, something pained flickering in his eyes. “I won’t.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do,” he says immediately, more certain than before. His hand at your neck tightens just enough to make your breath hitch. “Because I already tried changing my mind. I already tried telling myself it was just… fun.”
He swallows.
“It’s not,” he admits, so quiet it feels like a confession. “Not for me.”
The room feels too small for the way your heart swells.
You blink fast, forcing yourself to breathe. “So what, what does taking it seriously mean to you?”
Steve hesitates, and your fear spikes again, until he starts speaking, words careful, as if he’s building them from scratch.
“It means I stop acting like you’re a secret,” he says. “It means I… I don’t do this half-in, half-out thing anymore. It means if I want to see you, I call. I come to your door. I-, ” He swallows, cheeks flushing faintly. “I take you on dates. Real ones.”
Your lips part slightly.
Steve looks relieved that you’re not running. He leans closer, foreheads nearly touching again.
“And it means,” he adds, voice softer, “I stop pretending I don’t feel things.”
Your chest tightens around the words.
You let out a shaky breath. “Steve…”
He doesn’t kiss you this time. He waits, like he’s giving you the choice. Like he’s giving you the respect he should’ve given you from the beginning.
It makes your throat ache.
You nod slowly, almost to yourself. “Okay.”
Steve blinks. “Okay?”
You nod again, still stunned. “Okay.”
The look on his face is instantaneous, hope like sunlight, relief so sharp it makes his eyes go glossy. He laughs, breathless, like he can’t believe you said yes.
“Yeah?” he asks, voice cracking. “You mean it?”
You can’t stop the small smile that tugs at your mouth, even through the fear. “Yeah, Steve. I mean it.”
For a second, he just stares at you like he’s memorizing this moment too, your smile, the way your eyes soften, the way your hands are still clutching him like you’ve been holding on for dear life.
Then his hand at your neck slides down slightly, fingertips brushing your jaw, and he kisses you again.
It’s still slow.
Still reverent.
But now there’s something else in it, something steady. Certain. Like he’s not asking anymore. Like he’s claiming a future. And you let him, because for the first time, you let yourself imagine that maybe this isn’t going to end in your heart breaking.
Outside, the sun continues to dip behind the school, the world carrying on like nothing has changed.
But in the quiet, stripe-lit classroom, with Steve Harrington’s mouth on yours and his hands holding you like you matter, like everything does.
The next morning, you wake up smiling.
It’s small and stupid and completely uncontrollable, the kind of smile that sneaks up on you while you’re brushing your teeth, while you’re tying your shoes, while you’re staring at your reflection and thinking, This is different now.
Because it is different now.
Steve said it out loud.
He said he wanted to take you seriously. He said he wanted something real. He didn’t dodge it, didn’t joke it away, didn’t soften it with a laugh. He looked at you like he meant it.
And that changes everything.
You walk into Hawkins High with a lightness in your step that feels almost dangerous. Your bag bounces against your hip. Your heart beats faster than usual, like it’s trying to keep up with the possibilities racing through your head.
You imagine him waiting by your locker.
You imagine his smile when he sees you, the way it’ll soften like it always does. Maybe he’ll pull you in close, just a little smug this time, like he’s allowed to. Maybe he’ll kiss your cheek. Maybe he won’t care who sees.
No more secrets, he said.
You round the corner, already searching for him,
And your locker is empty. You slow to a stop, confusion prickling at your skin.
Maybe he’s running late.
That’s normal. Steve is perpetually running late. You tell yourself that easily, shrugging it off as you spin the dial on your locker. The metal clicks open with a sound that feels too loud.
You glance down the hallway once more.
Nothing.
Your chest tightens slightly, but you ignore it. One morning doesn’t mean anything. You grab your books and shut the locker, the echo ringing through the hallway like punctuation.
He’ll find you later, you tell yourself. He always does
First period passes with a thick, syrupy slowness. The teacher’s voice becomes a distant drone, words like “algebraic expression” and “polynomial” dissolving into meaningless sound. Your focus fractures, pulled relentlessly toward the classroom door every time it creaks open, each time, a foolish, hopeful jolt. Then, toward the clock above the chalkboard, its red second hand ticking with a maddening, lethargic precision. In the margin of your notebook, your pen moves of its own volition, tracing the familiar curves of his name before your brain catches up with your heart. You black it out furiously, a dark, scribbled storm cloud over the letters, your cheeks flushing with the vulnerability of it.
You don’t see him.
Second period is a study in mounting quiet. You tell yourself it’s fine. His schedule is different; the halls are long. But you still catch yourself scanning the river of students between bells, your eyes skipping from face to unfamiliar face with a practiced, automatic hope. The bright, morning excitement you carried like a secret begins to tarnish at the edges, dulled by a faint, creeping confusion.
By third period, the soft, private smile you woke up with, the one that felt like a promise etched into your skin, has faded completely. In its place is something careful and cautious, a tentative line your mouth holds. You tell yourself you’re being dramatic, borrowing trouble. Steve doesn’t owe you every minute of his time. He didn’t say everything would change overnight. He just said,
I want to be serious. I want this to be real.
The memory of his voice, low and earnest in the quiet of his car last night, wraps around your heart. It has to mean something. It has to.
When the bell shrieks for fourth period, you gather your books with a restless energy, your thoughts a tangled knot. The hallways have reached their peak volume, a chaotic symphony of slamming metal and shouted plans. You merge into the current of bodies, feeling oddly separate from the flow.
You don’t notice the voices at first. They’re just another thread in the noisy tapestry, laughter, a shout, the hum of a hundred conversations. You’re halfway to your class, mind still churning, when a specific sound slices cleanly through the din.
Steve’s laugh.
It’s unmistakable. Warm, open, and bright, the sound you’ve come to associate with sun-drenched afternoons and the safe circle of his arms. Your heart, that traitorous organ, gives a reflexive, joyful skip before your mind can process the context.
Your head turns, an instinct you cannot fight.
The sound emanates from an open classroom a few doors down, Mr. Kelly’s history room. Your feet slow, then stall. You tell yourself you’re just going to glance in. Just to see him, to catch his eye and share a silent, connecting smile. Just to know he’s there.
You take a few steps closer, drawn by a magnetism you despise.
The classroom door is wide open, a rectangle of buttery morning sunlight painting the floor. Inside, a girl stands near the teacher’s desk, leaning back against it. You recognize her vaguely. From his economics class. She’s pretty in a way that seems unconscious, her smile easy, her posture comfortable in her own skin.
Steve is leaning against a student desk opposite her, his body angled toward hers in a mirror of their positions.
Too close.
The observation hits you like a physical blow, a sudden, sickening dip in your stomach.
They’re laughing about something; their heads inclined toward each other in a shared space. Steve’s posture is the picture of relaxed ease, the Steve who owns every room he enters, who draws people in with the effortless gravity of his charm. This is him, unguarded and shining.
The girl says something, her lips shaping words lost to the hallway noise.
Steve laughs again, a softer, more intimate echo, and shakes his head, running a hand through his hair in that way you love.
Then she reaches out.
Her fingers, confident, casual, brush his arm, just above the elbow. The touch is light but lingers, a punctuation to her smile. She looks up at him with an expression that is unmistakably grateful, familiar. Intimate.
From your frozen vantage point in the hallway, it looks like a language. A language of comfort and shared history.
A language you’re not fluent in.
Your breath snags, catching painfully in your constricted throat.
No, your mind screams, immediate and defensive. This isn’t, it can’t be,
Steve leans in slightly, saying something in return, his voice too low to hear. The movement is small, but from your angle, it’s devastating. It’s him closing the distance. It’s him choosing proximity, the same way he leans into your space, the same way he curved his body around yours just yesterday against your locker.
The same way.
A sharp, white spike of pain lances through your chest. Your vision wavers, the edges blurring with a hot, sudden pressure.
You take a stumbling step back without conscious thought.
That’s when Steve looks up.
For half a heartbeat, his face is still open, lit with the fading echo of his smile, unguarded.
Then his eyes find yours.
And his entire world shifts.
His smile doesn’t just fade; it evaporates, wiped clean as if it never existed. His body goes taut, straightening away from the desk as if yanked by an invisible wire. His brows pull together in a sharp vee of confusion, of dawning alarm. His mouth opens,
“Hey-!”
He takes a hurried step toward the door, toward the hallway.
Toward you.
The girl beside him follows his gaze. She glances at you, a stranger lurking in the doorway, then back at Steve, her pretty face etching with puzzlement.
Steve doesn’t see her confusion.
Because he’s looking only at you.
And there it is, plain, stark, and horrifying in its clarity, a flash of pure panic in his eyes.
That should mean something. It should mean he cares, that he’s caught, that you matter enough to spark fear.
In this shattered moment, it means nothing.
Your chest caves inward, a hollow, collapsing feeling that steals the air from your lungs. The roar of your own heartbeat ascends, a deafening thunder in your ears that drowns out the hallway, drowns out her voice, drowns out the scrape of Steve’s shoes on the linoleum as he moves.
One thought rises, crystalline and cruel in its clarity:
How breathtakingly naive could you possibly be?
You don’t wait. You don’t give him the chance to reach you, to offer some placating, pretty lie. You spin on your heel and walk away, fast and deliberate.
Your footsteps are the only sound you hear, echoing with a terrible finality as you push through the crowd. Your shoulders hunch instinctively, bracing for a blow that never comes. You don’t look back. You can’t bear to see him following, and you think it might kill you if he doesn’t.
Your vision swims, the world tilting. You blink hard, teeth grinding together, and force your legs to carry you forward, away.
Yesterday now feels like a beautifully crafted joke, and you were the oblivious punchline. His hands, so gentle on your face. His voice, rough with emotion, saying I want to take us seriously. The entire, fragile future you allowed yourself to sketch in the air between you, a future with labels and certainty and him.
Stupid.
You should have known. Steve Harrington has always possessed a genius for making people feel singular, like they are the only star in his sky. You just made the catastrophic error of believing you were the one who actually was.
You shove the door to the nearest bathroom open, the force rattling the frame. The fluorescent lights buzz with a sterile, aggressive energy, reflecting harshly off the white tiles. You stumble to the sink, gripping the cold porcelain edge until your knuckles bleach white, breathing in ragged, uneven gasps. You force your gaze to the mirror.
The person staring back is a stranger. Eyes glassy and wide, shimmering with unshed tears. The smile is gone, replaced by a pale, stricken stillness. You look… embarrassed. Deeply, profoundly humiliated.
You press your palms flat against the counter, letting the cold seep into your skin, a feeble anchor.
Get it together. You are not crying over this. Not here.
Because what did you truly expect? You existed in the gray space. No titles, no declarations, no contract. You were a lovely, ephemeral thing he could enjoy without consequence, a feeling he could take back without warning, as easily as he took back his smile in that classroom.
You straighten slowly. You lift your chin. You will the trembling in your limbs to still.
You will not let him see this. You will not give him that.
When you finally leave the bathroom, you map a new course through the school, avoiding the tributaries that lead to his locker, his usual haunts. You keep your eyes fixed on some distant point ahead, your steps measured and sure. Every burst of laughter you pass sounds like mockery. Every intertwined couple is a fresh, tiny stab.
You don’t see Steve again for the rest of the day.
But you feel him everywhere. In the echo of a familiar laugh down the hall. In the faint, ghostly scent of his cologne lingering near his locker. In the heavy, pervasive silence of your phone, which remains stubbornly, accusingly dark. He is a ghost haunting the familiar halls, a presence etched into the very air you now struggle to breathe.
You don’t cry on the drive home.
Not because you don’t want to, God, you do, but because crying would mean admitting you let yourself believe him. It would mean admitting you let Steve Harrington say I want to take us seriously and you didn’t question it, didn’t guard your heart the way you always promised you would.
So you keep your eyes on the road and your hands steady on the steering wheel, jaw clenched so tightly your teeth ache.
The radio is off. The silence feels too loud.
Every stop sign feels like it takes too long. Every red light feels like punishment. You catch yourself staring at the reflection of your own eyes in the rearview mirror and you look away immediately, like you can’t stand the sight of yourself right now.
Because you look stupid. Like someone who thought they’d finally been chosen.
Your house comes into view and you pull into the driveway too fast, tires crunching gravel. You park crooked. You don’t care. The front door is there, familiar, safe, and you cling to it like it’s the only thing keeping you from shattering.
You slam the car door and march inside.
The moment the door closes behind you, the adrenaline fades, and the humiliation hits like a wave.
You drop your bag by the entryway. You don’t take your shoes off properly. You kick them into a corner and head straight to your room like if you stop moving you’ll break apart.
The second you’re inside, you shut the door and lock it.
Then you press your back against it, breathing hard, like you just ran a mile.
How naive could I be? It loops in your head, sharp and merciless.
You cross the room and fall onto your bed, face-down, smothering your face into the pillow before any sound can escape. You grip the fabric like it’s the only thing you can hold onto. Your chest rises and falls too fast.
You tell yourself you’re fine.
You tell yourself you’re not going to cry.
Your throat burns anyway.
Behind your closed eyes, flashes of the classroom scene replay like a cruel little film you can’t turn off.
Steve leaning in.
Her hand on his arm.
His smile,
And then the way his face changed when he saw you, like he hadn’t expected consequences to exist.
Like he hadn’t expected you to be real.
A sharp sound cuts through your spiraling thoughts. The unmistakable screech of tires and the crunch of gravel. Your heart jumps, stupidly hopeful for half a second before it turns bitter.
No. It can’t be. Another noise, louder this time. A car door slamming.
Your breath catches. You lift your head just enough to listen. Footsteps. Fast. Heavy.
Then,
BANG. BANG. BANG.
The front door rattles in its frame.
“Come on, _______!”
Steve’s voice. Strained. Breathless. Too loud. Too real.
“I-I can explain everything!”
You freeze.
Your whole body goes cold and hot at the same time, like you’ve been dropped into boiling water. For a moment you can’t move, can’t breathe, can’t even think beyond the way your heart is trying to claw its way out of your chest.
He’s here. He came.
And the worst part, the part that makes you want to scream, is how your heart reacts like this means something. Like this is proof you mattered.
But it isn’t proof of anything except that Steve Harrington hates feeling like the bad guy.
You bury your face back into the pillow harder, as if you can mute his voice through sheer willpower.
“_______!” he calls again, and it cracks on the second syllable like it hurts him. “Please. Just open the door, just let me talk to you!”
Another bang. The door shudders.
You squeeze your eyes shut. Don’t. Don’t go down there. Don’t give him the satisfaction of watching you fall apart.
You stare at the darkness behind your eyelids and try to breathe through the ache in your chest.
And in that darkness, your memory betrays you.
The first time he said your name softly.
It wasn’t even dramatic. It was late, summer air thick and warm, you perched on the hood of his car while he fumbled with a lighter he didn’t need. He’d been talking about nothing, work, his mom, some stupid movie he’d seen, until the conversation faded naturally.
You’d looked at him and smiled.
And he’d looked back like he forgot how to breathe.
“_______,” he’d said, barely a whisper, like he was testing the sound of it. Like he was afraid it might break if he said it too loud.
You’d laughed and asked what.
Steve had shaken his head, swallowing hard. “Nothing,” he’d mumbled, eyes fixed on your mouth. “Just… you’re, ”
He never finished the sentence.
The banging at the door yanks you back to the present.
“Please!” Steve shouts, voice raw now. “Please, I swear, this isn’t what you think!”
You bite down hard on the inside of your cheek to keep from making a sound.
You don’t want to hear this.
You don’t want him to explain, because explanations don’t erase what you saw. Explanations don’t erase the way your stomach dropped, the way your hope died so fast it felt like whiplash.
Explanations don’t erase the fact that you believed him.
Another memory slides in, unwanted and vivid.
The first time he kissed you in his car.
It had been raining, the kind of storm that made Hawkins feel smaller, the streets slick and shining under streetlights. He’d driven you home because your ride bailed last minute, and you’d sat in the passenger seat with your arms folded, trying to pretend your heart wasn’t racing.
Steve had pulled up in your driveway and turned the engine off.
For a second, the only sound was rain ticking against the roof.
You’d thanked him, reaching for the door handle,
And his hand had shot out, catching your wrist.
Not tight. Not controlling.
Just… desperate.
You’d looked at him, confused.
Steve’s eyes had been dark, searching. His chest rose and fell like he’d been holding his breath for the entire drive.
“Wait,” he’d said quietly.
“Steve -”
He’d leaned across the center console and kissed you like he’d been starving, like he’d spent weeks thinking about it and couldn’t stop himself anymore.
It wasn’t gentle. Not that first kiss.
It was messy and sudden and real, his hand sliding up your arm to your shoulder, fingers curling like he was afraid you’d disappear.
When he pulled back, his forehead had rested against yours.
“Sorry,” he’d breathed, even as his thumb traced your jaw. “I just, I couldn’t, ”
You’d smiled, dazed.
And Steve had kissed you again.
Downstairs, the banging stops. The sudden silence is so abrupt it makes your ears ring. You lift your head slightly, listening, pulse pounding. For a moment, there’s nothing. No yelling. No knocking. No Steve.
Relief loosens your shoulders before you can stop it. You sink back into the bed, exhaling shakily, your face still pressed into the pillow.
Maybe he gave up. Maybe he,
A sharp tap interrupts the thought.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Not from downstairs. From your window. Your whole body stiffens.
Slowly, like you’re moving through water, you lift your head.
There, outside your window, crouched low like a criminal in a bad movie, is Steve Harrington’s head.
A mop of brown hair, slightly windblown, eyes wide and pleading as he peers up from the bottom of the glass.
Of course. Of course he would do this.
Because Steve has climbed through your window dozens of times before. It’s practically muscle memory at this point. Late nights when he couldn’t sleep. Long afternoons when he “just happened” to be in your neighborhood. Moments when he wanted you and didn’t want to ask properly.
He taps the window again, softer this time, like he’s trying not to scare you.
“Please,” he mouths through the glass.
You stare at him, frozen.
Steve shifts awkwardly, fingers curled on the windowsill, arms trembling slightly like he’s already losing his grip. “_______,” he says when you finally crack the window open just enough to hear him, voice strained. He’s breathing hard, hair falling into his eyes. “Please, let me just explain.”
You don’t answer.
Your throat feels sealed shut.
“Please,” he repeats, desperation bleeding into every syllable. “Let me in, I’m gonna fall in a second.”
He’s not exaggerating. His foot scrapes against the side of the house, searching for purchase. The ridiculousness of it, the way he looks like a guilty cat caught in the rain, almost makes you laugh.
Almost.
But then you remember that classroom.
You remember that girl’s hand on him.
And the laughter dies before it can reach your lips.
You should let him fall. You really should. Instead, you shove the window up with a sharp movement and step back, arms crossed like armor.
Steve hauls himself inside with a clumsy grunt, landing awkwardly on your bedroom floor. He winces, rubbing his side, then immediately looks up at you like he’s afraid you’ll vanish. His cheeks are flushed. His chest heaves. He looks like he ran here.
You hate that you notice. You hate that even now your body reacts to him like he’s home.
“Please,” he says, voice raw. “I can explain everything, I, ”
“Explain?” you cut in, sharp and trembling. “There is nothing to explain.”
Steve flinches like you slapped him.
“What I saw was pretty obvious,” you continue, voice rising despite your efforts to keep it steady. Your throat burns with every word. “You were in there with her. Laughing. Leaning in. And she was, ” you swallow, forcing the image back down, “, touching you.”
“It wasn’t like that,” Steve says immediately, too fast, desperation making the words stumble out. “It was just, ”
“Just what?” you snap. “Just you doing what you always do? Making someone feel special when it’s convenient?”
Steve’s eyes widen. “No, ”
You laugh bitterly. “Like I know we aren’t serious, ” Your voice cracks and you hate that it does, hate that you’re giving him proof that you’re hurting. “And maybe you don’t actually care about me or my feelings, but why would you lie?”
Steve goes still.
“I didn’t lie,” he says, and it comes out quieter than before, like he’s trying not to scare you, like he’s trying to keep the panic in his chest from spilling everywhere. “I meant it.”
You shake your head hard, as if you can shake the memory of him saying it out of your body.
“You said you wanted to take us seriously,” you spit, wiping at your cheek angrily even though you don’t remember tears falling. “You said it like you meant it. You kissed me like you meant it. You made me, ” Your voice breaks and you have to inhale sharply through your nose. “You made me believe you.”
Steve’s face crumples for half a second before he forces it back into something steadier. He swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing.
“_______,” he whispers, like your name hurts him.
“Don’t,” you warn, backing away a step.
Steve mirrors you without thinking, stepping forward at the same time, as if the distance between you is a problem he needs to fix.
You put your hands on his chest and shove.
Hard.
Steve barely moves. Not an inch. The only thing that shifts is his expression, surprise flickering, then something softer, almost aching, when he looks down at your hands like he’s realizing how much you’re shaking.
“Stop,” you say, voice thin. “Just stop coming closer.”
“I’m not trying to, ” he starts, then cuts himself off, frustrated with his own inability to get it right. He drags in a breath like he’s bracing. “Okay. Okay. I’ll, I’ll stay here. I’ll stay.”
He stays, barely.
You can still feel him, even from a few feet away. The warmth of him. The weight of him. The way the room seems to bend around Steve Harrington like he belongs at the center of it.
You hate that you miss him even while you’re furious.
Steve’s hands lift again, palms open, pleading. “Just, just listen to me. Please.”
Your laugh comes out broken. “Why? So you can tell me I’m imagining things? So you can say it was nothing and I’m overreacting?”
“No,” Steve says quickly. “No, I’m not, I’m not gonna do that.”
“Then what?” you demand. “What were you doing in that classroom with her?”
Steve squeezes his eyes shut for a second, jaw flexing, like he’s trying to hold himself together.
When he opens them, his eyes are shining.
“I was, ” He swallows. “She was crying.”
You freeze.
The answer is so… normal that it throws you off balance. It doesn’t match the story your brain has been screaming at you all day.
“Crying?” you repeat, voice flat with disbelief.
Steve nods once, sharp. “Yeah.”
You stare at him, waiting for the rest, waiting for the punchline that turns this into another excuse.
Steve takes a step forward without thinking again.
You immediately shove his chest a second time, even harder.
He still doesn’t move. He just looks at you, breathing heavier now, frustration and panic and hurt twisting across his face.
“I’m serious,” he says, voice cracking on the words. “I’m not lying to you.”
“Don’t say that,” you whisper, because it makes your chest ache in a way you can’t afford right now. “Don’t say you’re serious when I just, I just watched you, ”
“You watched me what?” he snaps, and then immediately regrets the sharpness, his tone softening as he takes a breath. “You watched me comfort someone who was crying.”
You shake your head, anger flaring hot to cover the humiliation. “You were close.”
“I was close because she was falling apart!” Steve bursts, hands clenching at his sides. He catches himself, lowers his voice like he’s afraid you’ll bolt. “She was, she was a mess, _______.”
He takes another careful breath, like he’s trying to talk to you without pushing you off a cliff.
“It was her and Tommy,” he says, eyes locked on yours. “They broke up. Like… for real this time.”
Your stomach twists.
The name lands heavy, because it’s familiar. Because it makes sense. Because you’ve seen Tommy Hagan’s version of love, loud, careless, humiliating. The kind that treats feelings like weaknesses.
You still don’t let yourself soften.
“And that has what to do with you?” you ask, voice cutting.
Steve’s mouth tightens. “Because she came to me.”
Your laugh is sharp. “Of course she did.”
He flinches at that, like you’ve hit something tender.
“She asked where Tommy was,” Steve continues, pushing through, words coming faster now like he’s terrified you’ll interrupt again. “She said he wouldn’t answer her, he wouldn’t even look at her, and she, ” he swallows hard, eyes flickering down and back up, “, she thought he was with someone else.”
The irony makes your stomach churn.
Steve’s voice goes quieter, almost ashamed. “And then she started crying, like… ugly crying. Right there.”
You blink, caught between rage and confusion and something that feels dangerously close to guilt.
“And you…” you start.
Steve’s hands lift slightly, helpless. “I didn’t know what to do. I told her to come inside so she wouldn’t… I don’t know. So people wouldn’t stare.” His throat works as he swallows again. “She was embarrassed.”
The word slices through you because you know exactly what embarrassment feels like.
It feels like your chest being hollowed out in a hallway.
It feels like believing someone and being made a fool.
Steve takes another step forward, slower this time, like he’s approaching a wild animal.
You don’t move away.
You also don’t move toward him.
“You have to believe me,” he says, voice rough. “I didn’t touch her like that. I didn’t, ” He shakes his head hard, eyes bright. “She grabbed my arm when she thanked me. That was it.”
Your nails dig into your palms.
The memory replays: her hand on him, Steve leaning in. Your brain tries to twist it back into betrayal because betrayal is easier than uncertainty.
“Then why didn’t you find me?” you whisper, the question leaking out before you can stop it. “Why weren’t you there this morning? You said, ” Your voice falters. “You said you wanted to take us seriously.”
Steve’s whole expression shifts at that, something pained and frantic.
“I was going to,” he says immediately. “I swear I was.”
You scoff, but it sounds weak.
He shakes his head, words spilling. “I got pulled into helping Mr. Wallace with something first thing. He asked me to move equipment for the gym, then I got stopped by,- by her. And I thought I’d see you between classes, and then I didn’t, and then, ” His breath stutters. “Then you saw me and you left.”
You swallow hard.
Steve steps closer again, unable to help himself.
You push him again, hands flat on his chest.
He still doesn’t move, only dips his head slightly, like he’s letting you do it because you need to.
“Don’t.” you whisper, voice trembling. “Don’t come closer when you’re trying to convince me you didn’t, ”
“I’m not trying to convince you,” he cuts in, eyes fierce now, something cracking open in his voice. “I’m telling you what happened.”
“People always tell the truth when they get caught,” you snap, the words tasting bitter.
Steve’s face goes still.
Caught.
Like you’ve reduced him to the worst version of himself. Like you’ve decided he’s a liar before he can prove otherwise.
“I didn’t get caught,” he says, voice low. “Because there’s nothing to get caught doing.”
Your chest tightens.
You want to believe him so badly it makes you angry.
“Then why did you look like that when you saw me?” you demand, voice breaking at the edges. “Why did your face, ”
Steve’s throat bobs. He looks at you like he’s trying to find the right words, like he knows one wrong sentence could destroy whatever fragile thread is still holding you here.
“Because I knew exactly what it looked like,” he admits quietly. “And I knew exactly what you’d think.”
That makes your stomach twist.
“And you still, ” you start.
“I didn’t have a choice,” Steve says, and his eyes flash, frustration, fear, honesty. “She was crying, _______. She was asking me if Tommy ever even cared about her. She was asking me if he was with someone else.” His voice cracks. “What was I supposed to do, tell her to shut up because my girlfriend might walk by?”
The word hits you like a slap.
Girlfriend.
You freeze.
Steve freezes too, like he didn’t mean to say it out loud. Like it slipped out because it’s what he’s been thinking.
You stare at him, breath caught somewhere between your lungs and your throat.
Steve’s eyes widen slightly. His cheeks flush faintly, and for a moment he looks almost… embarrassed.
But he doesn’t take it back.
He swallows hard and steps closer again, like he can’t stay away from you even when you’re angry.
“I’m sorry,” he says, softer. “I’m sorry you had to see that. I’m sorry I wasn’t there this morning.” His voice drops, pleading. “But don’t, don’t do this thing where you decide you already know the worst about me.”
Your hands tremble against his chest.
You push him again, one last time, more out of desperation than anger.
Steve finally moves a fraction, but only because he lets himself.
He doesn’t step back. He steps in.
Until you can smell him.
His cologne wraps around you, familiar and cruel because it smells like nights you wanted to pretend meant nothing. It smells like his car. Like safety. Like Steve.
Your breath catches.
Steve’s voice turns low, steady, dangerous in the way honesty can be when it’s stripped bare.
“That’s the truth,” he says. “All of it.”
You open your mouth to respond.
Nothing comes out.
Because he’s close enough now that you can feel his breath on your skin, steady but heavy, and his hair brushes your forehead when he dips his head just slightly.
He still doesn’t touch you.
Not really.
He keeps his hands at his sides like he’s forcing himself not to grab you, not to hold you, not to do the thing he always does to distract you from your anger.
Instead, he lets his words do it.
“It’s only you,” he whispers.
Your fists unclench instantly, betraying you.
Your entire body reacts like it recognizes the truth before your brain does.
Steve watches it happen, your shoulders dropping a fraction, the tension shifting, and his breath shudders like he’s been holding it.
“It’s only ever been you,” he repeats, quieter now, like he’s saying it to convince you and himself at the same time.
Your throat tightens painfully.
Because the worst part is: you want to believe him.
You’ve wanted to believe him from the moment you saw him at the bottom of your window.
Steve tilts his head, eyes searching your face like he’s reading every micro-expression, every flicker of doubt.
“Okay?” he asks, voice barely audible.
You don’t answer.
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t reach for you. Doesn’t push.
He just stays close, like he’s giving you the space to choose.
“Okay?” he repeats, a little more desperate now, like the word matters more than oxygen.
You exhale shakily.
Your shoulders relax despite yourself, and you shake your head, a bitter little laugh escaping as your eyes sting.
“I hate you,” you whisper.
But there’s a tiny smile creeping at the corner of your mouth, traitorous and soft.
Steve’s face breaks open with relief so intense it almost looks like pain.
His arms wrap around you instantly, like the second you give him permission, he can’t hold back anymore. He pulls you into his chest, burying you against him like he’s been starving for it all day.
The warmth of him hits you like a wave.
You should push him away.
You don’t.
Steve exhales, shaky, into your hair. His hands spread across your back like he’s anchoring you.
“I meant everything I said,” he murmurs, voice thick. “Every word. I’m not, ” He swallows hard, arms tightening. “I’m not playing with you.”
Your face presses into his shirt, and your fingers curl into the fabric without thinking.
Steve’s cheek rests against the top of your head, and you feel the tremor in his breath.
“Next time,” he whispers, voice rough with emotion, “next time you think I’m lying, don’t run. Yell at me, hit me, slam a door in my face, I don’t care, just don’t disappear on me like that.”
Your chest aches at the way he says disappear, like losing you is a real fear.
You swallow hard. “You scared me,” you mumble into his shirt, voice muffled.
Steve’s arms tighten again. “I know.” His voice breaks. “I’m sorry. I swear I’m sorry.”
You stay like that for a moment, breathing each other in, the quiet finally settling.
Then Steve pulls back just enough to look at you, hands still on your arms, thumbs brushing lightly like he can’t stop touching you now that you’ve let him.
His eyes search yours again, softer this time.
“I want to do this right,” he says. “I want to be… what I said. For you.”
You blink fast, trying to keep your voice steady. “Then don’t make me feel stupid for believing you.”
He lifts his hands slowly, giving you time to pull away if you want to. When you don’t, his fingers come to rest at your waist, thumbs brushing lightly like he’s grounding himself.
Steve leans down just enough that you have to tilt your head up to meet his gaze.
And there they are.
The stupid, unfair puppy-dog eyes.
Soft. Open. Earnest in a way that makes your heart ache. He looks at you like you’re something precious he’s terrified of breaking, like he’s already decided you’re worth every risk he’s ever been afraid to take.
His hand slides up, warm and careful, until it cups your cheek. His thumb brushes just beneath your eye, feather-light, like he’s checking you’re really here.
“Let me make it up to you,” he whispers.
The words are barely there, breathed more than spoken, and they land directly against your lips. You don’t get the chance to respond.
Steve leans in slowly, giving you time to stop him even now. When you don’t, his mouth brushes yours in a kiss that’s gentle and reverent, like an apology wrapped in promise.
It’s soft at first. Just a press of lips. A quiet I’m here.
His other hand comes up to cradle your face, thumbs resting along your jaw like he never wants to let go again. The kiss deepens just slightly, careful and unhurried, like he’s memorizing the way you feel when you’re not angry, when you’re not pulling away.
When he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours.
His eyes stay closed for a second, like he’s savoring the moment. Like he’s relieved. Like he knows he almost lost you.
“I’ve got you,” he murmurs, voice low and steady. “Okay?”
This time, when you nod, there’s no hesitation.
And Steve smiles, small and soft and real, before kissing you again.
summary: When choosing a female agent to send back in time to gain young Sergeant Barnes's trust, everyone's in agreement that it should be Sharon. Until Bucky, the man that you barely get along with, speaks up and lets everyone know that it could only be you.
warnings: angst, smut, profanity, pet names (only sweetheart & baby), mutual pining of sorts, enemies to lovers (kinda), jealous!Bucky, possessive!Bucky, one bed trope, teasing, masturbation (male & female), brief thigh riding, dry humping, nausea/vomiting (not graphically described and not a major part of the story, apologies to my emetophobic girlies), oral sex (female receiving), fingering, unprotected sex, MINORS DNI, 18+.
word count: 43.2k
a/n: Thanks again to @littlemiss-yeehaw for reading all of my shit and listening to my unhinged ramblings when I write, and for her amazing artwork. Thanks to @flowersforbucky for also reading my shit and for taking the time to tell me that it isn't as shitty as I think. Without them, this fic would be unreachable in the depths of my laptop's trash bin. Pics included in the title image for this fic are not representative of reader, location, etc.
Insufferable. Is that really the right word? Can someone be insufferable when all they do is mope around in silence, giving you looks of disdain? Maybe insufferable is a word better suited to describe someone who says more than five words at a time. And yet, you still feel that Bucky Barnes is insufferable.
Raindrops patter rhythmically against the roof of the car, making the all-too-quiet stakeout a little more bearable. You shift in the passenger seat, letting your eyes fall closed for a moment as you press your head against the leather headrest behind you. You’ve been sitting here for two hours. That’s two hours of listening to nothing more than the sound of your own breathing, Bucky’s occasional annoyed sighs, and the shitty audio feed of the abandoned storefront just up the street. You’re contemplating giving in and taking a nap when you hear the sound of gravel crunching beneath tires somewhere outside of your parked car, and your eyes shoot open. You catch a glimpse of the flashing yellow lights of a security vehicle in the rearview mirror and Bucky groans, quickly powering down the surveillance equipment and dropping it down to the floor at his feet.
“Just what we needed.” Bucky says sarcastically, with frustration edging his tone as the security guard pulls in closer and closer. He’s about twenty meters behind the car now, moving slowly. You’re sure he’s taking down the make and model of the car, the license plate, and noting the fact that it’s currently turned off. It looks suspicious as hell, you have no doubt. Your mind is moving a million miles a minute as you start shrugging your jacket off of your shoulders and mussing up your hair. “What are you doing?” Bucky asks, raising a brow in your direction.
“Getting us out of this.” You mumble, glancing back in the rearview mirror one last time. You see the security vehicle coming to a stop a few meters behind, so you move a little quicker. You’re climbing over the center console in a flash, placing your knees on either side of Bucky’s hips as you come to straddle his lap. You hover over him, with your ass pressing against the steering wheel so hard that it’s a wonder you aren’t honking the horn. “Move your seat back.” You whisper harshly, gripping his shoulders with both hands as you stare down at him. Bucky swallows hard and narrows his eyes at you as if he wants to throw you right back into your own seat, but he reaches down with his vibranium hand and starts sliding the driver’s seat backward.
Bucky can’t stand you. As you lower yourself down to sit on his lap, he keeps his hands stiff, with one resting along the driver’s side door and the other resting over the center console. His hands curl into fists when you lean in and press your lips against his neck. It’s soft and hesitant at first, as if you’re not really sure that it’s an acceptable thing to do. Bucky’s chin tilts upward and to the side instinctively, giving you more access and a clear go-ahead that has your second kiss coming in a little more desperate and firm against the column of his throat. Bucky tenses beneath you but the barely audible groan that slips past his lips has you wondering if he hates this as much as he’s trying to portray. You glance over his shoulder and see the security guard approaching the car now, his eyes scanning the rear windshield as he speaks lowly into a handheld radio.
“Barnes, I swear to god if you don’t put your hands on me and make this believable…” Your threatening tone has a roguish smile tugging at the corners of Bucky’s mouth, but he refuses to let it take full form. His hands move quickly now, grabbing onto your hips and tugging them downward. He realizes as he basically grinds your clothed center over the semi-hard front of his jeans that he probably shouldn’t have done that. When you feel his partial erection pressing against you, you falter for a moment, your lips stilling against his neck and your breath hitching in your throat. “And here I thought you couldn’t stand me.” You whisper against his skin.
“I can’t.” He responds dryly, sliding his hands up the sides of your waist and letting his fingers splay out over your ribs.
“Are you sure about that?” You ask teasingly, swirling your hips in a circle as you press down on his lap. He grunts and lets his right hand glide up your back, moving higher and higher until it’s tangled in the hair at the crown of your head.
“Pretty damn sure.” Bucky rasps as he uses his hold on your hair to tug your head back. He takes the opportunity he’s given himself to attach his lips to your neck, sucking a nice little red mark right below your ear before smoothing over it with his tongue. The whimper that leaves your lips at the feel of his tongue against your skin is enough to turn his semi-hard cock into a raging hard-on. The bright ray of a flashlight shining through the driver’s window catches your attention, and you feign surprise as the security guard taps on the window with his knuckles one, two, three times. Bucky’s letting go of your waist and hair and pushing the door open as a sly chuckle climbs up his throat.
“I told her we shouldn’t do this here.” Bucky says smugly, shaking his head as you place your hands on his chest and lean back, glaring down at him. “I can’t keep her off of me.”
“Could you uh, dismount? Ma’am?” The officer requests. You turn your head and take in the short, balding man. Blush colors his cheeks a deep shade of red and you wonder if this is the most action he’s seen all year. Moving off of Bucky’s lap, you come to stand just outside of the car, crossing your arms over your chest as the cool night air hits you. You regret taking your jacket off earlier.
“I’m so sorry.” You say ashamedly, hoping you look as faux-embarrassed as you’ve made your voice sound. The man offers you a shy smile, his eyes wrinkling around the corners as Bucky climbs out of the car next. You smirk at the way Bucky tugs his jeans down and adjusts himself, trying his best to disguise the tent beneath the fabric. He glances in your direction, his eyes briefly flitting down to where your arms are crossed over your chest, before shrugging off his leather jacket and tossing it to you. You’re still for a moment, until you realize that it would probably look questionable if you refused the kind gesture in front of the security guard, so you drape the jacket over shoulders and wrap it around your upper body. Your little act was so believable that Bucky only has to spend about one minute chatting back and forth with the security guard before he lets you both off with a warning. He didn’t even ask to see your IDs. Bucky’s pretty good at bullshitting, you’ll give him that.
Infuriating. As Bucky stands beneath the steady stream of hot water, letting it soak his hair and drip over the curves of his shoulders, it’s the only word on his mind. You’re fucking infuriating. How he continues to end up on missions with you is beyond him. He never thought he would miss the days of having Sam as his partner, but god, he misses them. He might even take Walker on as a partner if it means getting the hell away from you. Actually, he’d rather put up with you than with Walker. But anyone else? He’d happily work with anyone else out in the field.
Bucky’s just beginning to rinse the shampoo out of his hair when the sound of his bedroom door flying open registers in his mind. He freezes, both hands hovering at the sides of his head as you angrily rush through his room. The bathroom door is thrown open next, and he feels a whoosh of cold air floating over the top of his glass shower door.
“A hickey?” Your voice is laced with malice. The fiery rage inside of you is stoked by the sound of Bucky laughing behind the fogged-up glass. “Are you sixteen?”
“You made a pretty little sound when I gave it to you.” He points out, continuing to work the shampoo into his brown locks.
“I was playing the part.” You argue. You take a moment to glance around his bathroom, noting the way it looks exactly like yours except it’s devoid of any personality. He has dark gray rugs on the floor, a matching dark gray towel hanging over the shower door, and even a dark gray toothbrush sitting in a little white cup beside the sink. Is he allergic to every other color?
“The security guard couldn’t hear anything inside the car, you don’t have to lie to me. You liked it.” Bucky says coolly. He rinses the suds out of his hair and even with his eyes closed, he’s sure you’re standing there with your arms crossed. It’s your signature pose in his presence.
“I have shit to do tomorrow, Barnes. Now I have to worry about covering this up.” You complain. You snatch his towel off of the shower door and use it to wipe at the fogged-up mirror over the sink. You’re studying the sizable red mark below your ear in the reflection when Bucky turns off the running water.
“You have three seconds to put my towel back before I walk out of here without it.” His voice is low and threatening now. You roll your eyes before tossing the towel back up and over the shower door, he grabs it immediately. When he steps out a moment later, he has the towel wrapped firmly around his waist. As he steps into the view of the mirror, your eyes roam over his wet, toned body in the reflection. Your gaze follows a few drops of water as they drip from his hair and trail down the side of his neck. You stand still in front of the mirror, unmoving as Bucky meets your gaze and narrows his eyes, taking a few steps forward to close the space between you. He comes to a stop with his bare chest nearly brushing against your clothed back, and then he moves his hands to grip the edge of the countertop on either side of your hips. Leaning forward the tiniest bit, his lips graze the shell of your ear and every single muscle in your body tenses up. “Why cover it? You don’t want people to know that you like being marked up?”
“I can’t stand you.” You spit coldly, crossing your arms over your chest and glaring at him in the reflection. Bucky chuckles lowly before letting go of the edge of the countertop and turning away from you, leaving you alone in his steamy bathroom.
“I can’t stand you either.” He calls back to you.
When you stomp through his bedroom a moment later, he watches out of the corner of his eye as you disappear out into the hall and let his door fall shut behind you. He knows that on some level, you’re both liars. There are so many things that you can’t stand about each other, and yet, there’s an undeniable force that seems to keep you both coming back. You could simply stay away from each other when you’re in the tower. You live across the hall from each other but the place is so damn big that you could easily avoid each other anytime you’re not working together in the field. He’s sure that somewhere beneath the haze of false hatred and tension, you can feel that incessant pull just as much as he can. That’s why he can’t stand you. That’s precisely the reason why he finds you so infuriating. Because you act like you can’t feel it.
The Howling Commandos files have taken up nearly every waking second of your time for the past three days. You’ve read every word, combed through every grainy black and white picture, and taken enough notes to fill nearly twenty pages of the little notebook that currently sits open in front of you. And yet, you haven’t been able to formulate a solid plan. That’s why the conference room is packed full of people with varying skillsets and thought processes. Fury sits at the head of the table, leaning back comfortably in his chair as he twirls a black pen in his right. Sam sits to his left, staring down at the same files you’ve studied for hours. Beside him is Sharon, who looks equal parts bored and entirely over the situation at hand. Knowing the things that she’s been up to lately, she probably has more important places to be right now. A few people are littered around the room, leaning against walls and quietly conversing with each other as they try to come up with the best course of action to solve the present issue. You’re seated at the far end of the table, opposite of Fury, tracing the lines of your left palm with your right thumb.
Bucky stands near the door, with his back pressed against the smooth wall and his arms crossed over his broad chest. He wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t labeled a mandatory meeting. Hell, even with it being labeled mandatory, he considered skipping it. He doesn’t particularly enjoy watching everyone read up on his past life, even if it was the era that he considers his glory days. Being a part of the Howling Commandos was one of the few good things he ever did, but letting himself think about that time only leads him down a darker path. He thinks about how each Howling Commandos mission that he was a part of brought him closer and closer to getting captured, to losing his arm, to losing himself. Shaking his head, Bucky pushes away from the wall and stands straight, he wonders if anyone will notice him slipping out the door.
“I don’t like time travel.” Fury says evenly, keeping his eyes on the pen in his hand as he twirls it around just above the surface of the conference room table. Bucky freezes, his eyes narrowing as he looks to Fury. Everyone in the room halts, all eyes moving in the same direction to follow the commanding voice. “I don’t like time travel at all. It’s risky and it tends to fuck things up in the long run.” Fury takes a moment to cast his eyes around the room, taking in each and every person present. After making the first round, he turns his head to the right and focuses on Bucky. “Unfortunately, I think this situation calls for something risky.”
Goosebumps spread over the surface of your skin and you tense in your seat. You follow Fury’s gaze and your eyes land on Bucky, who stands tall beside the door. His arms hang still at his sides, and for once, his vibranium arm isn’t hidden behind a long shirt sleeve or leather jacket. The black and gold glints in the fluorescent lighting of the room, drawing attention like a bright red flower draws bees.
“The intel that we need from a currently non-existent HYDRA base doesn’t exist. The Howling Commandos weren’t tasked with collecting evidence or documenting what they found at each base.” Fury continues. Bucky swallows hard but maintains eye contact. He already doesn’t like where this is going. “So, we send someone back in time to get what we need.”
As tension rises in the room and the air begins to feel like its crackling with anticipation, Fury lays out the only two potential plans he can think of. The first plan is automatically a no, because of how risky it is to send a full team back in time. The first plan would’ve been to send someone back in time to infiltrate a specific HYDRA base moments before the Howling Commandos take it out, so the intel can be gathered and brought back to the present. But the second plan is the one that has discussion raging around the conference room.
“Steve wouldn’t trust someone he’s just met, we’d need to get through to Peggy first, then she can sway him and the rest of the Howling Commandos.” Sharon argues, leaning forward and clasping her hands together over the table. Your eyes flit over to her as her blonde hair falls over one shoulder and obscures the side of her face. She’s right, 1940s Steve Rogers wouldn’t even come close to trusting a new person in the midst of a war, let alone one who’s so obviously from the wrong time period. You see Sam laughing to himself further down the table and you’re sure he’s remembering the story Steve used to tell of his past self attempting to kick his present self’s ass during his time travel stint.
“Peggy wouldn’t be wholly trusting either.” Fury points out, barely looking up from the surface of the table before him. “We need to get Peggy and at least one of the Howling Commandos on our side for this to work. The rest will follow.”
“What if we go at this from a slightly different angle?” Torres asks. He stands a few feet behind your seat, leaning against the wall as his thumbs rapid-fire away at the phone in clutched in his hands. Everyone turns their attention to him and he finally looks up, blinking once before clicking the phone off and sliding it into the back pocket of his jeans.
“We’re listening.” Fury says, his interest clearly piqued.
“We pick someone that Peggy could relate to, someone she would like, maybe become fast friends with.” He starts slowly, letting his gaze roam over each person in the room as he speaks. His eyes stop when he reaches Bucky, and you don’t have to look over your shoulder to know that Bucky’s staring right back at him. “And that same person needs to be someone Bucky would like, someone he’d be drawn to. Steve would trust Bucky’s judgement, and at least by choosing to make Bucky the center of this, we have the advantage of having him right here.”
It’s silent for a beat as the idea is mulled over. You turn around and look back to Fury, watching as his face shifts from a blank, almost bored expression to a thoughtful one. He nods slowly before tucking the pen he’s been twirling around into the pocket of his jacket.
“Sergeant Barnes…” Fury’s eyes shift to his right, landing on the stiff super soldier who looks like he’d rather be anywhere but here right now. “Does that sound like a feasible plan?” It feels as though everyone is collectively holding in a breath as Bucky remains silent. You can tell he’s thinking, you can almost see the gears turning behind his blue eyes as he zeroes in on Fury. A small nod from him is all it takes to get the conversation churning around the room again. He's in.
“I can be in and out and have this whole thing finished within just a few seconds of passing time here, I need maybe two days in the past.” Sharon says calmly, leaning back in her seat as she tucks a stray lock of blonde hair behind one ear. You really don’t even know why the discussion is still ongoing at this point. Out of everyone left in the conference room, the majority is most definitely in favor of sending Sharon back in time for the mission. It’s not like there were many other options. You didn’t exactly volunteer yourself and as of right now, you and Sharon are the only women on the team. Sure, Fury could’ve shopped around the agency a bit and found a few other suitable agents to screen for the task at hand, but Sharon seems pretty set on handling it herself.
“Okay, say you gain Peggy’s trust easily. What about Bucky? What’s your plan for getting him on your side?” Sam asks with a raised brow. The room grows quiet and all eyes land on Sharon as she filters through the possible methods she could use. Your eyes flit over to where Bucky is still leaning against the wall by the door, looking slightly less disinterested in the conversation than he was earlier. He’s studying Sharon with an unreadable expression painted on his face. Instinctively, your hand lifts up to the healing hickey that’s hidden beneath a layer of concealer and foundation right below your ear. For the briefest moment, he turns his head and tracks your movement, his eyes roaming down to the tips of your fingers as they brush over the skin of your neck. You drop your hand in an instant and his blue eyes meet yours. You can feel the arrogance radiating off of him and you roll your eyes before looking back to Sharon. You swear you hear Bucky chuckle under his breath, but when you glance around the room, no one else seems to have heard a thing.
“I just put on a pretty outfit and dance with him. It can’t be that hard to woo a soldier in his bachelor phase.” Sharon laughs out. A few softer laughs ring out around the table, but Torres’s next question quiets everyone.
“Bucky, what kind of girl would you have asked to dance back in the forties?”
You think it must be Bucky’s lack of an immediate response that sucks the air out of the room. It’s so quiet you can hear the sound of your own heart beating in your ears, even though it’s beating at a normal rate and rhythm. You steal a look at Bucky once again, who’s face is cast downward at the floor. He seems to find his shoes overly interesting all of a sudden. Everyone’s staring at him.
Bucky’s mind is churning, running through all of the girls he ever shared a moment with back in his golden days. He has a type in more ways than one. It’s not just a physical type. He’s always been drawn to women with certain personality traits, women with certain ways of carrying themselves, certain ways they flirt. One wouldn’t think he was picky with the number of girls he found himself in the company of back in the day, but he damn sure was. And he still is. That’s why his heart beats a little harder, vibrating against his ribcage as he lets out a deep breath and finally looks up. He can feel everyone’s eyes on him, but he focuses in on the one person that he’s sure his younger self will trust. Bucky’s staring right at you.
“It needs to be you.” He says firmly, fixing his gaze on your face as the color drains from it. If the air hadn’t been sucked out of the room when Torres first asked a question, it sure as hell would’ve been now. Your breath is hitched in your throat and the skin over your hidden hickey suddenly feels like it’s on fire. No, scratch that. Every inch of your skin feels like it’s on fire. Color returns to your cheeks as quickly as it first disappeared, and suddenly, you’re flushed pink.
“Me?” The word leaves your lips as an unintended whisper, but you can’t be bothered to clear your throat and try again. You know he heard you. He nods slightly, looking quite sure of himself, but his expression is still unreadable and it’s driving you mad.
“Her?” Sharon questions, narrowing her eyes at you and pursing her lips. She’s looking at you in disbelief, but not because it’s questionable that you’d be someone’s type. She’s looking at you like that because she knows, like everyone knows, that you and Bucky are at each other’s throats more often than not. Why would that be any different with a younger version of himself? The last thing the team needs is you getting sent back in time to argue with yet another version of Bucky Barnes.
“Her.” Bucky shrugs, shooting Sharon a look that easily shuts her up. She leans back in her seat once more and crosses her arms over her chest, indicating that she doesn’t like where this is going.
“Are you sure?” Sam asks with a raised brow, his eyes flitting between you and Bucky. Bucky pushes himself away from the wall and turns to face the door that leads out into the hall. As his flesh hand wraps around the door handle, he finds himself biting down on the inside of his cheek. He’s sure that his younger self will be drawn to you, that he’ll trust you, yeah. Is he sure that this is a good idea? Hell no.
“It’s her.” Bucky confirms. Then, he walks out of the conference room as if he didn’t just drop a fucking bomb in the middle of the goddamn gunmetal table. What the hell does he mean it’s you?
Your silence is unsettling. Bucky thought you might come storming into the gym during his evening workout, ready to give him a violently worded piece of your mind after he left the conference room earlier, but you never did. Then, while a mix of sweat and suds spilled down the drain of his shower, he listened intently for the sound of his bedroom door flying open, but it never came. He sits on the side of his bed in the dim light of a lamp, thumbing through the little red notebook that once belonged to Steve. He isn’t digesting its contents. Really, he isn’t even skimming over the words that are written in pencil before him. He’s zoned out as he strains his ears to listen for you across the hall. He knows you’re in your room. It’s late, just a bit past midnight now, and you’re always tucked away in there by ten. But you’re not asleep, that’s for damn certain. He can hear the occasional sound of your footsteps against the soft rug you have spread over your bedroom floor. Every few minutes, he hears an uncharacteristic scuffling sound, following by a thud. What the hell are you doing over there?
He waits a moment longer before his curiosity and impatience get the best of him, and then he’s tossing the notebook onto his bed and taking long strides toward the hall. If you won’t come to him to argue about today’s conference room situation, about what’s now lingering on the horizon, then he’ll go to you. Arguing about it will be far better than sitting around while you do whatever the hell sort of noisy thing it is you’re doing over there right now, Bucky thinks.
In retrospect, he should’ve knocked. By the time he’s throwing your unlocked door open and taking the first step into your room, he’s already sporting a half-hard cock beneath the all-too-thin fabric of his sweats and boxers. The dog tags hanging against his bare chest give away the increased rate of his breaths as his eyes skate over you. You’re on your hands and knees in the center of the room, with your cheeks flushed pink and your oversized t-shirt making it look like you’re not wearing anything else. As you stare up at Bucky, both of you frozen in place, you’re acutely aware of the compromising position he’s found you in. You sit back on your knees quickly, dropping the last few stray rings into the small jewelry tray in your left hand.
“What the hell, Bucky?” You look up at him with a mix of confusion and annoyance in your eyes as the rings clink against the ceramic tray. Bucky swallows hard as he stares down at you, trying to figure out what the fuck you’re doing in the middle of the floor. His gaze lands on one single golden ring glinting in the low light of your room and your eyes follow his.
“You missed one.” He says lowly. You reach out and pick it up with your thumb and index finger before setting it on the small tray along with the rest. “What are you doing?”
“Rearranging.” You respond dryly. You stand carefully, making sure not to dump all of your rings out a second time, before crossing the room and setting the tray on your recently moved vanity. Bucky’s only been in your room once or twice before, but he notices the changes immediately. You’ve moved your vanity from the right side of the room to the left. The chair you used to have sitting near the window now sits in a corner near the bed. A few other small pieces of furniture are strewn about haphazardly, as if you haven’t quite decided where you want them yet.
“At midnight?” Bucky raises a brow, catching your eyes as you turn to face him once more.
“What are you doing in my room, Bucky?” In his peripheral vision, he sees the slight reflection of light in one last piece of jewelry on the floor. It’s just a foot in front of him, so he steps further into the room, letting the door fall shut behind him as he bends down and scoops the rose gold ring up in his palm.
“You haven’t said anything since the team meeting earlier today.” He points out. He studies the small ring in his hand, realizing for the first time just how much smaller your hands are than his. You don’t make a move to take it from him, so he continues fiddling with it as he stands in the middle of your room.
“You walked out.” You remind him. You turn your back to him and begin straightening up a few things on your vanity. It’s weird to have him in your room like this. Your skin feels warm while the air in the room feels cold. Your oversized t-shirt feels too small while his presence feels much too large.
“I didn’t have anything else to say.” Bucky takes a few more steps forward and turns, bending at the knees to sit on the foot of your nicely made bed. You watch him in the reflection of your vanity mirror, wondering why the hell he seems so comfortable in your room.
“And I should? What do you want me to say?”
“Anything.” His single-word response makes the air in the room feel even icier, and suddenly, you’re wishing you’d put on sweats tonight. A deep breath rattles in your chest before you turn around to face him.
“It’s not me.” You say evenly. You cross your arms over your chest and focus on his face as he stares back at you. He’s still fiddling with the ring, running the pad of his thumb back and forth over it mindlessly.
“It’s you.” He sighs. He almost seems tired with the conversation, which is frustrating considering he’s the one who came in here and started it.
“It’s not, and having me deal with two of you is a recipe for disaster. I can barely handle one Bucky Barnes in this century. Sharon’s the better choice.”
“It’s not Sharon.”
“Bucky—”
“It’s you. I don’t know what you need me to say or do to convince you, but it’s you. The sooner you accept it, the sooner we can start making a plan and preparing for the mission.”
His words swirl around in your head, bouncing off of the walls of your mind like it’s a fucking pinball machine. It’s not you. You’re pretty damn sure that what 1940s Bucky Barnes needs is anything but you. Maybe Bucky’s so far removed from his younger self that he just doesn’t realize how wrong you are for this mission. He’s gotten too used to working with you in the field lately and he doesn’t want to figure things out in the field with a new partner. Whatever his reasoning is, you need him to figure his shit out before you’re sent back in time to fuck up the op.
“You can’t convince me.” You reply stubbornly, narrowing your eyes at him. “Sharon is right for this mission and everyone sees that but you.” When he glances up at you this time, his eyes settle on the light pink mark beneath your ear. His mark.
“You’re my type.” The words slip past his lips before he can stop them, and he’s gripping the ring tightly in his flesh fist.
“What?”
“I’m not saying it again.” He decides, pushing himself up to stand. You’re frozen in stunned silence, your eyes wide. You’re sure you’re about to watch him walk out the door after dropping his second bomb of the day, but he turns to face you. He’s moving forward before you have a chance to do or say a damn thing. Bucky doesn’t stop until your arms are dropping down to your sides and his hands are resting on your hips. He walks you backward one, two steps, until your ass hits the edge of the vanity and a gasp parts your lips.
“There was this bar in London, the Whip and Fiddle. I went there with Steve and the guys a few times.” Bucky starts. His tone is low and gravelly and his lips are so close to yours that they nearly touch with every word he speaks. He’s looking down into your eyes with an intense look, a look that keeps you firmly in place, along with his hold on your hips and his muscular frame pressed partially against your front. A shiver runs down your spine, but you stay silent, waiting for him to continue. Bucky’s right hand glides upward, following the curve of your body until his fingertips are ghosting over the side of your neck. He presses his thumb against your healing hickey lightly, feeling you tense against him at the touch. “If younger me saw you walk into that bar, even with all of the noise and the low lights, he’d fucking swoon. It would all be over. The chasing girls around, only ever learning first names and hometowns, the bachelor shit. It would be over. He’d follow you anywhere.”
“Bucky—”
“It’s you. Not Sharon, not anyone else damn it, it’s you.” His vibranium hand tightens over your hip and his right hand slides further back behind your head. His fingers tangle in your hair but it’s a gentle, careful act. You tilt your head up and take in his serious expression. His brows are furrowed and his gaze heats your face as he stares down at you. He isn’t fucking with you. He isn’t trying to get in your head or manipulate you into being a part of this mission. He means every word of what he’s saying right now and it scares the shit out of you. You move quick, drawing your arms up between the two of you and pressing your palms flat against his bare chest. You shove him back hard, forcing him to take one big step away from you. He doesn’t look surprised at all, and his expression never shifts, the seriousness never leaves his face.
“You can’t stand me.” You remind him, though the words feel empty as you say them. You’re questioning the notion, as if he hasn’t said those words himself a hundred times before.
“I can’t.” He agrees, nodding slowly. You take a deep, shaky breath in and let it out through your teeth. “But for some reason, it’s still you.”
You stand still, with the edge of the vanity still digging into your ass and your chest heaving as Bucky turns his back to you and heads for the foot of your bed. You watch through narrowed eyes as he leans over and scoops up the ring he left sitting there. He straightens up and looks down at the small shiny object held precariously between his thumb and forefinger.
“Do you know how to dance?” The question rolls off of his tongue so casually that for a moment, you wonder if anything that just happened really happened. Did he not have you pushed up against the vanity only seconds ago? Was he not touching you and leaning in close like you meant something to him after months of acting like you’re nothing more than his shit-giving coworker?
“What?” You nearly choke on the word. Your throat is so dry after seemingly forgetting to swallow at all in his presence.
“Do you know how to dance?” He repeats, craning his neck to the side to look at you.
“What the hell does—”
“He’s going to ask you to dance, and you’ll have to say yes.” Bucky says matter-of-factly. You find it a little odd that he refers to his younger self as if he’s someone else, but you don’t comment on it. “I can teach you.”
“Fine.” Bucky freezes at your quick and unexpected caving. He raises an eyebrow at you, still fiddling with the ring between his fingers. “Help me move my dresser.” Your eyes dart over to the large piece of furniture across the room and Bucky’s gaze follows. He looks at it for a second as the realization dawns that you’re really asking for manual labor in exchange for agreeing to go back in time for this mission. The fact that you’re going to do it, that you’re going to be the one who does this with him, leaves an unfamiliar calmness settling inside of him and he lets out a deep breath.
The sounds of furniture scuffling around the room and soft thuds carry on for the next half hour as Bucky uses the serum in his veins to set your room up just how you want it. When everything is finished and you seem satisfied, he walks over to your vanity and drops the last ring into the ceramic tray. Your eyes rake over his bare back, taking in the way there isn’t even the slightest sheen of sweat present on his smooth skin. You should’ve asked him to move your furniture two hours ago when you first started doing it yourself. If you’d known it was so damn easy for him, you might’ve even said please.
“You should probably lock your door at night.” Bucky says as he heads toward it. He wraps his hand around the door handle and you watch as the muscles of his flesh arm ripple slightly.
“Why? Are you going to keep barging in?”
“You’ve done that a lot more than I have.” He points out, tugging the door open to reveal the darkened hallway beyond.
“So, start locking yours then.” You retort. He can hear you rolling your eyes. A small smile plays on his lips as he steps out into the hall and runs a hand through his messy hair, keeping his back to you.
“My door’s always open for you, sweetheart.”
“Fuck you, Barnes.” You say coldly, just as the door clicks shut between the two of you.
You can’t stand him.
Sam doesn’t let things go easily. Sure, if he was really pushing Bucky’s buttons, he might back off a bit, but he hasn’t gone too far yet. Yet.
“I just want to know how you can go from barely getting along with the woman to demanding that she’s the one for your little forties self.” Sam says through a smirk. He falls into step next to Bucky as the two of them jog through the heavily wooded trails behind the tower.
“If you’re going to keep talking about this, you can finish the run alone.” Bucky threatens, shooting Sam a deathly sideways glare.
“I’ve been telling you for months that there was something between the two of you, and you shot it down every time. I don’t get to gloat now?”
“There’s nothing to gloat about. There isn’t anything between us besides this mission. You’re reading too far into shit, Sam.”
“That super soldier serum didn’t teach you how to be a convincing liar, huh?”
“I’ll see you back at the tower.” Bucky says flatly, immediately picking up his pace to an ungodly speed and leaving Sam behind in literal dust.
Bucky’s ears are filled with the sounds of his feet pounding against the dry dirt path below and his own steady, even breaths as he speeds along the trail. The mission is the only thing between you, he tells himself. There isn’t anything else. As much as he wants there to be, as much as he feels something there, you fight against the tension like it suffocates you. You fight against it tooth and nail, pushing Bucky away every time you think he might be getting a little closer to you. Is it just him? If it was someone else running dangerous ops with you, saving your ass regularly, and sitting through stake-outs with you late at night, would you push them away just as hard? Or is it just because that guy is Bucky?
Thunder rumbles in the distance, tearing Bucky away from his troubling train of thought momentarily. He glances up through the crowded tree branches and catches sight of the gray sky above. He can smell rain in the air, so he picks up the pace a little more, intent on beating it.
He can still feel the curve of your hip against his vibranium hand and the way every muscle in your body tensed up when he pressed his thumb against the mark on your neck last night. Fuck. Bucky feels beads of sweat forming around his hairline, and it’s not from the hellish pace he’s bent on keeping. His mind falls even further back to that last stakeout. The memory of you moving over the center console of the car and seating yourself on his lap so effortlessly plays out in front of him like a movie. He doesn’t even realize how fast he’s running until the tower comes into view a whole lot sooner than he expected it to. With sweat dripping down the back of his neck, he tugs his shirt off and scans his palm at the back entrance to the gym.
He can feel the weight of your body settling over him, feel your thighs pressing against either of his hips as you straddle his lap. Bucky bites down on his bottom lip as he tugs the door open and glances over his shoulder for any sign of Sam. He lets the door fall closed behind him when he realizes that he’s probably still a couple of miles back in the woods. Lifting the t-shirt that’s hanging from his right hand, Bucky uses it to wipe the sweat from his brow and neck. Fuck you. Fuck you for acting like you’re oblivious to whatever the hell has been brewing between the two of you for months now. It’s right in front of your face and yet you act like you can’t see a damn thing, like you don’t feel a damn thing. Fuck you for giving Bucky just enough of you to fantasize about but not enough to feel satisfied. He heads straight for the locker room, shoving the door open hard as he uses one hand to untie the drawstring of his shorts.
He won’t let himself do what he needs to do. He comes to stand in front of the mirror, placing his hands on the edge of the sink as he drops his head and sucks in a deep breath. He won’t do it. Bucky lifts his head a bit, looking his reflection in the eye for a moment before flicking the faucet on and splashing a handful of cold water against his flushed face.
Fuck. He’s going to do it. He’s rushing for one of the showers within the next second, turning the hot water on just before he shoves his shorts and boxers down. He steps out of them, already mentally chastising himself for what he’s about to do.
He’s only been in the shower for a minute when heat begins to spread down his spine, sending a warmth over the surface of his skin and pushing him to lean forward. He rests his forehead against the cold tile wall of the shower, telling himself that this is pathetic. His flesh hand works quickly, moving back and forth while staying wrapped tightly around the shaft of his cock. A shaky breath snakes past his lips as his eyes flutter closed and his hips piston forward once, twice, three times. He fucks his hand roughly, letting out a low groan when the pad of his thumb brushes against the sensitive spot on the underside of the head of his cock. He hates that this is what he’s resorted to. Never once has he left himself do this with you on his mind. It feels shameful, even offensive. You’d kick his ass if you ever found out, he’s fucking sure of that. Still, he continues on, working himself up until he’s teetering on the edge of bliss. It’s the memory of you on his lap in that damn care, letting him tug on your hair and tilt your head back so he could suck on your neck, that almost finishes him. His movements grow sloppy and his breaths come out a little more ragged. He replays the sweet little sound you made when he left that hickey on your skin, when he left his mark on you.
“Shit.” Bucky groans, scrunching his eyes shut even tighter and stroking his cock a little harder. A shudder races through him and he bangs his vibranium fist against the shower wall just as his climax hits. He opens his eyes and watches as ropes of cum paint the tiles. The steamy shower water washes it all away and carries it down the drain within seconds. What a waste.
You’ve been lying on your stomach in bed ever since you woke up, watching every video you can find that depicts anything remotely close to dancing in the forties. It’s stressing you the hell out. How long do you have to learn this shit? Does Bucky even remember how to do this? You can’t picture him doing something so…lighthearted.
You roll over onto your back, tossing your phone to the opposite side of the bed before pressing the heels of your hands into your eyes and letting out a frustrated groan. Why the hell did you agree to this? Oh, right. The memory of last night starts playing in your mind on a loop. Bucky barged into your room like he had every right to. He sat on your bed. He pushed you up against the vanity and…and did absolutely nothing. So, why does your heart race merely at the memory? If it was nothing, why did it feel like something? You let out a louder groan and run your hands through your messy hair, tugging at it a little and feeling the slight stretch of your scalp. You’re thinking about pulling the covers over your face and going back to sleep for the rest of the rainy morning, but your train of thought shifts over to the contents of the communal fridge in the kitchen down the hall.
Bucky’s chosen to avoid you today. If what he did in the shower half an hour ago is any indication of the dangerous territory that he’s put himself in, he knows he needs to pump the brakes now. So, he stands in the kitchen, leaning against the edge of the countertop as he sips on a glass of orange juice in near-silence. The sounds of rolling thunder and heavy rain are all he can hear as he tries to ignore the guilt eating away at him. He really fucked his hand simply at the memory of being close to you last night. He’s in way too fucking deep and he needs to get a grip before this mission really starts. Maybe he should’ve just let it be Sharon. She probably could’ve pulled it off. Younger Bucky wasn’t really all that picky if he’d had a few drinks, and Sharon could’ve easily been coached to put on a personality that Bucky would’ve been drawn to. But no, he had to make sure it was you. God, he’s kicking himself for it all now.
He stiffens when he hears your door open down the hall, fighting against the urge to make a dash for the elevator just to avoid you. He glances at the time displayed over the stovetop. It’s still too early to get ready and rush off for his therapy session, but maybe if he drives really slowly Dr. Raynor won’t have to question why he’s there an hour and a half ahead of time. Bucky lets out a heavy sigh as your footsteps patter down the hall in the distance. He’s being dramatic. He knows that. He had a moment of weakness in the shower this morning and it was his own fault. He shouldn’t have let his thoughts carry him that far and he sure as hell shouldn’t have been in your room doing and saying the things he did and said last night.
When you appear in the main living area, you’re still wearing that damn oversized t-shirt and distinct lack of pants that you were last night, and Bucky stifles a frustrated groan. His eyes roam over your body so quickly that you don’t even notice the look as you enter the kitchen and give him a small nod. You tug the fridge open and rummage around for a few seconds as your mind races. Your heart is beating wildly in your chest, you can feel warmth creeping into your cheeks, coloring them pink. You hate this. Why the hell did he decide to flip a switch this week? You were fine barely getting along, just giving each other shit in the field and then coming home after missions and going your separate ways for the most part. Why did he have to say all of that shit about it being you that his younger self would want?
Your appetite dissipates more and more with each passing second, until suddenly you’re shutting the fridge and taking a step back. You see Bucky out of the corner of your eye, sipping on an almost empty glass of orange juice as he studies you.
“You’re manipulative.” You say lowly, crossing your arms over your chest as you turn to face him. He raises a brow at you and takes another sip from his glass, but says nothing in response. “What you did last night wasn’t fair.”
“Moving your furniture around?” He questions, keeping that one brow raised. You can tell by the look in his eyes that he’s being facetious and it pisses you off. Your tongue presses against the inside of your cheek as you look him over. He’s clearly fresh out of the shower with messy, damp hair. He’s dressed in dark gray sweats and a navy blue t-shirt that hugs the muscles of his upper body a little too snugly for your liking.
You could just respond to his question with a verbal answer, you know that. You could just open your mouth and remind him about what it was that he did last night that you’re referring to as being unfair and manipulative. But your feet carry you forward. You move slowly, giving him a multitude of opportunities to step around you and leave the kitchen unscathed. Bucky remains planted there, leaning against the kitchen counter with the glass in his hand. When you’re only a foot away from him, you reach out with your right hand and take hold of the glass. He watches you carefully, with his head slightly cocked to the side as your grip tightens and his loosens. When he lets you fully take the glass from his hand, you lift it to your lips and swallow the last sip of orange juice. Bucky’s cock twitches beneath the fabric of his sweats as he watches your lips retreat from the exact spot that his once pressed against the glass. He bites down on the inside of his cheek in an attempt to dissuade the hardening of his already tired cock.
“Do you really think I’m talking about you moving my furniture around?” You ask in a whisper, taking one more step forward until your chest is nearly brushing against his. You reach past him with your right arm and set the glass on the countertop behind him, holding your breath as your bottom lip comes within a centimeter of his chin. You keep your head tilted up, watching his eyes as the distance between you diminishes. “I couldn’t possibly be talking about you pushing me up against the vanity and putting your hands on me, right?” His eyes flutter closed and you smirk, feeling satisfied with the effect that you’re clearly having on him. You let both of your hands rest against the edge of the countertop on either side of him and suddenly you’re close enough that when you stop tilting your head upward, the tip of your nose is threatening to brush against the column of his throat.
“Did that do something for you?” His words come out slightly raspy and it sends an unfamiliar warmth surging low in your stomach. You pull your head back a couple of inches and look up at him through your lashes, tilting your head to the side.
“Not a damn thing.” You lie. He chuckles darkly and lets out a breath that fans across your face. A smug smile takes over his features and you feel your confidence wavering.
“Right.” He says absently, as his flesh hand begins to move. You can feel your heart rate doubling as you anticipate his touch, and it infuriates you. Since when does he get this kind of physiological reaction from your body? As his fingertips make light contact with the side of your neck, you inhale sharply and let your eyes fall closed. You want so badly to remain stoic, to look as unbothered as ever as his fingers ghost over the now mostly invisible hickey that he left days ago, but you fail.
Bucky knows that when he presses his thumb against that spot, just like he did last night, your body will tense up. Even with the alarm bells going off inside his head, with that little voice inside of him screaming for him to run, to do anything but the stupid thing he’s about to do, he can’t help himself. His wraps his vibranium around your waist and presses his cool metal palm against the small of your back before tugging you forward. The moment your chest collides with his, he pushes the pad of his thumb against that spot beneath your ear and revels in the feeling of your body tensing against his. Fuck. He’s in deep, but he wishes he was in so much deeper.
“Not a damn thing, hm?” He teases, looking down at you as your eyes flutter open.
“I really can’t stand you.” You retort, but you make no move to get out of his hold. You’re sure that he can feel the dangerously high rate that your heart’s beating at, but still, you stay there against him.
“I know.” He smirks. He lets his thumb trail down the side of your neck until it reaches your collarbone, and then he moves it right back up to the spot where he first marked you. “But you agreed to be a part of the mission anyway, so you’re stuck with me for now.”
“I still think it’s a bad idea.” You point out. You’re coming to your senses now, realizing just how compromising of a position you’re both in right now and how beyond stupid and careless this is. What are you thinking? You pull your hands up between your two bodies and place your palms against the soft blue fabric of his shirt, getting ready to push yourself away from him. He knows what you’re about to do so he tightens his vibranium arm around your waist and slides his flesh hand back to tangle in your hair.
“I didn’t convince you last night?” He asks roughly, narrowing his eyes at you as if he’s slightly annoyed. You shake your head and push lightly against his chest, not putting any real effort behind your movement. He holds you impossibly tighter against his chest before dipping his head down toward your neck.
“Bucky.” You breathe his name out softly, with no other words coming to your mind.
He’s feral. He’s fucking feral. He’s fighting with every ounce of restraint that he possesses to keep from leaving five more marks on the skin of your neck, just to replace the one that’s now faded from there. It’s as if he didn’t fuck his hand to completion less than an hour ago, because his cock sure seems to have forgotten. He bites down on his bottom lip before nudging the tip of his nose against the column of your throat. God, he wants to fucking taste you.
“You know where to find me if you need more convincing.” He says lowly, nipping at your neck one single time before releasing you from his grip and pushing past you. He needs to get the fuck out of here.
You spend the rest of Saturday morning in bed, just like you’d planned, though you didn’t get much sleep. You laid there under the covers, lazily scrolling through your phone, until you heard Bucky’s door opening, closing, and then locking right before he headed for the elevator down the hall. With him out of the tower, you finally felt like you could breathe. So, that’s what you did. You laid in bed and breathed. You took a nice, deep breath in as you rolled over onto your back and let your hand snake down beneath the waistband of your panties. You let a long breath out as you ran your fingertips through the wetness that had gathered along your folds. Then, you drew a shaky breath in as you circled your middle and ring fingers over your clit, using your own arousal as lube. You don’t feel good about what you did to yourself the moment Bucky was out of earshot. You don’t feel good about pretending that your hand was really his. You really don’t feel good about his name being on the tip of your tongue as an orgasm shook you to your core. But you feel good about the fact that you didn’t actually say his name out loud. That’s something, right?
As you put the final finishing touches on your makeup look for the night, you force yourself to push Bucky Barnes far out of reach of your mind. You know that you’ll have to deal with him enough come Monday, when there’s another team meeting about the mission, but for now, you tell yourself that he’s off limits. He’s off limits and you get to spend the night thinking about anyone and anything else. Maybe that’s exactly what you should do. Think about anyone else.
The bar that Sharon chose for tonight is dimly lit and overly full of patrons. You feel like you touch a minimum of three people every time you try to take a step in any direction, so you settle into a cramped booth with your drink and good company, hoping you can get away with sitting there for at least the next hour while the crowd thins out.
“You could’ve picked a busier place.” Maria remarks sarcastically, shooting Sharon an annoyed look as they both slide into their seats across from you. You take a long sip of your drink before setting it down on the wooden surface of the table and double-checking that nothing was swiped from your clutch on your way through the bustling bar.
“You need to get used to being around normal people, Maria.” Sharon wiggles her eyebrows. “No gods or mutants or super soldiers, just good old fashioned normal men.”
“I came here under the impression that this was going to be a girls night.” Maria says as she lifts her drink up to her lips. A mischievous look takes over Sharon’s face and her eyes glimmer as she looks between you both.
“A girls night where all the girls go home with a plus one.”
“Oh, fuck off, Sharon.” Maria scoffs, shoving her shoulder playfully. Sharon snorts and casts her gaze around the crowded bar, seemingly browsing the vast menu of eligible men. As you follow her line of sight, you notice that there are significantly more men than women here. Including the three of you, you count maybe a total of ten women versus at least fifty men.
“Sharon…” You start, narrowing your eyes as you face her.
“Maybe I chose a bar that’s currently having their weekly guys night.” Knowing that both you and Maria are ready to start in on her, Sharon raises a hand and closes her eyes. “But I did it with a good heart. You both need to get laid.”
As much as you want to kick her from underneath the table, you know she’s right. You shake your head as you take another long sip from your drink, and wonder just how many of these you might need before you agree to go home with one of the strangers in this bar.
“I don’t think I’m the one that needs to get laid tonight.” Maria says quietly, casting a pointed look in your direction. Your eyes widen at her insinuation.
“Why are you looking at me when you say that?”
“You’re about to spend a whole lot of time with not one, but two Bucky Barnes.” She responds. Sharon nods eagerly, suddenly leaning forward and resting her elbows on the table as she joins Sharon in staring you down.
“You need to fuck someone and clear your system before this mission takes off. Make sure you’re going into it with an empty tank, you know?” You’re sure that Sharon’s mostly joking, but there’s still an air of seriousness to her words.
“You both think that I’d be tempted by him?” You raise an eyebrow at both of the women before you. They share an indecipherable look between themselves before all eyes are back on you.
“Aren’t we all?”
Bucky doesn’t usually pick whiskey. Nowadays he’s more of a beer kind of guy. Especially when he wants to drink a lot and reminisce about the times when he could get drunk. The feel of a cold glass bottle in his hand and the lip of it pressing against his mouth with each sip reminds him of a time when just a few of those would do him in. But tonight, he’s drinking Four Roses.
As he swirls the amber liquid around in his glass, he scans the packed bar. The crowd is thick, with men heavily outnumbering and swarming the few women that are milling about.
“I didn’t take you three for the guy’s night type.” Maria’s familiar voice sounds from behind Bucky’s left shoulder. He turns in unison with Sam and Torres. When their backs are to the bar, they all come face to face with Maria Hill. Bucky gives her a subtle up-and-down look, feeling a bit odd seeing her in an outfit that doesn’t resemble anything tactical for once.
“I wouldn’t have taken you for the guy’s night type either.” Sam laughs out before taking a sip of his beer.
“Trust me, I’m not.” Maria responds with a slight grimace, casting a glance over her shoulder in the general direction of where she came from. Bucky follows her gaze and spots a few booths off to a side wall, but it’s too dim for him to tell which one she might be looking to. He focuses back on her as she pushes between him and Sam to get to the bar. She orders three different drinks in quick succession, but only the last one catches Bucky’s attention. It’s your drink. “Is that you guys that I feel staring or is it the rest of the sleazy men in this place?” Maria asks jokingly, looking over her shoulder again. Sam and Torres both laugh, but Bucky’s barely paying any attention. He’s scanning the room again, studying each face with a watchful eye as he searches for you. “They’re in the third booth against the far left wall.” Maria says reluctantly, when she catches the look in Bucky’s eye. She may find him attractive as hell, like everyone else does, but she knows he’s essentially off the market. He may hide it well with the constant bickering and brooding façade, but he’s so fucking into you. Maria knows it as well as anybody else. Well, anybody but you. Sometimes she wonders if Bucky himself even knows it.
Bucky shoots Maria a sideways look and she shakes her head.
“They won’t be happy that you guys are crashing girls’ night.” She clicks her tongue disapprovingly, just as the bartender starts working on her drinks.
“Oh, come on. They’ll be thrilled.” Sam jokes, immediately heading off in the direction of the booth Maria described. Torres stays with her, but Bucky follows Sam closely. He should be running in the opposite direction. He knows it’d be in his best interest to down the rest of his whiskey and run right out the door. And yet, his feet carry him forward like his entire goal since this morning hasn’t been to avoid you.
You were having a half-decent night before you laid eyes on Bucky Barnes. When he comes into view, wearing one of his signature leather jackets and dark gloves, your heart skips a beat. You’re sure it’s skipping a beat out of protest rather than anything more meaningful, but still, it skips a damn beat. You don’t even hear Sam’s initial greeting, or the immediate banter that he and Sharon get into the moment he’s within earshot of the table. In fact, every single sound in the bar seems muffled all of a sudden. He’s staring at you. Bucky’s looking right into your eyes as he hovers near the end of the table, with his expression as bored and unreadable as ever.
The intense eye contact is only broken when Maria and Torres appear, and she uses her shoulder to nudge Bucky out of the way so she can set the three drinks down. As soon as she slides the small glass in front of you, the din of the bar is loud again and you’re itching for a higher blood-alcohol level. You down the fresh drink in one long gulp, ignoring the burning in your throat as all eyes fall on you.
“I think I need something a little stronger.” You say flatly, after clearing your throat and setting your empty glass down on the table. Sharon raises an eyebrow at you but within a second, she re-engages with Sam. Maria and Torres are quick to take your side of the booth the moment you rise to your feet, and Sam slides in next to Sharon. As you saunter off toward the bar, you can hear the sound of Bucky dragging a chair over to the edge of the table to give himself somewhere to sit.
Bucky can’t seem to tear his eyes away from you as you make your way to the bar. You’re wearing a little black dress that hugs your curves and accentuates every part of you that he’s been trying not to think about all goddamn day. The heels you chose are surely killing your feet with every step you take, but god, they keep drawing his gaze down your legs and then the dress drags him right back up again. The front of Bucky’s jeans have started to feel a bit too tight and his mind is reeling. He wants to pour his glass of whiskey into his eyes. It may be the only way he can stop fucking staring at you.
Though you feel Bucky’s eyes burning a hole in the back of your head, you refuse to look back. He can stare all he wants, but you’ve decided not to give a shit. He messed with your head last night and manipulated you into being a part of next week’s mission. Then, he messed with your head again this morning, telling you to come find him if you need anymore convincing. What the hell did he mean by that? You swallow hard as you reach the bar, reaching out and grabbing onto the edge of it to steady yourself. You’re two drinks in now and starting to feel a little buzzed, but you sure as hell won’t be stopping if the guys are sticking around. You order something significantly stronger than your last two drinks and then start fiddling with a stray lock of hair that’s hanging over your shoulder as you try to look unapproachable. This place feels like a testosterone festival and although Bucky’s stare was the only one you felt at first, you’re acutely aware of quite a few more pairs of eyes on you now.
Bucky’s aware as well, so fucking aware. He watches with veiled frustration as you become the center of attention over at the bar. He can tell you don’t even want the attention simply by your body language, but that doesn’t stop men from ogling shamelessly. He knows you can handle yourself, so he bites down on his bottom lip and tries to return his attention to the table, choosing to pick his battles wisely. He tunes into a semi-heated conversation about who’s worse at holding their liquor amongst everyone at the table, but every now and then, his gaze flits back over to you.
Two minutes go by before Sam notices the tension seemingly rolling off of Bucky’s broad shoulders. The brooding super soldier sits stiffly in the wooden chair at the end of the table, gripping his whiskey glass so tightly in one gloved hand that Sam’s surprised it hasn’t shattered under the pressure. When he follows Bucky’s gaze across the room, he finds the source of all of that angsty tension. There you are, looking undeniably gorgeous in that little black dress of yours with a fresh drink in hand as some tall, charismatic guy tries his best to win you over. Sam chuckles under his breath and watches for a moment, noting the way the guy continues getting closer to you every time you lean away from him. He sees the fake smile painted on your face and the way you keep nodding your head in the direction of the table as you speak in short sentences, probably letting the guy know that you have a group waiting for you.
“Go get your girl, Bucky.” Sam finally says, lifting his half-empty beer bottle in your direction. “Haven’t you two been a fake couple at least a hundred times by now? Pretend to be her man and get her out of that.” Bucky winces at the idea. Conversation at the table dies down as everyone starts shifting to get a look at you.
“What do you want me to do?” Bucky asks dryly, taking a long sip of his whiskey as he analyzes Sam’s expression over the rim of the glass. “She can get out of that herself if she wants to.”
“Yeah, or you could make it easy for her.” Sam points out. Bucky turns his head to look at you again and he doesn’t like what he sees. The man takes one step closer to you, nearly closing the gap between your bodies entirely. He makes it seem as though he was pushed into you, which you seem to buy given how crowded the bar area still is. You let out a stiff but polite laugh, and then the man rests his right hand on your hip as he leans down and whispers something in your ear. That’s enough, Bucky decides. He downs the last of his whiskey before standing up and setting the empty glass on the edge of the table. He’s moving toward the bar before he has a moment to tell himself to stop. In an instant, his gloves are being tugged off one at a time and shoved into the pocket of his leather jacket.
Bucky could just shove the guy away from you. He could throw a punch and start a good old-fashioned bar fight, maybe get himself kicked out into the street along the way. He could even waltz up and call you some sweet little pet name, because maybe, just maybe, the guy would be respectful enough to ditch the moment he thinks you’re spoken for.
But as Bucky’s flesh hand tangles in the hair at the crown of your head and he tugs you back harshly, every other possible way to handle the situation is trampled under his feet. His movements are rough but calculated as he separates you from the guy and places his own body between you. Your lips part and you nearly spill your drink as Bucky uses his hold on your hair to tilt your head up so you’re looking right into his blue eyes.
“Bucky, what—” The. Fuck.
With his right hand still fisting your hair and his left moving to wrap around your waist, he pulls you flush against his chest and leans in. You don’t realize it, but even in your shocked state, you lean in to meet him. He tilts his head to the side and sucks your bottom lip in between his teeth instantly, barely even kissing you before he’s biting down on it hard enough to draw a gasp from you. He takes the opportunity to slide his tongue between your parted lips and taste you. Fuck. He didn’t mean to do it. He didn’t mean to put his tongue in your mouth, but now that it’s there? Fuck, he’s ruined. Bucky kisses you so intensely, so fucking passionately that for a moment, you’re convinced it’s real. It isn’t until his grip on your hip falters and he has to pull back to take a breath that you realize why he did it, that you realize it most definitely wasn’t real. You’re fighting to catch your breath as he lets you go and glances over his shoulder, making sure the guy is gone. When he looks back at you, you’re pressing your fingertips to your lips lightly, while clutching your drink in your other hand. Your eyes are wide and your hair messy from his touch. His eyes skate over your face, taking in the way your cheeks and nose are rosy and your pupils are dilated as you stare at him. Bucky runs a hand through his own hair and bites down on his bottom lip. Wait, is he…flustered?
“Stop looking at me like that.” He says lowly. As much as you want to give him hell for that stupid stunt, your brain only seems to be able to focus on one thing.
“You taste like honey.” Your voice comes out soft but raspy, and your fingertips still ghost over your lips as you speak. Bucky looks taken aback by your response, and he stills for a moment as he looks down at you, his eyes narrowing.
“You taste like strawberries.” His gaze darts down to your lips, but then quickly back up to your eyes. Shaking your head to snap yourself out of whatever trance you’ve found yourself in, you brush past Bucky, making a break for the table.
Bucky needs a fucking minute. With your scent swirling around him and the ghost of your mouth on his, he needs a minute to adjust the raging hard-on he’s sporting and gather himself. What the fuck did he do that for? He’s gritting his teeth as he turns on his heel and heads for the bathrooms off to the side of the bar. When he steps foot in the men’s room, he scans the floor of each stall quickly, making sure he’s completely alone before locking the door to the entire bathroom and moving to stand in front of the large mirror displayed across the wall of sinks. Strawberries. Bucky stares down at the ceramic sink in front of him as his hands move to grip onto the edge of it. He fights the urge to break it into a million little pieces as he licks his lips, picking up a hint of your taste. Lifting his head and catching his own gaze in his reflection, he bites down on his bottom lip nearly hard enough to draw blood. The twinge of pain is enough to snap him out of whatever the hell kind of haze he’s in, and he flicks the sink on with his flesh hand. After washing his hands, he splashes a bit of cold water on his face before drying up with a few paper towels. He doesn’t leave the bathroom without adjusting his cock, tucking the head of it beneath the waistband of his boxers and pants to ensure his unchecked arousal won’t be noticed by anyone.
With lively conversation passing back and forth across the table, no one seems to notice the thick tension brewing between you and Bucky. You haven’t glanced at him once since he came back from the men’s room looking utterly unbothered by the display of public deception that he’d put on just moments earlier.
Bucky steals looks at you throughout the evening as you go through three of your usual drinks and two shots of vodka with Maria and Sharon. He notices that you smile a lot more when you have some alcohol in your system. You also look at him a hell of a lot less, and he hates that. He can’t seem to go more than a minute or two without searching you out, while you don’t even seem to notice that he’s still in the bar. He watches with a knotted stomach as two other guys attempt to move in on you when you’re up at the bar with the girls, but the knot unties itself when he sees you quickly turn them both down. Why hadn’t you done that with the first guy earlier tonight? A weird sensation bubbles up in his chest as he wonders if maybe you’d actually been attracted to the man you were talking to before Bucky stormed over and stuck his tongue in your mouth. Did you only turn the last two men down because you were worried that Bucky would try to kiss you again?
As much as you would’ve liked to avoid looking at Bucky all night, your plan is thwarted when Sharon ends up a little past tipsy and Maria decides to Uber back to her apartment early. Not wanting to wrangle a semi-drunk Sharon in an Uber by yourself, you accept Sam’s offer for a ride. With Sam driving and Torres immediately sliding into the passenger seat, you push Sharon into the backseat on the passenger’s side and shut her door. You watch with a small smile playing on your lips as she promptly leans against the door and closes her eyes. You’re sure she’ll be asleep before Sam ever pulls up to her apartment complex.
You cross around the backside of the car to find Bucky standing, holding the other back door open for you. You glance inside, noting the small middle seat and shake your head.
“I’m not sitting in the middle.” You say stubbornly, crossing your arms over your chest. A small shiver wracks through your body as the chilly night air blows over your exposed skin. Bucky’s shrugging his jacket off before he even realizes it. When he holds it out to you, you look at it warily, but another cold breeze wafts by and you reach out and grab it. Draping it over your shoulders, you narrow your eyes at him. “I’m still not sitting in the middle.”
“Yes, you are.” He responds roughly, resting his left forearm on top of the open door as his right hand moves to rest on his hip.
“No, I’m not.” You’re aware of the fact that you sound like two children arguing over something so trivial, but still, you maintain your stance. Bucky bites the inside of his cheek before stepping back and pushing the door shut. You hear Sam shout something out of confusion, probably wondering what the hell you two are doing out there in the cold delaying the ride home, but you both ignore him.
“You kissed me back.” He says in a low, raspy voice, making sure no one in the car could possibly make out his words. Your eyes widen and you pull his leather jacket tighter around your shoulders, trying to ignore the way his scent is rolling off of it and surrounding you.
“You put your tongue in my mouth.” You respond stiffly, glancing over your shoulder at the car.
“I’d do it again if it would shut you up and make you get in the car.”
“Sounds like you’re looking for an excuse.” You say, letting out a fake laugh. Bucky rolls his eyes, clearly unimpressed with your accusation.
“You really think I’d look for an excuse to do that again?” Bucky asks, taking a step toward you and reaching past your body for the door handle. When he’s close enough to you that his lips are nearly grazing against the shell of your ear, your eyes flutter closed. “I think we both know I wouldn’t need one.”
Bucky tugs the door open just as you open your eyes and look into his.
“Get in the damn car.” He says authoritatively, holding the door open as you glare at him. You want to dig in your heels and stand on the curb until the sun rises in the morning, but with how cold you are and how late it is, you know you’re fighting a losing battle. You give Bucky a look that could kill as you slide into the middle seat and let out a frustrated sigh. You use his jacket to cover your legs and maintain what little body heat you have left. When Bucky slides in after you and pulls the door shut, Sam’s driving off before either of you have buckled your seatbelts. Bucky fastens his own before noticing that you’re not making a move to buckle yours, so he takes matters into his own hands. He leans over you and grasps the seatbelt in his flesh hand as he brings his lips close to your ear again, lowering his voice to a whisper. “Always so fucking stubborn.”
With every little curve and bump in the road, Bucky’s leg brushes against yours and you tense up each time. You’re always quick to pull your leg away and back toward the middle of the floorboard, until you start to notice that he never pulls his away. You stare out of the windshield ahead as Sam weaves through the city, heading toward Sharon’s downtown apartment. When you turn your head and glance over at her, she’s sound asleep with her mouth wide open as her head rests against the door beside her. Another bump jostles the car and Bucky’s leg collides with yours, but instead of pulling away this time, you stay still. As the heat of his leg permeates the thick fabric of his jeans and warms your bare knee, you find yourself relaxing a little. It really is way too cold to be wearing such a tiny dress.
Bucky’s gaze is fixed outside of his window, but he can feel you letting your head fall back to rest against the headrest behind. He tries not to move too much, sensing that you’re somewhat thankful for his body heat warming your leg and side. It’s cold as shit tonight and you picked what has to be the thinnest dress in your wardrobe. If he didn’t love it on you so much, he’d have told you that you were fucking stupid for risking hypothermia by wearing it.
You let your eyes fall closed as goosebumps prickle across the skin of your arms and you lean back against the headrest. Sharon’s apartment is just another ten minutes away, and then the tower will be an extra thirty on top of that. If you clear your head and pretend like the man beside you is merely a stranger in a shared Uber, and not someone whose tongue was in your mouth only an hour ago, you might be able to get a little sleep before you’re home. But Bucky’s leather jacket sits heavy over your thighs, and his intoxicating scent swirls around the backseat, begging to be inhaled. He’s not a stranger. He’s a fucking coworker who left a hickey on your neck and what feels like a black hole in your gut after offering up some kind of half-baked confession of attraction a couple of days ago. Younger me would fucking swoon. Who the hell says something like that to a girl who thought she was the last person he’d ever be into? Does he get off on looks of confusion and bewilderment?
The car tires screech against asphalt as Sam slams on the brakes and the car struggles to meet his demand. You’re lurching forward in an instant, the seatbelt pulling coarsely across your chest as it locks and holds you in your seat. But it isn’t the sudden unexpected stop that has everything moving in slow motion. It’s Bucky’s hand gripping your mid-thigh tightly over the fabric of his leather jacket. As your back thumps against the seat and your eyes dart out toward the windshield ahead, you see that Sam narrowly avoided running a red light with a traffic camera posted on the street corner. He mumbles something about refusing to get another citation, but your ears are ringing as you cast your gaze downward. Bucky’s hand is still right there, his knuckles nearly turning white with how hard his fingers are digging into your leg. For a moment, a fleeting moment, you let yourself think about how nice his touch feels. You can feel the warmth of his palm even through the leather jacket covering your legs and the chill in your body begins to dissipate. In reality, he’s only been holding onto your thigh for two seconds, but it feels like it’s been two minutes. You let out a shaky breath as the stoplight turns green and Sam starts driving past it. Bucky’s grip loosens and he starts to withdraw his hand, but something within you stops him. You’re reaching out and grabbing his hand in yours, tugging it back to your thigh and resting it atop the leather jacket again. Neither one of you turns to look at the other. You both stare straight ahead, silently letting the moment play out.
It feels as though a fire’s been ignited deep in Bucky’s chest. As you move your hand away from his, he has to turn his head and look out the window to keep from looking down at where he’s touching you. If he gets a glimpse of where his hand is at right now, he won’t be able to scrub the image from his mind no matter how hard he tries. And his hand is only on your damn thigh. He takes even breaths through his nose as he watches the city lights dance around outside. He estimates that Sharon’s apartment complex is less than ten minutes away. What happens after those ten minutes? Will you push his hand away and pretend like the moment never happened?
Each passing minute feels longer and longer as Bucky’s hand remains heavy on your thigh. Two minutes go by before he starts alternating between squeezing your leg and letting his hand rest loosely atop the jacket across your lap. When you reach the third minute, your cheeks are flushed pink and sparks are igniting throughout your body at the slightest touch. There aren’t many thoughts floating around in your head now, which is probably why it’s so easy for you to slide your hand over his and quietly guide it beneath the fabric of the jacket. He doesn’t resist. He doesn’t pull his hand away or fight your movement, and when you feel the warmth of his palm pressing against the bare skin of your thigh, you withdraw your own hand and cover his with the jacket carefully. Bucky’s clenching his teeth as he grips your leg and scrapes his trimmed, blunt nails along the inside of your thigh. He feels you shudder against his touch, but then you seem to press into him a little closer and he can’t fucking breathe. The backseat of this car is suddenly feeling too damn small for either of you, and he wants nothing more than to drag you out at the next red light and find the nearest alley with a brick wall he can back you into.
She’s just cold. Bucky keeps reminding himself that that’s why you’re letting him do this, that that’s why you’re encouraging him to touch you this way. But are you really that cold? Your skin feels almost overheated beneath his hand. He grips your leg again and then starts drawing lazy circles with his fingertips along your inner thigh. He never once tries to move his hand any higher or lower than the exact spot that you placed it in. You’re having a hard time figuring out if that excites you or disappoints you, especially when all you can do is focus on keeping your breathing unnoticeable and eyeing the three other people in the car to make sure no one is the wiser.
The tension in the backseat of the car is so thick that you could cut it with a knife by the time Sam’s pulling into a parking spot in front of Sharon’s building. Bucky’s fingertips dig into the skin of your thigh one last time before he drags his hand out from underneath the jacket and back to his own lap. You start to unbuckle so you can help Sharon out of the car and up to her apartment, but Sam shakes his head at you in the rearview mirror and pushes his own door open quickly.
“We’re not going to make you walk her all the way up there when you’re in heels.” Sam tsks, signaling for Torres to hop out as well. “We’ll take her up and get her settled, just stay in the car.”
“Are you sure? I could do it, she can probably walk fine, she’s just sleepy.” You say softly, glancing over at Sharon as she begins to stir. She shoots you a sideways smile and starts unbuckling her seatbelt with sloppy movements.
“Don’t say that, let them carry me.” Sharon jokes, slurring nearly every single word she speaks. You laugh lightly before pushing a bit of her blonde hair away from her face and leaning over her to open the door on her side.
“Fine, but don’t give them too much trouble.” You concede, watching as Torres takes both of her hands and helps her out of the car. You find your heart racing as she straightens herself up and takes just enough steps forward for Torres to shut the door again, leaving you and Bucky alone in the dark car. You let out a shaky breath as you watch Sam, Torres, and Sharon all move further and further away from the car. You don’t move a muscle. You stay seated right there in the middle of the backseat, painfully aware of how your left side is still brushing against Bucky’s right side.
Bucky’s sitting stiffly in his seat, wondering if you can hear how hard his heart is thumping against his ribcage right now. His eyes flit downward to where his leather jacket has shifted off of your lap a bit and the skin of the thigh that he was just toying with is now exposed. Gritting his teeth, he reaches over slowly and pinches the edge of the jacket with his fingertips before dragging it back up to cover your lap entirely. Your head moves quickly, tilting downward to watch what he’s doing. You swallow thickly as thoughts start swirling around in your head. It’s a mixture of sane, rational thoughts about thanking him for the jacket and dirty, irrational thoughts about putting his hand back where it was before the car stopped here. Even as your mind is formulating a coherent sentence to spit out, you know you should sit here quietly and act like nothing happened. You know so much better than to speak when tensions are running this high, and yet…
“I did kiss you back.” The words roll off of your tongue so quietly that you fear Bucky might not even have heard them. But when he stops staring out his window and drops his gaze down to where his hands rest in his lap, you know he heard you.
“You did.” He says just as quietly, shifting in his seat a bit. You let out a soft sigh and glance over at the empty seat beside you. You know it’ll look a bit odd to Sam and Torres when they get back to the car and see you still sitting in the middle of the backseat. You’re thinking about sliding over and buckling yourself in when movement catches your eye. Bucky’s flesh hand reaches over slowly, and his fingertips take hold of the edge of his jacket just like they did a moment ago, but instead of making sure the fabric covers your thighs, his moves it further down your legs this time. Your breath hitches in your throat as he pushes it down just an inch, revealing the hem of your short dress and the tiniest bit of skin across the tops of your thighs. Goosebumps prickle across your skin, but it has little to do with the fact that you’re still a bit cold. “I put my tongue in your mouth.” He rasps. You’re frozen in place as he starts tracing the hem of your dress with the tip of his index finger. His words hang in the air, swirling around with the thick tension like a heavy fog early in the morning. Bucky leans in as you stare down at his hand. He leans in until his forehead is nearly touching the side of your face and his lips are ghosting around the shell of your ear. “Would I need an excuse to do it again?”
As your eyes flutter closed and you suck in a deep breath, Bucky can only think of one thing. He can only think about how fucking perfect it felt to have you kissing him back, to push his tongue past your lips and really taste you for the first time. Of all the times he’s kissed you for undercover missions, it was never like that. He never dared to let his tongue get involved, not until tonight. Now he fears he might be ruined.
You’re thinking about the same damn thing. You’re thinking about how he tasted like honey and citrus and vanilla all jumbled together. You’re replaying the feeling of him fisting his hand in your hair and pulling you toward him in a way that should’ve done nothing other than piss you off.
Neither of you realizes that you’re both glancing toward the apartment building entrance at the same time, both checking to see if Sam and Torres are anywhere nearby. Are you really about to do this? You finally turn your head to face Bucky, and find him already staring at you intensely. His blue eyes reflect the tiniest bit of light from a street lamp in the distance, and you swear you can see something akin to flames dancing around in his gaze. He stares back at you for one, two, three seconds before the tension hanging in the air between you both shatters. In a flash, you’re shoving the leather jacket onto the floor and moving toward Bucky just as he’s grabbing you by the waist and tugging you toward him. Your lips meet before your bodies do and you’re kissing him so desperately that you almost feel a bit of shame. You’re acting like a horny teenager having her first bit of alone time with a guy on prom night, but as your dress hikes even higher up your hips and Bucky settles you not over his lap, but over his right thigh, every trace of shame disappears. You’re straddling the toned muscles of his thigh as he curls his fingertips against your scalp and takes a handful of your hair in his fist.
“You like when I do this, don’t you?” He asks lowly, nipping at your jawline as he pulls on your hair just enough to tilt your head back. A soft whimper escapes you and you grind down on his thigh, feeling just the right amount of friction as the fabric of your panties meets his jeans. He falters for a second and looks down, his grip on your hair loosening as you grind against his leg again. “Fuck, don’t do that.” He growls, squeezing your hip with his vibranium hand to make sure you’ll be still.
“But it feels so fucking good.” You whisper, fighting against his vibranium hand and dragging your clothed cunt against his thigh again. A guttural sound crawls up his throat and he pulls you in for a kiss, sliding his tongue past your lips instantly. There’s that honey taste again. He doesn’t try to stop you this time when you grind down, so you keep doing it over and over again for a few seconds, giving your clit exactly enough friction to elicit a sense of pleasure. If his side of the backseat was bigger, you’d settle yourself over his lap and grind on the bulge that you know is hiding behind the zipper of his jeans, but you’ll take what you can get.
“Is that enough for you?” Bucky asks roughly, the second he pulls away from your lips and glances down at where you’re grinding on his thigh once again.
“They’ll be back any minute.” You whisper. You place your hands on his shoulders as you crane your neck to glance back at the apartment building again, ensuring Sam and Torres are still out of sight.
“Say it isn’t enough.”
“Bucky—” Both of his hands move down your back and he cups your bare ass beneath the fabric of your dress, squeezing hard enough to leave red fingerprints in your skin. He leans in and presses an open-mouthed kiss to your neck before dragging the tip of his tongue up toward your ear and biting down on your earlobe softly. “It isn’t enough.” You moan out as your back arches and your chest presses against his. Bucky lets out a groan before reaching down with one hand and unbuckling his seatbelt. The thin strap moves between your two bodies quickly before clicking against the door, and then Bucky’s wrapping one arm around your lower back and moving to lay you down in the backseat. He hovers over you as your legs spread a bit to accommodate him, and then he sinks down on top of you. There’s something about feeling the full weight of a man over you that makes it hard to think rationally. That’s why when you feel the outline of his hard cock press against your damp panties, your back arches and his name leaves your lips in such a desperate, sultry moan. That’s why you let him grind and rut against you relentlessly for at least thirty seconds, listening to the sounds of his grunts and heavy breaths as he buries his face in your neck and moves his hips rhythmically. That’s why you let yourself get so dangerously close to an orgasm that you’re circling your own hips against his. It’s because you’re not thinking rationally, not one tiny bit.
You don’t hear it, but Bucky does. He hears the distant click as the door to Sharon’s apartment building swings open. He knows he only has a few seconds left before Sam and Torres will be close enough to see the car, so he presses his hips into you one last time, making sure you feel the entirety of his hard length against your clothed cunt before he looks down into your eyes and memorizes the look of pleasure on your face. He kisses you one last time, savoring the taste of your lips and letting his tongue dance with yours for one fleeting moment. Then, he’s pulling himself away from you and grabbing your hands to pull you back into a sitting position beside him. You’re in a daze as he leans down and scoops his leather jacket up off of the floor. The sound of Sam and Torres’ voices ring out in the distance and you move yourself to the seat Sharon had previously occupied, quickly smoothing out your dress and hair before buckling yourself in. Bucky holds the jacket out to you just as Sam and Torres are nearing the car, and you take it, draping it over your lap carefully.
Sam and Torres’ incessant small talk is the only sound to be heard as the car carries you all back to the compound. You’re keeping your legs tightly crossed and your hands folded neatly in your lap as you stare out your window and try to avoid thinking about what just happened. Adrenaline is still surging through your veins, almost cancelling out the alcohol in your system. On top of that, the sexual frustration that you feel from having not finished what you and Bucky so recklessly started in the backseat is giving you a bit of an attitude. You chew on the inside of your cheek as the damp panties trapped between your thighs begin to feel uncomfortable and the gravity of what you just did, what you would’ve done if Sam and Torres hadn’t showed up when they did, begins to set in. You’re compromising not just the upcoming mission, but your entire working relationship with a damn good partner. And for what? Not even an orgasm. He didn’t even give you that. You have no doubt that he would have if you’d had the time for it. Hell, you were pretty damn close to one with him grinding against you like that and those sounds he was making. Your mind starts to float back into dangerous territory and you bite the inside of your cheek a little harder, nearly drawing blood. You shudder at the sensation of pain, but continue staring out the window, wishing Sam would drive just a little bit faster.
He could cum right now. Bucky could actually cum in his jeans right now, and it’s been a solid ten minutes since he even looked in your direction. His cock is still painfully hard and fighting against the front of his jeans, threatening to pop the zipper if he doesn’t free it soon. He glances around Sam’s headrest to see that he’s already doing five over the speed limit. Still, it’s not fast enough. Not when you just did what you did, and you’re sitting only a foot away with Bucky’s scent all over you. Actually, that’s not even the worst of it. The worst of it all is the fact that you left wet spots on his thigh and over the crotch of his jeans, both of which hold the scent of your arousal. Bucky lets out a heavy sigh and shifts uncomfortably in his seat, adjusting the seatbelt over his lap so it won’t restrict his cock any more than it needs to. He catches you turning your head in his direction out of the corner of his eye, but he doesn’t dare look back at you. Screwing his eyes shut, he pinches the bridge of his nose with his flesh index finger and thumb as he presses his head back against the headrest. He can survive the last twenty minutes left in this car ride, but as soon as the car pulls up to the tower, he’s getting the fuck out of here.
Sam, ever the courteous and thoughtful designated driver, let you, Bucky, and Torres all out of the car right at the front entrance to the tower before heading off to park the car in the underground garage. Bucky almost decided to stay in the car and take the ride down to the garage with Sam, just to keep from being stuck in the elevator with you. However, it turns out that Torres is pretty damn good at icing over the fiery tension in a small space. Bucky is leaned against the back wall of the elevator, staring at the leather jacket hanging off of your shoulders as you stand a few feet in front of him. You’re so close to the metal doors that if you stuck your tongue out, you’d probably be licking them. Torres stands oblivious off to one side, scrolling through his phone absentmindedly as the elevator carries the three of you closer and closer to the main living quarters.
“Have you two gotten started on the dancing lessons yet?” He asks casually, without looking up from his phone. You say nothing. You stay still, staring at the metal in front of your face as the elevator continues on. Bucky clears his throat lightly and you hear him shift somewhere behind you.
“Tomorrow.” Bucky replies stiffly, offering no more than that single word. You turn your head the tiniest bit to see Torres nod, still looking down at the device in his hands.
“Saving it for the last minute?” He jokes. Your eyes dart upward and you see that you’re only a few floors away from the living quarters. “Fury wants you guys back in the past within the next two days.” You swallow hard at the reminder as an uneasy feeling settles in your gut.
“There isn’t going to be much to teach.” Bucky’s tone is flat, but still somewhat polite. You see Torres nod in your peripheral vision, and then the elevator is dinging and it’s slowing to a stop. You’re hurrying out the second the doors begin sliding open. You hear Torres’ phone ring and he mumbles something about taking the call down in the conference room, but you’re already halfway through the main living area. Your heels click against the hard floor as you make your way toward the dark hall, refusing to look back at the super soldier who can only be a few yards behind you.
“You don’t have to walk so damn fast.” Bucky mutters, watching you storm ahead. You’re still about ten feet from your door when you slow down and turn on your heel. Now you’re standing there looking at him as he continues walking toward his own door at a normal pace. You stand there and stare at the man you didn’t want to look at for another second tonight. He’s nothing but danger and bad decisions and you’re learning not to trust yourself around him anywhere but in the field.
“My feet hurt.” You say matter-of-factly, narrowing your eyes at him. You watch as he comes within a couple of feet of you and turns left to face his door that’s right across from yours. “I want to take off these heels and this dress and shower and just…” Your voice trails off and you catch Bucky looking over his shoulder at you with a raised brow. “And just sleep this off.” You finish, making it clear that you’re talking about whatever it is that’s between you right now. He turns to face you right as you’re turning your back to him and reaching for your own door handle.
“Sleep it off, huh?” He scoffs, noting that you’re still keeping his leather jacket draped over your shoulders. “Whatever this is, it’ll just be gone in the morning?” You keep your hand on the downturned door handle but you pause, not yet pushing the door open fully. You shrug your shoulders and Bucky watches as his jacket moves up and down once around your frame. “Kinda hard to forget what happened tonight if you wake up and see my leather jacket beside your bed in the morning.” You snort out an amused laugh before casting a glare at Bucky over your shoulder.
“Maybe you should take your jacket back then.” You respond calmly. As you’re facing your door, letting your head turn forward once again, you hear Bucky shuffling behind you slowly. A chill spreads beneath the surface of your skin as he grows closer and closer, until his body heat is enveloping you and his proximity has your hand faltering on the door handle. When he comes to a stop right behind you, so close that one deep breath from you would have your back pressing against his chest, he braces himself against your doorframe. Both of his arms are outstretched, his hands grasping the doorframe on either side of you as he leans in close to your ear, just as he’s done so many times tonight.
“But it looks so damn good on you.” He coos, taking a chance to inhale your sweet scent after he speaks. His breath tickles the side of your face as the wetness in your panties suddenly feels a little less uncomfortable and a little more exciting. You’d like to say your body is beyond your control when you draw in a deep breath and let go of the door handle. When you let your palms glide over the surface of your door and arch your back just enough to push your ass against the front of Bucky’s jeans. You’re met with the same hard-on he was rubbing all over your clothed cunt in the car just a little while ago and warmth pools low in your stomach. Bucky’s hips lean in, pressing himself against your ass a little harder as his flesh knuckles turn white and his vibranium hand whirs with exertion against the doorframe. He gives you a chance to open the door and disappear for the rest of the night, but when you circle your hips back against him a second time, his hands quickly move down to your hips and he pushes your front into the door firmly. He crowds in behind you, dragging his lips over the skin of your neck as you tilt your head to the side. He makes sure your bodies never part as he kisses down the column of your throat and bites down lightly on your collarbone. You grind your ass into him one more time and his control starts slipping.
“Keep that up and I’ll fuck you against this goddamn door.” Bucky rasps against your neck, tightening his hold on your hips to keep you from grinding anymore. You wriggle in his grasp, but he only curls his fingers against your dress even more, before dragging his lips back up toward your ear. “You’ll wake up tomorrow wondering why the fuck you can’t walk.”
“I’d blame the heels.” You whisper, surprising yourself at the fact that you’re going along with this. But everything he’s saying, everything he’s doing makes it hard for you to think straight. Bucky lets out a surprisingly gentle, genuine laugh before letting go of your hips and tugging his jacket off of your shoulders. He steps back suddenly, leaving you a bit cold and wanting for his touch. You turn around to watch as he walks over to his own door and pushes it open. “That’s it? You just walk away after that?”
“You can’t stand me, remember?” He replies. You can hear his smirk showing through his tone. “Should be easy for you to sleep it off.”
With that last line, Bucky’s shutting his door and you’re left in the dark hallway alone. You have half a mind to kick his door in and ruin your pretty heels, but the other half of you knows he’s doing the right thing. What did you really want him to do? If you’d invited him in and spent the night with him, you have no doubt that your professional life would’ve gone to shit before the end of the week. If he’d invited you in, or even worse, fucked you against right there in the hall like he’d said, the outcome would’ve been the same. You can’t mix work and play. You know that all too well. But why is it turning out to be so damn fun to blur the lines with him?
You take your time peeling off your dress and heels, soaking in a long, hot shower, and then getting ready for bed. By the time you’re flicking off the bathroom lights and pulling back the plush covers on your bed, it’s already a bit past one in the morning and the aching between your legs hasn’t ceased. You refuse to indulge your fantasies after having already made yourself orgasm once within the last twenty-four hours at the mere thought of the man across the hall. Twice would be too much, way too much when you’re actively trying to tell yourself that you need to start keeping things strictly professional with him. You choose to lie in bed and scroll through your phone for a bit, but still, Bucky remains at the forefront of your mind.
Bucky vows not to touch his cock in the shower ever again. Tonight was the last time. As he towels himself dry and avoids looking at his reflection in the bathroom mirror, he’s surprised at the fact that he doesn’t feel so much shame this time. He has a feeling you might’ve even been flattered by just how much cum ended up being washed down the drain after he thought of nothing but you as he stroked himself. Okay, maybe that’s wishful thinking. But seriously, with the things you did to him…with him tonight, he knows that you wouldn’t have kicked his ass for what he had to do in the shower. He has a feeling you might’ve even been tempted to do something like that for yourself after you parted ways.
One text. That’s all you need to send to give yourself a little peace of mind and maybe set things back on the right track with Bucky. It’s why you’re staring at the typed out message on your phone screen and your thumb is hovering over the send button. It’s late. Maybe too late to be sending him a text. But you feel like you have to do it. You’ll clear things up now and tomorrow everything will go back to normal, or as normal as things can be before a mission like this. When you hit send, let out a deep breath and let your head fall back on your pillow a bit dramatically.
When Bucky’s phone vibrates on his nightstand, he’s rolling over and grasping it in one hand almost instantly. Holding it over his face and quickly dimming the brightness of his lock screen, he sees your name at the top of the notification and he narrows his eyes. How many times have you texted him since you’ve started working together? Once? Maybe twice? His heart thumps a little harder than it previously had been as he unlocks his phone and reads your message. You don’t need any more convincing? His tongue darts out and wets his lips as he sends his overly simple response through.
Two question marks. That’s all you see as you stare at his text. Heaving a sigh, you type out a slightly longer message, making sure you’re abundantly clear. You need to make sure that he knows he doesn’t have to keep going with whatever act this is that he’s been putting on the last couple of days. If he’s only been fucking around with you to convince you that you’re the one his 40s self would approach in a bar, he doesn’t have to keep doing it. You’re thoroughly convinced. It’s only a few seconds after you’ve sent your message that you see the little gray typing bubbles pop up on his end of the message window.
You watch those three little dots with bated breath as your thumbs hover over your phone screen. When his final text comes through, your heart rate nearly doubles and warmth rushes up to color your cheeks a soft shade of pink.
Shit. You exhale noisily, before clicking your phone off and setting it on your nightstand. Your mind starts rushing back to all of the missions you’ve worked together, all of the times you bantered back and forth or argued and yet, every mission was carried out seamlessly. Was the tension between you two something that you’ve been misreading up until now? Had you been mistaking it for the type of tension felt between two people who don’t really get along, when all of this time it was that kind of thick, suffocating tension that you only find between two people who are oblivious as to how right for each other they really are?
You wrap yourself up in your bedsheets and let the darkness of your room envelope you. No fucking way. You do not have feelings for James Bucky Barnes. And even more than that, he most definitely does not have feelings for you. There’s simply no way.
When you finally drift off to sleep, what happened in the car on the way back from the bar replays in your dreams on a loop, growing slightly filthier with each rerun. You wake up three hours in with a pillow wedged between your legs and your hips instinctively grinding down into it in search of friction. You wake up a second time just before sunrise and you almost can’t take the ache between your legs.
If you really couldn’t stand him, if this was really nothing, you would’ve been able to sleep it off. And that scares the shit out of you.
Glimmers of early morning sunlight peek through your curtains, casting your room in a hazy yellow glow. Stretching out your legs beneath the covers, you rub the sleep from your eyes and blink a few times. Your gaze settles on the white ceiling above and you notice a slight twinge of pain behind your eyes as a headache begins to set in.
The night before replays in your mind, almost like a highlight reel, as you push the covers back and move to sit up on the side of your bed. You see yourself being pulled away from that stranger in the bar, being pulled to Bucky’s chest as he kissed you like you belonged to him and no one else. You squeeze your eyes shut and massage your temples with the middle and index fingers of your right hand. You see Bucky’s hand on your thigh in the car, and then him lying you down in the back seat before crawling on top of you and…fuck.
Tonight had nothing to do with convincing you. His last text to you from just a few hours ago is displayed across a billboard in the forefront of your mind. You rush through pulling on an outfit for the gym, settling on a lazy hairstyle and light makeup to hide the dark circles under your eyes from the poor sleep you got last night. It might be Sunday and you might not have much to do today, but you know good and well that sitting here in your room is only going to send you straight into a spiral of thoughts you don’t need to be dwelling on right now.
You listen carefully through your door, straining to detect any sounds that might let you know someone else is up and about this early. When you’re sure the coast is clear, you make a dash for the elevator and ride it all the way down to the gym.
Sam’s sitting in the conference room with Fury and a very hungover Sharon just a little past eight. He’d probably be laughing if she didn’t look so miserable. Her blonde hair is pulled back into a messy ponytail and the dark circles under her eyes are aging her by about five years. He can tell her head must be throbbing by the way she keeps squinting at the bright lights overhead and glancing over at the light switch across the room. Maybe he should’ve made an effort to end the fun a little earlier last night, but in his defense, none of you really made an effort to do that. Besides, he had no idea Fury would want to see them first thing on a Sunday morning.
“We’ll be sending you in tomorrow to bring Peggy Carter up to speed and establish a safehouse for the mission.” Fury explains slowly, eyeing Sharon as he speaks. She nods along, keeping her hands folded in her lap beneath the table. “You’ll have one day to get it done.”
“It won’t be a problem.” Sharon affirms confidently, letting her eyes shift between Fury and Sam. “One day is plenty of time. What stipulations do you have for the safehouse?”
“As long as they have a place to sleep and a door to lock at night, I don’t care. Whatever Peggy can help you find is going to have to do. They’ll only be there for two nights.” Fury responds. His phone chimes and he quickly stands up from the table, pushing his chair in gently. He casts Sam and sideways glance as he heads for the door.
“Maybe don’t take her out drinking tonight.” Fury advises, letting out a half-hearted laugh as he reaches for the door handle. “And let me know how those dance lessons go later. If those two can’t get along long enough to make it through one song, I have half a mind to scrap the whole damn mission.”
“They got along pretty well last night.” Sam snorts, remembering the way Bucky kissed you in the bar. Sure, he was the one that encouraged him to do it, but Sam knows for damn certain that it was anything but fake. He wonders for a moment just how complicated this mission might end up being with the two of you being thrust into the past without backup readily available. You’ve always worked well on missions before, but this is so different. This is the kind of mission that’ll make or break a partnership, and he’s very much aware that your partnership is somewhere on a tightrope between being rock solid and completely falling apart at the seams. If he had to place a bet, he’d say neither of you come back from this one the same as when you went in. Something’s going to change.
It doesn’t feel real. As you stand on a platform that looks like something straight out of a sci-fi movie, wearing a quantum suit in the darkest shade of black you’ve ever seen, you feel a bit like an imposter. It should be Sharon in your position right now. You know she was just in this same spot yesterday, heading back in time to establish a safehouse and make the first contact with Peggy Carter, but still. Who the hell decided that you’re qualified not only to run ops in this century, but to send you back to the last one to run an op as well?
“Hey.” Bucky says quietly, drawing you out of your spiraling thoughts. You turn your head to the right and take in the sight of him as he takes the few steps up onto the platform. He moves to stand directly in front of you, taking in the apprehension written all over your face. You tuck a stray lock of hair behind your ear and let out a shaky breath as you meet his gaze. “Just another mission.” He assures you, keeping his voice low so only you can hear it. You nod, but you’re sorely unconvinced. This is not just another mission. You know it and he knows it.
“It should’ve been Sharon.” You mumble, averting your gaze and choosing to watch Bruce, Scott, and Torres as they work seamlessly behind a table of screens and electronic devices. Bucky shakes his head and narrows his eyes at you, but you refuse to look at him again.
“Okay, let me hit a few main points before we do this.” Bruce says suddenly, clapping his oversized, green hands together as he approaches the edge of the platform. “You have one roundtrip each, please make every effort to come back from this together. You can come back earlier if you have to but for the love of all things scientific, don’t come back later than planned. What feels like five minutes to you might be fifteen years here.”
“Bucky, you’ll keep your watch on at all times in the past. Take that thing off and lose it and you’re stuck in the forties, which I get might not be all that unappealing to a man who’s over a hundred years old, but still…keep it on.” Scott says pointedly. You glance down at your own time-space GPS device. While Bucky’s does resemble a normal wrist watch, yours was made to look more like an inconspicuous necklace so you could continue wearing it in the forties and still be dressed for the time period. “Don’t let anyone take that off of you.” Scott directs his warning at you. You nod curtly, reaching up and running your fingers along the dainty device lightly.
“Try not to go changing the past.” Bruce takes over again, but he’s backing away from the platform now and moving back toward the table of screens and devices. “Stick to the mission. Get in with the Howling Commandos, get what you need from the HYDRA base, and then get the hell out of there on time. Are we all on the same page?” Both you and Bucky nod in unison, and you finally face forward to meet his piercing stare.
“It could only be you.” Bucky whispers across the short distance between the two of you. Warmth floods your chest and you barely hear the sound of Bruce beginning to count backwards from twenty.
“I told you I didn’t need any more convincing.” You remind him, matching his low volume. “I’m here, I’m doing this. I just think Sharon would’ve been the smarter choice.” Bucky shakes his head at you almost disappointingly as Bruce reaches the ten second mark. You see something flash in Bucky’s eyes, something passionate and intense as you ready yourself to activate the helmet and face mask on your suit. When Bruce calls out eight seconds left, Bucky rushes forward, taking two steps before grasping the sides of your face firmly in his hands.
His lips are soft and gentle when they meet yours, but in less than a second he’s kissing you like it’s the last time he’ll ever get the chance to. It sucks the air right out of your lungs and sets a fluttering sensation off deep in your stomach, but then he’s pulling away and stepping back. You activate your helmets and face masks at the same time, right as Bruce is nearing the end of his count.
“Three, two, one…”
With a flash of light and an unusual feeling that the gravity beneath your feet has just increased by a hundred-fold, you’re being dragged through time and space, hurtling toward a period of time that you’re sure you don’t belong in.
Rain pours down heavily on the roof of the car as Peggy drums her fingertips along the top of the steering wheel. She glances down at the coordinates scrawled on a small scrap of paper for the fifth time, even though she knows she’s exactly where she’s supposed to be. She can’t help but feel a little on edge. The street light perched above her car gives off just enough light for her to lean over in front of the rearview mirror and reapply her red lipstick one last time. It’s a bit of a nervous habit really, because it’s not like she has much reason for her makeup to look perfect with the role she’s about to play. A glorified cab driver. That’s what she is tonight. A flash of light in the distance catches her attention, and it isn’t lightning. She turns the key in the ignition and watches as her headlights suddenly illuminate the alley ahead.
She isn’t quite sure what she expected the two of you to look like. She should’ve assumed that Sergeant Barnes would age well, but the fact that he’s barely aged has her raising a brow as she studies him from a distance. She notes the fact that he seems taller and much more muscular than the Sergeant Barnes she’s come to know through Steve and the Howling Commandos.
“Welcome to London.” Bucky mutters under his breath, as he raises a hand to shield his eyes from the bright headlights ahead. He squints slightly and catches sight of Peggy’s characteristic red lip and brown curls through the windshield of a dark Morris eight. You cut your eyes to the side and take in the sight of him, with his hair already soaked through and rainwater dripping down the side of his face. Before you have a chance to say anything back, he’s moving to stand behind you and placing a hand against the middle of your back, lightly guiding you toward the car.
The rain sends a chill racing from your head to your toes as Bucky reaches past you, tugs the front passenger door open and ushers you into the seat. He leans down before closing the door, letting his scent invade your space as he looks past you to Peggy.
“Peggy Carter.” He says with a soft smile, looking at her as if he’s seeing an old friend after so long apart. You’re stuck staring at him. You’ve never seen this look on his face before and it lets you see him in a slightly different light.
“Sergeant Barnes.” Peggy’s British accent is almost musical in a way. You finally turn your head and get a good look at her. She looks perfectly put together and polished with her bright red lipstick, styled hair, and navy blue pantsuit. “If you’d like to hop in and allow your partner here to close her door, we just might make it to your safehouse before you’re both thoroughly soaked.” A laugh slips past Bucky’s lips, but he listens to her and steps away from the door, closing it for you gently. Once he’s settled in the backseat, Peggy shoots a sideways smile in your direction before putting the car into reverse. “Does he always listen that well?”
“Not at all.” You respond honestly.
Peggy guides the car backwards out of the alley and onto the very sleepy, rainy streets of London. It’s an odd feeling to be in such a major city but see so little traffic or nightlife. You’re taking everything in with widened eyes, noting all of the little differences between the forties and the time period that you come from. Bucky’s soaking it in as well, but instead of exciting him, it relaxes him. He sinks into the backseat and lets out a deep breath, watching as the old buildings and signs roll past his window. He almost feels at home here.
The drive to the safehouse on the outskirts of the city doesn’t take anywhere near as long as it would’ve taken in the modern world. When Peggy turns into the long driveway of one of Howard Stark’s many homes, you’re starting to feel the effects of time travel. Your head feels a little fuzzy and you have a sensation almost similar to that of motion sickness. Peggy says something about the house being a bit small for two people, mentioning it being one of Stark’s occasional residences for when he travels alone.
“Everything you need will be inside. Clothes, food, a few choice weapons for the mission at hand. Please let me know if I missed anything, but I think I was rather thorough.” Peggy says cordially as she leads the way up the paved driveway toward the front door. You take a few steps away from the car but stop short, scrunching your eyes shut as a heavy wave of nausea hits. Bucky’s behind you in an instant, letting his palm press against your lower back as he stands at your side and leans over to look at your face.
“What’s going on?” He asks in a hushed tone with concern lacing his words.
“I’m good, it’s just the time travel thing.” Bruce made you both read an obscene amount of research on the potential physiological effects of time travel, but assured you that you probably wouldn’t experience any of them. Yet, here you are, experiencing a bout of time sickness before you’ve even made it into the safehouse. Bucky scrutinizes your expression, searching your eyes for any sign that you’re downplaying whatever’s going on with you. You wave a dismissive hand at him as rain begins to come down a little heavier.
“Are you two coming?” Peggy asks from the door up ahead, looking at you both with a raised brow. Bucky turns his head for a second to glance at her, but quickly looks back at you as his hand falls away from your back. He watches you carefully as you put on an unbothered expression and take a couple of steps forward. Shit. The nausea increases ten-fold and suddenly you’re rushing over to the edge of the driveway and leaning over with your hands on the knees of your quantum suit, losing the contents of your stomach all in one go. Bucky’s beside you within a second, gathering your hair up in both of his hands and holding it back behind your shoulders.
“Don’t say it.” Bucky warns as you turn your head to look up at him, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand.
“It should’ve been Sharon.” You groan, straightening up and tugging your hair away from his grasp. He shakes his head at you and you can already see an argument gearing up in his head, so you brush past him, feeling significantly better now that you’re completely empty.
Peggy can’t seem to stop herself from reading into the way you and Bucky interact. When she met Sharon just yesterday, it was made abundantly clear that you and Sergeant Barnes are partners but don’t always play nice with each other. From what she’s seeing now, Bucky wants nothing more than to play nice with you. She has to wonder if the bickering and constant tension that Sharon talked about is a façade, a thick wool blanket over what’s really at the core of your partnership.
You feel fine just long enough to run your fingertips over the green and cream floral wallpaper that covers the kitchen walls and admire the pristine white oven that anyone’s great grandmother would love. But the moment you turn your attention to the living area just a few steps outside of the kitchen, a fresh wave of nausea begins taking up residence in the pit of your stomach and you breathe in deeply through your nose. Bucky watches you apprehensively from the foyer, waiting to see what you’ll do. He can tell you feel miserable. He can tell you want to get a good look at the safehouse and settle yourself in, but you’re looking a little green and fatigued as you move toward a large dark green couch in the living room.
You sink into the couch and let your head fall back against the cushion behind you. As you reach up and wrap your fingers around your necklace, your quantum suit deactivates and you’re left in leggings and a black pull-over. Bucky glances around the house, noting the short hallway that leads to the master bedroom and what looks to be French doors leading to a study off to one side. He takes a few steps forward until he’s moving around the couch, and then seats himself in a dainty looking floral-patterned lounge chair that’s angled toward you across from a coffee table.
“Is this really just a time travel thing?” Bucky finally speaks. Your eyes flutter open and you take in the sight of him in that lounge chair. If you didn’t feel so shitty you might laugh at how out of place he looks in such a pretty little chair.
“What else would it be?” You ask. Bucky watches closely as you run your fingers through your damp hair and stare right back at him. He narrows his eyes at you and cocks his head to the side and you immediately know what he’s thinking. What is it with men always thinking that a woman is pregnant if she pukes? You just fucking time traveled and he still feels the need to rule it out?
“I’m not pregnant.” You sigh, letting your eyes fall closed again as you kick your shoes off and draw your knees up toward your chest. “I can’t be.”
“Can’t be?”
“I haven’t done the thing that you need to do in order to be pregnant in a long time.” Bucky finds relief in your words. He didn’t really think you were pregnant, but he sure as hell likes knowing that you haven’t slept with anyone recently. He leans back in his chair and lets his gaze float around the comfortable space. The homey kitchen makes him think of his mom. The wooden floor boards make him think of how carefully he’d have to tiptoe around his childhood home to keep from letting his parents know that he was awake past his bedtime. The slight chill in the air guides his eyes over to the fireplace that spreads across one wall of the living room. If it gets any colder he’ll have to start a fire.
“I kissed you.” He says evenly, turning his head back to you. You open your eyes and give him a hard stare, trying to read his indecipherable expression as his blue eyes zero in on your face.
“Yeah, you keep doing that.” Your nausea worsens and you draw your knees up even tighter against your chest before dropping your head down to rest on them. Bucky pushes himself out of his chair and heads for the kitchen. You listen as he opens and closes a few drawers, rummaging around for something. A few seconds later you hear the kitchen sink running and then it cuts off. Bucky stands there, wringing out a wet cloth as he purses his lips.
“You haven’t stopped me.” He points out. He turns on his heel and carries the wet cloth in your direction. When you feel his weight sink into the couch cushion beside you, you lift your head from your knees and find yourself face to face with him. He lifts the wet cloth to the side of your neck and dabs at it gently, watching as your eyes close and you take a deep breath in.
“I’ll make sure it doesn’t happen again.” Sarcasm drips from every word. Bucky slides the cloth to the back of your neck and holds it there for a moment.
“He’s going to try to kiss you tomorrow.” Bucky seems almost annoyed with his own statement and you steal a sideways glance at him as he moves the wet cloth to your forehead. He seems to almost resent the way his younger self behaved.
“He moves that fast?” Bucky nods, chewing on the inside of his cheek as he contemplates how much to tell you.
“You’ll meet and he’ll ask you to dance. You’ll dance and he’ll ask if you want to leave the bar. He’ll take you out into the city, try to show you a good time.” Bucky slides the wet cloth down the side of your face until it’s right below your chin. You look into his eyes, watching as his gaze darts down to your lips for the most fleeting moment. “He moves fast.”
“I can handle it.” You assure him, but your words come out a lot quieter than you intended. Bucky pulls his hand and the cloth away from your chin and dabs your neck with it again.
“I know.”
“Then why does it seem like you’re worried?” Bucky shrugs his shoulders as he focuses in on the skin of your neck. He’s staring at the spot he once marked with his own lips, dragging the cool cloth over it slowly.
“I don’t like the thought of him touching you.”
“Bucky…” Your stomach churns violently and you’re rushing off of the couch at lightning speed. Your feet carry you down the hall, into the master bedroom, and into the bathroom quickly. You’re lucky you make it in time to drop to your knees in front of the toilet before the last remnants inside of you start to come out. You hear Bucky step into the bathroom only a second later and he’s tugging your hair back just like he did in the driveway earlier. “Don’t say shit like that.” You groan, grasping the wet cloth that Bucky’s holding out beside your head. You wipe at your lips and reach up to flush the toilet as you stay in place, not trusting that your gut is finished betraying you.
“Like what?”
“You shouldn’t care if someone else touches me. We’re partners. We can’t keep blurring the lines like this.” You explain. Bucky’s hands stay firmly in your hair as he waits to see if you’ll get sick a third time.
“The lines have been blurred for a long time.”
“Doesn’t mean we should keep blurring them.” You assert. Though you don’t peer over your shoulder to look at Bucky, you can sense the look of frustration that’s written all over his face. He lets out a weighted sigh before moving away from you and reaching over to turn on the shower. As the sound of running water fills the room, you gauge the heaviness in your stomach and decide that you definitely feel better. You remember Bruce’s little pamphlets saying that the first hour after moving through timelines is when you experience the most side effects, and you’re nearing the forty-five-minute mark now. You lean away from the toilet and drop the lid down before pushing yourself up to stand. Though you feel a tiny bit wobbly on your feet, the nausea is mostly gone and the steam from the shower is making you feel a little less chilly.
“I’ll go grab you some clothes.” Bucky says quietly as he brushes past you and heads back into the bedroom. You take the free moment to search the contents of the bathroom drawers until you find a new toothbrush and some toothpaste. Bucky comes back in when you’re brushing your teeth in front of the fogged-up mirror. “I get the feeling you aren’t going to wear these.” He says with a smirk, dropping a deep red set of folded pajamas beside the sink. You give him a wary side-eye, tucking the toothbrush into the side of your cheek before reaching for the pile of fabric. As soon as you unfold the top, you realize it’s a long sleeve button down shirt with matching pants. It looks like the kind of pajamas you see families wear on Christmas day in lifestyle magazines. Shaking your head, you fold the top and set it back on the countertop. Bucky crosses his arms over his chest and leans against the doorframe as you bend over the sink and spit out a mouthful of water and toothpaste.
“That’s all there is?” You rinse off the toothbrush and set it along the side of the sink before reaching down and gripping the bottom of your shirt. You already have it pulled over your head by the time you realize what you’re doing. Bucky stands frozen in the doorway, staring at you with narrowed eyes as you drop the shirt to the floor at your feet. He tilts his head to the side, never letting his eyes stray from your face even as you stand before him in a bra.
“How is this not blurring the lines?” He questions, jutting his chin out at you. You narrow your eyes back at him and cross your arms over your chest, matching his stance. There’s a palpable heat in the air, and it’s not just from the steamy shower. As you and Bucky stand there staring each other down, each of you refusing to break first, tensions soar and you find yourself itching to push him out of the bathroom and shut the door. He can see the idea forming in your head so he speaks up before you actually have a chance to go through with it. “There was a floor-length nightgown if you’d rather wear that.” He says with another signature smirk. You shake your head firmly.
“Were t-shirts not a thing in the forties?”
“You’re going to wear a t-shirt when there’s only one bed?” Bucky asks, raising a brow. A genuine laugh erupts from your chest as you uncross your arms and run your fingers through your damp hair.
“The bed’s all yours, Bucky.” You say, raising your hands up in a gesture that makes it clear you don’t want the bed for yourself. “I’m taking the couch.” Bucky scoffs as he reaches over for the folded pajamas beside the sink. As he steps out of the bathroom, he gives you a look you can’t quite read. It’s something between longing and frustration and it makes your cheeks feel warm. He pulls the door shut behind him, leaving you alone in the steamy bathroom. As you strip your clothes off and step under the stream of water, so many things are stuck in your head. The way Bucky rushed over and held your hair back not only the first time you puked, but the second time as well. He cares. You know he cares. He cares and it scares the shit out of you. The way he pressed a wet cloth to your neck and sat with you on the couch, even if he was using the moment to warn you about his younger self and reveal a little hint of how he feels about you. I don’t like the thought of him touching you. Bucky’s confession may not have surprised you, but it wasn’t what you were expecting him to say. What did he think was going to happen when he insisted you be a part of this mission? He could’ve let Sharon handle it and he never would’ve had to deal with the jealousy or possessiveness or whatever it is that’s coursing through him right now. But no, it had to be you. It could only be you. As you scrub a sweet-smelling soap into your skin, your mind wanders back to that moment on the platform earlier today. He kissed you. He kissed you in front of some of your coworkers without a care in the world. The lines are so fucking blurred that you wonder if he even knows where they are anymore, or if he cares. You look down as soapy suds circle around the drain near your feet. Do you know where they are? Do you care?
Bucky rummages around in the bedroom until he finds a plain white t-shirt that he’s sure Peggy meant to be for him. It looks like it’ll probably be a bit oversized on you, so he tosses it onto the bed and stands still for a moment, listening to the sound of the shower running through the wall. He knows you feel the same thing he feels. Every time he’s kissed you, he’s reminded that you feel it. Do you try to deny it because you don’t want to feel it? Sometimes he just wants to grab you and ask what it is that keeps you from being real with him.
Bucky shakes his head, trying his best to clear all thoughts of you from his mind, before tugging his shirt over his head and dropping it on the bed. He leaves his tactical pants on as he moves through the house, searching for an extra pillow and blanket. He sure as hell isn’t going to let you take the couch, especially not a couch made eighty years before the couches you’re used to sitting on. You’ll wake up in the morning with a stiff neck and aching back. He’ll take the couch and leave you the bed.
It’s just a few minutes later that you’re stepping out of the bathroom, wrapped tightly in a towel as you pad across the bedroom floor quietly. You glance around but see no sign of Bucky. Eyeing the crisp white t-shirt on the bed, you can tell he left it for you. You run your fingers over it while clutching the towel around your chest with one hand.
“Is that what you wanted?” Bucky’s voice is low and gravelly as he speaks from the bedroom doorway behind you. Clutching the towel a little tighter, you turn to face him with the white shirt fisted in one hand. Your eyes roam over the expanse of his bare chest, coasting down to the ripples of his abs and the v-line that so prominently drags your gaze even further down to the front of his tactical pants. He smirks at the way you’re ogling him, but he doesn’t mention it. When you finally tear your eyes away from him, the dresser beside the doorway catches your eye. You move closer to it and rummage around in one of the top drawers until you find a pair of simple black panties. Bucky’s eyes follow your movements carefully. He leans against the doorframe just like he did in the bathroom earlier, keeping his gaze trained on your face as you lean over and guide the panties up your legs beneath the towel. You’re just careful enough to make sure not to flash Bucky, but you wonder if his eyes would even stray from your face if you flashed him.
“It’s fine.” You say, referring to the t-shirt. “Are you gonna shower?” You ask, trying to keep your gaze from drifting down his torso again. You turn away from the dresser and head back for the foot of the bed, dropping the shirt onto the mattress before peeling the towel away from your body.
Bucky stiffens in the doorway as you let your towel fall to your feet. He’s never seen you this way. As you stand there with your back exposed, wearing nothing but a pair of black panties, he has to bite down on his bottom lip to keep from saying something stupid. Who’s blurring the lines now? He wants to point out your hypocrisy, to make it blatantly obvious, but he stays quiet as you tug the t-shirt over your head and slide your arms through the short sleeves.
“Did you want to keep staring or were you going to shower?” Your voice rings out playfully as you cut your eyes at Bucky over your shoulder. He tamps down a groan at the way you look at him through your lashes, but then he’s moving toward the bathroom door.
“If I find you on the couch when I get out, I’m moving you myself.” He threatens, not daring to steal another look at you as he nears the bathroom.
“I already called it.” You shrug, bending over to scoop your damp towel off the floor.
“Take the bed, unless you want me joining you on that damn couch and blurring the lines even more.”
As you settle into the bed, letting go of your signature stubborn nature for the time being, Bucky’s all you can think about. It’s not the fact that he looked undeniably attractive standing there in the doorway without a shirt on. It’s not the fact that he insisted you take the bed and leave him with the surely uncomfortable couch. It’s every little thing he’s said and done in between that has your heart racing and your mind reeling. What if, just this once, you let yourself explore the tension? What if instead of waiting for the tension to snap like a twig, instead of waiting for him to lay you down in the backseat of someone else’s car in the heat of the moment, you took the initiative and tried to figure out what the hell this is between the two of you? He was right when he said that the lines have been blurred for a long time. Maybe instead of trying to tiptoe around and avoid blurring them, you should just shift them. Shift the lines and see if things end up crashing down in flames. If everything goes horribly, it’s not like you had anything to lose. But if things go well? A shiver runs down your spine and you tuck yourself in underneath the covers of the oversized bed. You sink into the pillow behind your head and let your eyes fall closed as you imagine a moment where your field partner becomes something more. You imagine a moment where all the stolen kisses and touches lately stop being so stolen, and instead are given and taken freely. You imagine what it might feel like to stop running and fighting against this thing that you feel so strongly. Warmth spreads through your body and you relax against the mattress.
When Bucky steps out of the bathroom a few minutes later and catches sight of you curled up in bed with your eyes closed and the covers pulled up to your shoulders, he lets out a quiet sigh of relief. He really thought you’d try to tough it out and sleep on the couch. He stands in the doorway between the bathroom and bedroom, fiddling with the dog tags around his neck and wondering if he should look for some pajamas of his own instead of crashing on the couch in just a pair of black boxers. When he glances over at you again and sees the peaceful look on your face, he can’t bring himself to go digging through the dresser or closet and risk waking you. Though it’s chilly in the house, he could make it through the night just fine by starting a fire in the living room fireplace and using the spare blanket he set out on the couch while you showered. As he starts moving forward, his dog tags clink against his bare chest and the wooden floor creaks under his feet on the second step. He stills and holds his breath, not even moving to look over his shoulder and see if he’s woken you with those little sounds. After waiting a second, takes another cautious step forward and the floor creaks a little louder. Fuck it. He makes it to the door quickly, with only a few more creaks of wood beneath his feet, but as he exits the doorway into the hall, he hears you stir behind him.
“Bucky?” Your soft sleepy voice stops him in his tracks. He exhales deeply, feeling a bit guilty about waking you but loving the way you sound when you’ve just woken up. He turns around in the doorway and faces you. You’re propped up on one elbow, squinting at him through the dark room.
“If I knew the floors were so loud I would’ve just slept in the shower.” He says halfheartedly, speaking quietly to match the sleepy mood of the house.
“I wasn’t really asleep.” You whisper back. Your eyes follow the curve of his vibranium arm down until you’re studying the black and gold fingertips that hang at his side. Bucky raises a brow at you.
“You were asleep.” He murmurs, cocking his head to the right. He glances over at the empty side of the bed, noting how little space you take up even when you have your legs stretched out.
“I was just thinking.”
“About what?” Bucky wonders aloud. He takes a step forward and leans against the doorframe like he’s done multiple times tonight. He crosses his arms over his chest as you let your head fall away from your hand and lay back on your pillow again. You stare up at the ceiling as nervousness begins to swell up in your chest. You bite down on your bottom lip and screw your eyes shut, holding your breath for a second before deciding to speak again.
“Blurring the lines.” As you lay there in the dark, refusing to prop yourself back up to look at Bucky, your heart starts beating wildly against your ribcage. He’s silent for a second too long and it has you regretting opening your mouth. When you hear the wood floor creak, you force yourself to open your eyes. Pushing yourself up on your elbows, you see Bucky moving toward the bed slowly. His dog tags swing with each step, clanging against his chest a couple of times before he reaches your side of the bed. You watch with bated breath as he nudges your legs through the covers. Getting the hint, you sit up and pull your legs in closer, drawing your knees to your chest. Bucky sits down on the side of the bed but keeps his face cast downward at the floor.
“That night you tried to sleep it off…” His voice trails off as he leans over and rests his elbows on his knees. He looks down at his hands as he presses his palms together. “Did it work?” You swallow hard but don’t hesitate to shake your head. You know he catches the act in his peripheral vision, so you don’t say a word. Bucky nods slowly, studying his hands as if he’s memorizing every detail of them. Your eyes drift to his shoulders as he takes steady, even breaths. They rise and fall rhythmically as moonlight from the window across the room filters in through the curtains and highlights them.
Bucky wants to say more, to ask you more. He can tell that you’re open to talking right now, probably more open than you’ve ever been before, but he has this sinking feeling that you’ll say something that’ll break him. He doesn’t know if he can handle hearing you say out loud just how one-sided you think this thing between you really is. Even though he’s sure it’s not actually one-sided, hearing you say that it is might really break him. He won’t give you the chance to do that yet. He wants to hold out hope a little longer. So, Bucky rises from the side of the bed and exhales deeply. When he turns to head for the door again, intent on settling into that stiff green couch in the living room for the night, every sensory receptor in his body fires at once at the feeling of your hand reaching out and grasping his flesh one. He drops his gaze quickly and sees exactly what he feels: your palm sliding against his and your fingers intertwining with his softly. His throat feels dry and every thought leaves his mind as you tighten your grasp and tug on his hand slightly.
“Lay with me.” You whisper. Your tone is so meek that he can tell exactly what’s going through your mind right now. You’re afraid he’ll say no. You’re afraid that he’ll reject you and continue on to sleep on the couch, leaving you here alone, feeling vulnerable and stunted. The tone of your whisper puts the tiniest crack in his hard exterior.
Bucky’s silent as you drop his hand and scoot closer to the middle of the bed, pulling back the covers for him. He moves slow as he settles into the warm spot you’d been occupying, inhaling your sweet scent as he pulls the covers over his body and rolls onto his side to face you. You’re just a few inches away, lying on your folded arm since he moved the second pillow to the couch earlier. He could get up and go grab the pillow. He’d only be gone for a few seconds. But he fears the moment he leaves your sight, you’ll change your mind about having him here and he’ll have ruined everything. That’s why he tugs the pillow out from under his head and moves it toward you, watching with a softened gaze as you accept it and slide it beneath your own head.
You’re falling asleep right in front of his eyes a few minutes later, when suddenly your eyes flutter open and you reach out for him beneath the covers. Your warm palm lands on his side, skating around to his back before you pull him toward you. He moves in carefully, apprehensively, until his chest is nearly pressed against yours. He watches as you drag the pillow until it’s in the shared space between you and both of your heads fall to rest on it evenly. With Bucky’s body heat keeping you warm and the light patter of rain on the bedroom window lulling you to sleep, your eyes are closed only a few minutes later and Bucky finds himself missing the heat of your stare until he too drifts off into an unusually peaceful slumber.
You awake in a tangle of limbs with lightning flashing through the curtains and illuminating the room with a ghostly glow. Everything looks a little scarier in an antique house at three in the morning. Thunder rumbles loudly just above the house, shaking the roof and rattling the glass window. As you fully come to your senses, you figure out just where your limbs are in relation to Bucky’s and your heart rate picks up quickly. He’s asleep directly in front of you, with his face looking more relaxed than you’ve ever seen it. But his legs and arms…
A shaky breath flows out through your nose as you close your eyes and try not to move. Bucky has one thigh wedged snugly between yours and an arm thrown lazily over your waist. You can tell that your t-shirt has ridden up above your hips and ass, with his forearm resting against the hem of it on your waist. Blurred lines. So fucking blurred.
You close your eyes tightly as a loud crack of thunder reverberates through the house. Bucky’s instantly awoken as the thunder rolls and you tense up against him. He focuses on your face, on your tightly closed eyes and the way you’re holding your breath. He moves the arm that’s draped over your waist slowly until his hand is ghosting over your hip. His fingertips just barely graze the hem of your t-shirt as thunder sounds again. You look into his eyes right as you move your left hand to clamp down over his, forcing his palm to press flat against your hip and his fingers to curl against your skin. As you stare into each other’s eyes and the storm rages on just outside, the tension rising between you feels just like it did in the car outside of Sharon’s apartment that night.
“I don’t want to keep blurring the lines.” Bucky rasps as he squeezes your hip once. Your eyes trail down to his lips as he speaks only inches from your face. He leans in slowly until he’s so close that one little shift of your head would have you kissing him. He lets the tip of his nose brush against yours gently before moving down and pressing his lips to your jawline. He leaves kisses in a row all the way back to your ear, moving at a torturously slow pace until he’s nipping at your neck in that way that always drives you crazy.
“Then what do you want?” You ask breathlessly. Bucky pushes the knee that’s trapped between your legs upward until he’s applying the tiniest bit of pressure against your clothed cunt. A soft moan escapes your lips as you squeeze your thighs around his and focus on the feel of skin against skin.
“I want to cross them.” He whispers against your neck. You tilt your head back to give him more access as his tongue swirls against the column of your throat. “I want to lay you down on the line and just…” Bucky tugs the neck of your shirt to the side and bites down on your collarbone lightly. “Fuck you on it.”
“Bucky…” His name is a whimper that floats from your lips and fills the space around you both. Moving his hand back down to your hip, Bucky curls his fingertips into it and pulls you down, making your grind against the firm muscle of his thigh. This time a sultry moan slips out and your back arches slightly, causing your chest to press against his.
“How am I supposed to keep my hands off of you when you say my name like that?” Wetness pools between your thighs and begins to dampen the fabric of your panties as he pushes his thigh upward again, at the same time that he pulls your hip down and applies pressure to your clit just right. You know you should have better sense than to lay here and let him do unspeakable things to you. You should remind him that you’re partners, that you’d be risking things professionally if you let things go on this way. You should remind him that you’re technically on a mission right now, but his name just falls from your lips again. You’re actively emptying your mind of any thought that would have you push him away when he attaches his lips to your neck again and pulls you in against his chest. You try to push his shoulders and force him onto his back so you can move on top of him, but he fights against you, rolling on top of you instead. He pins your arms down on either side of your head and lets his nose brush against yours a second time. He lowers his hips down slowly as your legs spread on their own accord, giving him the space to press his clothed erection against your wet panties.
“How do we keep ending up like this?” You whisper against his lips, staring up into his blue eyes as your question hangs in the air. Bucky presses his lips to yours in a short, shallow kiss. “I keep telling myself this can’t happen and we keep ending up here.”
“Let me have you.” He begs, dropping his forehead to yours. You look at him through your lashes as your breath hitches in your throat. “Let me have you just this once.”
“Just this once? That’s all you’re asking for?” The words come out airy and light as you struggle to take in a full breath. Bucky grinds against you, circling his hips slowly while he keeps your arms pinned to the mattress.
“I’d ask you for a lifetime if I didn’t think it would scare the shit out of you.” Goosebumps prickle across your skin and you bite down on your bottom lip hard enough to draw blood.
“We can’t fuck.” You say decidedly. The surety of your voice surprises you, with how malleable you feel having Bucky grind against you like this. You fear that if he really asked you for something specific, you’d say yes in a heartbeat. He circles his hips into yours impossibly harder and shakes his head above you.
“I wasn’t asking if I could fuck you.” Bucky takes in the confused look on your face and he can’t help but to lean in and kiss you. He envisions what he really wants to do to you. He pictures the way he wants to push your legs apart and eat you out like your pussy is his last meal. Then he kisses you like that’s exactly what he’s doing. His tongue delves into your mouth relentlessly, leaving you gasping for air when he finally pulls back. He lets go of your forearms and pushes the covers away from his back as he shimmies down. He kisses your neck, then your chest through the t-shirt. He leaves soft, gentle kisses all the way down until he’s settling himself between your legs and pressing his lips against the waistband of your panties. You look down at him through your lashes, wanting nothing more than to tangle your fingers in his hair and pull his face closer to where you need it. “I was asking if I could taste you.”
“You say you want to lay me down on the metaphorical line and fuck me, and then you get between my legs and ask if you can just taste me?”
“I’m not fucking you until I know I can do it without you running off and pretending like it meant nothing to you.” He plants an open-mouthed kiss right over your clothed clit. The warmth of his tongue seeps through the fabric, sending a jolt of pleasure dancing up your spine and a knot tightening low in your stomach. “When I fuck you, you’re not going to get all in your head about how you shouldn’t have let it happen. You’re not going to have regrets and feel like we ruined everything we had.” Bucky hooks a finger in your panties and gently pulls them to the side, but he never looks down. He maintains eye contact as he starts pressing the pad of his thumb against your now exposed clit. Him finding your clit instantly without even looking, without having your anatomy perfectly memorized, almost ruins you. “When I fuck you, you’re going to realize that you were just delaying the inevitable.”
“You keep saying when.” You point out between heavy pants. You can’t resist the urge to tangle your fingers in his hair any longer, not when he’s toying with your clit this way and looking at you so intensely. You reach down with both hands, carding your fingers through his hair and tugging on it lightly.
“Inevitable, sweetheart. Tell me what that word means.” He finally lets his eyes angle downward and settle on your wet cunt. You watch as his pupils dilate and his tongue darts out to dampen his lips as he admires you from just a couple of inches away. He starts circling your clit with his thumb, applying just enough pressure to have your back arching off of the bed and your fingers curling in his brown hair. Bucky inches closer to your pussy and you feel his tongue press against your entrance firmly, before he’s dragging it upwards and using it to replace his thumb. He pulls back abruptly, leaving you whining out in frustration. “If something’s inevitable, it’s certain. It’s unavoidable, it was bound to happen.” His warm breath fans over your pussy as he speaks in a low voice. Bucky sucks on your clit roughly before pulling back again. “When I fuck you, when the inevitable happens, you won’t be able to pretend like there’s nothing between us anymore.”
You’re torn between wanting to argue with him and wanting to clamp your thighs around his head and grind against his tongue. Bucky smirks up at you and you tug on his hair a little harder out of spite.
“It’s already happening, isn’t it?” He asks just before flattening his tongue against your clit and letting your circle your hips against him. Your eyes flutter closed as that knot in your stomach tightens more and more. “It’s getting harder to pretend.”
“Fuck you.” You moan out the insult, but it’s useless as he slides down and pushes his tongue inside of you. His thumb takes over stimulating your clit once again as he starts eating you out like he’s dreamt of doing it since he’s known you. His tongue works you up higher and higher, closer and closer to the edge of the cliff as a sweat breaks out across your forehead and you struggle to keep your ass on the bed.
“You’re getting close.” He groans against you. You whimper as he drags his thumb away from your clit and switches to rubbing it with his middle and ring fingers. He moves slow now, sliding those fingertips away from your clit and toward your entrance.
“Bucky…” You say his name in warning. You know what he’s about to do. He plunges both fingers into you, stopping when they’re halfway in and your back is arched inches off of the bed. Your fingertips scrape against his scalp as you hold in a moan that would’ve been damn near pornographic if you’d let it out. Bucky lets out a frustrated sigh before dragging his fingers out and then pushing them back in all the way. As he holds them inside of you knuckle-deep, you cry out loudly. It’s been so long since you’ve let anyone do something like this to you and he isn’t giving you much time to adjust, but god, it feels so fucking good.
“Breathe, baby.” He says as he presses a soft kiss to the inside of your thigh. He starts fucking you with his fingers slowly, almost gently. In and out they go, first just halfway each time, but then he starts thrusting them deeper and going a little faster with it. “I would’ve gone a little easier on you if you hadn’t held in that pretty little sound.”
“Just…fuck, Bucky.” You moan, hooking your legs over his shoulders as a loud crack of thunder sends the window rattling again. “I’m close.”
“Trust me, I know.” He groans, pressing a sloppier kiss to the inside of your thigh as he curls his fingers inside of you. You cry out again, but this time your hands leave his hair and go to grip the sheets on either side of your head. “Are you going to imagine you’re cumming on my cock when this orgasm hits?”
“No.” You say defiantly, shaking your head as he curls his fingers again. He laughs darkly, clearly calling your bluff.
“You know you squeeze the hell out of my fingers when you lie?”
“I do not.”
“That’s it, baby.” Bucky coos. He positions himself to attach his lips to your clit as he continues his ministrations with his hand. “Keep tightening around my fingers until you fucking cum.”
Some part of you wants to keep defying him. You want to be stubborn and refuse to give him this piece of you, refuse to give him one of your orgasms. It feels like if you let go and give it to him, you’re going to tumble right over the edge of a cliff and into the unknown. But why does it feel so damn good as you stand on the edge of that cliff? When you stop resisting and let your orgasm wash over you, when Bucky watches as your face contorts with bliss and your knuckles turn white against the bed sheets, he’s just as far gone as you are. You’re cumming around his fingers while he laps at your clit, and he’s cumming in his boxers without even having realized just how close he was to doing it.
There’s an odd feeling brewing in his chest as he puts your panties back in place and collapses beside you in bed. He can’t quite figure out what it is. When you catch your breath and look over at him, taking in the sight of Bucky Barnes with your arousal painted over his lips and chin, you feel your heart skip a beat. Bucky looks back at you, but he only gets a second to see your dilated pupils and flushed cheeks before you’re leaning in and swiping your tongue across his bottom lip.
As your lips move against his in a gentle, familiar way, his lungs burn and his heart is pounding in his ears. Because he knows what this is. He knows what that unusual feeling in his chest really is. Love. He’s in love with the girl who lives to ignore her feelings.
You’re in too deep. You can’t even try to reason with yourself. As you lie in a tangle of sheets, listening to the mixed water sounds of Bucky showering and rain falling lightly just outside the bedroom window, you feel utterly fucked. And not just because Bucky fucked you with his mouth last night. You let out a frustrated groan before rolling onto your back and fisting your hands in your messy hair. You can’t tell yourself to be professional because you’re so far past professional now that it’d be insulting to you both if you tried to revert. You can’t tell yourself to stop crossing lines with him because you know just how good it feels every time you do it. Bucky was onto something last night when he asked you if it was getting harder for you to pretend that there’s nothing between the two of you.
Your eyes float over to the partially closed bathroom door and you watch for a moment as steam floats through the space between it and the doorframe. Is it steam from the hot shower or is it just radiating off of the man that said your pussy gets tighter when you lie? Blush creeps into your cheeks at the memory of him saying such a filthy thing while his fingers were inside of you.
Bucky tenses up in the shower when he hears the bathroom door creak open the tiniest bit. When your bare feet lightly tap along the cold floor and he hears them stop in front of the sink, a small smile plays on his lips.
“You’re not coming in?” Bucky’s smirk is evident in his tone and you’re biting on the inside of your cheek as you reach for your toothbrush.
“You remember me saying we can’t fuck, right?” You ask, though even as you say it, it feels like a weak statement.
“Do you remember me saying it’s inevitable?” He retorts playfully. You should tell him to fuck off, but you only find yourself tempted to actually join him in the shower. As you spread a bit of toothpaste along the bristles of your toothbrush, you shake your head to yourself.
“I’m brushing my teeth in the kitchen.”
“That’s fine.” Bucky replies nonchalantly, seemingly unfazed by your slight rejection. He spends the next ten minutes lathering and rinsing for the second time in less than twelve hours. He isn’t normally someone who takes a shower both in the morning and at night, but after he came in his boxers last night, he fell asleep next to you and didn’t take the time to clean himself up. He woke up feeling like he’d had a wet dream.
Peggy sits on the foot of the bed, waiting patiently as you try on a third dress.
“Are you alright in there?” Peggy calls out politely, uncrossing her legs and readying to rise from the bed if need be. You laugh softly from inside the walk-in closet before pulling the door open and revealing the deep blue dress she picked for you to try a few minutes ago. It has cap sleeves, a high neckline, and an A-line style skirt. “I think that one looks wonderful on you, don’t you like it?” She asks, pushing herself up and coming to stand in front of you. She catches the pinched look on your face before you’ve even formulated a response. You didn’t quite like the first two dresses either, and at this point there are only a handful left to try. She has to wonder if maybe it’s the dissonance between forties-style dresses and modern dresses that’s throwing you off. “Sergeant Barnes.” Peggy calls for him loudly.
Bucky’s rising from the couch and heading down the hall as soon as he’s been invited into the bedroom. He was kicked out pretty much the moment he finished up his morning shower, with Peggy showing up and saying she just had to get started on your look for tonight. He was a bit skeptical about how much time it’d really take, but after hearing you try on three dresses and dislike every single one, he sees why she came so early.
“What do we need him for?” Confusion is written all over your face as you smooth down the blue dress and raise a brow at Peggy.
“He’s the one that needs to like the dress, isn’t he?” She questions, motioning for Bucky to come in. He takes a few steps into the room and rubs the back of his neck awkwardly as his eyes coast over the dress. It’s pretty, it’s definitely very forties-esque, but it’s not you. It’s not you and it’s definitely not for him. “Help her pick a dress for tonight.” Bucky stares at her for a long moment before she starts moving toward the door. She pats his shoulder as she passes him, leaning in to whisper in his ear just as you’re disappearing back into the closet. “She needs you for this.”
You feel Bucky’s presence in the closet without having to turn around and look at him. He stops just a few inches behind you, looking over your shoulder at the row of dresses that you have to choose from.
“It’s a little different than your closet back home.” He says softly, watching as your fingertips dance across the fabric of each hanging dress.
“You haven’t seen my closet back home.” You point out, tugging on the side of a dark navy dress. As soon as you see the front of it, you let it go. Your fingers continue on, looking for another dark fabric.
“If you’re looking for something like that little black dress you wore last weekend, you won’t find it in here.” Bucky replies. Thinking about that little black dress sends your mind back to the night in the bar, when Bucky kissed you in front of everyone. Then your mind wanders to what happened in the car after, and you have to shake the thought of it from your head. Your fingers brush along a bright red dress and you don’t even consider checking it out. Bucky steps up close behind you, so close that you feel his body heat permeating your skin through the blue dress you’re wearing. He reaches around you with his right arm and grasps the edge of the only black fabric amongst all of the dresses hanging there.
“Peggy said something colorful would be best.” You murmur as he removes the dress from the hanging rack and holds it out in front of you both.
“He won’t be paying much attention to the dress.” Bucky assures you. He leans in close to your ear before whispering his next words. “And you look good in black.” A chill runs through you but you reach out and grasp the hanger quickly before turning around and pressing a hand against Bucky’s chest.
“Let me change.” You push against his chest gently and he takes a few steps backward until he’s out of the closet. As he moves across the room to sit on the foot of the bed where Peggy previously was, he hears the sound of your blue dress unzipping but not the sound of the closet door closing. He takes a cautious look as he sinks down onto the edge of the mattress. There you are, slipping out of that deep blue fabric while giving Bucky an almost clear view of you in forties-style black lingerie. His cock is awake instantly and is hardening within the already sort of tight-fitting sweats he took from Stark’s dresser earlier this morning. Bucky leans forward and rests his elbows on his knees as he drops his line of sight to the floor.
You walk out only a moment later in the dress he chose. It’s all black, with off the shoulder sleeves and a fairly low-cut neckline. It hugs your body tightly. It’s quite similar to the shape of the red dress that Peggy wore when he first saw her in the Whip and Fiddle.
“Don’t look at me like that.” You say lightly, watching as Bucky’s eyes glide up and down your figure multiple times. He clears his throat and sits up straight before motioning with his flesh hand for you to come closer. You move forward until you’re a couple of feet in front of him, but then your eyes drop to his lap and you see his erection pressed against his sweats. Confidence rolls off of you in waves as you stop thinking and take a few more steps toward him. You don’t stop until you’re standing between his legs and he’s looking up at you. You let your hands rest on his shoulders as his move to ghost along the outsides of your thighs.
“Don’t go too far with him tonight.” Bucky’s tone is almost pleading as he searches your eyes, but his expression is unreadable.
“How far is too far?” You swallow thickly after asking your question. Bucky curls his fingers into your hips and draws in a deep breath.
“I don’t know.” He admits, but he does know. He knows that he doesn’t even want you to let this younger version of himself dance with you. He doesn’t want to let him lean in and whisper in your ear, he doesn’t want him to even get the chance to consider kissing you.
“You told me he moves fast, and we need him and Steve to be on board for this mission tomorrow. I can’t reject him.” You explain quietly, glancing over your shoulder to make sure Peggy’s still in the living room. When you turn your head forward again and look down at Bucky, he’s leaning in closer to you. You watch with your breath hitched in your throat as he lets the tip of his nose brush against your dress, just below your breasts. He moves slow, dragging his nose upward and letting his lips follow in their wake until he’s halfway up your chest. Your hands slide up the sides of his neck and tangle in his hair, tugging him back to look at you again.
“Why did you ask me to lay with you last night?” Bucky finally asks the question that’s been on his mind since he woke up this morning. You exhale slowly, absentmindedly massaging your fingers into his scalp while his thumbs rub circles against the front of your hips. He watches as you chew on the inside of your cheek, trying your best to come up with a safe answer.
“I wanted to know what it would feel like…to stop pretending.” You whisper.
“How did it feel?” His eyes stray from your face, taking in the swell of your breasts over the low neckline of the dress. Filthy memories of last night flood your brain and you clench your thighs together slightly. It wasn’t slightly enough, because Bucky catches on instantly and he tugs his bottom lip between his teeth. While you’re remembering the feel of his kisses against your inner thigh and his tongue on your clit, he’s remembering the sweet taste of your cunt and the pretty sounds you made just for him.
“Good.” Your whisper is even quieter now, and your nerves are rising knowing Peggy’s just down the hall in the living room.
“Just good?” Bucky fishes for more. He tests the waters, letting his hands slide down your thighs, closer to the hem of the dress. You don’t move away, you don’t swat at his hands or tell him to stop.
“Just good, Bucky.” You answer. But as his fingers hook beneath the hem of your dress and he starts guiding it higher and higher up your legs, you know your resolve and will to pretend is crumbling.
“I think you’re lying.” He says calmly, staring up at you with those blue eyes as the hem of the dress nears the middle of your thighs. You squeeze his shoulders as he lets his flesh thumb graze the lace edge of your panties, close to where your thigh meets your center.
“Peggy’s here.” You whisper the reminder, but make no effort to break away from him. In fact, you find yourself leaning into his touch. Bucky’s quick as he slips one finger into your panties and drags it along the length of your folds, gathering the slick arousal that’s started collecting between them.
“Shh, I just want to see if you’re lying to me.” Bucky hushes you just as his gaze is dropping to your lower body and he’s nudging your feet apart with his right foot. You don’t stop him. You don’t do anything but close your eyes and dig your fingertips into his shoulders as he dips a finger inside of you. Your mouth falls open and you inhale sharply as he curls it against your walls. “How did it feel last night? To stop pretending for a little while?” He gazes up at you with what you think is a look of lust, but he knows is all fucking love. “Just good?”
“Bucky…fuck.” He pulls his finger out before plunging it in deeper than before, and then he curls it again.
“That’s not an answer.”
“It felt good…it felt, shit, Bucky.” He starts thrusting his finger in and out of you at a medium pace as you try to piece together your answer. “It felt right.” He slows to a stop as you say that last word. Though you’re tight as fuck, just like you were last night, he doesn’t feel that characteristic clenching when you give your answer. You’re telling the truth. Maybe that’s a stupid way to interrogate you, but his theory is proving true so far. He pulls his finger out of you and brings it to his lips, sucking it into his mouth and savoring your taste. You look down just as he's pulling it away from his lips and tugging your dress back into place.
“Black heels.” He says lightly, patting the side of your thigh as you step away from him. He rises in front of you and moves a stray lock of hair behind your ear with the same finger that was just inside you. “The third ones from the closet door.”
Bucky’s waltzing out of the room, tucking his hard-on into the waistband of his sweats as you’re left standing there dazed. Dazed and beyond aroused. Part of you wants to grab him by the back of his shirt and drag him back into the room, telling him to finish what he started. The other part of you knows better than to give him the satisfaction. So, you grab that pair of black heels from the closet and keep your mouth shut.
You feel uncharacteristically nervous for what should just be another mission on your long list of undercover ops. Maybe it’s because you have one version of Bucky Barnes listening through the in-ear monitor you’re sporting, while you’re moments away from meeting another version of the same man. Or maybe it’s because you’re trying to walk the very fine line between hating Bucky Barnes and loving him. Whatever it is, you’re nervous and it’s showing.
Peggy walks close to your side, leading the way down the busy street in her red dress and matching heels. You can hear the watch on her left wrist ticking away as you approach the Whip and Fiddle.
“You seem worried.” Peggy voices her observation softly as she slows her pace a bit and casts you a sideways glance. You let out a stiff laugh before pushing a curl over your shoulder. She did your hair and makeup in a way that has you feeling like something fresh out of a forties fashion catalog. “Is it the mission itself or the man involved?” You swallow thickly, knowing Bucky can hear the entire conversation through your in-ear monitor. You could reach up and turn it off, have a quick girls chat with Peggy while leaving Bucky in the dark. But you’re sure Peggy would instantly realize that you’re on comms and you don’t know how she’d feel about not being let in on it sooner.
“I’m fine, just not used to life in the forties I guess.” You respond curtly.
“Well, that wasn’t very convincing.” She huffs. When she slows to a stop beside you, you know it’s futile to keep walking toward the bar, so you stop and turn to face her. “He looks at you like he would’ve given you the world and his last name in any timeline.”
“Peggy—”
“Now you have to spend an evening flirting with a younger version of him when you don’t even know how you feel about your version of him. You don’t have to lie to me just because he’s listening in, he knows that you’re conflicted.” Your eyes widen as she lets you in on exactly how perceptive she is. You hear Bucky clear his throat through your ear piece and pink begins to color your cheeks, you’re sure it’s even showing through the blush Peggy applied for you earlier.
“I’ll be fine.” You assure her, though the words don’t come out sounding quite as convincing as you’d hoped.
“I’m sure you will be. Sergeant Barnes will show you an exceptionally great time tonight, but it won’t make your problem any easier to figure out.”
“My problem?”
“You’re in love with your partner and you don’t know how to handle it.”
“You just met us last night and you’ve already decided that?” You ask incredulously, crossing your arms over your chest as Peggy glances over at the door to the Whip and Fiddle. You see a few soldiers spilling out of the place with varying degrees of unstable gaits and boisterous laughs. You don’t recognize any of them as Steve or Bucky, so you turn your attention back to her.
“It doesn’t matter when I met you, I look at you and I see me.” That’s how Peggy sees your situation so clearly. She’s in the same one. She’s in love with Steve Rogers and she doesn’t know what to do about it. She doesn’t know how to handle it yet. You let out a deep sigh and let your arms fall to your sides. Bucky’s staying quiet on the other end of comms, so quiet that you can’t even hear him breathe. “I want to ask you how things end for me in the future…how things end for us, but I won’t.” You know that she’s referring to herself and Steve and your heart breaks a little for her. “Don’t let fear get in the way of the rest of your life. You could live a wonderful life with a man that feels what he feels for you, but you can lose it all by being too afraid to give him a chance.”
Your black heels are frozen to the sidewalk as Peggy’s words echo in your mind. When she turns and starts heading for the entrance to the bar, you stay still and quiet.
“They end up together.” Bucky’s voice plays in your ear so quietly that you think you’ve made it up for a moment.
“How do you know?” You finally ask, speaking under your breath as you start moving in Peggy’s direction slowly. Bucky lets out a long sigh, like he’s dwelling on a memory.
“It’s the only reason Steve would’ve stayed behind like he did.” Bucky listens to the slow, steady clicking of your heels against the pavement as he grows closer and closer to losing you to his younger self. He wants to say so much more. He wants to point out that you didn’t deny it when Peggy said you were in love with him. He wants to ask if you’re really afraid, if she was right about that. But it’s not the time. It’ll probably never be the time.
He leans back into the couch as he listens to the distant din of the Whip and Fiddle. The in-ear monitor won’t pick up much background noise, but he hears the sound of a bell chiming as the door opens for you and the sound of way too many soldiers clamoring around the space that you’re in. His eyes scrunch closed and his vibranium arm whirs as he curls his hand into a fist.
“Captain.” Peggy’s accent carries the title with an air of class as she approaches a man seated at the bar. You recognize the back of his head instantly. Steve Rogers. He turns around quickly, coming to stand only two feet in front of Peggy as his eyes quickly, and quite respectably, roam over her figure. The room slows and everything starts sounding muffled when the man seated next to Steve turns around and his eyes meet yours. Bucky. You stare at each other for a few long seconds, neither of you saying anything.
“Agent Carter.” Steve addresses her, breaking you out of your trance. You look over at the tall super soldier with his perfectly styled blonde hair and dress uniform, noting the way his eyes never leave Peggy.
“Howard has some equipment for you to try.” Peggy’s mouth is speaking business, but her eyes are saying something else entirely as they lock onto Steve’s and refuse to stray. You can feel Bucky’s eyes studying you intensely over Peggy’s shoulder as you avoid his gaze and watch the exchange that’s happening in front of you instead. “Maybe after tomorrow’s mission?”
“Sounds good.” Steve keeps his replies short, but every word is thick with tension. Peggy leans back a bit and glances across the bar, noting a particularly lively table of men. They lean into each other as they sing along to a tune someone’s banging out on a beat up piano in the corner of the bar.
“I see your top squad is prepping for duty.” She says facetiously.
“You don’t like music?” Bucky asks, tilting his head to the side and cocking a brow at her. Her gaze remains fixed on Steve as Bucky steps to the side to get a better look at you.
“I do, actually. I might even, when this is all over, go dancing.”
“And you?” Bucky directs his question at you now, nodding his head in your direction as Peggy steps to the side and gives you space to join the conversation. “Do you dance?”
“With the right partner.” You reply softly, trying hard not to get lost in his blue eyes. Though he’s younger and so much more naïve, you see the Bucky you know all over the man in front of you. You see him in every artistic feature of his face, you see him in the way he cocks his head to the side and flashes a smirk at you.
“Then what are we waiting for?” He asks playfully, nodding his head toward the more open part of the bar. You don’t rush to take his outstretched hand, but once your palm is against his, you get the same feeling that you’ve felt every time your version of Bucky has ever touched you. It feels electric. It feels like every nerve ending beneath your skin is on fire. It feels like you’re on the edge of a cliff and a strong wind is about to blow through and send you spiraling down.
Back at the safehouse, Bucky’s stomach is twisting into knots as he pictures you wrapped up in the arms of anyone but him. He knows it’s stupid. He knows that this guy, in some way, really is him. But it still feels wrong. He listens reluctantly as this younger, more charismatic version of himself flirts and banters with you through multiple dances. He listens as the young soldier leans in close to your ear and tells you how you took the breath out of his lungs the moment you walked into the bar. He starts to feel a little nauseas and wonders if he’s finally heading into his own bout with time sickness when he hears the sound of a genuine laugh slipping past your lips at whatever it was that the young soldier said to you.
It isn’t long before Bucky’s ripping the in-ear monitor out and tossing it on the kitchen table. He paces back and forth, focusing on the sound of his feet thudding against the wooden floorboards. Don’t go too far with him tonight. Bucky can still hear the way he pleaded with you earlier today. It was pathetic, but it was heartfelt. This younger version of himself would be completely on board with your mission even if you’d just flashed him a smile. Fuck. He runs his hands through his hair and curls his fingers into the soft brown locks, tugging them away from his scalp as he stops pacing. What the hell is he doing? You invited him into bed last night. You slept next to him. You let him slip between your legs and eat you out so thoroughly that he swears he can still taste you now. You let him finger your pussy just so he could find out if you were lying or not. You’re not going to let this younger version of him take things too far after all of that, right?
Bucky exhales through his nose as he sinks back into one of the kitchen chairs and stares down at the earpiece on the table. He takes it in his flesh hand and rolls it between his middle and index finger for a moment, knowing he has to put it back in. When did he turn into such a jealous guy?
The young Sergeant Barnes is captivated by you. He watches from the bar as you breeze through casual conversation with Peggy. You have a way of seeming so genuinely interested in anything that anyone says to you. You wholeheartedly hang on every word spoken and you get this look in your eye like nothing is more important to you than whatever’s being said. You seemed every bit as invested in Bucky’s spiel about Ferris wheels as you were when he leaned into your ear and told you about his family back home.
“She’s a lady, Buck.” Steve says lightly, lifting his drink to his lips and taking a short sip. Bucky swirls amber colored whiskey around in the bottom of his glass as his blue eyes glimmer in the low lights of the bar. “Don’t get any ideas, she works with Peggy.”
“You work with Peggy.” Bucky points out, casting him a disapproving glance before zeroing in on you again. “And you have ideas.”
“I have ideas.” Steve mumbles, nodding curtly in surrender. He can’t lie to Bucky.
“You don’t want to take your ideas over there and ask her to dance?” Bucky shifts his gaze to Peggy. He can almost imagine her proper accent as he watches her lips move in conversation with you. He has no doubt, just from the little interaction between Steve and Peggy when you girls first arrived at the bar, that Steve’s head over heels. Not only Steve, but Peggy’s envisioning a life with him too.
“It’s not the right time.” Steve replies, setting his mug down on the bar and turning to face the same direction as Bucky.
“If you keep waiting, you’ll miss the time entirely.”
“Can you miss fate?” Steve asks thoughtfully. Peggy lifts her gaze and turns her head slightly to the side, meeting his gaze across the bar for a fleeting second.
“I’m not going to wait around here with you and find out.” Bucky’s downing the last of his whiskey and heading for you just as Peggy’s heading for Steve. His eyes are all over you as he approaches, sending your confidence soaring and your nerves stirring in the pit of your stomach. When he steps in close and wraps an arm around your waist, letting his right hand rest on the small of your back, you melt into his touch.
“How much of London have you seen?” He whispers the question in your ear, letting his lips ghost so close to your ear that a shiver rolls through you.
“Not enough.” You admit, biting down on your bottom lip as he curls his fingertips against the back of your dress.
“Let me show you?” It’s a request. But when he pulls back and looks into your eyes, there’s no way you could deny him.
No. Bucky’s clenching his fists atop the safehouse kitchen table as he listens to the sound of his younger self pushing open some creaky door. The din of the bar fades into the background as your heels click against pavement. You’re outside of the bar now. You’re not going to see London, that’s for fucking sure. Bucky grits his teeth as his own voice plays through the earpiece. He’s never wanted to wring his own neck so damn bad.
“There are a lot of parts of the city that aren’t safe with the war going on, but if you work with Peggy, I’m guessing you’re used to that.” You stand still at the side exit of the bar, watching as Bucky carefully places his army uniform hat over his head. Somehow, the dark brick walls of the alley make his eyes seem more blue.
“Are we going somewhere dangerous, Sergeant Barnes?” You ask softly, looking up at him through your lashes as he straightens up his uniform jacket. You let your eyes coast down, taking in the sight of him in full uniform. Why don’t they still dress men this way?
“Sergeant Barnes, hm?” He repeats the name slowly, taking two steps toward you as you take one step back toward the brick side wall of the Whip and Fiddle.
“That’s your name, isn’t it?”
“You don’t like calling me Bucky?” Another step forward and the fabric of his jacket is brushing against the fabric of your dress as your back meets the brick wall. He leans in and raises his arms, letting his palms rest against the brick on either side of your head as he cages you in. Truthfully, you don’t like calling him Bucky. You’ve avoided saying his name all night. It feels weird, it feels wrong. Just last night you were moaning that name with a slightly different man between your legs. By calling this one something different, you can at least separate the two a tiny bit.
“You don’t like when I call you Sergeant Barnes?” You skirt around his question with one of your own. He chuckles as a smug look spreads over his features. He drops his head lower and lower until his lips are a mere inch away from yours and his blue eyes are staring so far into you that you’re sure he can see every thought in your spiraling mind.
“You can call me anything you want and I’m damn sure I’ll love it.” He whispers. Your eyes track the movement of his tongue as it darts out and wets his lips.
Your world shifts when you grab the front of his jacket and pull him in. His lips are soft as they part against yours and move in the way that only men named Bucky Barnes seem to move their lips. He kisses you like he’s done it countless times in every timeline that exists. Even as rain begins pattering down, soaking his uniform and your dress, you only tug on his jacket a little harder and angle your head to the side. As his tongue dances along your bottom lip, you hesitate for the shortest second. You can hear a voice echoing in your head, asking you not to go too far tonight, but his tongue is in your mouth and your guilt only multiplies when the taste of honey-tinged whiskey soaks into your taste buds.
You taste like honey.
You remember the first time your version of Bucky slipped his tongue into your mouth as the rain begins to pour down. You don’t mean to be so rash, but you’re loosening your grip on the uniform jacket and pressing your palms flat against his chest in an instant.
“What were you drinking tonight?” You ask in a raspy whisper. You let Bucky stay close enough that your foreheads are nearly touching as he sucks in a deep breath and bites his bottom lip. Shaking his head like you’ve just asked him the most out of pocket question he’s ever heard, he releases his bottom lip slowly.
“Four Roses.” He answers just as quietly. You nod to yourself as you commit the name to memory. He lets his left hand trail down the wet brick wall, moving it closer and closer to your face until you feel his warm palm press against your cheek. The fact that his palm isn’t a cool vibranium metal one contrasting with your heated skin makes you draw in a sharp breath and close your eyes. Why the fuck are you having so much trouble with this? You should be able to make out with the guy and put on a convincing act for five minutes. But no, he tastes like honey and you’re done for. You’re suddenly acutely aware of just how long it’s been since you heard even the tiniest noise through your earpiece, and your guilt increases tenfold. As if the man before you can read your mind, he lets his hand fall away from your face. “You’re not mine to kiss like this, are you?”
“That’s the problem.” You whisper shakily, curling your fingers into the coarse fabric of his jacket lapels one more time. Your eyes float upward and meet his as you fight the urge to swallow the words you’re about to speak. “I think I am, and that scares the hell out of me.”
Something changed for you at the Whip and Fiddle tonight. Peggy isn’t quite sure what it is, but she senses it. She senses it in the air in the same way she senses the coming rain. Even if she couldn’t see the dark clouds gathering along the edge of the city, if she couldn’t smell the rain in the air, she could feel the atmosphere changing as the storm approaches. Everything is set for tomorrow. The Howling Commandos are going to take down yet another HYDRA base, and now that you have an in with the forty’s version of Bucky, it shouldn’t be all too hard to use the connection to your advantage and slip inside of the base yourself. As far as he knows, you work with Peggy and you can hold your own pretty damn well. So, as you sit in the passenger seat of Peggy’s car staring straight ahead, why do you seem so off? If everything is going according to plan so far, what’s wrong with you?
“Sergeant Barnes seemed quite taken with you.” Peggy comments as she guides the car away from the city. You’re not really paying much attention to her words, not when you’re still mulling over the realization you came to when you kissed the young sergeant in the alley earlier tonight. You couldn’t stand the fact that his left hand was his own, or that he was missing that characteristic darkness around him. It was Bucky, of course, but it wasn’t really Bucky. It wasn’t the Bucky you know. Sure, when you kissed him he tasted the same, he even smelled the same. But you were kissing a version of Bucky that hasn’t yet experienced any of the things that made the man you slept next to last night. You feel like you’ve been carrying around a perfectly crafted piece of pottery, neatly sculpted and fired in a kiln. It’s been hardened and glazed with dark earthy tones, completely finished. Then, someone shoved that piece of pottery into the back of a kitchen cabinet and handed you a wet mound of clay. You don’t want the soft, unmolded version of Bucky. You want the hardened, finished version.
“He still drinks the same whiskey.” You don’t know why you’re dwelling on that little detail. You reach up with one hand and press your fingers against your lips, feeling a frustrating warmth awaken low in your stomach. Peggy looks over at you briefly, not letting her gaze linger for long before her eyes are back on the road ahead.
“Steve and I…we wait until it’s too late, don’t we?” Peggy’s question snaps you out of your thoughts and your hand drops to your lap quickly. You turn your head and stare at her, but she remains focused on the dark street that the car is rolling down.
“What makes you ask that?”
“I have a feeling.” She sighs heavily, pursing her red lips at the end of her sentence. “I have a feeling that we don’t allow ourselves that happiness in this lifetime, and you’re not allowing it for yourself either.”
“It’s different for me.”
“How so?” She asks softly, taking a right turn. The car begins coasting down a street you recognize and you know the safehouse is just a couple of minutes away now.
“It’s just different. I can’t just give in and see if things turn out okay. We work together, we live across the hall from each other.” You’re grasping for excuses.
“You trust the man with your life but you don’t want to trust him with your heart?”
Peggy has a way with words. You don’t have a response for her as she slows down and turns into the driveway of Howard Stark’s house a couple of minutes later. As the car idles in front of the house, you feel a heavy weight settling on your shoulders.
When you reach the front door, you find that Bucky’s left it unlocked for you. You slip in quietly, leaning against the wall of the foyer for a second to gather your thoughts. The house is mostly dark except for a small light glowing in the kitchen. Your stomach is churning as you tiptoe through the foyer and peer into the kitchen, careful not to let your heels tap on the floor. You see no sign of Bucky there. When you turn your eyes to the dark living room, you see him sitting in the middle of couch with his back to you.
“The mission is set for tomorrow.” Your words come out sounding meek and uneasy as you stare at the back of Bucky’s head. He’s leaning forward, resting his elbows on his knees like he’s lost in thought. He doesn’t even move at the sound of your voice and nervousness starts to bubble up inside of you. “Bucky?” He visibly tenses at the sound of his name rolling off of your tongue.
“I stopped listening when you kissed him.” Bucky rubs his palms together slowly as he stares down at the living room carpet. He doesn’t move from the couch, and he can tell by the silence behind him that you’re not moving either. “Honestly, I didn’t think it would bother me that much.” Bucky lies, tracing the lines of his vibranium hand with his flesh index finger. It’s dark, but he has the golden crevices memorized.
“Bullshit.” You say flatly, crossing your arms over your chest. “You knew it would bother you, but you swore I was the right person for this op anyway.” You’re not going to let him act like you did something wrong, when you’re doing exactly what you were brought here to do. You watch the back of Bucky’s head as he nods slowly.
“Okay, that was bullshit.” Bucky agrees. Rain begins to patter against the roof, starting out slow and soft but quickly picking up until the sound of it is filling the house. “I knew it would bother me. I guess I just didn’t expect you to let him take things so far.”
“How far do you think he took things?” You ask incredulously, with offense evident in your tone. If Bucky stopped listening when the kiss first started in the alley of the bar, then he didn’t hear a damn thing. He didn’t hear the brevity of the kiss or the way you pushed back and stopped it. He didn’t hear you coming to the realization that you already belong to him. He didn’t hear shit.
“Pretty damn far, if he’s me.” You scoff at his answer and run a hand through your hair, leaving it looking a little tousled and messy.
“It’s 1943. If pretty damn far means we kissed and went back inside then sure, he went pretty damn far.”
“That’s it?” Bucky asks, pushing himself up to stand and turning around to face you. The couch and a few feet of distance stand between the two of you as Bucky raises a brow. He doesn’t believe you.
“He’s not like this modern version of you.” You say defensively, gesturing at him as you speak. “He didn’t want anything more than a kiss from me.” You know your words aren’t necessarily true, but you say them anyway. Bucky shoots you a pointed look before shaking his head and crossing his arms over his chest.
“Yeah, he did."
“No, he didn’t.” You argue childishly, narrowing your eyes at him. “He was sweet and kind and we had innocent fun.”
“Innocent?” Bucky repeats the word and narrows his eyes at you in return. You bend one knee and lift your ankle up toward your ass as you start undoing your heels.
“That’s what I said.” You huff as your heels clatter to the floor and you push them over to the nearest wall with your foot.
“I was anything but innocent in the forties.” Bucky says lowly. When your eyes land on him, he’s approaching you slowly, moving around the couch but keeping his gaze trained on you. Something about the way he’s looking at you is dark, making your skin feel warm and your muscles tense up. Bucky runs a hand through his messy hair as he continues taking slow steps in your direction. “You’re really telling me he didn’t have you pushed up against a brick wall in some dark alley tonight?”
You swallow hard, feeling like a kid caught in a lie. Of course he knows exactly what happened. He doesn’t need comms or a surveillance team to know what he himself would’ve done with a pretty girl on a night out. You say nothing as Bucky moves around the couch and comes to stand right in front of you. You take a small step back as he invades your space, but he doesn’t stop. He presses forward until he’s backing you against the living room wall.
Bucky’s fighting to keep up the charade. He wants nothing more than to just be honest and tell you that he’s jealous. He wants to tell you that even though it was only another version of himself that you went out with tonight, he couldn’t fucking stand it. He needs you to know that he sat here for hours, thinking about nothing but you. He watches you with an intense gaze as your back collides with the wall and you look up at him through your lashes. He’s so close that he can see the wispy black mascara tinting them. It isn’t smudged in the slightest bit and that, at the very least, calms him a little. Bucky’s hands find your hips and he holds you still against the wall as he leans in and nudges the curve of your jaw with the tip of his nose.
“He didn’t touch you like this?” Bucky whispers against your neck, as his flesh hand glides around to your ass. He grabs a handful and curls his fingertips against the soft fabric of your dress. You offer no response, because although you didn’t let him touch you like that, you know Bucky won’t believe you now. Bucky groans as he nips at the column of your throat, taking your silence as confirmation. He kisses his way up to your lips and then drags his tongue up your chin until he’s letting it delve into your mouth. You tilt your head as he kisses you, feeling a burn in your chest from the lack of air. He pulls back suddenly, and cradles the back of your head with the same hand that was just grabbing your ass. “He didn’t kiss you like that?” He questions, already assuming the answer. You whimper as Bucky tugs on your hair lightly and moves his lips down to your neck again. Instead of simply kissing your skin this time, he sucks on it and scrapes his teeth down toward your collarbone. When he lets go of your hair and slides his hand down your thigh, your back arches off the wall and you swear you feel him smile before he pulls back and smirks down at you coldly. Curling his fingers behind your thigh, he hitches your leg up around his hip and uses his body to push you further into the wall. “He didn’t pull your leg up like this?”
It’s as if Bucky’s following a script. He knows himself so well that he’s able to carry out every single move his younger self would have made on you if you’d let things continue in the alley earlier. Bucky leans in and presses one last chaste kiss to your lips before he steps away from you entirely, leaving you struggling to catch your breath as he turns on his heel. You watch, thoroughly flustered, as he heads right back to the living room and takes a seat on the center cushion of that ugly vintage couch.
“That’s what I thought.” He says lowly, causing a pang of guilt to bubble up inside of you. You let out an exaggerated sigh before reaching behind yourself and undoing the back of your dress. Bucky listens as you let the dress slip off of your frame and fall to the floor. He’s still for a moment, refusing to look back as you stand there in nothing more than a lacy black bra and matching panties. You glare at the back of his head for a second too long before stalking off to find a t-shirt and some sweats to put on before you continue the conversation at hand.
“You don’t get to judge me for what he did tonight, for what you think he did.” You say coldly as you emerge from the bedroom a few seconds later. Bucky’s still sitting on the couch, now with both of his arms outstretched along the back cushions and an almost bored expression on his face. “You told me that your younger self would swoon and that’s exactly what happened. You knew what you were sending me into, you knew he’d want to do all of those things. So, if you want to be pissed, be pissed at yourself. Your current self or your former self, I don’t care. But stop being pissed at me.” Your feet thud against the hard floor, overtaking the sound of rain pouring down on the roof as you come to stand in front of the couch, facing Bucky.
“I’m not pissed at you.” He says plainly, cocking his head to one side as he studies you. You’re wearing an oversized white t-shirt that he assumes you pulled from his side of the closet, rather than picking any of the forties-style pajamas from your own side.
“Then why make me feel like I did something wrong? I did exactly what I was supposed to do on this mission.”
“I’m jealous.” His confession sucks the air out of your lungs and leaves you stunned.
“What?”
“I’m jealous.” He repeats calmly, looking you right in the eyes. “It took everything I had not to stop you from leaving earlier. I knew what he’d do. I knew that he’d kiss you, that he’d take every inch you gave him and ask for a mile more.” The fact that Bucky’s so calm and stoic as he confesses all of this has you shaken to your core.
“No, you don’t get to do this.” You say angrily, running both hands through your hair as you turn away from him. He’s sitting there with his arms outstretched along the back of the couch and his expression as unreadable as ever and it’s only making you more mad. “You don’t get to say shit like that to me. You don’t get to be jealous. You sent me into that situation even after I made it abundantly clear that I didn’t think I was the right person for this mission.” You turn back around and look at Bucky with a fiery rage burning in your eyes, but then your gaze settles on his calm, almost serene expression. He cocks his head to the side as you study him, with whatever angry words you were about to spit at him temporarily on hold. Your eyes float down his chest, passing over the dark t-shirt he’s sporting. With the way his arms are outstretched along the back of the couch, you can see the outline of his abs clearly through his thin shirt. When your eyes land on the front of his sweats, you notice two things. The first is that he's sitting with his legs spread in a way that tells you he’s comfortable as hell on that ugly couch. The second is that his cock is semi-hard and pressing against the fabric of those sweats shamelessly.
You want to leave. You want to head for the front door and run out into the rain, losing yourself somewhere in this city that you don’t know and this timeline that you don’t belong in. You don’t want to be in this house with Bucky for another minute. You can’t think straight when you’re around him. Here you are, angry as hell over something you can’t even recall in this exact moment, because when you look at him and he looks at you this way…you’re torn between wanting to run and wanting to straddle him right there on the couch. Bucky can tell exactly what’s on your mind when your eyes zero in on his lap. Even though the anger hasn’t dissipated from your features, he can tell it’s sitting on the edge of an abyss, ready to fall in and disappear if he says the right thing.
“Go ahead.” Bucky says firmly, narrowing his eyes at you.
“What?” You cross your arms over your chest like he’s seen you do a thousand times before as you stand in front of him. You watch as Bucky looks down at his lap for a moment, letting his gaze linger on his thighs before he lifts his head up and stares into your soul. Your heart begins to race as he tilts his head to the side slowly, the expression on his face never changing.
“Sit.”
The three seconds that you stare back at Bucky with your arms crossed over your chest feel like three hours to him. When you finally do take a step forward and let your arms reach out to him, he’s fighting to hold in a sigh of relief. You move slowly, lifting your right knee up to the edge of the couch first and letting it touch the outside of his left thigh. When your left knee lands on the couch beside his right leg, you carefully position yourself over his lap as your hands come to rest on his shoulders. Bucky’s fingertips curl into the fabric of the couch as he wills himself to keep his arms along the back of it, refusing to grab your hips and guide you to sit on his lap himself. You’re apprehensive as you stare down into his blue eyes and sink onto his lap at a painstakingly snail-like pace. Your breath hitches in your throat when you feel the outline of his erection pressing against the black lace panties you have on underneath the white t-shirt, but you don’t stop. You seat yourself firmly on his lap, with your knees bent on either side of his hips and your palms pressed against his opposing warm and cool shoulders. It bothers you that he doesn’t move his arms, that he doesn’t try to touch you. It really bothers you that his expression is still unreadable, as if having you on his lap doesn’t do a damn thing to him. If his cock wasn’t hardening more and more with each passing second, you’d truly believe that you weren’t having any sort of effect on him right now.
“You don’t get to be jealous.” You whisper, shaking your head just barely as Bucky studies your face.
“Why not?”
“Because this is just…” Your eyes flit down to where your legs are spread over Bucky’s lap, but his never leave your face. He knows what you’re about to say and he’s already wishing you wouldn’t. This is exactly what he’s been trying to avoid. “This isn’t real.” It feels every bit as shitty as he thought it would, hearing you say it out loud. The muscle along the side of his jaw ticks as he clenches his teeth together. “It’s just tension. We let it build up too much and then we don’t know how to handle it, and we think it’s something more but—"
“But it isn’t.” Bucky finishes your sentence stiffly. You nod, but your eyes are searching his. You want him to convince you, you want him to tell you that you’re wrong like he has before. You need him to tell you that this isn’t just tension. But he stays quiet, staring at you like he doesn’t really give a shit what you need right now. So, you ramble on.
“Maybe if we take a break from being partners after this mission is over. We could let things cool off and give each other space.” The words tumble out of your mouth quickly, but they leave a bad taste. “But it’s hard to give each other space when we live across the hall from each other.” Bucky nods along, cocking his head to the side as he watches you scramble for other options. He doesn’t know why you’re still sitting on his lap if this is the direction you’re taking things, but he isn’t ready to push you off and end this just yet. Not if it might be the last time you let him get this close to you.
“Do you want space?” He asks lowly. You struggle to find a reasonable answer when his tongue darts out to wet his lips. You watch as it slides across his bottom lip slowly before disappearing into his mouth. He shifts his legs beneath you slightly and it causes his hard cock to press against your barely clothed cunt just a little more firmly than before and you inhale sharply, curling your fingertips into his shoulders as he stills once again.
“I want to stop thinking about you the way that I’ve been thinking about you.” Bucky’s heartbeat is rising steadily as your words sink in. You’ve been thinking about him. God, he wants to tangle his hands in your hair and pull you in closer, refusing to let go of you until you admit that you fucking want him. “I want to go back to when we had a normal, uncomplicated partnership in the field.” He wants to say fuck normal and uncomplicated and have his way with you, but he stays still. “I want to fuck.”
Bucky’s stunned. He blinks twice before squinting his eyes at you and letting out a long, slow breath.
“You want to fuck.” Bucky repeats under his breath, seeming like he doesn’t think he’s heard you right. You nod, coming to the realization that that’s exactly what you want.
“Maybe if we fuck, it would all just go away.” Bucky scoffs as soon as you’ve said it. He’s never felt as frustrated as he is right now. It isn’t just emotional frustration, but sexual as well. You’re fucking tormenting him. While you sit on his lap actively denying the fact that this thing between you is real, you’re simultaneously telling him you want to have sex with him. You tried sleeping it off once before and it didn’t work out for you, so now you want to fuck the feelings away. He’s pissed honestly. As he sits there, with his arms outstretched along the back of the couch and the girl he’s in love with on his lap, he’s pissed.
“Go ahead then.” He says roughly, jutting his chin out at you as his eyes flit down to where your legs are spread over him. “Go ahead and see if you can fuck it all away. It’ll work about as well as when you tried to sleep it off, but I’m willing to let you give it a shot.”
Thunder rumbles in the distance and rain patters against the windows as tensions rise all around you. It feels like the thunderstorm outside has somehow shifted through the walls and lightning could strike you at any given moment. Though your heart is racing and your breaths are coming in quicker than before, you don’t back down. You maintain eye contact as you lift your ass up slightly and then grind back down, dragging the fabric of your lace panties along the front of Bucky’s sweats. You feel his cock twitch in its confines, but his face never changes. Fuck him and his perpetually cold expression. You grind down again, harder this time, and watch as his hands curl into fists at the ends of his outstretched arms. What do you have to do to get him to put those hands on you?
Lightning strikes somewhere outside as you lean in and dip your head down, pressing your lips to the side of Bucky’s neck in an open-mouthed kiss. You feel his pulse thumping in his carotid artery as your tongue swipes over it. If you’re going to get this out of your system, you can’t take your time. You need this to be quick and dirty. Bucky senses that and isn’t surprised at all when your right hand starts tugging at the waistband of his sweats.
“I said go ahead.” He rasps, tilting his head to the side to give you more access to his neck. “Take what you want.” You take the encouragement and run with it, slipping your hand into the waistband of his sweats and boxers, quickly finding his length and wrapping your hand around it. He lets out a shaky but controlled breath as you start stroking his cock. He has to bite down on his bottom lip when you tighten your grip around the head and he feels his precum wet your palm. This is going to haunt him forever. He wants this, you, so fucking bad that he’s willing to take whatever he can get. And this is the most he can get. Your hand is around his cock with the sole intention of fucking around with him until you forget your feelings. He should feel used. He does feel used, but if you’re only okay with using him, then he’s fine with it. He’s fine with it because he fucking loves you.
You feel Bucky’s chest rise and fall at a quicker pace against your own as his cock twitches in your hand. Thunder shakes the house again and a tear slips down your cheek. It feels clinical when you push Bucky’s waistband down further and drag your lips along the curve of his jaw.
“He kissed me outside of the bar.” You whisper against the column of Bucky’s throat, hating the way he tenses up underneath you. You let your hand fall away from his cock and shift it between your legs, tugging your lace panties to the side beneath the oversized t-shirt. “And I couldn’t fucking stand it.” Your voice breaks and Bucky curls his fingers into the couch cushions so hard that he might’ve heard them rip if the storm raging outside wasn’t so loud. “You weren’t listening, so you didn’t hear me stop him.” Another tear falls as you rise up on your knees and guide the head of Bucky’s length to where it belongs. “But I stopped him.” Lightning strikes and you swear it nearly hits the house as you let out a shaky breath and start lowering yourself down. The sheer size of him makes your thighs ache and the walls of your cunt burn with the stretch. “I stopped him and he knew, before I said anything, that I wasn’t his to kiss.” Bracing your hands back on Bucky’s shoulders, you sink down onto him one slow inch at a time as he stares up at you. His expression isn’t so unreadable now. It’s showcasing the torment he feels, the torture you’re putting him through…the torture he’s enduring just because he loves you.
“Whose are you then?” He asks, his voice tense and strained as you seat yourself entirely on his cock. He can tell by the look in your eyes that you’re not going to answer his question. You know the answer, the tears rimming your pretty eyes and the pleading look taking over your face tell him that much. But you just can’t bring yourself to say it out loud. You’re his.
You didn’t give yourself any time to adjust to his size and you’re paying for it as you start riding him. You move slow at first, lost in the way he’s looking at you, wondering why the hell he won’t touch you. But as the storm picks up outside, so does your pace. Faster and faster you lift and lower your hips until it couldn’t possibly be more obvious that you’re trying to fuck your feelings away. Bucky’s pushing past the obscene sounds of skin against skin, past the rumbling thunder and heavy rain on the rooftop, until all he can hear is your heartbeat. You don’t even realize you’re doing it, but you’re timing each bounce of your hips with the steady beat of your heart. He focuses in on that when the walls of your pussy begin fluttering violently around his shaft, because if he lets himself focus on anything else, he’ll fall over the edge with you and he refuses to let it happen this way. Your goal isn’t to get him off, it’s to get something out of your system.
Bucky clenches his teeth when you start coming undone around him, he clenches his teeth and his vibranium arm whirs loudly along the back of the couch as you grip his shoulders and ride out your orgasm. It’s only a few seconds later when you blink your eyes open and let a few tears fall onto the fabric of his shirt.
“Did it work?” Bucky asks breathlessly, fighting the urge to wrap his arms around you and pull you against his chest.
“What?”
“Did you fuck it out of your system?” He narrows his eyes at you. He’s sure the answer is no, but he isn’t so sure that you’ll admit it. As you stare back into his blue eyes, he can tell you’re giving up and something akin to hope stirs in his chest. You shake your head gently, loosening your grip on his shoulders as the weight of your silent confession settles over you both. “Okay, let’s try again.”
Bucky doesn’t give you a chance to full catch your breath before he’s slipping his flesh arm around your back and rising from the couch, keeping his cock buried inside of you.
“Bucky—”
“You want it out of your system, don’t you?” He asks roughly, carrying you away from the couch and toward the kitchen table. You swallow hard as he skillfully uses his vibranium hand to shove a kitchen chair to the side before laying you down on the table. Still, his cock never leaves your pussy. “If we go at it from another angle…” Bucky’s voice trails off as he pulls his hips backward slowly until only the tip of his cock is left inside of you. You whimper at the loss of his length, hating the way your pussy fights to grip onto what he’s left you with. Bucky pushes your white t-shirt up until it’s sitting just below your bra. Though he doesn’t let himself get a glimpse of your chest, he has no problem with sliding his hands beneath the shirt and running his palms over your breasts. You arch into his touch and another whimper leaves your lips. “This might be the right angle.” He whispers, dragging his hands down until his fingers are curling into your hips roughly. You see stars when he pistons his hips forward so hard that the table shakes beneath the force and you feel him brushing against your cervix.
“Fuck.” You moan the word out as your tears begin to dry. Your hands circle around Bucky’s wrists as he holds your hips in place and starts fucking you relentlessly. Your mascara is smudged beneath your eyes but you still look so pretty that it hurts him to look at you. You wrap your legs around him as his head falls back a little and a guttural groan escapes him. It feels so damn good, you feel so damn good, but this isn’t how he wants you. Your whimpers and occasional swears turn into uninhibited, borderline pornographic moans as he fucks you until you’re lost in the bliss of it all.
“If you cum on my cock a second time, is it going to be enough?” He wonders aloud, slowing the pace of his thrusts and simultaneously deepening them as much as he possibly can. His balls press against your ass as a loud clap of thunder leaves the lights flickering. You’re shaking your head before your brain has a chance to reason with your heart. It won’t be enough. “You don’t think so? You seemed pretty damn sure of yourself when you said that this isn’t real. Cumming on my cock this time should be enough for you.”
“Shit, Bucky.” You let out a frustrated moan as he pulls his hips back slowly and starts giving your cunt the most shallow thrusts yet.
“This is so fucking real to me that I’d let you do it a thousand times if that’s what it takes to make you realize you’re wrong.” Bucky snaps his hips forward and hits your cervix again, admiring the way your body reacts to him as your back arches off of the table and your t-shirt rides up a little more. A tiny bit of the black lace of your bra peeks out beneath your shirt and Bucky lets out another groan before thrusting hard again. He wanted to slow down and make you feel even just a shred of the torment he’s been feeling tonight, he wanted to give you shallow, unrhythmic thrusts and delay your orgasm, but he’s already fucking his cock into you at an unforgiving pace and depth. His name falls from your lips in a breathless moan as your fingernails leave little crescent-shaped indents in the skin of his wrists and your pussy tightens around his shaft all over again. He has to bite down on the inside of his cheek, nearly drawing blood, just to keep from cumming with you. His own level of restraint is surprising himself. He hasn’t done something like this in decades and yet, he’s holding himself together pretty damn well.
“Bucky.” You gasp as your orgasm washes over you and he continues to pump his cock into you. He lets his thrusts slow more and more with each passing second until he’s just lazily circling his hips, giving you the faintest sensation of pleasure mixed with overstimulation.
“Did it work that time?” He asks between pants. He lets go of your hips as his eyes scan over the expanse of your skin where he had gripped you so tightly before, checking for marks. He can see his own handprints on each hip, but they aren’t red enough that he thinks he’s left bruises. You stare up at him as a sigh of relief slips past his lips. When his eyes finally meet yours, you know he’s waiting for an answer.
“It didn’t.” You admit. The lights flicker again, going out for a few seconds before coming back on. “I’m sorry I—”
“I don’t want to hear you say sorry.” God, that’s not at all what he wants to hear you say. He wants to hear you say you were wrong or that you were lying and this is as real to you as it is to him. He wants to hear you say that no matter how many times his cock slides into your pussy, the feelings aren’t going anywhere. As his hands find yours and your fingers intertwine, he tugs you up into a sitting position on the edge of the table and then slips his palms around to cup your ass as he lifts you once more. “We’re going to try this one more time and if it doesn’t work, if you can’t fuck the feelings away…” His voice trails off as the lights flicker one final time before shutting off completely. Bucky carries you down the hall and through the bedroom door in near total darkness. Every few seconds, lightning flashes and illuminates the house through the windows and sheer curtains, and you get a glimpse of Bucky’s serious face. “If this doesn’t work, you have to say it.” Keeping his flesh arm around your lower back, he lowers you onto the bed, hovering over you as his still-hard cock slips out of your sore cunt. You prop yourself up on your elbows as he stands at the foot of the bed and reaches back over his shoulders, grasping the fabric of his t-shirt and tugging it over his head in one smooth move. Lighting strikes again and you watch, with warmth pooling low in your stomach, as Bucky pushes his sweats and boxers down to the floor.
“I have to say what?” You ask, fighting hard to keep the stutter out of your question. Bucky wraps his right hand around the base of his cock tightly, but he doesn’t dare stroke it. He gives it a quick squeeze before moving that same hand down and palming his balls in an effort to slow himself down.
“You have to say that you’re mine.” He has no idea that you’ve already said it once tonight. He took his earpiece out, thinking you were having a heated moment with another man, when you were really telling that man exactly what Bucky wanted to hear.
“That’s how this works? You fuck me a few times and then I’m yours?”
Bucky can’t stop the dark, hair-raising chuckle that tumbles past his lips when you tilt your head to the side and narrow your eyes at him. He moves toward the bed slowly, placing one knee on the end of the mattress and leaning forward until both of his palms are flat on the bed. He’s hovering over you, his face only a few inches from yours when a burst of thunder rings out.
“You’ve been mine since the day we met, sweetheart. I just let you run around and deny it for too damn long.” Your breath hitches in your throat as he angles his chin toward the headboard, silently letting you know that he wants you to move further up on the bed. You scoot backward, keeping your eyes on him as the room grows impossibly warmer and goosebumps prickle over your skin. When your back lands flat on the bed and your head is laid comfortably on the only pillow there, Bucky’s over you in an instant, nudging your legs apart with his knee as he settles between them. The head of his cock, still dripping with precum, presses against the lace of your panties and he hisses at the contact. He hasn’t let himself cum yet and he’s dangerously close to losing control over his impending orgasm.
“Since the day we met?” You ask, scrunching up your face in confusion as you think of all of the missions you’ve been on, all of the senseless arguments and shit-giving. Did it all have a deeper meaning for him? Bucky nods as he stills above you and braces himself with his arms next to either side of your head. When he looks into your eyes you can tell that he’s straining to maintain his composure and it almost makes you feel guilty. Here you are two orgasms in and he’s hanging on by a fucking thread. You slide your hand down between your bodies, wrapping it around his length and giving it a few long, slow pumps as his eyes flutter closed and his head falls to your shoulder.
“I can’t stand you.” You say evenly, as he starts rutting into your hand carelessly. His small thrusts are sloppy and restrained, but he continues on as you stroke his cock and smear his precum around the length of it. He groans in response and bites down on your shoulder hard enough to make you inhale sharply. “I can’t stand the way you slept so close to me last night, because the next time I sleep alone, I’ll feel like something’s missing.” Bucky freezes, but you continue your ministrations with your right hand. He doesn’t lift his head, fearing that if he so much as moves an inch you’ll stop talking. “I can’t stand the way you say my name, because when anyone else says it, it doesn’t sound as good.” He lets out a shaky breath as he builds up the courage to move. Snaking his vibranium hand down between your legs, he starts tugging your panties to the side just like he did earlier. You move in tandem with him, guiding the head of his cock to your entrance as he clears the way. “And I really can’t stand the way you kiss me, because if I ever let anyone else kiss me, I’ll only ever be disappointed.”
Bucky pulls his head back and stares down at you with a furrowed brow, looking as though he’s thinking hard. The head of his cock notches into your pussy and he pushes his hips forward just enough to sink the first couple of inches inside of you, watching as your mouth falls open and your eyes close tightly. He’s staring at you with such an intense focus in his blue eyes that when you finally look back up at him, you feel like his gaze alone is burning a hole through your head. You spread your legs a little, bending your knees slightly to give him a better angle as he pulls his hips back slowly. When only the head of his cock is sheathed inside of you, he licks his bottom lip before snapping his hips forward and delivering one hard, deep thrust that forces the headboard to slam against the wall.
“I love you.” Bucky says the three words with conviction, with a confidence you’ve never heard before. You wait a few seconds, trying to recover from the earth-shattering sensations of your pussy being destroyed and actual bliss. His words sink into your skin and melt into your soul with an unexpected warmth as he drags his cock out of you and then pushes back in again. He loves you.
“You can’t stand me.” You correct, not even trying to hide the smile that’s beginning to spread across your lips as Bucky starts setting a rhythmic pace. He laughs, but then groans as you scrape your nails down his back roughly.
“I can’t, but still…”
“You love me.” You repeat smugly, finishing his sentence. He doesn’t need you to say it back yet. Just the fact that you didn’t shove him away and flee the house when he said it is enough for him right now. A few sultry moans play in his ears and he pushes himself up to sit on his knees, moving your legs so that one is over each of his shoulders before he starts fucking you so hard that he thinks Howard Stark might need to buy a new mattress, new headboard, and maybe even have the damn wall re-plastered.
The next few minutes consist of nothing more than filthy, pornographic sounds. With skin slapping against skin, the headboard snapping against the wall, your moans, and Bucky’s strained groans, neither of you can really hear the storm raging outside anymore. You focus in on Bucky as much as you can, watching as his abs ripple and the muscles of his flesh arm flex repeatedly. He catches you staring at him as he fucks you and he holds eye contact, letting his mouth fall open and his eyelids drop down halfway as he watches you watch him. Filthy. It’s filthy the way he's fucking his cock into you in someone else’s bed. You moan his name out in a raspy tone and it sends him over the edge. He guides your legs down, setting them back on the bed before crawling over you and fucking you missionary while he swallows every moan you let out. His lips brush against yours over and over again, but you don’t kiss. You breathe each other in until you feel his cock twitch and his thrusts grow sloppy.
“Fuck, I’m gonna cum.” Bucky groans, thrusting a little harder and deeper as he nears his release. You grip his sides and bend your knees as your own orgasm looms. “You’re so fucking tight and….fuck, you’re just…shit, baby.”
“Bucky, I love you.”
He loses every last remnant of control when you finally admit it. He can’t stop the flood of cum that starts spilling out of his cock and into you. Truthfully, he wouldn’t want to stop it. He thrusts as deep as he can and grinds his hips into you, watching your eyes scrunch closed and your mouth fall open as you take every last drop of his cum. It’s everything to him. Not you taking his cum this way, not you letting him have you like this, but you telling him the one thing he never thought you would. You love him.
His post-orgasm haze should last longer than yours. He should be collapsed next to you on the bed right now, but as you lay beneath him trying to catch your breath, he’s staring down at you with perfect clarity.
“If you go back to pretending you don’t feel anything after this…” Bucky’s voice trails off as he feels a good bit of his cum dripping out of you and back onto his shaft. He moves in a little closer and pushes his cock the rest of the way inside you as gently as possible, earning himself a whimper from your pretty lips.
“You’ll what? Fuck me on another table?” You tease, smiling up at him. He shakes his head and bites down on his bottom lip in an attempt to hide his own smile, but you catch it anyway.
“Why would I do that when there are so many other surfaces we haven’t tried out yet?”
“I hate you.” You retort playfully, sliding your hands up his chest and preparing to push him off of you. His cock hasn’t softened in the slightest bit yet and you don’t know if you can take another round tonight. His small smile turns into a hearty grin as his cock twitches again.
“That’s a lie.” He smirks, dragging his tongue along his teeth after speaking. You narrow your eyes at him as you realize he’s still leaning on his ridiculous theory that your pussy clenches down when you lie. “You love me.” He says slowly, dropping his head down and pressing his lips against yours. He kisses you gently at first, pecking your lips twice before going in for a longer one. After a few seconds, he slips his tongue into your mouth and the longer he kisses you, the more weight you feel lifting from your shoulders. You didn’t realize how exhausting it was to deny this for so long. But now that you’re here, letting it happen, you can’t stop the tear that starts rolling down your cheek. Bucky pulls back as soon as he feels it, searching your eyes to see what’s wrong. “What did I do?” He asks quickly, preparing to separate himself from you. You stop him, sliding your hands down his sides and curling your fingers against his skin to hold him in place.
“Nothing.” You answer honestly, smiling up at his look of concern even as that tear continues to roll down your cheek. “Peggy has a feeling that she and Steve wait too late in this lifetime, that they don’t let themselves have this kind of happiness.”
“I told you they end up together.” Bucky says gently, using the pad of his thumb to wipe the tear from your cheek.
“I know. I wonder if this is how they felt when they finally made it back to each other.” Bucky takes a moment, really thinking about it before he moves a stray lock of hair away from your face and lets out a deep breath.
“How do you feel?” He asks, speaking with a soft tone as he eyes you closely.
“Like if you asked me for a lifetime, it wouldn’t scare the shit out of me.”
As Bucky stares down at you, you can see that all of those times you thought his expression was so unreadable were because you didn’t really want to read what was there. All you see in his eyes is love. Love and probably some kind of half-assed plan to ask you for a lifetime while his dick is inside you, just so he can see if you’re lying or not.
I had to stop reading this so many times to compose myself and literally out loud say "okay what the fuck" because I couldn't comprehend how good it was. Usually when I find fics that hit so hard I try to leave comments that are specific and reference parts I liked because those are the comments *I* like to read on things I write but how do you do that when EVERY PART was SO GOOD? I wish I could read it all over again for the first time.
SUMMARY: You've always been a robust and steady presence in Rafe's life; from toothy, toddler smiles to screaming teenage outbursts , the admiration between you inevitably blossomed. Time passes, emotions evolve, things change, people change , and the line between friendship and the unknown suddenly blurs, making both of you stumble into a state of irreversible circumstances —
— But I love you , I'm sorry.
WARNINGS: angst , drinking , cursing , mention of drugs /past drug addiction, brief mention of vomiting and parental death ,sexual innuendos, sexting (kind of?)
synopsis! every winter break, you and your childhood best friend zach’s families plan the annual trip to your family’s cabin in the mountains. but when an accident happens, a guilt-ridden zach is willing to do whatever it takes to make you feel better.
paring: zach maclaren x fem!reader
warnings: childhood friends to lovers , zach accidentally hurts reader , mentions of bruising , angst , lots of fluff (zach is so hopelessly in love with you it hurts) , sexual content + unprotected sex! , fingering , mature , 18+ (minors dni!)
word count: 8.2k
notes: today’s post is a long one but bear w me pls i had to edit so much of it :(
“can you grab the spare?” zach calls from the back of the range rover, tugging the luggage out of the trunk.
stepping out of the car, the icy air hits your face like a slap, the sudden chill turning your nose pink and making your cheeks tingle.
“fuck, it’s freezing,” you mutter under your breath, hurrying over to the pile of rocks near the cabin door. your fingers, already stiff and trembling from the cold, fumble as you dig through the stones, searching for the fake rock with the hidden spare key.
finally, you find it and unlock the door. you and zach waste no time rushing inside, flipping on the furnace and switching on the electric fireplace. warm air begins to spill into the room, cutting through the biting chill.
“jesus, it’s brutal out there,” zach says with a laugh, dropping the suitcases by the front door.
“i know,” you reply, rubbing your hands together for warmth. “i don’t get how our parents do it when they get here first.”
your gaze sweeps over the cabin, familiar and cozy even in its current state of disarray. a small smile creeps onto your face as memories flood back. by the time your family usually arrives, the maclarens have already set everything up—lights twinkling, garlands hung, the whole place transformed for the holidays.
but not this year. this year, you and zach got here first. being in college has made it easier for the two of you to make the trip, especially since it’s only a short drive from campus. with your parents tied up at work, they won’t arrive for another two days, leaving you and zach to settle in and prepare the cabin yourselves
zach seems to read your mind as he heads toward the storage closet under the staircase. “the moms mentioned something about the decorations being in here,” he says, pulling open the door.
he starts rummaging through the piles, expecting to find boxes labeled xmas. instead, his hand lands on a stack labeled snowboarding gear. a small smile tugs at his lips.
“guess the decorations can wait,” he says, pulling out the boxes. turning to you, he raises an eyebrow, and you meet his look with a knowing nod. “get dressed.”
you glide across the flat, powdery snow after hopping off the ski lift. the cold air nips at your cheeks, leaving them rosy and warm beneath your baby pink goggles. when you finally stop at the edge of the slope, you tug the goggles up onto your helmet, panting softly as mist forms in the cold air.
zach approaches behind you, stopping at your side. you look up at him, your eyes bright with excitement. “hi,” you say, your breath still catching from the climb.
“hey,” he replies, chuckling softly, his voice warm and steady. he feels something tighten in his chest—your voice, your smile, the way you look at him. if only you knew how effortlessly you could bring him to his knees.
but he would never say it. not to you. not when it could risk the friendship you’ve built over years.
you’ve been inseparable since second grade, when zach worked up the courage to ask for your help mastering the monkey bars. you were the only one who could make it all the way across without falling, and he’d admired you ever since. now, here you are—still together, still tangled in a friendship that means everything, even if it sometimes feels like it could be so much more.
zach isn’t sure when his feelings for you started to shift, turning into something he couldn’t quite name but couldn’t ignore either. maybe it was that afternoon when he was twelve, bedridden with a nasty cold, and you showed up unannounced with a thermos of homemade chicken soup. the soup had been borderline inedible—too salty, with mushy noodles—but the gesture had warmed him in a way he’d never forget. of course, he’d eaten every last bite and told you it was perfect.
or maybe it was on his fifteenth birthday. he’d always treated his birthday like any other day, never one to make a big deal of it, but you didn’t see it that way. while he was out, you snuck into his room and filled it with many presents and blue and black balloons—his favorite colors. he’d walked in, startled by the effort you’d put in just to make him smile, and something about it stuck with him.
or maybe it was the night he ended things with his first long-term girlfriend at seventeen. her problem had been you—the closeness you and zach shared, the bond she couldn’t understand. she’d wanted him to choose, and it wasn’t even a question. when you found out, you didn’t say “i told you so” or press him for details. instead, you showed up with a bag of junk food and a stack of movies. you stayed the whole weekend, laughing, crying over sappy scenes, and talking until the early hours of the morning about your dreams and futures.
in every timeline, in every version of his life, zach knows he’d choose you. over a girlfriend, over a best friend, over anyone.
a soft click pulls zach from his thoughts. glancing down, he sees you already strapped to your snowboard, your goggles perched perfectly on your face. you reach up, offering your hand for help. with barely any effort, zach pulls you to your feet, earning a giggle that tugs at his chest more than he cares to admit.
“i don’t think i’ll ever get tired of this view,” you say softly, taking in the snow-draped mountains and the endless horizon of white and blue.
zach crouches down, fumbling slightly as he straps himself into his board. his fingers falter when he glances up at you. the way your smile glows as you take in the scenery—it’s more breathtaking to him than the view itself.
“yeah,” he murmurs, his voice quiet. “me either.”
you turn to him with a playful glint in your eye. “race you down?”
zach chuckles, shaking his head as he secures his last buckle. “no.”
you blink at him, brows furrowing. “why not?”
“because,” he says, standing and stretching, a smug grin tugging at his lips, “i’ll smoke you so fast it’ll almost be sad.”
you scoff, rolling your eyes at the playful jab, but the spark of competition ignites instantly. zach knows you well enough to see it too. before he can say another word, you tug your goggles down, lean forward, and launch yourself down the slope, your speed kicking up a flurry of snow in your wake.
“cheater!” zach yells after you, his voice echoing through the mountain air.
your laughter rings out, light and carefree, as you pull your face cover up to shield yourself from the biting cold. with a determined grin, zach pulls down his goggles and takes off after you, the race already on.
the descent starts smoothly, the rush of cold air whipping past your face as you carve through the snow, the thrill of the slope igniting your competitive streak. you glance over your shoulder, spotting zach gaining on you. he’s fast—faster than you expected—and his determined grin sends a surge of adrenaline through you.
you try to pick up speed, leaning into the next turn, but your edge catches an icy patch. it happens so quickly—a sharp jolt, your balance slipping, and suddenly, you’re tumbling. the world tilts, snow sprays into the air, and before you can even react, you collide with something solid.
or rather, someone.
zach.
the two of you go down in a tangled heap, his snowboard slicing awkwardly into the snow as he tries (and fails) to stop in time. his arms instinctively wrap around you as you both slide a few more feet before finally coming to a stop in a soft bank of powder.
for a moment, everything is still.
you blink up at him, stunned and breathless, your goggles slightly askew. zach’s face hovers inches above yours, his cheeks flushed—not just from the cold.
“you good?” he asks, his voice laced with concern, though his lips twitch into a small smile.
you can’t help but laugh, the absurdity of the moment catching up to you. “yeah… i think so. you?”
he nods, chuckling now too. “well, i wasn’t planning on eating snow, but at least i cushioned your fall.”
you roll your eyes, shoving at his chest lightly as he helps you sit up. “cushioned my fall? you practically tackled me.”
“only because you fell first,” he counters, his grin widening.
despite the snow seeping into your clothes and the ache of your tumble, you find yourself laughing again. zach stands, brushing snow off himself before offering you his hand. as he pulls you up, you notice his gaze lingering just a little longer than usual, his smile softer now.
just as the rush of laughter and adrenaline starts to fade, a sharp, sudden pain slices through your side, stealing the breath from your lungs. you gasp, instinctively clutching your side. “ouch.”
zach’s smile vanishes, his brows knitting together in concern. “what? what’s wrong?”
“i don’t know, i—” another sharp pang makes you wince, doubling over slightly as you shuffle off to the side of the slope, out of the way of other snowboarders. your hands fumble to tug off your gloves, urgency overriding the cold.
you shove the gloves into zach’s hands without a word and begin unzipping your snow jacket, pulling up your thermal layer to investigate. you crane your neck to look, but the angle makes it impossible to see what’s wrong. the pain is sharp and unrelenting, leaving you wincing as you try to figure it out.
“can you see anything?” you ask, your voice tight.
but zach’s expression answers before he says a word. his eyes widen, his face draining of color as he steps closer, urgency in every movement.
“oh shit,” he mutters, already crouching down to get a better look.
“intercostal muscle strain,” the doctor says, her tone calm but firm as you sit up with a wince. “you’re very lucky—it could’ve been a fractured or broken rib, and that would’ve been far more painful than what you’re feeling now.”
you nod slowly, wincing again as you pull your clothes back down over your bare torso.
“it’s nothing serious, thankfully,” she continues, scribbling something onto a notepad. “but you’ll need to take it easy—no snowboarding for at least a week.”
you groan dramatically, throwing your arm over your eyes in exasperation, only to regret it instantly as the ache in your side flares. you hiss through your teeth, lowering your arm gingerly.
the doctor hides a small smile at your frustration. “get plenty of rest, and take two 500mg Tylenol every 4–6 hours to help with the pain,” she advises. “for the bruising, you can pick up some arnica gel or aloe vera at a pharmacy—it’ll help with the inflammation.”
zach, who’s been quietly standing at your side the whole time, finally speaks up. “so no snowboarding at all?”
“none,” the doctor confirms, looking at you pointedly.
zach lets out a quiet sigh of relief, grateful nothing was broken, though the guilt still gnaws at him. that tumble had cost you a week of your vacation, and the thought that he played a part in it made his chest ache.
his hand rests idly on the edge of your pillow, his mind clouded with regret, when he suddenly feels your fingers brush against his. his gaze shifts to yours, and he knows immediately that you’ve read him like a book.
the doctor steps out, a knowing smile tugging at her lips. she’s seen the unspoken bond between the two of you—something that everyone else seems to notice, even if you and zach haven’t admitted it to yourselves.
“i’m so sorry—” zach starts, his voice heavy with remorse, but you cut him off with a gentle shake of your head.
“it wasn’t your fault, zach,” you say firmly, your voice soft yet steady. your fingers trace small patterns on the back of his hand, grounding him. “there was no way to stop that fall from happening, or for you to avoid crashing into me. it was just… one of those things.”
zach looks down at your intertwined fingers, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly.
you smile, swinging your legs carefully over the edge of the bed to stand. “though i do wish you hadn’t elbowed me so hard in the process.”
your playful jab makes him groan, dropping his head into his hand. “you’re never going to let me live that down, are you?”
“not a chance,” you tease, grinning as you test your balance on your feet.
his guilty expression softens into something lighter, his lips quirking into a small smile as he watches you. “fair enough,” he murmurs, his tone filled with a mix of relief and something deeper he doesn’t quite let himself say.
as per the doctor’s advice, you and zach stopped at a nearby pharmacy on the way back to the cabin, picking up some arnica gel for the swelling and a bottle of tylenol. zach had insisted on carrying everything, even as you rolled your eyes and tried to insist you were fine.
back at the cabin, he’d gone into full caretaker mode. now, you were nestled on the couch in your favorite pajamas, surrounded by fluffed pillows, a warm blanket, and fuzzy socks. zach had even turned on your favorite comfort show, leaving no detail overlooked.
in the kitchen, you could hear him speaking quietly with your parents on the phone. the tone of his voice was calm and reassuring, though you caught a few words here and there about “keeping an eye on her” and “following doctor’s orders.”
“yeah, I will. alright—yeah, sounds good, I’ll let her know. oh- okay. bye.”
zach ended the call, setting his phone down on the kitchen island before heading over to you with a water bottle, a couple of tylenol pills, and a snack bowl balanced in his hands. he plopped onto the couch next to you, a small laugh escaping as he handed you the items.
“let me guess,” you started, mockingly, “make sure she’s actually taking the pain meds and don’t let her go snowboarding no matter how much she begs.”
zach laughed, shaking his head. “pretty much. they’re just worried about you. it took a lot of convincing to stop them from dropping everything at work and driving straight to the hospital.”
you took the water bottle and pills, rolling your eyes as you scanned the label. “this is bullshit. i feel fine. it doesn’t even hurt that much anymore.”
zach raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. “don’t lie. i can hear you cursing under your breath every time you move too fast.”
he twisted open the water bottle and popped open the tylenol, handing them back to you with an air of exaggerated patience.
“i can open my own stuff, you know,” you grumbled, though you took both from him.
“sure, you can,” he said, leaning back against the couch with a smirk. “but this way, i get to feel useful. so, humor me.”
you roll your eyes but oblige, popping the pills into your mouth and washing them down with a gulp of water. for the rest of the afternoon, you and zach fully embraced the art of laziness. you binged several episodes of your comfort show, made your way through the entire snack bowl, and eventually ordered pizza, which arrived just as the last crumbs of chips were devoured—all within four hours.
the warmth of the blanket, the soft hum of the TV, and the exhaustion from the day caught up with you. before you knew it, your eyes drifted shut, the drowsiness overpowering. when you woke, it was to the gentle sensation of zach’s fingers absentmindedly scratching your scalp, the rhythm soothing and familiar.
blinking groggily, you realized your head was resting on his chest. you froze for a split second, then relaxed as the memory of shifting there for comfort came back to you. his chest was sturdy, warm, and—well—perfectly positioned to avoid putting pressure on your sore side. at least, that’s what you told yourself.
“hi,” you croaked, voice raspy with sleep.
“hey,” zach replied softly, a small smile tugging at his lips. his hand paused in your hair briefly before he added, “you need to put the arnica gel on your bruise.”
you groaned in protest, burying your face further into his chest like a stubborn child. the vibration of his laugh rumbled beneath you, warm and familiar.
“c’mon,” he coaxed, leaning forward carefully so you weren’t jostled, reaching for the small container of arnica on the coffee table. his other arm stayed around you, steadying you as he sat back.
with a reluctant sigh, you pushed yourself off him, grumbling as you lifted your pajama shirt just enough to expose the bruised area. even with the pain dulled from the meds, the stretch made you wince, and you let the shirt drop again with a frustrated groan.
“can you help me put it on?” you asked, rubbing the sleep from your eyes.
zach hesitated for a beat, the question catching him off guard. you didn’t notice, but his adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed hard, the proximity and intimacy of the request making his pulse quicken.
“yeah, of course,” he said, his voice steady despite the way his heart raced. he unscrewed the lid, squeezing a small amount of the gel onto his fingers before looking at you. when you nodded, he shifted closer, his movements gentle and deliberate as he applied the gel to your side.
his touch was careful, almost hesitant, as if afraid of hurting you. “let me know if it stings,” he murmured, his voice quieter than usual.
“it’s fine,” you replied softly, your eyes closing again as the soothing coolness of the gel and his careful touch eased the ache.
zach’s jaw clenched, the muscle ticking as he worked the now-warmed gel into your skin. the rhythmic motion of his fingers was steady, but inside, his composure was unraveling. there was something undeniably intimate about this moment—your quiet, fluttering reactions every time his fingers brushed a new spot, the way your breath hitched when he applied just the right amount of pressure.
his fingers moved instinctively, lifting your shirt a little higher to cover the edges of the bruise, and that’s when he saw it. the small, delicate tattoo just below the curve of your breast.
divine feminine.
the words seemed to stare back at him, burning into his mind as his breath hitched. he swallowed hard, his hand pausing briefly before continuing, slower this time. zach could feel his body reacting in ways he knew it shouldn’t. his chest tightened, and he bit down on his bottom lip, trying to keep himself grounded as warmth pooled low in his stomach.
then you let out a soft, unintentional moan—a mix of pain and relief as his fingers brushed over a particularly tender spot. the sound, quiet and fleeting, sent a chill through him. he froze, inhaling sharply, his hands momentarily still against your side.
your eyes fluttered open, hazy with the remnants of drowsiness. “i’m sorry,” zach murmured, his voice tight.
concern crosses your features as you began to sit up. “zach, it’s fine,” you said, misinterpreting his sudden apology. “it didn’t hurt. i promise.”
but that wasn’t it. not at all.
no, zach wasn’t thinking about the gel, the bruise, or even the fact that he might’ve applied too much pressure. his thoughts had plunged into dangerous territory, spiraling with images he couldn’t suppress.
he was imagining you making that sound again—but for entirely different reasons. how your breathless moans might sound against his ear as you writhed beneath him, your body arching into his as you begged for him to let you cum.
how you might look with your face pressed into the pillows, gripping the sheets, gasping his name in broken cries as he pounded relentlessly inside you from behind, squeezing tightly around him, his hands gripping your hips firmly but gently, guiding you to him.
zach blinked, forcing himself back to the present, his chest rising and falling with uneven breaths. he dragged a hand through his hair, quickly standing up and mumbling something about needing a drink of water, leaving you puzzled and slightly concerned as he practically fled to the kitchen.
you stood up, muttering a low curse under your breath as the ache in your side flared. despite the pain, you followed him into the kitchen, determined to figure out what was wrong.
“zach,” you called softly, your voice breaking the quiet. he didn’t turn, his back to you, shoulders tense as he stared down at the empty glass in his hands.
stepping closer, you positioned yourself in front of him, standing just beneath his gaze. even then, he refused to look at you, his jaw clenched tightly.
“zach,” you repeated, your fingers gently brushing against his cheek, cupping it to force his eyes to meet yours. the warmth of your touch was almost unbearable for him.
“don’t—” he mumbled, voice low and strained, his gaze flickering to the side as if avoiding yours could somehow mask the turmoil written all over his face.
but you saw it anyway—guilt. raw and unfiltered, pooling in his dark eyes and spilling over in the form of unshed tears.
“zach, what is it?” you asked, your voice soft, barely above a whisper in the still air.
he blinked hard, his breathing uneven as he struggled to hold himself together. the weight of his thoughts pressed heavily on his chest. you trusted him, leaned on him when you were in pain, and here he was, betraying that trust in the worst way—fantasizing about you.
the images haunted him. he couldn’t stop the shameful loop of memories from late nights in his dorm, where he would close his eyes and imagine you in ways he couldn’t admit aloud. he would picture you on top of him, trying to adjust to his size, your brows furrowed and lips parted in quiet gasps. how you might bite your lip to stifle your moans, only to collapse onto his chest when you came undone, breathless and trembling.
but those were just fantasies, fleeting and far removed from reality. they weren’t supposed to bleed into a moment like this—when you were hurt, vulnerable, and looking at him with those wide, concerned eyes.
he squeezed his eyes shut, his voice barely audible. “you were hurt because of me, and i—i can’t stop thinking about…” he trailed off, shaking his head as if trying to physically dispel the thoughts. “it’s not right. i’m not right.”
you frowned, your thumb brushing against his cheek in a soothing gesture. “zach, talk to me. what’s going on?”
he hesitated, his chest rising and falling as he wrestled with himself, unsure if he could say the words that would change everything.
“hey.” your voice was firm yet gentle, cutting through the silence. zach’s eyes opened, hesitantly meeting yours.
“it’s me,” you said, your tone softening. “you can tell me anything, zach. you know that.”
he chewed the inside of his cheek, his jaw tightening as he tried to muster the courage to speak. “i’m so sorry, y/n,” he began, voice heavy with guilt. “i feel awful about what happened today—about you getting hurt. and then you’re here, trusting me to help you, and i’m…” he trailed off, sighing deeply as he covered his eyes with his hand. “i’m trying so hard to control myself, and it’s not okay.”
your brows furrowed as you processed his words, trying to piece together what he meant. the hesitation in his voice, the way he avoided your gaze—it all felt so unlike him.
then, as your eyes flickered downward, you noticed it. the unmistakable bulge in the fabric of his sweats. your breath hitched in realization, a soft gasp escaping your lips before you could stop it.
zach’s hand remained firmly over his eyes, his posture rigid as if bracing himself for your reaction. the room felt impossibly still, the weight of the unspoken hanging heavy in the air.
you reached up, your fingers wrapping gently around his wrist, pulling his hand away from his face. zach resisted for a moment, but when he finally let you guide him, his eyes met yours—hesitant, filled with embarrassment.
you offered him a small, reassuring smile, one that melted the tension in his features ever so slightly. without a word, you leaned in, your lips brushing softly against his in a kiss that was both hesitant and deliberate.
his brows furrowed, his body frozen for a split second, caught off guard by your sudden boldness. but then, as if a switch flipped, he responded, his hands instinctively finding your face. his touch was firm yet gentle, cradling you as he pulled you closer, deepening the kiss.
it was tender and charged all at once, a silent confession spilling between you both without the need for words. the kitchen, the guilt, the tension—it all faded into the background, leaving just the two of you, wrapped up in the moment you hadn’t realized both been waiting for.
your small hands gripped the sides of his sweater near his waist, anchoring yourself to him as his tongue slipped into your mouth without warning. the sensation sent a shiver down your spine, a soft gasp escaping your lips. every movement—every stroke of his tongue against yours, every firm tug of your hair—set your senses on fire, unraveling emotions you’d worked so hard to bury.
of course you liked zach.
you always had.
the realization hit you like a flood, overwhelming and undeniable. you had tucked those feelings deep into the corners of your heart, afraid of what would happen if zach ever found out. you couldn’t bear the thought of ruining what you had. but the truth was simple: your heart had always been his.
you loved him.
zach pulled back suddenly, breaking the kiss as both of you panted for air. his forehead rested against yours, his breath warm and ragged. “wait, wait—” he murmured, his voice low and unsteady.
you whimpered softly, a needy sound you didn’t mean to let out and his cock twitched at it. “zach, please,” you whispered, desperate to feel his lips on yours again, the taste of him still lingering.
he smiled softly, brushing a quick kiss against your lips that left you craving more. “i know, m’sorry, baby,” he murmured.
the nickname made your stomach flutter, sending a warmth through you that had nothing to do with the cozy cabin. you sighed, tilting your head to look up at him, waiting for the words that you knew were coming.
zach’s face was conflicted, his brows drawn together as he avoided your gaze for a moment. “i can’t believe i’m saying this… but we can’t tonight,” he admitted, chewing on his bottom lip in that pained way he did when he was struggling with something.
you groaned softly, the disappointment evident in your expression. your eyes softened as you saw the genuine concern etched into his face.
“i don’t want to hurt you even more,” he continued, his hand brushing lightly against your side. “and it could make your injury worse.”
“zach,” you whined, leaning your forehead against his chest, squeezing your eyes shut. “we’ll be careful,” you pleaded, your voice soft and hopeful.
you tilted your head back up, your big, pleading eyes locking with his. you knew exactly the effect they had on him, and for a second, you saw him falter. his jaw tightened as he exhaled a shaky breath, clearly battling with himself.
zach let out a defeated sigh, his resolve crumbling as he crouched down and effortlessly lifted your legs around his waist. the sudden motion made you giggle, clinging to him instinctively. “i win,” you teased breathlessly, a triumphant grin spreading across your lips.
his only response was a sly smirk before pinching your ass, making you squeal in surprise. “careful, or i might change my mind,” he murmured, his voice low and teasing as he carried you to the bed.
the soft mattress welcomed you as he laid you down gently, the warm glow of the electric fireplace casting flickering shadows across the room. the heat of the moment mirrored the cozy warmth surrounding you both.
zach slid between your thighs, his hands gripping your hips as he settled there, his aching length pressing against you in a way that made your heart race. neither of you hesitated—your lips collided in a fervent kiss, all hunger and passion, as if this moment had been years in the making. which it was.
your fingers found their way into his hair, tangling in the soft strands as you pulled him closer. his lips moved against yours with a desperation that mirrored your own, each kiss deeper, more intoxicating, than the last. it felt as if the rest of the world melted away, leaving only the two of you in the crackling warmth of the cabin.
“god, you have no idea how much i’ve wanted this,” zach murmurs against your lips, his voice a mix of hunger and longing. your response is a soft moan, quiet but fervent, that makes him press even closer.
he trails a series of slow, teasing kisses down your neck, each nip and suck prompting a sweet, aching arch from your body—until a sudden twinge in your side makes you wince. zach notices immediately, pulling back, concern flooding his eyes. “you okay?”
you nod, forcing a soft smile while trying to mask the lingering pain. you’ve waited too long for this moment and the last thing you want is for him to stop.
he studies you for a second, as if assessing whether you’re truly good, then sits back on his legs. “alright,” he says, voice calm but resolute, “this is how it’s gonna go, then. you can’t move. at all.”
your brows draw together, half-expecting him to crack a grin. but he doesn’t. he’s serious, his gaze unwavering.
“if you move,” he continues, his voice dropping lower, “or try to, i’ll stop.”
you swallow, the weight of his words and the gentle authority in his tone sending a surge of arousal low into your belly. you bite the inside of your cheek, eyes fixed on him, already imagining how you’ll manage to keep still under his touch.
“okay,” you whisper, voice steady but laced with anticipation.
zach’s fingertips skimmed over the outside of your closed thighs, his touch feather-light yet deliberate, as if savoring the moment before taking it further. you watched him through half-lidded eyes, heart thrumming in your chest. with patient care, he began to slide your pajama pants down, revealing your baby blue lace underwear.
his throat worked over a hard swallow as he took you in, jaw clenching and pulse thrumming hot beneath his skin. he could feel himself respond immediately—his cock straining against the softness of his sweats. you saw the way his eyes darkened, how that gentle composure threatened to unravel.
without a word, he eased the lace down as well, leaving you bare before him. instinctively, you kept your thighs pressed together, a final barrier of modesty even as your cheeks warmed. he paused, taking in the sight—the subtle flush on your skin—letting the tension in the air stretch taut.
his gaze flickered up to yours, intense and wordless, the warm glow of the fireplace painting both of you in golden hues that made everything feel dreamy and far removed from the outside world.
“perfect,” he whispered, the single word washing over you, making your skin prickle with a delicious heat. it was as if he saw you in a new light—something delicate and cherished. you felt the flush rise all the way from your chest to your cheeks.
he worked on the buttons of your top with gentle care, careful not to brush too roughly near your bruise. his eyes softened the moment the fabric parted, revealing the tender, discolored skin along your ribs. it was more than just concern written in his features—there was affection, regret, and a silent promise to be gentle.
before you could protest or reassure him, his head dipped down, pressing a series of soft, reverent kisses to the bruise as he eased the top off you, leaving you bare. you shivered under the weight of his tenderness, the careful attention making you feel impossibly close to him.
his fingers drifted lower along your navel, the sensitive skin prickling under his touch. he nuzzled his head beneath your jaw, encouraging you to tilt your head and grant him better access as he breathed slowly, evenly, his warm breath fanning over your throat. just as you began to surrender to the sensation of his lips on your neck, he slipped his hand further down, exploring the softness between your legs.
the first gentle slide of his fingertips through your slick folds made your jaw slacken, a quiet gasp escaping. gathering your wetness, he began to trace slow, deliberate shapes over your clit, drawing you into a heady rhythm that set every nerve alight. your body instinctively wanted to rise to meet his touch, but each time your hips started to rock forward, he’d slow his pace, lifting his gaze to give you a knowing, pointed look—reminding you of your earlier agreement.
the unspoken rule was clear: no moving. you had to let him lead, to trust him completely. caught between sweet frustration and delicious anticipation, you let out a shaky breath and let him guide your pleasure, your heart pounding in your ears.
“shit—you’re soaking,” zach groaned, voice low and strained as he picked up the pace of his fingers. each curl and slide drew out soft, breathy whimpers that spilled from your parted lips. he wore a look of intense concentration, as though memorizing every sound you made.
without warning, his middle finger pressed at your entrance before slowly sinking in, earning a strangled moan that made him nuzzle deeper into your neck. “god,” he breathed, voice muffled against your skin, “you feel so good.” you tightened around him reflexively, and he groaned, the vibration of his voice sending sparks along your spine.
straightening up, he shifted to sit back on his legs, changing the angle and giving himself a better view. he guided your knee down flat against the mattress, not just for his eyes but to ensure you couldn’t easily arch into his touch. a high, keening moan tore from your throat as he curled his finger inside you, hitting that perfect spot that sent tremors through your thighs.
you fought the urge to lift your hips, remembering his warning. still, your body trembled with the need to move, to push deeper into that intoxicating sensation. zach noticed—how could he not?—and it fueled the dark satisfaction gleaming in his eyes. he knew you were on the edge, knew how badly you wanted to give in.
meanwhile, his own restraint was wearing thin. he was hard—achingly so—and the slow, deliberate way you clenched around his finger nearly did him in. but he held back and added a second finger, pulling a sharp moan from you. if you couldn’t keep still now, how could you handle all of him inside you? this was a test of sorts, a delicious torment, and he was savoring every second.
he felt the way you clenched around his fingers, each flutter and squeeze like a plea for release. your hand gripped his wrist, desperate and trembling, but his pace never wavered. “gonna cum for me, angel?” he asked, voice heavy with anticipation.
you nodded frantically, wordless cries tumbling past your lips as he kept hitting that perfect spot inside you. the pressure built swiftly, stealing your breath, until you shattered around him. your vision went white, the world narrowing down to nothing but the pleasure he wrung from your body.
he guided you through it, not stopping until your muscles started to twitch with the first hints of overstimulation. finally, he slowed, easing you down until your body relaxed beneath him, trembling and sated.
with deliberate slowness, he withdrew his fingers, eyes locked on yours. you watched as he brought them to his mouth, his gaze never leaving your face. he sucked on the digits, tasting you the way he’d imagined a thousand times, letting out a deep, appreciative groan. the warmth of his breath on your skin, the soft glow around you both—everything felt charged and intimate, humming with the understanding that nothing would be the same between you again.
zach tugged his sweatshirt off in one smooth, hurried motion, the fabric barely brushing his skin before it landed somewhere on the floor. the urgency in his movements was unmistakable—he was desperate to feel you against him again. every nerve in his body was alight, the ache of wanting you growing more intense by the second.
with a quick push, he lowered his sweatpants and boxers together, freeing himself in one swift motion. the sight of him made your pulse stumble. he was huge—imposingly so—and the thought of taking him in had your breath catching in your throat. you tried to keep your expression neutral, but the widening of your eyes gave you away.
zach noticed. a hint of a smirk ghosted his lips as he settled himself between your thighs, his length resting hot and heavy against your abdomen. leaning down, he caught your mouth in a kiss that was both tender and all-consuming, as if he needed to show you how much he wanted you, how badly he craved this moment with you.
“it’s okay, baby,” he murmured against your lips, voice low and reassuring. “we’ll make it fit.” he pulled back slightly, just enough to watch your face as he guided his tip to your entrance. he gave himself a few slow pumps, as though trying to ease the ache and calm the racing of his own heartbeat.
your breath caught again, excitement and nervous anticipation mingling as he hovered there, every second swelling with tension and promise.
he pressed forward slowly, a careful, deliberate push that drew a ragged gasp from both of you. his forehead hovered just above yours, the soft brush of your lips more an exchange of breath than a kiss, and you tangled your fingers into his hair, gripping gently as he eased himself deeper. small, shallow strokes let you stretch around him, adjusting inch by inch.
your eyes fluttered shut, overwhelmed by the dull ache that signaled your body opening to him. he paused when he was fully sheathed, giving you time to accommodate his size. your breath caught as his pelvis brushed against your clit, sparking a low moan from your chest. then he pulled back just enough, pushing forward again to repeat the motion, sending soft ripples of pleasure through you. each gentle thrust replaced pain with gathering warmth, and you felt your body relaxing, welcoming him fully as a quiet whimper escaped your throat.
soon, the discomfort faded entirely, leaving only the sweet, humming pleasure of his movements. once he sensed the tension melt from your muscles, he began a steady, more confident rhythm. a subtle shift in angle, and before long, he had your legs wrapped around his waist, granting him deeper access. the pace picked up, each thrust punctuated by the soft slap of skin and echoed moans that drifted through the room.
you couldn’t hold back a curse at the intensity of it all—his body pressed to yours, filling you so completely, his breathing mixing with yours in frantic, needy staccato. it was raw and intoxicating, the two of you lost in the moment, in each other.
“mm, s’ so deep,” you whimpered, voice catching as you glanced down between your bodies. the sight of him disappearing into you with each thrust made your stomach flutter, your walls gripping him tightly.
zach’s breathing turned ragged, trying to maintain enough control to keep you safe and comfortable. but the temptation was too strong, and he gave a particularly sharp thrust, testing your reaction. you yelped, not in pain but in startled pleasure, and he felt you clench around him in response. encouraged, he repeated it until you were left hiccuping between sobs of bliss, every stroke drawing you closer to that sweet oblivion.
“i know, baby,” he murmured, voice thick with need. leaning down, he braced himself and brought his hand between your bodies, fingers finding your clit. he stroked firm, fast circles, determined to send you over the edge first. your nails raked along his shoulders, your breath hitching with each spiral of sensation. the coil in your belly tightened, ready to snap, as he coaxed you closer and closer toward that shattering release.
“—zach,” you warned, voice thin and strained. his response was a low, desperate moan, fingers and hips working in tandem, never giving you a moment’s respite. every thrust felt deeper than the last, his fingertips circling that swollen, sensitive spot until you were on the verge of unraveling completely.
“c’mon, baby,” he coaxed, voice rough and urgent. “soak me. i wanna feel it.” his pace quickened, hips snapping forward, and you gasped as a wave of pleasure hit you hard and fast. your walls clamped down around him, body arching, a silent scream caught in your throat as you were hurled headfirst into bliss.
zach kept moving, guiding you through the aftershocks, his cock dragging through your pulsing muscles as you trembled beneath him. your moans tumbled into whimpers, every nerve still singing with overstimulation. your fingers curled into his shoulders, breath coming in ragged gasps. “please cum inside me,” you begged, voice shaky and raw, desperate to feel him follow you into that world of sensation.
you felt him stiffen, his rhythm faltering as he pressed closer, every breath hot against your ear. with a low, guttural moan, he finally let go, hips rolling gently as he filled you, warmth spreading with each soft pulse. you could feel it, the tension draining from his body, leaving both of you weightless and sated.
his forehead dipped into the crook of your neck, lips pressing languid, grateful kisses against your skin. he was careful with his weight, mindful of your injury and the tenderness in your body, as both of you lingered in the lingering glow. your breaths intermingled, still coming in soft, uneven gasps as you drifted down from that blissful high.
after a moment, he slowly pulled out, making you both hiss quietly at the sensitivity. he rolled onto his side, immediately reaching for you and covering both of your cooling bodies with the duvet. you shifted to face him, still a little breathless, your eyes meeting as he pressed a gentle kiss to your forehead.
“hi,” you managed, voice husky and soft, a small, contented smile curving your lips.
a quiet laugh escaped him, his arm moving soothingly up and down your back. “hey,” he replied, voice deep and warm, as if speaking in a secret language only the two of you understood.
“i don’t think i told you this earlier but…” you begin, voice soft and cautious as you search for the right words. “i’m all in, zach.” your heart is pounding in your ears, and you’re pretty sure he can feel it where he’s pressed close to you under the duvet.
zach’s eyes soften, a gentle smile curving his lips. the slight crinkle at the corners of his eyes gives away his relief. you draw a shaky breath, forging ahead. “i feel like you know you’ve always been it for me. or even if you didn’t, i did. you’re my endgame.”
you’re watching him carefully, looking for any flicker of doubt or hesitation, but all you see is the same warmth and affection you’ve been craving for years.
he doesn’t say a word at first, just leans in and kisses you—slow and deliberate, a silent promise pressed softly into your lips. then he moves along your cheek, brushing your skin with tender pecks, and keeps going until you’re giggling, trying to squirm away from his playful assault of affection.
when he finally pulls back, both of you breathless with laughter, he meets your gaze head-on. “i’ve always loved you, y/n,” he says, voice steady and sure. “you’re it for me.”
your heart swells, and you think you’ve never been happier than in this very moment, wrapped up in his arms, secure in the certainty of what comes next.
for the rest of the night, you and zach drifted in and out of conversation—those familiar, meandering chats that never really needed a point—punctuated by soft laughter and sweet nothings murmured into the darkness. in the quiet spaces, you made love again and again, as if making up for all the time lost.
the next morning, you woke to find the bed empty. you stretched, the slight ache in your side a warm reminder of the day before. slipping into zach’s sweater and a pair of sleep shorts, you followed the glow of holiday lights out of the bedroom. as you reached the upstairs landing, your eyes widened at the transformation: the entire cabin, from the top floor down, was strung with festive garlands, sparkling ornaments, and twinkling lights.
a fond smile curved on your lips as you descended the stairs, drawn toward the kitchen by soft clinks and muffled curses. rounding the corner, you spotted zach at the stove, his back to you, clearly wrestling with some culinary experiment. “morning,” you said, leaning your elbows on the island.
he turned quickly, an anxious frown on his face. “did i wake you?” he asked, only to relax when you shook your head. you slipped behind the island to join him, his arms sliding around your waist as you took in the sight of eggs and batter, a haphazard attempt at breakfast. “wanted to surprise you,” he murmured into your hair. you giggled, pressing a kiss to his cheek in thanks.
“good morning, baby,” zach said softly, smiling down at you.
just then, the front door swung open. in came both sets of parents and a handful of siblings, chatter and laughter echoing off the wood-paneled walls. “hello, hello!” your mom’s voice rang out. before you and zach could step apart or even explain yourselves, she rounded the corner into the kitchen. the scene she found: zach nuzzling your neck, you murmuring about how sweet he was being, both of you bathed in the soft glow of holiday lights.
you froze, cheeks flushing, while zach’s arms tightened protectively around you. your families, already grinning from the doorway, seemed more than pleased to discover the truth you’d both been too shy to admit—until now.
“alright, i called it! everyone cough it up!” avery, zach’s little sister, crowed triumphantly. your families groaned in unison, each one reluctantly digging into their pockets to hand over five dollars. avery quickly amassed thirty bucks in her palm, grinning from ear to ear.
you and zach exchanged a look, trying and failing to stifle your laughter before pulling apart and greeting everyone properly. you embraced each of them in turn, still a bit stunned to see them all here a day early. the cabin brimmed with the scent of pine, hot chocolate, and something baking in the oven—warmth and comfort encapsulated in one cozy scene.
for the remainder of your winter break, you and zach reveled in that feeling of family and togetherness. your days filled with laughter echoing off the wooden walls, good-natured bickering with siblings over board games, and playful teasing from your parents that had both of you blushing more than once. above all, there was the gentle thrill of reaching for zach’s hand under the table, catching his eye across the room, and feeling love wrapped around you like a warm blanket against the cold outside.
“you’re a fucking idiot,” kie says through a burst of laughter, watching jj attempt to shotgun two beers at once. instead of drinking, most of the beer spills straight onto the sand, leaving him grinning like it was all part of the plan.
a soft giggle slips past your lips as jj smashes the crushed cans together dramatically, then thumps his chest like he just pulled off something incredible—even though he couldn’t have failed more miserably.
you shake your head, pointing at the two crushed cans lying in the sand. “don’t give him any more if he’s gonna pull shit like that!” you say, half-serious, half-amused.
jj’s grin fades into a mock frown, his brows furrowing as he throws his hands up dramatically. “what? i was just getting started!” he protests, though the beer-soaked sand beneath him says otherwise.
you roll your eyes, ready to fire back at jj, when the vibration of your phone in your hand distracts you. the name on the screen makes your stomach flip, and you bite down on your bottom lip, fighting to keep a smile from slipping out where your friends could see.
kook devil: wya?
you: beach kickback on the cut
kook devil: omw
this time, the smile wins. you glance down at the screen, the corners of your lips tugging upward despite yourself. it wasn’t the first time rafe cameron had texted you late at night, asking where you were. but no one else knew that. and you weren’t about to admit it to anyone—especially not to your friends.
friends who hated kooks with a passion. and everything, and everyone, that came with them.
“what are you smiling at?” sarah asks, her voice light but laced with curiosity, as she and john b stroll over, his arm draped casually over her shoulders. her amused grin only makes you more nervous.
you lock your phone instantly, still smiling but scrambling for an excuse. “my package just got delivered,” you say quickly, trying to sound nonchalant.
sarah hums in response, the suspicion in her tone subtle but enough to make your stomach tighten. you don’t notice, too busy avoiding eye contact and silently thanking the chaos that erupts when jj and pope start arguing about something ridiculous, as usual.
you knew what you were doing was wrong. so wrong, especially to sarah. if she ever found out you and rafe were hooking up behind everyone’s backs, she’d lose it. they all would. and not just because he’s a kook.
it’s because he’s rafe fucking cameron.
it was kind of a blur how it all started with rafe. you remember being at a party—not sure if it was here on the beach or in figure 8—but of course, he was there, lingering in the crowd. all night, his eyes kept finding yours, holding your gaze just a little too long.
a couple of tequila shots later, you found yourself in his truck, attempting to ride him as he fucked you senseless, leaving you a trembling mess of moans and breathless curses.
ever since that night, you’d fallen into a rhythm—friends with benefits, if you could even call it that. except you weren’t friends. not even close.
you and rafe both knew the deal—just sex, no strings attached. it was made clear the second time you hooked up. after somehow getting your number, rafe texted you at 1 a.m. asking to meet. if it had been anyone else, you would’ve said no without a second thought. but rafe cameron always gets what he wants.
afterward, it was rafe who spelled it out: just sex, nothing more. and you agreed, even though the words stung more than you cared to admit. you told yourself you were fine with it, hoping that maybe, just maybe, if you played along long enough, he’d change his mind.
except he hasn’t.
and what really reeled you in was just the other day, you spotted him on the golf course with stacy thornton, topper’s cousin of all people. and of course he knew you’d see him—you work the country club as a bev girl. how could you not?
still, you swallowed the lump in your throat, pretending not to care even as your chest tightened. you quietly asked a coworker to handle his table, murmuring something about being swamped, and then buried yourself in busywork to avoid the sting of watching him laugh with her.
since that day, he hasn’t called or texted. not a word. until tonight.
because surely, stacy was busy.
“yo, y/n! come shotgun a beer with us!” kie and sarah call out, snapping you out of your thoughts. you force a small smile, pushing everything about rafe to the back of your mind as you stand up from the driftwood branch you’d been perched on. joining your girls, you grab a beer and do your best to play along.
as the night rolls on, the beach fills up with more people—kooks, pogues, and everyone in between. the music gets louder, and the air becomes a chaotic mix of laughter, shouting, and waves crashing in the background. drunk teenagers stagger through the sand, passing bottles and shots around, but so far, there haven’t been any issues. yet.
but you know how these nights go. when kooks and pogues show up to the same party, trouble is inevitable. it’s only a matter of time before someone says or does something to spark it. like clockwork.
bright headlights pierce through the darkness, momentarily blinding you as a familiar truck pulls onto the beach. your stomach tightens at the sight, but you force yourself to stay calm, laughing along with your friends as if you hadn’t noticed. even as the kooks around you start murmuring and shouting, announcing rafe’s arrival, you keep your eyes anywhere but on him.
your gaze flicks to sarah, catching the way her jaw tightens when she sees her older brother greeting her old friends with effortless charm. the tension is palpable. it’s no secret that sarah and rafe are far from good terms, and the thought of what she’d do if she ever found out about you and him is enough to make your chest ache. she’d hate you—no question about it.
and you didn’t want that. not now, not ever. so tonight, with enough liquid courage coursing through your veins, you’d finally do it. you’d end whatever this thing was with rafe. it was time. it had to be.
“hey, sweetheart,” jj slurs, suddenly draping an arm over your shoulders, his familiar, lopsided grin plastered across his face. the smell of alcohol lingers on his breath, and you can’t help but laugh. drunk jj was always clingy and affectionate, a far cry from his usual chaotic self.
“how are you? you good?” he asks, his voice softer than usual, his blue eyes lazily scanning your face for any hint of something wrong.
you nod, patting his knee where it rests against yours. “i’m fine, jay. what about you? having fun?”
he grins wider, squeezing your shoulder as if to reassure you. “always. especially now that you’re here.” his words are lighthearted, but his presence, warm and grounding, makes the knot in your stomach ease just a little.
“don’t start something you can’t finish, maybank,” you tease, your tone playful, something that’s always been a part of your dynamic with jj. it was harmless, never anything more than friendly banter. jj was like a brother to you, and you both knew it.
his smirk widens, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “oh, i always finish what i start,” he shoots back, his voice dripping with mock confidence. the comment makes heat rise to your cheeks despite yourself, and you nudge his side with a laugh.
“relax, jj,” you say, still grinning, but he just laughs along with you, clearly enjoying your reaction.
then his tone drops, more conspiratorial now, as he leans in closer. “can i tell you a secret?” he slurs, his voice low and exaggeratedly serious.
you play along, tilting your head toward him as he cups a hand over his mouth like he’s sharing classified information. “i’m so drunk right now,” he whispers dramatically.
a laugh bursts out of you, louder than you intended, as you push him off of you. “no shit, jay,” you say through your giggles, watching him sway slightly before laughing along with you. moments like these made everything feel lighter, even with the weight of everything else hanging in the air.
suddenly, the laughter dies in your throat as a familiar voice cuts through the noise, instantly tightening the tension in your shoulders. “i wanna laugh too,” rafe drawls, his tone sharp and laced with something dangerous.
your head snaps up, and sure enough, there he is, standing a few feet away with his hands casually stuffed into his pockets. but his stare is locked on you, unwavering, intense. your stomach churns as you quickly look away, pretending not to notice.
“what are you doing here, rafe?” sarah asks, her voice cold as ice, glaring at her brother like she wanted him gone before he could stir up trouble.
he shrugs nonchalantly, though the slight clench in his jaw betrays his calm demeanor. “well, last time i checked, you don’t own the beach, sarah,” he retorts, his tone sharp enough to cut. the sunset casts a fiery glow on his face, highlighting the tension in his features. he’s angry—at what, you don’t know, but it’s obvious.
sarah opens her mouth to snap back, but before she can, jj suddenly stands to his feet, his drunken bravado kicking in full force. “what’s your problem, man?” he slurs, his voice rising as he steps forward, shoulders squared like he’s ready to fight.
your heart pounds in your chest as the energy shifts sharply, the tension coiling tighter with every second. it’s like the whole beach can feel it, the calm before the inevitable storm. you glance around nervously, noticing the kooks starting to make their way over, drawn by the brewing conflict like moths to a flame.
what had been your comfortable little corner with your friends now feels suffocating as more and more people gather, the divide between kooks and pogues growing thicker with every step they take. rafe doesn’t move, his stance unbothered but his eyes flickering with something unreadable as they dart between jj and you.
you can hear your friends muttering behind you, tension spreading like wildfire. this wasn’t going to end well—you could feel it in your bones.
john b, ever the peacekeeper, steps in with a steady hand on jj’s shoulder, giving it a calming squeeze. “hey, bro, take a walk,” he says softly, his tone measured, trying to de-escalate before things spiral further.
but jj shakes his head, his expression twisting with frustration. “nah, nah, nah,” he says, shrugging john b’s hand off. his voice is louder now, sharp and angry, fueled by alcohol and pent-up resentment. “i’m so tired of these fuck-ass kooks ruining our fun. everything was fine before they got here.”
he turns to rafe, his eyes blazing with defiance. “so answer the damn question, rafe. what the fuck is your problem?”
the words hang in the air, cutting through the murmur of onlookers as more kooks and pogues close in around you, their postures rigid and ready for whatever’s about to unfold. the tension is suffocating, thick enough to choke on. your stomach twists as you glance between jj, who’s practically vibrating with anger, and rafe, whose jaw is locked, his eyes dark and unreadable.
rafe suddenly lets out a low, humorless laugh, shaking his head like he can’t believe what he’s hearing. he swipes a finger under his nose, his signature tell that trouble is coming. before anyone can react, he steps forward and throws a punch, his fist connecting squarely with jj’s jaw.
the sound of the hit echoes over the beach, silencing the chatter and gasps from the growing crowd. jj stumbles back, catching himself before falling, his hand flying up to his face as he spits blood into the sand.
“you’ve gotta be fucking kidding me,” john b mutters, stepping between them instinctively, trying to keep jj from lunging forward. but jj’s already shaking with rage, shoving john b aside as the crowd erupts around you.
the once calm beach party turns chaotic, the tension finally snapping into chaos, and you’re frozen in the middle of it all, unsure of what to do as your heart pounds in your chest.
mayhem erupts around you as everyone starts shouting, the noise almost deafening. jj and rafe are swinging at each other, fists flying with raw anger. john b and topper try to break it up, but their own simmering tensions (sarah cameron) boil over, and soon enough, they’re throwing punches at each other too.
“alright! alright!” you, sarah, and kie yell, your voices cutting through the chaos as you rush in, desperately trying to pull the four boys apart. it’s a mess of flailing arms, insults, and drunken fury, but with the help of the other pogues and even a few kooks who seem equally tired of the drama, you finally manage to separate them.
jj stands a few feet away now, chest heaving as he wipes blood from his lip, glaring daggers at rafe. rafe, meanwhile, is being restrained by two kooks, his jaw tight and his eyes locked on jj like he’s ready to go again at any second. john b and topper aren’t much better, breathing heavily and throwing venomous insults back and forth as they’re held apart.
you step back, your heart still racing as the crowd buzzes with murmurs and tension, the air thick and electric. this was far from over, and you could feel it.
“yeah, stay the fuck off our side of the island!” jj yells, his voice sharp and unwavering as the kooks start retreating. rafe lingers, of course, making direct eye contact with you. his gaze burns, but you glare right back, your frustration simmering beneath the surface. whatever you needed to say to him was definitely happening tonight after the shit he just pulled.
“take jj to the chateau. i think there’s a first aid kit in the bathroom,” john b instructs kie and pope, his tone calm but firm. they nod, each grabbing one of jj’s arms to help guide him away. jj, still riled up, mutters under his breath about how much of a pussy rafe is, his words slurring slightly from the drinks and adrenaline.
sarah walks over to you, concern etched across her face. “hey, you okay?” she asks gently. her voice is soft, but the sincerity in her eyes almost undoes you. you nod quickly, blinking back the tears threatening to spill over.
“yeah, i’m fine. just anxious,” you respond, your voice steady enough to sound convincing. it’s not entirely a lie, but it’s far from the whole truth. sarah offers you a small, understanding smile, her hand rubbing your arm soothingly.
“coming?” she asks, gesturing toward john b, who’s waiting for her a few feet away.
“i think i’m just gonna head home,” you say, your voice a little rushed. “my mom texted—she got off work early, so…” you let the excuse hang in the air, hoping it’s enough.
sarah nods slowly, her eyes flickering with a mix of understanding and suspicion. “john b and i can walk you,” she offers.
“no, it’s okay. i kinda need a moment,” you reply quickly, your voice firmer this time. you hold your breath as her gaze lingers on you, studying you for a beat too long. but thankfully, she doesn’t press it.
“okay, babe,” she says finally, her concern softening into a warm smile. “let me know when you get home, yeah?”
you nod, watching as she walks back toward john b, the two of them eventually disappearing into the growing shadows. only when they’re far enough away do you exhale, the weight of the night pressing heavy on your chest.
with one last glance at the party starting to settle back down, you turn and walk in the opposite direction, knowing exactly where you’re going—and who you’re going to face.
you make your way over to the truck, its headlights dim now but still parked exactly where he left it. crossing your arms over your chest, you lean against the back door of the truck, waiting. it’s quiet here, tucked away from the rest of the beach where no one can see you.
the sound of approaching footsteps pulls your attention, and there he is. rafe cameron, calm and collected as ever, despite the chaos he caused. he’s holding a red solo cup against his cheekbone, the faintest shadow of a bruise forming. but even so, you have to admit—he doesn’t look nearly as bad as jj does. of course he doesn’t.
his eyes meet yours, and for a moment, neither of you say anything. the tension between you is thicker than ever, the air heavy with unspoken words. you take a deep breath, preparing yourself for what you came here to do.
“i can’t see you anymore, rafe,” you say, finally breaking the silence. your voice is firm, but you can feel the ache behind the words, threatening to betray you.
rafe doesn’t move. instead, a small, almost smug smile quirks at the corner of his lips. “get in the truck,” he says, his tone low and even, like it’s not up for debate.
your brows knit together, your frustration bubbling up. did he not hear you? or worse, did he just not care? “no, rafe,” you snap, shaking your head. “what you did today—” you pause, letting out a sharp sigh as the memories replay in your mind. your gaze shifts over his shoulder to the road, watching cars pass by, their headlights a welcome distraction. “you hurt my friends,” you continue, your voice quieter now but still steady. “i care a lot about my friends. and that shit you pulled back there?” you point toward the spot on the beach where the chaos unfolded, the tension still lingering in the air. “wasn’t cool.”
rafe follows your gesture with a glance, his expression unreadable. but when his eyes flick back to you, there’s something in them—something dangerous, something unshaken. he doesn’t respond, just waits, like he knows you’re not finished yet.
“why would you do that?” your voice cracks despite your best effort to keep it steady. the words hang heavy in the air, and you curse softly under your breath, furious with yourself for letting your emotions bubble over. you promised you wouldn’t let him see you like this—wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing you cry. but now, the tears are pricking at the corners of your eyes, threatening to spill.
rafe’s face doesn’t change, his jaw tight but his expression otherwise calm, almost detached. it’s like he’s weighing his words, deciding what to say—or if he’ll even bother answering at all. the silence feels suffocating, the weight of everything unsaid pressing down on your chest.
“are you fucking him?” rafe finally speaks, his voice low and steady, but the accusation behind the words hits you like a slap. you stare at him, wide-eyed, like he’s just grown three heads.
a laugh of disbelief escapes you as you shake your head, running a hand through your hair to keep yourself from losing it. “are you serious right now?” you ask, your voice teetering between anger and shock.
“are you?” he presses, his tone sharper this time, his eyes locked on yours, unrelenting.
“oh my god,” you mutter, another laugh bubbling out, this one laced with frustration. “is that why you did that? you think i’ve been fucking one of my best friends? are you shitting me, rafe?” you shake your head again, the absurdity of the accusation almost too much to handle.
he doesn’t flinch, doesn’t back down, his gaze still burning into yours like he’s waiting for you to crack. but you don’t—at least, not yet.
“well, since we’re just accusing each other of shit now,” you say, your voice sharp as a knife, “how’s stacy doing?” your eyes flicker between his, and just like you predicted, his confidence falters. there’s a moment—a flicker—where his gaze drops, and you pounce. “i assume she was busy tonight, right? that why you texted me?”
“what the fuck are you talking about?” rafe snaps, his chest rising and falling heavily as he steps closer, his frustration spilling over.
“oh, don’t give me that shit, rafe,” you fire back, crossing your arms tightly over your chest. your eyes dart away from his, landing anywhere but on him. “i saw you at the country club,” you continue, your voice cold, the memory still fresh.
his jaw tightens, but he doesn’t say anything, and the silence only fuels your anger. “and even then,” you add, spinning back to face him, your words cutting like glass, “what if i am fucking jj? what is it to you? you’re the one who said no strings attached, right?”
you see the way his nostrils flare, his jaw clenching so tightly you think it might snap. his eyes darken, and you know exactly what he’s thinking—the thought of jj seeing you the way rafe has, touching you, hearing the sounds you make. it’s killing him. but he won’t say it. not out loud.
“you’re mad, rafe,” you say, your voice quieter now but still firm. “but you don’t get to be. not after the rules you set.”
you push past him, deciding you were done—done with the accusations, the games, all of it. but, of course, you don’t get far. rafe’s hand closes firmly around your wrist, yanking you back toward him with enough force that you stumble. before you can steady yourself, you collide with his chest, the hard press of muscle against you taking your breath away.
his lips crash against yours without warning, rough and demanding, pulling a shocked gasp from your lips. the intensity of it sends a jolt through you, but it’s not enough to freeze you in place. your fists fly up, pushing hard against his chest, trying to shove him off.
“rafe,” you manage, your voice muffled against his lips, but it’s like he doesn’t even hear you. instead, your resistance only seems to fuel him, his free hand sliding up to wrap around your neck, not too tight, but firm enough to hold you there.
his lips move hungrily against yours, his breath hot, his grip unwavering. you can feel the frustration, the anger, and something else tangled in the way he kisses you—something you can’t name, something overwhelming. your heart races, torn between wanting to fight and the way your body reacts instinctively to his touch.
you hated it. hated how easily your body betrayed you, handing itself over to him without a second thought. and the worst part? rafe knew it too. he always did.
he used it to his advantage every time, just like now. the second your resistance began to falter, the tension in your fists loosening as your body instinctively softened against his, that familiar smug smile tugged at the corners of his lips. he could feel it—the way your resolve was slipping, the way the pull between you was overtaking every logical thought in your mind.
the familiarity of him started to seep through, clouding the anger that had burned so brightly just moments ago. rafe’s grip on your neck relaxed slightly, his fingers brushing your skin like he had all the time in the world, as if he wasn’t the reason you’d wanted to end this in the first place.
and god, you hated him for it. but you hated yourself even more. no matter how much you told yourself to walk away, to end it, your body always seemed to betray you the moment his hands were on you.
before you even realized what was happening, you were in the back seat of rafe’s truck, straddling his lap. his hands gripped your hips with bruising force, guiding your movements as you instinctively rolled against him. the friction of his hardened, clothed cock pressing against you sent shivers up your spine, a traitorous whimper slipping past your lips.
his breath was hot against your neck, his lips brushing your skin as he let out a low groan of satisfaction. you hated how easily he got to you, how the anger you felt just moments ago melted into something entirely different. but no matter how much you wanted to stop, your body moved on its own, craving the familiarity of him, the intensity only he could give you.
his hands move from gripping your hips to trailing up your back, his fingers deftly finding the string of your bikini top. with a quick tug, the knot unravels, and the fabric falls between you, exposing your chest to the cool night air. the intimate sound of your breathing mixes with the muffled noise of the distant beach party, but all you can focus on is him.
rafe wastes no time, leaning in to pepper kisses across your chest. each press of his lips ignites a trail of goosebumps on your skin, the sensation making you arch closer to him. his mouth finds one of your hardened nipples, pulling it into his mouth as his hand cups the other, his fingers teasing and rolling with practiced precision.
a moan slips from your lips, filling the still air around you. rafe hums in satisfaction, his hot breath fanning against your sensitive skin. his grip on you tightens as he continues, clearly intent on drawing every reaction out of you that he can.
“fuck, i missed you,” he breathes, his voice low and ragged as he pulls back just enough to let the words slip past his lips. before you can even process them, his mouth is back on you, his lips and tongue working their way across your skin, pulling a broken whimper from your throat.
you shake your head weakly, your fingers gripping his shoulders, trying to ground yourself. “no, you didn’t,” you whisper, your voice trembling, the words more of a desperate plea than an accusation.
rafe pauses, his lips hovering over your collarbone. his hands tighten their hold on your waist, pulling you impossibly closer as he meets your gaze, his blue eyes blown out. “yes, i did,” he mutters, his tone firm, almost defensive, before dipping his head back down to kiss you again, as if he could erase the doubt you so clearly feel.
with one hand, he makes quick work of the button on your shorts, pulling them down just enough to give himself better access. his hand slips past the waistband of your bikini bottoms, his fingers brushing against your heated skin. the low groan that escapes his lips when he feels how soaked you are sends a jolt of heat straight through you.
“not surprising,” he mutters against your lips, his voice thick with smug satisfaction.
you gasp, your head falling back slightly as his fingers glide through your folds, gathering your arousal before starting slow, deliberate circles against your clit. the sensation sparks through you, making your hips instinctively rock against his hand, chasing the friction.
rafe’s smirk deepens as he watches you, his free hand gripping your waist tighter to keep you steady. “that’s it, pretty girl,” he murmurs, his voice low and gravelly, dripping with control. “just like that.”
a moan escapes your lips when his fingers pick up their pace, his breathing becoming heavier against your neck. “think that pogue could get you to cum like i can, huh?” he taunts, his words cutting through the haze of pleasure. before you can respond, his fingers dip into your entrance, filling you to where you feel the cold metal ring wrapped around his finger, while his thumb presses firmly against your clit. the double stimulation sends a shockwave through you, your hands fisting his shirt as you struggle to stifle the moans threatening to spill out.
you bite down hard on your lip, trying not to give him the satisfaction he craves, but it’s so hard—he knows your body too well.
“i know he can,” you finally manage to retort, your voice breathless but defiant. the second the words leave your mouth, you see it—the flicker of rage that darkens his eyes. his movements grow rougher, more deliberate, as if he’s determined to make you eat your words.
you sob out a moan, your body trembling as his pace remains relentless, refusing to give you even a second to catch your breath. “the fuck he can,” he growls, his voice low and feral, watching with a smug satisfaction as you struggle to keep yourself upright. his smirk deepens as he leans in, capturing your lips in a bruising kiss, all teeth and desperation, swallowing your broken cries.
your hands cling to his shoulders as waves of pleasure crash through you, your body arching into his touch. his fingers work you expertly, his movements precise and unyielding as he pushes you closer and closer to the edge, your breaths coming out in ragged gasps.
“c’mon, baby,” he murmurs against your lips, his voice rough and dripping with desperation. “let me hear you.” his words send a shiver down your spine, and you feel yourself teetering on the brink, unable to hold back any longer.
you feel yourself start to convulse around his fingers, your body trembling as a broken cry tears from your lips. the waves of your orgasm crash over you, leaving you breathless and weak. rafe keeps going, his fingers guiding you through every pulse of pleasure, not stopping until your body begins to twitch with hints of overstimulation. but there’s no tenderness in it—not that you deserved any, not after what you said.
your earlier comment still burned in his mind, fueling a fire in his chest, the thought of you with jj maybank making him see red. it wasn’t about trust—it was about possession, and rafe couldn’t stand the idea of someone else touching what he considered his.
without warning, he grabs your waist and flips you around, pressing your head against the leather seat, your ass in the air. your shorts and bikini bottoms are gone in one swift motion, leaving you completely exposed. you barely have time to react before you hear the sound of his zipper, his own clothes hitting the floor of the truck in a mess.
“you wanna talk about jj?” he growls, his voice low and dripping with frustration as he positions himself at your entrance, the heat of him pressing against you. “let’s see if you’re still thinking about him when I’m done with you.”
before you can process his words, he thrusts into you without warning, burying himself to the hilt in one swift, punishing motion. the stretch is overwhelming, a cry slipping from your lips, quickly muffled as you press your face into the seat.
rafe doesn’t give you a moment to adjust, setting a relentless, eye-rolling pace that has your body jolting with every thrust. his hands grip your waist tightly, pulling you back to meet each snap of his hips, his frustration evident in the way he moves.
“you feel that?” he mutters, his voice rough and breathless as he leans over you, his chest grazing your back. “that’s all me. no one else, you hear me?” his words mix with the sound of skin against skin, every syllable driving him deeper, leaving you a trembling mess beneath him.
you nod dumbly, unable to form words as your body reacts to his every movement. a gasp tears from your lips when his arm snakes around your neck, pulling you upright slightly and holding you firmly in place. the pressure makes your head spin, amplifying every sensation coursing through your body.
the truck fills with the obscene sounds of wet slaps and desperate moans, each one louder than the last. your cries mix with rafe’s rough groans, the intensity between you reaching a fever pitch. you briefly thank your lucky stars that his truck has fully blacked-out windows, shielding this mess of tangled limbs and raw need from prying eyes.
rafe moans in your ear, his voice thick with possession, his breath hot against your skin. “all mine. no one else gets to have you like this.” his pace never falters, every thrust pushing you closer to the edge again, leaving you gasping and trembling under his control.
just when you think the pleasure is close to consuming you whole, rafe’s fingers snake down between your thighs, finding your clit with infuriating precision. he rubs quick, tight circles, the added sensation pulling a choked cry from your lips as your body jerks in response.
your arm flings back instinctively, your hand finding the back of his neck, clutching onto him desperately as if he’s the only thing keeping you upright. his breath is hot against your ear, ragged and uneven, matching the force of his thrusts.
“fuck, baby,” he groans softly, his voice laced with satisfaction as he feels you trembling against him. “you’re gonna cum, aren’t you?”
“rafe—“ you moan, your grip on his neck tightening as the overwhelming mix of sensations sends you spiraling, your body teetering on the brink. every snap of his hips, every movement of his fingers, pushes you closer, the pleasure crashing over you in waves as you fight to keep from collapsing back into the seat.
your body trembles uncontrollably as the wave of pleasure crashes over you, your walls tightening around him with a vice-like grip. rafe grunts, his breath ragged and uneven as he feels you squeezing him, the sensation tipping him over the edge.
“shit,” he moans, his voice low and strained, giving one last stuttered thrust before he stills, his release spilling into you. the warmth of him floods your core, the weight of his body pressing against yours as he rides out his high, panting heavily into the crook of your neck.
the air in the truck is thick, the only sounds now the mingling of your heavy breathing and the faint hum of the world outside—so distant it feels like it doesn’t even exist. rafe’s hand loosens its hold on your hip along with the arm around your neck, his thumb lazily brushing your skin as he finally starts to come down.
rafe’s forehead, damp with sweat, rests against your shoulder for a moment as he catches his breath. Slowly, he pulls out of you, leaving you trembling and weak-kneed. Sensing it, he carefully guides you to sit on the seat, his touch surprisingly gentle now, as if trying not to shatter the fragile silence between you.
but it doesn’t last long. the haze starts to lift, post-sex clarity hitting you like a wave. your heart pounds—not from pleasure anymore, but from the weight of everything that just happened. you don’t look at him, don’t say a word. instead, you scramble off the seat, your eyes scanning the floor of the truck as you rush to gather your clothes. the humid air clings to your skin, suffocating you, making it feel like the walls of the truck are closing in.
“y/n,” rafe starts, his voice softer now, but you don’t respond, just shake your head. You tug your shorts on with shaky hands, your bikini top still tangled in your grasp as you turn your back to him, your only thought being how fast you can get out of this damn truck.
as soon as you adjust your bikini top, you’re scrambling for the door handle, slipping out of the truck as quickly as you can. the door slams shut behind you with a loud thud, cutting off the heavy silence inside. rafe’s voice calls after you, his tone somewhere between frustration and confusion, but you don’t look back. you don’t even slow down.
his words echo faintly in the humid night air as you trudge across the sand, but you block them out, your heartbeat pounding in your ears.
you hated yourself in this moment—really hated yourself. how could you be so weak? jj was probably back at the chateau right now, an ice pack pressed to his bruised face, joking it off like he always did. meanwhile, you were here, tangled up with the very person responsible for putting him there.
it made your stomach twist. you felt pathetic.
the guilt gnawed at you, making every step away from that truck feel heavier, like you were sinking further into something you didn’t know how to escape. you wrap your arms around yourself, the night air cold against your skin, and silently vow—never again.
as you step into your home, the soft glow of the television catches your eye. your mom is asleep on the couch, the faint sound of some late-night show playing in the background. you pause, the sight of her peaceful face tugging at something inside you. quietly, you grab the nearest blanket and drape it over her, tucking it gently around her frame before turning off the TV.
you make your way to your room, your body heavy with exhaustion. pulling out your phone, the screen lights up with countless missed calls and texts—all from him. rafe’s name stares back at you, the words call me back and where did you go? flashing among the messages. with a sigh, you open the contact and quickly silence his notifications. blocking him would feel too final, too harsh, and you know it wouldn’t stop him anyway. rafe knew where to find you—where you lived, where you spent your time, even your favorite food spot. blocking him would only provoke him further.
you drop your phone on the bed and head straight for the bathroom, turning the shower dial as cold as it would go. the icy water hits your skin like needles, but you welcome it, hoping it’ll wash away everything—his touch, his words, the feeling of his hands on your body.
but no matter how long you stand there, no matter how hard you scrub, the memories resurface, unrelenting. the way he looked at you. the sound of his voice. the pull he always had on you. you press your forehead against the cool tile, biting back the emotions threatening to overwhelm you.
how did it get this far?
the muffled vibration of your phone stirs you from sleep, the name sarah 🐚 lighting up the screen. groaning, you fumble for the phone and press it to your ear, voice still thick with sleep. “hell—”
“is it true?” sarah’s voice crackles through the static, sharp and tense, jolting you fully awake. your eyes shoot open, the confusion and dread hitting you all at once.
“sarah, what—” you begin, but she doesn’t let you finish.
“got it,” she says curtly, and before you can protest, the line goes dead.
you pull the phone away from your ear, staring at the dark screen as if it could offer you answers. confusion twists in your chest, but then you see it—a new message notification from her.
your hands tremble slightly as you unlock your phone and click the message. the screen shifts to a video file, sent from an anonymous number. you hesitate, the dread creeping up your spine like ice, but you press play.
the blood drains from your face as the video begins. it’s you—you and rafe. the footage is grainy, but it’s unmistakable. you see yourself pressed against the back door of his truck, his hands gripping you as you melt into the heated kiss. the angle shifts slightly, shaky and invasive, capturing the moment he pushes you inside the truck. and then—cut.
the video ends abruptly, leaving you staring at the black screen, your heart racing so hard you can feel it in your throat. you drop the phone onto your bed, your blood running cold as the weight of it crashes over you.
someone had seen. someone knew. and now sarah did too.
𝜗𝜚 Summary : rafe finds sarah's best friend sitting in her room after she sneaks out to see her boyfriend, topper, and offers to keep her busy while teaching her something new.
𝜗𝜚 words : 2.5k
𝜗𝜚 c!w : weed, smoking, drvgs, suggestive.
part 2. part 3.
by the time sarah had re-entered her own bedroom, you were laying on your back across her bed, twisting your hair above your face, absentmindedly playing with the strands.
"i have a favour to ask." upon hearing your best friend's voice, you turned so you were laying on your stomach.
you liked having sleepover's with sarah but sometimes, she wasn't all that reliable. "m'kay." though you already had an idea what following words would pass her lips.
"i just got off the phone with topper and he wants me to go meet him." she settled herself against her drawers. "but my dad'll kill me if i stay out past curfew. think you could cover for me?"
you batted your lids at the girl, frowning for various reasons. you'd brought all your stuff so you and sarah could hang out, you were getting a little tired of her using you as an excuse to see her boyfriend and you were downright petrified of ward cameron. there was something awfully frightening about your friends' parents.
but you didn't like to be troublesome. so a small "okay." passed your lips with a thin smile.
it took sarah less than twenty minutes to get ready and before you knew it, you were waving goodbye as she snuck out the window.
she left the tv on so you could watch one of your shows but you were much more inclined to reading the book in your bag. at this point, you'd grown accustomed to sarah leaving you during the middle of your sleepover's, you had to come prepared.
the reason she invited you over and snuck out was because she knew ward wouldn't dare go near her room when she had a friend over. none of her family did.
well, none aside from one.
"sarah!" you heard a familiar voice from behind the door followed by a bang against it that rafe cameron would later excuse as a 'knock'. "listen, i know you took my fuckin' charger, so give it ba―oh."
rafe was sarah's older brother, you'd seen him around plenty of times and he'd surely seen you. at this point, you practically lived in the house. many times you'd sat across from him at the dinner table or sat on the beach chairs with sarah while he was in the pool. though you didn't often speak to him.
perhaps that was your fault more than it was his, though.
"you're here." he stated, glancing around the room for the white charger he was missing.
rafe often initiated conversation with you but it was only in your shy nature to nod after he said something and use less than two words to communicate before scurrying down the hall after sarah.
this time, she wasn't here to be your human shield.
"uhm, yeah." you sort of just squirmed, hoping he didn't ask about why you were in here alone.
but you didn't often get what you hoped for. "where's sarah?" snatching up the charger. upon his question, you blinked at him, a stretch of panic flashed across your face. you didn't even need to say anything, your look gave it all away. "snuck out with topper, huh?"
your top lip snuck your bottom teeth in. "please don't tell." you weren't used to being so confined with rafe. sure, you'd been in a hallway with him before but come to think of it, you weren't sure you'd ever been in a small room like sarah's, alone, with the door shut.
"wasn't going to." he counters. his eyes pass over the room, raking down to you. you were sitting on the bed with a little book in your hands, pink bookmark sticking out from the page you left it on. "you don't need to be sittin' pretty in here all alone, though." he approached the door before turning to face you. "you comin'?"
it was as if he'd expected you to follow. you hastily stood, pink blush across your cheeks. "where are we going?"
he shrugged. "my room." as if it'd been obvious.
a nervous pit swirled in your stomach. you hadn't spent enough alone time with rafe to be invited into his bedroom. sarah was the one out of the two of you who talked to many guys. you kind of just stood idly by, a nervous look on your face as you bit your bottom lip and angled your head to look at the ground. you supposed rafe wasn't so bad, though.
after all, you practically grew up with the boy.
but that didn't make it any easier.
"so, uh, how's school?" he sniffed, inviting you into the room before shutting the door closed.
you'd been around sarah and her friends long enough to know that the smell swirling the room was weed. something you'd never so much as touched. the room also had a smell of some expensive cologne, the same one you often detected from rafe.
"it's okay." you offered, standing idly near his dresser, hands messing with the hem of your shirt. "what about you?"
a soft sort of smirk fell across his face. "i'm not in school anymore." he reminded you before taking a seat on the bed, taking something out from the beside table's drawer.
"i knew that, sorry." you felt your face flush. you hated this, always making yourself look silly when you spoke to rafe. it was why you avoided him in the first place. you wanted nothing more than to run out of the room to where you came from. but sarah was gone, meaning you had nobody to use as an excuse or a getaway.
you'd merely have to endure.
he didn't say anything, only offering a humorous huff from his lips.
"you mind?" your eyes trailed down to what was in his hands, the source of the smell you'd detected earlier. "asked you a question, sweetheart."
"oh, uhm." your eyes snapped up to meet his, head feeling floaty at the name. "i don't mind if you smoke. it's you're room."
again, he offered no response but continued to take out his pieces. he was currently in search of a lighter. "what are you standin' all the way over there for? sit down. i don't bite." but there was a quirk to his lips when he said it that made you think he did bite.
"sorry." you mumbled before shuffling to the bed to sit on the furthest edge you could.
you didn't miss the way rafe rolled his eyes. he looked back at you, studying your features. "split one with me?" he was testing the waters. he knew you enough to gauge assumptions about you. asking him? you didn't drink, didn't smoke, didn't have sex. you were the type of girl who stayed in your friends bedroom reading a book while they snuck out to meet their boyfriend.
he wanted to see if you'd give in.
your eyes were watching his hands, the way he rolled paper between his fingers. "uhm, 've never smoked."
ding ding ding.
he cocked his head. "want to try?" he could see immediate panic flash across your features. in a way, it was exactly what he wanted. he wanted to soothe you into this, not for you to instantly kneel at his every command. he knew you weren't easy. "c'mon, baby, 's just me. promise i won't let anything happen to you."
"i don't know." you shook your head slightly.
you were no stranger to the names he used on you. he often spoke them in a soft yet playful voice, especially around sarah. you just thought he liked seeing his sister get angry, tossing a pillow his way and telling him to stop treating you like one of his 'notches on his belt' but if he was only keen on making sarah angry, then why was he calling you such things while you were alone, sarah nowhere in sight?
"how long have you known me?" since you were very, very young. "one can't hurt. you trust me?" you slowly nodded, eyes still wavering to his hands. "so what'do you say?"
you knew you shouldn't. if your parents ever found out, they'd kill you with their bare hands and rafe would be next in their death note journal.
but there was something about the way he was looking at you that had your stomach folding in two.
besides, you never did like upsetting people.
if you didn't say yes, rafe would think that you didn't like him. he would be upset that you'd be so mean to refuse such a kind offer.
so nonetheless, a small squeak of an "okay." left your lips.
"atta girl. c'mere." he gestured down and you blinked at him confusedly. was he asking you to sit in his lap? you swallowed thickly. "c'mere." he repeated, this time between a soft chuckle. he reached out for you, helping you to sit flush against his lap.
instantly, you swore you had never been so red in your life.
your eyes were all wide and embarrassed, cheeks flaming red hot while you tucked your bottom lip under your top one again. a habit you supposed you'd die with. to say you were shocked to feel his hand against your face was an understatement. his thumb pulled at your lip from between your teeth, securing it away from harm. "don't do that." he mumbled. "you know how to take a pull?"
awkward and embarrassed were two words you swore were forgetting their meaning. this was above and beyond that. "you just... suck, right?" you squirmed in his lap at your own words.
"inhale, sweetheart." he moved the rolled blunt up to your lips. "open." you complied and he stuck it between the two, lifting the lighter to set the top to a low burn. "don't try to keep it in, 'kay?"
you nodded, inhaling the blunt and finding a strange sensation fill your mouth.
you'd never smoked a cigarette before, much less a blunt.
it was a weird feeling but you did what he said, you didn't try to keep it in. you moved the blunt from your lips with your fingers and didn't feel the need to couch heavily. you just blew the smokey air back out.
"good girl." the soft pads of his fingers trailed softly against your bare thighs below your sleep shorts. you felt your stomach do flips at the praise. "did so well. you sure you haven't done this before?"
you nodded with a slight giggle. "'m sure."
you watched as he lifted the blunt to his lips, taking a drag, then another. he didn't seem as phased as he did. "mm, don' know if i believe you on that one, princess."
"i haven't!" your hips gently reached up against his own. "swear." before simmering back down.
he lifted the blunt to your lips. this time, he didn't need to tell you to part your mouth, you just did it. "cross your heart 'n hope to die?"
he was staring at you so intently that you swore you'd never seen anyone's eyes so vividly, never been more interested in the squiggles of blue in someone's iris or the way his pupils slowly began expanding.
all you could offer was a slow nod as he watched you take another inhale of the blunt, eyes suddenly now steady on your lips, watching you stain the end of the paper pink with lipgloss.
a smirk fell on his lips as he leaned back onto the headboard. one minute, you were too shy to leave sarah's room, now you were sitting on his lap, smoking a blunt with him.
rafe merely had a way with women.
"so what, you feel like 'm corrupting you yet?" his steady smirk and sly hand trailing up your thigh.
a giggle passed your lips as you shook your head. "no."
he hummed. "plenty of time for that." you weren't too sure what he'd meant, though you hadn't actually asked him either.
it didn't take long for you to get high. rafe realised this within less than a few minutes. your pupils had turned wide, eyes gone glassy and suddenly you couldn't stop licking your already wet lips. you were staring at him, a little too much, not that he was complaining. he'd spent too long waiting for you to shyly meet his eye. with the weed in your system, you couldn't seem to look away.
"can i ask you something?" his voice was low, hardly a whisper as he spoke now, as if afraid he'd awake something and the room would turn to dust, the moment would fade from his memory and this moment would dissappear.
"uh-huh." you were busy looking at him, downright gawking. your eyes were shamelessly staring right at his lips.
he wasn't as buzzed as you. but to be honest, he'd been doing this a long time before you. "have you ever been kissed?"
it was his turn for his eyes to advert to your lips. all glossy and wet. for the thousandth time, your tongue peaked out, wetting them again before biting your bottom lip.
he couldn't get you to stop biting it, no matter how hard he tried.
he'd merely have to train you, when the time came.
"mm-mm." you shook your head at him. finally, your eyes broke from his lips and looked up at his eyes. he could see now, how truly buzzed you were. your eyes were all red and glassy, it was almost as if he could feel you floating. you tilted your head at him. "are you gonna kiss me?"
his hands ran up and down against your skin. "do you want me to?" a hesitant nod followed his question. "say please." pulling the blunt up to his lips for another drag. it was almost out now.
it was a mindless tease but he felt you squirm in his lap again. "please, rafe." voice but a whiney murmur.
he blew the smoke out from his lips and watched it fall into your own parted mouth.
your eyes fluttered shut and he didn't give you a chance to think, his lips replacing the smoke. his were hungry, your's were soft, inviting. and he took the invite as soon as it'd been handed to him. his hand ran up your back, shoving your body as close to his own as he could. he wanted the heat to envelope him, wanted your skin against his own. wanted so badly to rip off every piece of clothing that tainted you. wanted you to be his for the taking.
but the way you suddenly pulled back, those doey, bloodshot eyes and fearful voice murmuring the words, "you're not gonna tell sarah, are you?" told rafe exactly what he already knew.
he need to be patient with you. take his time unravelling you until there was nothing left.
he shook his head, fingers soft against your face, running across your cheek.
"don't worry, sweetheart, your dirty secret's safe with me."
pairing singledad! zach maclaren x nanny! female reader
summary when you’re offered a job as a nanny, you can tell right away that you’ll grow fond of the little girl you’re taking care of. things are easy to manage until you realize you’re falling for her dad.
author’s note hugs to @nemesyaaa for sharing the idea of singledad!zach. i couldn’t stop writing (and the one-shot hit 15k words and became a two-shot… i love slowburn…) hurt and comfort. fluff. no smut. divider credit.
content warning parental abandonment
» masterlist
Zach is sure, without a doubt, that he has already lived the best day of his life.
The moment he held Ella in his arms was when the world bloomed into a color he didn’t know existed. Nothing could ever and would ever top that feeling.
He didn’t expect that before thirty, he’d already experience the worst day of his life, too. But he’s certain he has.
He was in a fog, a bad dream he kept trying to wake himself up from. He had stepped into the guest room to see a piece of paper on Jade’s bed and he knew before he even unfolded the letter that she was gone.
He read the last line of the letter over and over again. I can’t live like this anymore. Deep down, he always feared that she would give up on them. But not like this. And not this soon.
After Ella was born, bitterness permanently etched itself into Jade’s face. To her, the baby was always a mistake and Zach stopped being someone she loved and became nothing but the man she regretfully had a child with.
She became the antithesis of the girl he fell for. The love they’d once had was replaced with a cold distance. She started sleeping in the guest room. She ate her meals alone. She left the house as much as she could.
Still, he respected that she had learned to tolerate motherhood. While she didn’t love being a stay-at-home mom, he didn’t think she hated it.
But then she left. And if she could abandon them like this, four years in, not even having it in her to look into her little girl’s eyes to say goodbye, then that tolerance had a cruel end.
That’s why now, a month after her sudden departure, Zach is sitting in his living room, fingers curling the corner of the resume belonging to the woman scheduled to arrive in a few minutes.
Dishes clatter as his mother tidies up his kitchen. Normally, he’d feel guilty and nag her to sit down. But things aren’t normal and he’ll take all the help he can get. It’s been an uphill battle trying to pick up the pieces on his own.
His family drove in a few nights ago. They offered to visit as soon as he called with the news, but he didn’t want to put Ella through too much at once, so he waited a few weeks. Once he asked them to come, they dropped everything and set out for the four-hour car ride.
Ella’s playing in the backyard with her grandpa and aunt while Connie helps Zach run interviews. His team’s managers were understanding when he asked for time off, but Zach can’t be away forever. With his training and match schedule, he needs to find a nanny.
He’d rather not introduce a new person into her life, especially this soon, but it’s unavoidable. At least with a nanny, he can control that Ella will always be in the comfort of her home. A place she knows.
Moments like these, he wishes he hadn’t been drafted to a team a state away. If he’d stayed close to his hometown, Ella would see both sets of grandparents more often and he’d have dependable childcare until he figured out how to function as a single dad.
Zach looks over his shoulder through the window, swallowing the lump in his throat when he sees his daughter running circles around her grandpa in the morning sun. The chime of the doorbell throws him out of his trance.
Soft blue eyes meet yours when the door swings open. The stranger on the other side is tall and handsome and younger than you expected, his half-smile clouded by sorrow. You introduce yourself and he offers you a firm but gentle handshake.
“Nice to meet you,” he says. “I’m Zach. Come in.”
You trail him into the large house, mind already racing with the potential of it becoming your workplace. The agency had set up the interview. You don’t know much about the client, except that he has a four-year-old daughter and that he requested a nanny who’s adaptable to a changing schedule.
After meeting Ella’s grandmother, you settle on a couch and make small talk and answer their questions. You learn that Zach is a professional soccer player and that his work can be demanding and inconsistent, but with your apartment being close by, you assure him that you’re reliable and flexible.
By the end of the interview, the idea of a nanny doesn’t make Zach nearly as uneasy as it did an hour ago. You’re kind and experienced and knowledgeable and every time you see his little girl through the window, you smile in pure endearment.
Zach likes the idea of his daughter being around someone joyful. Jade grew to be so cold that Ella learned to go to her dad whenever she wanted to feel reassured and loved. It’s comforting to imagine her growing to like you, maybe even love you, and to be met with the same warmth she’s so full of.
The rest of the interviews go fine, but Zach has always operated on gut feelings and you’re a clear winner. His mom agrees.
────୨ৎ────
After an agency rep calls to tell you that you’ve been offered a trial period, you spend five days at the house getting to know Ella while Zach shadows to answer your questions. He’s friendly and helpful, but visibly tense.
The final afternoon, you’re playing with Ella in the living room when Zach’s phone rings. Ella rushes over to his side, asking if it’s her mommy calling. You notice the nervous way his jaw clenches when he kneels to the floor.
“It’s grandma,” he tells her, holding his phone out so the camera will capture them both.
You pretend you didn’t hear Ella's question. You know nothing about her mom and you wouldn’t dare risk crossing a boundary by asking.
Soon after the call, Ella’s drawing at the dining table while you and Zach periodically glance across the room to check on her from the kitchen. He’s been teaching you how he prepares Ella’s favorite foods. He likes that you write everything down, asking him for details down to exact measurements. If he wasn’t sure that you took the happiness of his daughter seriously before, he is now.
He already told the story to his family and to Jade’s parents and to his closest friends, but that was with people he knew well. People who could comfort him. He’s not sure how to share with you that she left, but he wants to hire you, and this is something you should be aware of.
After he slides a pan into the oven, he stands to face you, towering over you as he wipes his hands with a tea towel.
“You have the job if you want it,” Zach says quietly. You smile at him appreciatively. You weren’t feeling confident, considering how on edge he’s been, but you realize it must not have been you he was nervous about.
“Thank you,” you reply. “I do.”
He nods, looking down as he leans against the kitchen island, and says, “She starts kindergarten next fall. You’d be alright with part-time hours then?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Uh, you should know…” he says, turning his head to look over at his daughter, “her mom left. A little over a month ago. It was out of the blue.”
Your heart twists in pain at his words, at the agony that draws itself into his face.
“I’m so sorry,” you say, staring up at his profile. Zach blinks a few times, gazing at his daughter. You press your lips together, wishing you knew what to say.
“Ella didn’t get a goodbye,” he tells you. Neither did he, not a real one, but that’s irrelevant. “I told her that her mom chose to leave and I don’t know why she made that choice, but I’m not going anywhere. If she brings it up, please say the same.”
“I will,” you reply with an understanding nod, “and only if she mentions it first.”
“Thank you,” Zach says. “I’ll be honest with you. I really don’t want someone to leave her again. You are planning on staying as long as we need you, right? Even when the hours get shorter during the school year?”
He had that same note of desperation in his voice when he asked you about your commitment to the job during the interview, too.
“Yes,” you assure him. “I understand that she needs stability right now.”
Based on the way Zach’s eyes lower, you can tell he needs stability, too. His wife not only left him, but she left him with their child. You can’t imagine the hole that it dug in his heart.
“Thanks,” he says. He takes a breath. He wasn’t strong enough not to cry when he told Ella her mom was gone and he’ll always hate himself for it, but at least he kept his tears from falling this time.
“Do you want to ask her what she thinks about it?” you offer. “I can go put away her laundry to give you some privacy.”
Zach nods in agreement. And as he expected, when he asks his daughter if she’d like for you to hang around here more often after he goes back to work, she gives him an enthusiastic yes.
You’re purposely slow with the laundry to give them time. You come back into the kitchen to see Ella happily eating a freshly baked muffin and swinging her feet, smiling up at her father as he sits next to her at the dining table.
“My daddy said you’re gonna be here every day,” she says to you with a grin, overjoyed by the news.
“Not every day,” Zach corrects her gently. “But most days.”
“Try this!” Ella exclaims, stretching her arm out towards you, the muffin in her fist. The way you happily accept the food even though it’s reduced to smushed fragments in his child’s small hand makes Zach’s heart feel a little lighter.
“That’s delicious,” you say after you take a bite, settling at the table across from them.
Zach’s still getting used to having a woman around who’s so sweet to his child. Jade would hardly ever accept Ella’s offers to share her food, telling him that saying yes to everything would only raise a spoiled child.
“My daddy’s the bestest cook,” she proudly says.
“Best,” Zach corrects. “Thank you, honey.”
“He really is,” you reply. “I don’t know how I’ll fill his shoes, but I’ll try my best.”
Ella’s face pinches in confusion as she kneels over in her booster seat to look under the table.
“I think his shoes will be too big for you,” she mumbles, pointing to your feet. You laugh, meeting Zach’s gaze, seeing the first genuine smile on his face. You didn’t know he had dimples.
He can’t remember the last time he laughed, really laughed, with someone like this. Life’s dealt him a tough hand, but you’ve given him relief.
────୨ৎ────
Zach is organized. So organized that it sort of amazes you. Not only does he give you his, and in turn, your work schedule a month in advance through a color-coded calendar, but he also provides you with a meal plan for Ella so that you don’t have to worry about making one yourself.
The first day on your own with her is perfect. She’s energetic, well-behaved, and loves to talk. Zach left for training at noon and you were surprised that he found the time to text as much as he did. You replied to his every message asking for updates, sharing what you’re doing and reassuring him that Ella’s doing okay.
He gets home an hour after Ella’s bedtime. He’s been on edge all day, worrying that all this was too much, too fast for his little girl. Maybe he should have taken more time off.
You’re finishing up loading the dishwasher when you hear his keys jingling. You turn to greet him as he paces into the kitchen.
“Hey, how was bedtime?” he asks.
“We read three books and she asked me to stay with her until she fell asleep,” you tell him. “No issues.”
Zach sighs in relief. He never liked afternoon training because he missed bedtime. Ella preferred bedtime with her dad over with her mom. She preferred everything with her dad, really. But hearing that she wanted you to stay is reassuring.
“And she ate well?” he asks. He settles on one of the stools lining the kitchen counter, watching you cross the room to stand opposite him.
“Yes,” you tell him. “She was great.”
“Sorry if I was annoying with all the texts,” he says with a small, apologetic smile.
“You weren’t, but I wanted to let you know that it’s okay if you want to set up cameras. I know some parents like having live video they can tune into throughout the day.” You’d already noticed the security cameras outside when you first came to the house. You understand why he’d be so protective.
Zach threads his fingers through his dirty blond hair, damp from the shower he took in the training center’s locker room.
“Alright, I was definitely annoying if you’re offering to be surveilled,” he mumbles with a chuckle.
“No,” you laugh. “Ella did get a little frustrated, though. We were playing princesses and she said princesses aren’t supposed to go on their phones this much.”
Zach breathes a laugh. You’ve only been here for six days, but he hasn’t smiled this much in a long time.
“Thank you for all your work today,” he says. “I won’t keep you any longer.” You give him a bright smile and wish him a good night before you head out.
When Zach trudges upstairs, he peeks into Ella’s room. She’s sleeping peacefully, curled up with her favorite plushie. Now that he has a semblance of normalcy back in his life, he realizes that beneath the sadness and betrayal, he feels anger.
It’s not typical of him to feel angry. But Jade set everything ablaze when she abandoned them and he’s been left in the ashes, trying to stay level-headed while he’s choking on smoke.
He knows he lost Jade’s heart long ago. She lost his, too. It’s the fact that she broke their daughter’s without any hesitation – that’s what kills him.
────୨ৎ────
Zach never takes you up on the offer to have cameras installed. He starts to let go, little by little, eventually going a full day without sending a single check-in text. It’s gratifying to know you’ve earned his trust.
Before you know it, you’ve been Ella’s nanny for two months. She’s made herself a home in your heart. The only way you’d ever leave her is if you were told to, and you can’t even imagine being fired. Zach often checks in to see if you’re happy with your job and asks if there’s anything he can do to make things better. He clearly values you and doesn’t want to lose you.
It’s mid-morning when you’re playing with Ella on the living room floor and Zach comes through the front door. She rushes to him and you smile as you watch him drop his duffle bag and happily scoop his daughter up.
He had an away game last night and flew in early. His skin is blanched, dark half-circles under his eyes, but like always, he finds energy for his daughter. You admire it about him, how she’s never too much for him.
“There’s a plate for you in the kitchen,” you tell him when he meets your gaze.
“You don’t have to–”
“I know,” you say with a laugh. Zach has already told you many times that Ella’s the only one you have to feed, but you can tell he appreciates coming home to a meal. “There were leftovers.”
“Were there?” he asks, brows quirked, an unconvinced smirk on his lips.
You shrug and laugh again. You’ve grown into a friendly level of comfort with each other and you appreciate how you can joke around with him.
Zach sits in the dining room to eat, listening to Ella tell him all about her playdate yesterday. You tidy up the living room as you overhear her chat about how her friend was showing her ballet poses and how badly she wants lessons.
You’d sent Zach a courtesy text before you fell asleep in the guest room last night: We had a great day. She had a lot of fun on the playdate. Just so you’re prepared, she’s VERY into ballet now and is going to ask you if she can get lessons. Sending some options. Then, you sent him a few links to children’s dance classes in town.
You woke up to two texts from him. The first said: Appreciate the warning and the research. Am I crazy for holding on to hope that she’ll like soccer one day? You smiled at your screen. You’d briefly talked with Zach about how Ella has no interest in the sport her father dedicated his career to.
The second text from him, sent fifteen minutes later, read: Would you be alright with taking her to 6-6:45 pm classes on Wednesdays when I can’t? The season starts next week.
You replied when you woke up: Definitely.
You enter the dining room to see Ella hanging off her dad’s shoulders while he tries to eat, continuing to rattle on about how she’d never miss a lesson and would always listen in class.
“Alright, take a breath,” he chuckles. When he tells her you found her a class at a studio uptown and that he’ll enroll her if she’s sure she can commit, she squeals in delight. She hugs Zach, then runs over to hug you, too, nearly knocking you over.
“Easy,” her dad tells her. Ella asks you to turn on the ballet music playlist you found for her yesterday and launches into twirls across the living room.
“Remember what I said,” you tell her over the music. “If you start to get dizzy, you…?”
“Sit down, I know!” she shouts. You meet Zach’s eyes, both of you wearing smiles. You can see the fatigue on his face under the bright dining room light.
“Do you want me to stay another hour so you can catch up on sleep?” you offer. “I don’t mind.”
He knows his heart shouldn’t skip when he looks at you, but it does. He can’t help it. You don’t see this as a job you clock in and out of. You’ve integrated yourself into Ella’s life, into his life, so seamlessly. He doesn’t feel like you’re an employee here. You’re a friend who goes above and beyond to help. You’re someone who his daughter adores. You’re a beautiful person, inside and out.
He looks down at his plate, embarrassed, as if you can read his mind. His head has been doing this lately, rushing into thoughts of you that are much more than professional. He shouldn’t be thinking that his daughter’s nanny is beautiful.
“It’s okay,” he tells you. “You can head home. We’ll see you soon.”
You nod and call Ella over to look at the calendar Zach made. It’s a routine with her every time you leave. She likes knowing when you’ll be back.
When Zach heads upstairs to drop his things off into his bedroom, he stops when he passes the guest room. You left the door ajar. Even though you always keep it neat, only leaving an overnight bag on the nightstand, there’s a lived in feeling, a warmth in the room that never existed before.
Once again, he has to remind himself that you’re paid to be here. But it’s hard not to like you, because even when Jade was living here, he felt alone, whereas having you around makes it hard to ignore that life doesn’t feel all that empty anymore.
────୨ৎ────
“Which one’s yours?”
You look over to the man sitting next to you on the dance studio bleachers. Young girls hop and whirl over the glossy hardwood floor in a sea of pink tutus, five minutes into their lesson.
“Oh, I’m...” You point to Ella. “Her nanny.”
Ella’s been in ballet for a few weeks now and it’s all she talks about. Zach’s schedule allows him to take her to most of her classes, but this is the second one you’ve come to and you can see just how much she enjoys it.
You make small-talk with the man and a few other parents, which makes the time pass quickly. When you get back to the house, Ella scarfs down her dinner and falls asleep during the first book you read her. You’re sitting in the living room when Zach comes home from training.
He’s nearing playoff season and he’s mentioned that he has much more practices booked in his schedule. At this point, he welcomes how you always pretend to accidentally make too much food. He doesn’t expect you to prepare meals for him, but after you’d reassured him that you don’t mind since you’re cooking anyway, he’s relieved to know he’ll have dinner waiting for him tonight.
“Hey,” you greet him from your spot on the couch. “Ballet was the best idea ever. It really tires her out. Bedtime was a breeze.”
“Right?” Zach says with a smile, pulling off his jacket. You look away to avoid gaping at his biceps under his t-shirt. You thought he was good-looking the moment you met him and getting to know him has only made him more attractive.
“I’ve been wanting to ask if you’d like any help with her birthday,” you offer, turning the tv off and standing up. Ella’s fifth birthday is in a month.
“I have some ideas for her party that I’d like your opinion on,” Zach tells you. “Do you want to stay for a few minutes? Or I can just text you.”
“I can stay.”
He’s relieved to hear it. He doesn’t have many moments with you alone. Usually you’re like passing ships in the night, chatting for just a couple of minutes to catch each other up about Ella before one of you leaves the house, so any window of time with you is something he welcomes. Your presence is comforting.
You sit at the kitchen island together. Zach eats as you scroll through his phone, gazing at screenshots of party ideas he saved.
“Oh, she’d love this,” you say, stopping at a photo of ballerina-themed cupcakes. He gazes at you in awe as you look down at the screen. You’re genuinely delighted at the idea of giving his little girl a perfect birthday. “Do you want to have the party here?”
“Yeah, do you think that’s a good idea?” he asks.
“Yeah. If you’re worried about decorating or cleaning up, I’d come early and stay late,” you tell him, continuing to scroll. “She deserves something big.”
He nods, swallowing down his food, too distracted to go for another bite. He can’t wrap his head around how sweet you are. You have no connection to Ella at all, but you treat her like she’s yours. Sometimes more than her own mother did.
You’ve been here for nearly four months now, which in the grand scheme of things really isn’t that long, but he likes that you have such a deep sincerity to you that he can trust that you care about Ella. That you won’t leave.
You look up at him and he glances away, worried he’s been caught staring, clearing his throat.
“Do you know how many people you’re thinking of inviting?” you ask as you hand him back his phone.
Zach’s face falls as he scratches the back of his neck. You’re suddenly tense, the air of familiarity between you now thick and uncomfortable.
“I’m not sure,” he says.
“Sorry,” you say, nervous you crossed a line. “I didn’t mean to overstep.”
“You didn’t,” he reassures you. “Sorry. I’ve just been going back and forth on whether I should invite her grandparents. From her mom’s side, I mean.”
“That must be hard,” you empathize.
“They’ve offered to visit a few times, but Ella hated the idea. She doesn’t even want to talk to them on the phone.”
“Was she like that before?” You don’t have to spell it out for him to know what you mean by before. The topic of Ella’s mom’s abandonment has been a silent cloud hanging over both of you.
“No,” Zach says. “I think she makes the connection that they’re her mom’s parents and she doesn’t want to be reminded of her.”
His lips close into a firm line.
“Well, I admire how you respect her comfort level and let her make decisions,” you say. “Maybe you start the conversation about who to invite and mention the grandparents to gauge her reaction?”
Zach nods, trying not to let his heart get carried away with the way it pounds from your words. He’s received compliments on his parenting from his friends and family, but you see the type of father he is more than anyone else these days. He cares about your opinion and it feels good to hear you approve.
“That’s a good idea,” he says. His fork clatters against his dish and he takes a deep breath before asking what’s been spinning in his head. “I figure you’d tell me, but… she hasn’t mentioned her mom, has she?”
You shake your head no. His forehead wrinkles in concern and it sends a pang to your chest. You lean a little closer, crossing the invisible boundary between you for the first time.
“She could just be processing,” you tell him. “And it might take her a while to talk about it. But she’s okay. She’s resilient. She got it from you.”
Zach hopes that he’s not blushing, but his cheeks are burning. He’s sure you’d be able to tell, but thankfully, you look down and stand straight again, as if what you just said wasn’t one of the most significantly unforgettable things he’s ever been told.
Ella is practically a physical copy of her mother. Zach never minded. But hearing that you think his daughter inherited his adaptability, one thing he’s always prided himself on, feels good.
He wasn’t very confident that he’s been doing a great job at adjusting since Jade left and you just lifted a weight off his shoulders without even realizing it.
“Thank you,” he says. You desperately want to ask how he’s been since his wife left, but you’re afraid you’ve already crossed a line with your boss tonight and you certainly don’t want to risk doing it again.
“Sure,” you reply. “I should go. But I’ll let you know if I think of any ideas for the party. I think the ballerina theme is the way to go. This place will be so pink.”
Zach laughs, trying to ignore the way his chest hollows when you expand the distance between you, stepping away.
“Can’t wait,” he says. “Thanks for dinner.”
“There were leftovers,” you reply, even though both of you are already well aware that every time you say that, it’s not true.
────୨ৎ────
It’s only half an hour into Ella’s birthday party and you’re spent. You’re reaching for napkins from the cupboard to clean up a spill in the dining room. When you turn out of the kitchen, a girl runs past you, tripping and accidentally pouring most of her juice onto your dress.
“Sorry,” she says worryingly, eyes wide as she stares up at you.
“It’s okay,” you reply with a giggle, dabbing at the fabric with one of the napkins. “I came prepared.”
Zach just entered the room, witnessing the moment, wondering if he’s ever going to see you do anything that won’t just push him deeper into his crush on you. But once again, his head is no match for his heart when it comes to you.
He’s been trying not to lose his mind today and it’s not because of the chaotic party that’s taken over his house. It’s because it’s the first time he’s seen you in a dress. While it’s appropriate for the occasion, it shows enough of your figure to make his mouth go dry.
You toss the napkin in the garbage, collect more, then start to make your way to the dining room, looking up to find Zach’s eyes.
“Hey,” you say over the noise. He realizes that your voice somehow settles his pulse and makes it race at the same time. “There might not be enough napkins in the world for this party.”
“Invite everyone she wants,” he teases, imitating the way you convinced him to go along with Ella’s idea to invite all twelve kids from her ballet class.
“I take it back,” you chuckle. When you move past him, the fresh scent of his cologne dances over you and it’s so nice that you don’t want to leave his side. But you shake away the thought and tidy up the spill, then head to the living room to mingle.
It’s better to keep your distance from Zach. You have to remind yourself of it almost every day now. You’d been spending more time together to plan Ella’s party and at this point, it’s actually frustrating how kind and funny and charming and perfect he is.
It took a few evenings of party-planning at the house, your voices low as Ella slept upstairs, to start to get to know each other outside of your job. You’ve learned little things about him, like that he’s left-handed, and that he has a sister ten years younger than him and growing up with her helped him practice parenting, and that he likes a cup of tea before bed because it relaxes him.
You also noticed that he drifts into a more timid version of himself whenever the topic of his profession comes up. You’d mentioned that Ella could eventually grow an interest in soccer, that you’d take her to one of his home games if she wanted, and he nodded with a shy smile, saying he liked the idea.
Every side of him is intriguing, and while your conversations haven’t fallen into anything too personal, you want to know more about him past the friendly distance that stands between you.
Ella quickly darts past Zach in the kitchen and he reminds her that tag is an outside game. He’s relieved that she seems happy and careless today.
He’d asked her about inviting her mom’s parents and she answered with a quiet no. He called them to tell them that this birthday would be too difficult to celebrate together and they understood, opting to send a present in the mail.
Zach is glad he took your advice. As he rounds the corner, he sees you chatting with Ella’s friend’s dad. You probably know him from ballet. Zach has spoken with him, too. He knows the man is divorced.
Jealousy swirls in his chest. He shouldn’t care about you talking to another man. Even though you’ve started to share more about your lives with each other and he’s pretty sure you’re single, you could have a boyfriend you haven’t mentioned.
Again, while he tells himself not to feel things for you, it’s so much easier said than done. He has to look away, wondering why he feels like someone who’s not even his is being taken from him.
All the stress leaves your body the minute the last attendee leaves through the front door. It was a great party, but it was exhausting.
Ella’s eating her dinner as you, Zach, and his family tackle the mess. You make conversation with her while you clean the kitchen, happy to hear her rave about what a good birthday she had.
She asks if you can cuddle her for bedtime. Zach overhears and trudges into the kitchen, crumpled decorations in his hands. He rolled the sleeves of his shirt up and you try to ignore the fact that the mere sight of his forearms makes your stomach go numb with butterflies.
“It’s been a long day,” he says to you quietly. “I can take bedtime.”
“I got it,” you reply. He mirrors your smile. You like that he’s not the type of parent to be bitter that his own kid prefers you sometimes. He’s just happy that Ella’s happy.
When you’re leaning back in Ella’s bed, chatting as you wait for her to doze off, her arm is draped over your body and her cheek is on your shoulder. She’s grown to be totally comfortable with you, always taking the opportunity to be affectionate.
Your eyelids are heavy as you ramble about what she’ll be doing with her grandparents and aunt in the next few days, as they’ll be staying in town for a bit. Zach gave you the next three days off since childcare will be covered.
“I heard your grandma say something about taking you to the beach tomorrow,” you tell her. “Are you excited?”
“Will you come, too?” she asks. You chuckle softly, kissing the top of her head.
“I have work, remember?” you tell her. You and Zach had decided long ago that you don’t want to tell her you’re paid to be here, that your job is taking care of her. You always just refer to yourself as her dad’s friend.
“Okay,” she sighs. She lets out a big yawn. “If I tell someone my birthday wish, will it not become true anymore?”
“I’m pretty sure the rule is that you can tell one grown-up,” you play along, “and it’ll still come true.” She nuzzles in. You assume she’ll mention a gift she wanted but didn’t receive today.
“I wished that you were my mommy,” she mumbles into the dark.
Your throat tightens and your heart sinks and you hate that the sweet, innocent child clinging onto you has to carry the weight of being abandoned. You kiss the top of her head again and try not to cry.
“I love you, okay?” you tell her. She nods and squeezes you tighter and within minutes, her breathing grows deeper.
When you head downstairs, you see that almost all of the mess has been tidied up. Zach is hauling a full garbage bag to the front door, giving you a tired smile when he sees you.
“Do you need any help with–”
“Go home,” he interrupts, faking irritation. You laugh in defeat.
“Fine.” You step into the living room to say goodbye to his family, antsy to have some time to yourself so that you don’t have to force down your tears any longer.
A few seconds after the door shuts behind you, Zach remembers that he’d set aside a container of leftover treats from the party for you.
You pace down the sidewalk into the cool evening air, unlocking your car remotely, unable to stop your tears from building. When you hear Zach call your name, you quickly wipe at your eyes, realizing you’ve smudged your make-up.
“There were leftovers,” he says when you turn to look at him.
“That’s my line,” you try to joke. You take the container. “Thanks.”
He notices the shine in your eyes immediately.
“Are you alright?” Zach asks softly. You gaze up at him, heart breaking a little more at the concern in his expression.
“Just a busy day,” you tell him.
“Did something happen?”
“No,” you say quickly. “Or– yeah, but I was going to tell you later. Without the tears.” You offer a pathetic laugh to break the tension, but he’s too worried to laugh, too.
“What is it?” he asks.
You look up to Ella’s bedroom window. The first time you’d walked up to this house, you were oblivious to the fact that the two people living in it would steal your heart. You know you need to tell him what his daughter said. But you’d hoped you’d have more time to process it.
“Before bed,” you say, your voice thin, “she told me she wished I was her mom.”
It takes all the air out of Zach’s lungs. He opens his mouth to reply, but he’s without words. He crosses his arms, looking down at the pavement.
“I know. It’s a lot,” you mumble. Your temples ache as more tears build up, frustrated that this is Zach and Ella’s reality. “It just makes me so sad. I don’t want to say anything bad about your ex-wife, but I don’t understand how she could just leave you two. Has she not called to check in on her? Or to wish her a happy birthday?”
Your heart starts to thrum even harder. Your words were impulsive, surprising you even though you’re the one who said them, and the fear that you just crossed a line and exposed your feelings for him rushes through you.
“No,” is all Zach is able to say. He stares at you, speechless, biting the inside of his cheek.
“When Ella said… what she said, I told her that I love her,” you say. “I hope that’s okay.”
“Of course it is,” he says, his tone tender. Your lips twist into a sad smile. You want to hug him. But you step back. Because he’s still your boss and you don’t want him to think you can’t remain professional. You’re already anxious and regretful that you brought up Ella’s mom.
“Thank you,” you say. “I should go. Good night.”
Zach’s dazed the rest of the evening. He watches you drive off. He goes back inside to finish cleaning up. He spends time with his parents and sister, but soon heads upstairs to sleep, too distracted to keep up conversation.
His mind keeps him awake as he lies in bed. He stares up at the darkened ceiling, watching the shadow of the trees by his window rustle in the wind. In a matter of a minute, your relationship reached a new level of vulnerability.
And now that he has time to wade through his feelings, beneath the pain he feels for Ella and what she told you, he can’t deny that his heart fluttered when you said you don’t understand how someone could leave him and his daughter. Maybe you feel the same way about him.
This is not just a crush. He’s falling for you.
────୨ৎ────
You stare at the text Zach sent you a few minutes ago as you brush your teeth the next morning.
Sorry for bothering you on your day off but Ella has asked me about 50 times (give or take) if I can ask you to come to the beach today. I told her you’re busy but you know her. No pressure but we’d all love to have you. Would count as a work day, of course.
It was already hard to keep your feelings for Zach at bay when all you can think about is his smile and his voice and the way he makes you feel more comfortable than any man ever has, but now, you’re afraid it might be awkward when you see him. You’d said something so heavy last night, then left abruptly.
Nonetheless, the love you have for Ella and the love you’re starting to have for Zach is louder than the worry you’re feeling.
You reply: Don’t count it as work. It’s how I’d like to spend my day off. When and where?
A minute later, he sends you the address and time.
It’s late morning when you text Zach that you’ve arrived at the beach. He heads to the parking lot, leaving his parents, sister, and daughter by the shoreline so that he can speak to you alone. He hates that he was too in shock to thank you last night. But it was all so much to take in.
He spots you pulling a bag out of your trunk, greeting you with a soft “hey” to not startle you. It’s so nice to know that you’re here because you want to be.
You turn to see Zach in his swim shorts, his hair wet, water droplets scattered atop his muscles. You close the trunk, hoping he didn’t catch the way your eyes lingered.
“Hey. What’d you tell Ella about the ‘work’ I had today?” you ask, trying to establish a lighthearted tone. “Did my boss let me leave early?”
“We can say that,” he says with a smile. “He sounds like a good guy.”
“He is. It’s my other boss that’s kind of a nightmare,” you joke.
Zach takes you in, squinting a bit.
“You don’t really think of me as your boss, do you?” he asks, realizing he hates the implication. It makes him feel like even thinking about you as more than a friend is deeply unethical. Like there’s a power imbalance and he’s taking advantage of it somehow.
You still for a moment.
“I mean, I don’t know,” you chuckle. “It doesn’t feel like it, but aren’t you?”
“I guess.” His brows furrow. “It just doesn’t sound right.”
“How about we say… Ella’s my boss? And yours, too, now that I think about it.”
Zach laughs, “That works for me.” He nervously crosses his arms. “Uh… before we go, I wanted to thank you for handling last night so well. I think you said exactly what she needed to hear.”
Your face drops slightly. Remembering the way Ella sounded when she told you her wish, resigned but hopeful, breaks your heart every time you think about it.
“Of course,” you say. It’s a relief that he’s not upset about anything you said. “Is she doing okay?”
“Oh, yeah. Being her usual self. I didn’t tell her you were coming, so she’ll be excited.” The way you smile at the idea of making her happy is something he’s grown to adore about you.
You make your way to the shoreline, and as expected, Ella squeals when she sees you, running straight for you. You crouch to hug her tightly, thrilled that you were invited today.
You sit on a line of towels with Zach and his parents and his sister while Ella explains to you what kind of sandcastle she wants to make. You make conversation with everyone over the soothing sounds of the waves crashing against the shore and eventually, you point out a small rubber ball by the cooler.
“You wanna play soccer?” you ask Ella.
“I’m not good at it,” she replies.
“You have the best coach right here,” you say, pointing to Zach. “Let’s give it a try. Maybe we can all work together to score a goal against your dad.”
Zach smiles in surprise when Ella actually agrees. You help him create a makeshift goal line with pebbles and shells as Ella kicks the ball over the sand with her grandparents and aunt. After you set up, you join Ella while Zach makes an exaggerated show of stretching.
“Is that how you always warm up?” you ask him.
“Is there something wrong with it?” he answers. Ella laughs as he dramatically stretches. By now, you can tell by the type of dad he is that he was always on the playful side.
Ella imitates his stretching, then determination flashes over her face and she darts forward to try to kick the ball past him without warning. Zach pretends to be too slow to react, reaching after the ball has already whizzed past him, and lets out a defeated groan.
He picks his daughter up as she jumps in victory, jokingly demanding she tell him when she got so good at soccer. You smile as you watch them share a moment of joy in the sun.
“Ella, would you ever want to go to one of your dad’s games?” you offer.
“Yeah!” she exclaims.
“Yeah?” Zach says. “Why don’t you say yeah whenever I ask?”
“Just take the win, Zach,” you say with a laugh. He grins, loving the way his name sounds when it comes from you.
You enjoy the rest of the afternoon, talking with Zach’s family, playing with Ella, catching glances at Zach when he’s not looking. They invite you to dinner, but you politely decline, figuring you should give them time alone. You thank them for the fun and go home feeling lighter than you did when you woke up.
That evening, as Connie helps Zach clean up after dinner, she mentions how good you are for Ella. He glances down at his mom as she hands him a rinsed plate to put in the dishwasher.
“She really is,” Zach agrees.
“I think she’s good for you, too,” she says with a hint of a smile.
“Real subtle, Mom,” he chuckles nervously. “It’s not like that.”
“Alright,” she says with an unconvinced tone. She takes a beat. “I just need to say–”
“Of course you do,” he mumbles with an amused smirk.
“–that I haven’t seen you this happy in a long time,” she speaks over him. “I haven’t seen you be you. But you are again, especially when she’s around. It’s just nice to see you smiling so much again. I know things have been tough for you.”
Zach’s teeth dig into his bottom lip. His mom is right; things have been tough, even before Jade left. He desperately wanted companionship, to at least come home to someone he could call a friend, but Jade couldn’t give him what he needed. He hasn’t felt full of life in a long time. Not until you knocked on his door.
“I’m better now,” he says.
Connie nods, sadness filling her features as she pulls Zach in for a side-hug.
“Hey, I’m alright,” he consoles her. “Don't worry about me.”
“You’re a parent. You should know the worrying never stops.” She pulls back. “So, you’re really going to deny it? I see the way you look at her.”
Zach shakes his head with an exaggerated scoff.
“You’re relentless,” he jokes.
“You used to tell me everything.”
“There’s nothing to tell.”
“Alright,” she sighs. “She looks at you the same way, you know.”
“Mom.”
Connie laughs and hands him another plate. He knows that the idea of you looking at him the way he looks at you won’t leave his mind any time soon.
warnings: 18+ only!!, dubcon, gynecologist!rafe, patient!reader, virgin!reader, gyno exam, fingering, p in v sex, protected sex
a/n: we can pretend that this is a roleplay scenario because obviously no real doctor would do this, lets all take a breath and remember this is fanFICTION aka not real or an endorsement by me (or my readers) of anything in this story
“oh, um-” you gulp, blinking as the fluorescent lights shine down on you.
“your feet ma’am.” he repeats, tapping the stirrups. you lift your legs, well aware that you're lacking any sort of underwear underneath your hospital gown.
your doctor secures your legs in the straps before his eyes drift to your center, now on display with your parted thighs.
you gasp and pull your gown down to somewhat cover yourself.
“ma’am, i assure you this is all part of the normal exam.”
“i-i-” you swallow thickly, blinking again, swearing the lights are only getting brighter, hotter, as a bead of sweat forms and falls on your forehead. “what's your name?”
“im doctor rafe cameron. certified gynecologist. you can just call me rafe though.” he explains softly. “and there is no need to be nervous.”
“okay… how long have you been a gynecologist?”
“asking all these questions is just going to delay what we need to get done.” rafe says. “shall we begin?”
“i suppose.” you nod. you know usually girls wait until after they have sex for the first time to visit, but with your twenty first birthday coming up as still a virgin, you decided you might as well stop delaying the inevitable.
“im just going to lift your gown.” rafes hands are slow and gentle as he brings the hem up, revealing your bare cunt to him.
“does it all… look okay?” you question.
“you look perfect.” rafe says, his voice lowering in tone as he reaches for his gloves, pulling the latex over his long, slender fingers.
“okay.” you nod. surely a doctor would know. it lessens your anxiety the tiniest bit.
“im going to touch you now, okay?” rafe looks up at you, and his eye contact holds you still, blue eyes gleaming with intensity as they look into your brown ones.
“y/f/n?”
“oh, yes.” you nod quickly. “yes, that's fine.”
rafe hums, the corner of his mouth turning up into a smirk. “so if i read your chart correctly, you haven't had sex yet?”
“no, s-sir.” you shake your head, eyes moving to the ceiling to avoid that captivating gaze, even if the fluorescents make your eyes hurt.
rafe mutters something under his breath, but you're sure your ears are just playing tricks on you. no way he would whisper “perfect” to himself. surely he's a professional.
rafe lays two fingers on your inner thigh and your entire body jolts, the gloves cold against your bare skin.
“it's okay.” rafes other hand rests on your thigh, rubbing gently with his thumb. “im going to begin the exam, if you feel any discomfort at any point just tell me.”
“okay.” you nod, and you swear despite the chilly gloves, his touch leaves a trail of fire as he brings his two fingers closer to your pussy, before suddenly swiping through your folds.
“oh!” you squeal out, hips lifting slightly before pushing back down.
“it's a normal bodily reaction.” rafe assures you before you can even feel embarrassment.
rafes fingers swipe through again, but at least you're expecting it this time. you blink quickly, trying to keep yourself calm as his other hand moves to join in examining your cunt.
“just going to use my thumbs to look around. let me know if it gets to be too much.”
just as rafe said, his thumbs begin to pull and poke at your skin. you move your gaze from the ceiling back down to rafe, seeing the same intensity in his eyes but now focused on your pussy.
“im going to touch you some place that may make you feel… fervent. please know that any reaction your body may have is normal and all part of the exam.” rafe places his thumb directly over your bud, and your body lights up like a firework.
you don't even realize you're moaning until the side of rafes mouth quirks up again into that signature smirk.
“oh!” you squeal again. “oh my god, im so sorry.”
“it's all normal.” rafe assures you. he gives you a moment to get used to the pressure on your clit, simply touching it with the pad of his thumb before he begins to swipe over it, stimulating your clit while his eyes move back and forth between your pussy and your face contorted in pleasure.
“is this supposed to feel so good?” you question. you didn't do much research on what actually happens when you get in the gynecologists chair, but you swear what you've heard from friends is that the exam isn't comfortable.
“yes.” rafe says simply, and you have no reason to not take his word as truth. “my thumb is going to stay there as i insert a finger.”
you nod, glad to have the distraction of his thumb moving around your clit, even if your cheeks flush with embarrassment as you grow wetter.
“hm, looks like i won't need any external lubricant.” rafe looks up at you. “sometimes i have to with virgins. but your pussy is perfect.”
“thank you?” your thought process is quickly shut off as rafes finger prods at your entrance, getting his gloves significantly wet.
“sorry if this is cold, but i have a feeling you'll warm me up quickly.” rafe pushes his finger inside slowly, and you have to tilt your head back and squeeze your eyes closed to keep more sounds from coming out of your mouth.
“does it all feel normal?” you're well aware at your voice must sound strained as rafes finger rubs against your inner walls.
“yes.” rafe says, this time his voice having an air of shakiness to it. “you're tight, but it's to be expected from a virgin.”
“s-sorry about that.” you can't tell if rafes emphasis on the word is negative or positive. “i didn't see myself losing it anytime soon so i scheduled my appointment.”
“and why is that darling?” rafe questions, his voice a purr as he begins to move his finger in and out in slow strokes.
“why am i a virgin? uhh…” you trail off. “i guess just haven't found the right guy yet.”
in truth, the whole idea of sex gets you nervous. hopefully after getting assurances that everything works okay down there, it'll be one less thing to be anxious about.
“we can take care of that today if you'd like.”
the thumb stroking over your clit flicks upward suddenly, making your hips jump up, legs straining in their spread position.
“what do you mean?” you ask, feeling and hearing rafes finger speed up, your slickness making it easier and easier for him to move.
“i can take your virginity. it's part of my duties as your doctor. only if you'd like, it's an optional part of the exam.”
“you mean like… insert something in me?”
“yes, my cock.” rafe smirks as he pulls his finger out, tapping against your wetness and letting the sound spread through the exam room.
“oh!” you look at rafe to make sure he's serious, but his expression doesn't convey any sort of joking around. “gynecologists do that?”
“for our virgin patients if they'd like. id wear a condom of course and take your virginity so it's less of an ordeal for you. and i can assure everything is working fine.”
“and by everything you mean…”
“making you cum.” rafes thumb applies a bit more pressure to your clit. “although you're already not far off, are you?”
“wouldn't know.” you can feel something growing in the pit of your stomach, an unfamiliar feeling you can't quite place.
“what do you say y/f/n?”
“s-sure.” you nod. “if this is all normal, i guess it's fine.”
“great.” rafe smiles, before looking down at your cunt. “ill have to work two fingers into you before fu- helping you lose your virginity.” he explains.
thankfully, his thumb keeps tapping and pressing down on your sensitive bud as a second finger lathers itself in your wetness, sliding through your folds before dipping into your cunt.
his finger are barely an inch inside before they're back out. “you'll have to excuse me for going one handed for a second.”
rafes thumb moves away from your clit, and you're about to cry out for more, immediately missing the feeling, when rafes mouth drops and his tongue takes its place.
“doctor!” you shout.
“all normal.” rafe assures you, his lips already shining with your juices. “taste is an important part of the exam too. and you're very sweet.”
you watch as rafes head dips again, his mouth working on your cunt as his two fingers that you hadn't even realized have been pushed inside of you begin to move.
rafes free hand reaches for his pants, pushing them down to get his already hard cock out. he begins to stroke as his tongue licks at your clit, fingers opening you up.
you feel another jolt of pressure when his fingers spread to scissor and close, scissor and close, working your gummy walls open for him.
rafe presses a series of wet, sloppy kisses over your cunt before restraining himself and pulling back, licking greedily over his lips to not waste your taste.
“are you ready?” rafe asks, reaching into a drawer to get a condom.
“yes.” you nod quickly. you're more than desperate now for his cock, especially as his fingers slide out and leave you empty to squeeze around nothing.
rafe stands up, bringing his cock up into your sight line. your eyes widen when you see he's much longer and thicker than his two fingers that were already a tight fit inside you.
“don't worry.” rafe says as he tears the foil of the condom before getting the rubber out and rolling it down his length. “im gonna take good care of you.”
your hips already sit at perfect height as rafe steps between your legs. you would close them out of shyness if it was at all possible.
rafe taps his tip over your clit, making you moan out, but you don't bother to hold back, not when rafe lets out a moan as well.
“the room is completely noise proof, and sounds are nothing to be embarrassed by.” rafe assures you as he rubs his cock against your pussy, thoroughly wetting himself before pushing against your entrance.
it's a slow push to break the ring of muscle, and then an easy slide once he's in.
“h-holy shit.” you whine out, hands gripping the side of the bed as rafes hips immediately begin to swing in and out.
“any pain?”
“none.” you answer quickly. there's no hiding the intense pleasure being brought to your body, especially when rafes thumb retakes its place on your clit.
“there ya go.” rafe smiles as he feels your cunt flutter around his cock. “i can tell you're getting close.”
rafe glances at the clock, wishing he could fuck you for longer, but if he extends the time for the exam too long the nurses will surely get suspicious.
“how does it f-ffffffff-” your ability to speak briefly lapses when rafes thrust speed up. “feel for you?” you manage to complete your sentence.
“your pussy feels amazing. you're so tight and warm. any guy would be lucky to be inside of you.” rafe says, his hips moving faster, desperate to cum. “perfect.”
you are practically glowing underneath the praise and impending orgasm, rafes thumb moving faster with real purpose now.
your head tips back and before you know it, a wash of light and pleasure has taken over your body, and you're moaning and twitching as what you're certain is your high breaks.
“that's it.” rafe smiles, feeling your pussy flutter around him, clit pulsing with the strength of your orgasm as he thrusts harder into your pussy, putting all his might into helping you ride out your orgasm and spur on his own.
rafe lodges his cock as deep inside of you as he can as he cums, briefly cursing the barrier of the condom from preventing himself from flooding your womb.
“very- good.” rafe pants, pulling out extra slow despite the clock ticking down, watching as your hole squeezes back tight as he pulls out.
rafe discards the condom and then his soaked gloves, sticky with your wetness before tucking himself back into his pants.
“take all the time you need.” rafe undoes the stirrups and let's your legs flop down. “ill come check on you in five minutes, i need to see if my other patient is here.”
and just as quickly as he entered, rafe leaves the room, leaving you with your pussy a sloppy mess and heart beating fast.
the mark of cain weighs heavily on dean's shoulders, affecting all of you. when the bloodlust becomes too much, you know you have to help him. in the only way you can think of.
cw ─ slight angst, mark of cain!dean, very slight mention of sa/non-con (not from dean), blood, gore, canon-typical violence, smut!, fem! reader, praise kink, dirty talk, rough sex, overstimulation, fingering, unprotected p in v, sorry if i miss anything else!
☆ 💿PORNSTAR - nessa barrett
i wanna hear you talking dirty,
i wanna see it on your face.
⭒
it was getting worse, you could all see it. you, sam, cas - hell, even crowley could see it. the mark was slowly killing dean, and it was only getting worse.
it wasn't as obvious at first, just small outbursts here and there, but surely enough, it became more obvious. he was more snappy than usual, spent more time alone, and he would zone out more, hands either clenched into fists or one was clasped tightly over the mark on his forearm.
you didn't bring it up to him, that was the silent agreement that you, sam and cas had come up with, and you obliged to it. so you didn't tell dean how the far away look in his eyes made your brow furrow and your stomach churn with worry, or how your heart broke every night when you could hear him wake himself up from his nightmares. you didn't tell him how seeing him struggle, and refuse help, was slowly but surely breaking you down, and you definitely didn't tell dean that you missed him.
sure, he was right there, just down the hall from you, close enough that you could hear him in the ungodly hours of the night, restlessly rummaging around his room, but he still wasn't there. not the real him, not the dean that you knew. the dean you knew was being held captive by that horrid mark that not only haunted his dreams, but yours now too. you missed your dean, the one who told stupid jokes that made you choke on your beer. the dean who grinned proudly whenever you correctly named a song on the radio and who would sing a long loudly to his favorite led zeppelin songs, glancing at you as he drove.
drives are mostly silent now, save for the hum of the impala, or the quiet background noise of the radio, but still never those homemade tapes that he loved so much. he doesn't drink with you anymore, though he still does it an unhealthy amount. he drinks alone in his room, or late at night by himself in the kitchen, a glass of whiskey in his hand, his eyes staring somewhere far off. the only reason you even know this is because one night, when you couldn't sleep, you went to the kitchen for a glass of water and found him there, only to have him get up and leave with only a nod of acknowledgement to you.
it was killing him, and if you didn't do something about it, it was going to kill you too.
the hunt was supposed to be a cakewalk. it was just a nest of vampires not too far from the bunker, and dean insisted that he was fine, that the mark's screaming wasn't too much for him to bear and he was feeling good enough to go with you guys on the hunt.
after sharing a look with sam, you reluctantly relented, agreeing to let him come along under the condition that if he felt the bloodlust creeping in, he would back off and stay behind in the impala.
that leads to now, where you were currently kicking yourself for not doing recon before going in. the nest was bigger than you and sam had originally thought, there were probably double the amount of vamps than you had previously thought, and when you, him and dean had crept into the nest, one of the freshly turned ones - a child, no less - had spotted you and screamed, awaking the whole nest. and so here you were, wrestling with one of the female bloodsuckers on the grimy floor of the abandoned barn.
her dirt-caked nails raked down the sides of your neck, making you hiss in pain as you brought your knee up hard, hitting her in the stomach, effectively pushing her off of you. as soon as she was on her back next to you, you scrambled up, quickly grabbing your machete that the bitch had knocked out of your hands and turning back to her. without even giving her a chance to bare her fangs, you raise your bloodied machete over your head, bringing it down with a cry, cutting her head right off.
taking a second to breathe, you stand up, panting heavily as you brush some hair out of your face, turning your head to the side to spit out some blood, running your tongue over your teeth to get rid of the taste. your moment of rests is cut short though, when you hear a loud thud and the sounds of a struggle from the room next to you.
gripping your machete tighter and taking a deep breath, you rush out of the room you had been in, leaving behind the bodies of the three vamps you had killed. you sprint out the door, crashing through the room next door, your heart racing as you see sam in a struggle with two bloodsuckers.
you rush over, cutting the head off one before he even has the chance to fully turn around. the other one drops sam in surprise, turning to you and snarling, his disgusting rows of fangs glinting in the low light. using the vampire's moment of distraction, sam grabs his own machete and raises it, slicing the vamp's head clean off.
"you okay?" you ask, chest heaving as adrenaline courses through your veins.
sam nods, raising a hand to brush his hair back from his face, his own erratic breathing evidence of the fight. "yeah. yeah, i'm good. are you?"
"one of 'em got me good with her nails, but nothing fatal," you answer, tilting your head to show him the marks. he winces in sympathy, eyes raking over the angry red marks before he bends down to pick up a vial of dead man's blood. "where's dean?"
"not sure, i lost him once they jumped on us," sam says, brows furrowing as he pockets the dead man's blood, adjusting his grip on his machete. "maybe we should-"
whatever sam was going to say is cut off as a scream comes from the floor below. you and sam share a look, fear spiking in your chest before you both turn, racing out the door. you sprint through the hallway and down the stairs, sam right on your heels as you skip steps, landing shakily at the bottom. your eyes scan the landing, and you turn to call out to sam, but before you can get a word out, a hand grabs your arm, throwing you across the room.
you hear sam call your name behind you, but he gets cut off, and you assume that he has a vamp of his own to deal with. you push yourself up with a groan, but as your sitting up, a hand grabs your arm again, hauling you up and slamming you against the wall.
"well, would ya look at this," the vamp spits, his yellow stained teeth shown in a grin as he leans in, his putrid breath in your face making you want to vomit. "the winchester's brought their little girl toy. how nice of them to bring us a gift."
"go to hell," you spit, the words strained as his hand fists in the collar of your shirt, pressing against your neck as he raises you higher against the wall.
the vamp only grins wider, running his tongue over his small, cracked lips. his dark, greasy hair falls in front of his eyes, and his bloodshot blue eyes make him look crazed. he's bleeding from a fresh cut on his forehead, and you wonder if one of the boys had already got into it with him.
"ooh, and she's feisty," he snarls, smirking cruelly. he raises his other hand to brush his grime-covered fingertips over your forehead, running them through your hair.
you turn away from his touch, struggling in his vice-like grip as bile builds in your throat, but his smirk only grins, a low, dark chuckle leaving his crusted lips.
"that's just fine," he whispers, his hot breath fanning over your skin as he leans in to nose at your neck, inhaling deeply, ignoring your struggle in his grip. "i like it when they fight back."
his words make your heart pound, your chest tightening with panic, eyes wide with fear as you struggle in his tight grasp, arms flinging and nails scratching at anywhere you can reach, but he doesn't even flinch, his grip not loosening at all. you open your mouth to scream, hoping to get the attention of one of the boys, or anyone that will help you at this point, but the hand that was in your hair slaps over your mouth just as you part your lips, your scream muffled into his palm.
"ah-ah, be a good girl and stay quiet," he tuts, pulling back to bare his fangs to you. you just stare at him, eyes wide with fear as you continue to struggle in his hold. you squeeze your eyes shut as he leans in again, a tear slipping down your cheek.
"let her go."
your eyes snap wide open at the familiar voice of dean, gaze landing on him over the vamp's shoulder, relief filling you at the sight of him. he was standing there, blood splattered all over his clothes, face and hair, his grip white-knuckled on his machete. sam stands behind him, his own eyes wide with fear as they flick between dean and you in the monster's grip. you try to call out to them, but the sound comes out as a muffled whimper against the vamp's hand.
the bloodsucker turns his head to look behind him, his smirk faltering at the sight of dean. his fangs retract, but his grip on you stays vice-like.
"well if it isn't dean winchester," the vamp snarls, his hand over your mouth tightening slightly, making you wince. "come to save your little doll?"
dean's jaw clenches, his expression darkening even further as he stares at you and the vamp, taking a menacing step forward.
"i said - let her go," he growls, something dark flashing in his emerald eyes.
the vamp's eyes widen in fear at the look on dean's face, and his grip on you loosens slightly. that's the opening you need, and with all the strength you can muster, you bite down hard on his hand, simultaneously kicking your leg as hard as you can into his crotch.
the monster cries out in pain, his hands dropping you as they fly to where you kicked him. you fall to the floor with a small thud, catching yourself before you hit your head. you quickly stand up while the bloodsucker is distracted, and sam immediately rushes over to you, grabbing you and pulling you into his arms, backing you away from dean and the vamp.
"sam, wait, dean-"
"the mark's got him right now," sam cuts you off, his voice thick with worry as he holds you to him, soothing your trembling form. "we just gotta stay out of the way, there's nothing we can do."
his words sink in, and it's then you realize that the barn is quiet. your eyes widen in realization, and you turn your head to look up at sam, heart pounding in your chest.
"he killed them all?" you ask, your voice just barely above a whisper. sam's grim nod is enough to make you feel sick.
your attention is torn from that information as you hear the vamp cry out in pain, and when you look up, you see dean's got him on the floor, the vamp's head twisted at an odd angle as dean steps on his back, machete raised over his head.
"this is less than you deserve for touching her, you disgusting son of a bitch," dean spits, and you watch in horror as he raises his machete over his head, bringing it down in one smooth stroke, blood splattering across his face as he cuts the vamp's head clean off.
the barn is silent, save for dean's heavy breath and the pounding of your heart. dean's sleeve is torn, and you can see the mark pulsing an angry red, burning into his skin, the sight making your chest tighten even more.
dean doesn't move, he just stands there, chest heaving and eyes blazing as he stares at the dead body of the vamp, his knuckles white as he grips the machete, blood dripping from the blade onto the old wooden floor.
your heart aches in your chest, and you pull yourself from sam's arms, giving him a reassuring look when he tries to stop you. taking a deep breath, you take a small step towards where dean stands, your body still shaking slightly from adrenaline.
"dean?" you call softly, your voice gentle, trying not to startle him. you don't flinch when his eyes snap up to you, and though his body is still tense, you can see something soften slightly in his gaze when it lands on you. "can you put the machete down, please?"
to your surprise, he does as you ask, the blade falling to the floor with a clatter that echoes through the empty barn. you take that as an invitation to step closer, your eyes never leaving dean's as they follow your movements, his lips parted slightly as he breathes.
when you reach him, you tentatively reach your arm up, placing your hand on his arm, but he jerks back, sucking in a breath as he seemingly snaps out of whatever haze he was in. he takes a step back from you, eyes flickering between you and the severed body of the vampire on the floor.
"let's just go," he says, his voice hoarse and cold. with one last flickering glance up to you, he bends down to grab his machete before turning on his heel and walking to the entrance of the barn.
⭒
the drive back to the bunker had been silent and filled with a suffocating tension that made it hard for you to breathe. once you were back inside the bunker, it wasn't any better, dean not saying a word as he storms ahead, rushing off to his room and closing the door abruptly behind him.
you and sam don't say much as he checks over you for any serious injuries, and you for him. he just hugs you, pressing a kiss to the top of your head before heading to his own room. you follow suit, shedding your bloodied clothing in your room before grabbing a change of clothes and heading to the bathroom attached to your bedroom, which the boys had agreed to give you as one of the few that had it's own bathroom.
in the shower, you turn the heat all the way up, scrubbing the blood from your stained skin, washing off the hands of the vamp who had grasped you. you rub until your skin is raw, and even though you did the other day, you shave, just to feel that sense of normalcy instead of the sickly unease that crawls in your nerves. you wash your hair twice, ridding yourself of the blood and dirt you had collected in the barn, sighing as the steam melted against your skin.
as you stood there under the burning stream, you thought about dean, about the look in his eyes, the empty way he had walked away from you, and all of the pain he had been going through since he had taken the god-forsaken mark. you knew that the guilt from succumbing to the blood lust weighed heavily on his shoulders, and you just wished that there was some way you could focus that anger, that need on something else. and that's when the idea came to you.
immediately, you shut off the water, grabbing a towel and wrapping your hair in it, grabbing another one to wrap around your body, rushing back into your room and grabbing a different pair of clothes than you had previously chosen. you trade out the old sweatpants for a pair of sleep shorts, large sweatshirt for an old t-shirt that you stole from dean months ago, and tossing your plain panties, instead grabbing one of your nicer pairs, a dark red lace number that hugged you perfectly, foregoing a bra.
you tried not to think about how ridiculous this was as you slip on the clothes, taking your now semi-damp hair out of the towel and running your hands through it gently, getting out the leftover tangles. you splash water on your face, drying it off with a towel as you look in the mirror, chewing on your lip as you decide whether to put a bit of makeup on or not. you decide yes, just throwing on the slightest bit of mascara and eyeliner, adding just a bit of blush, and swiping over your lips with your cherry lip balm, pursing your lips to properly coat them.
you lean back and study yourself in the mirror, cringing at the bright red scratch marks on your neck before taking a deep breath as you consider what you're about to do. fuck it, you think, go big or go home, right?
with those words of wisdom to yourself and one last deep breath, you turn and walk of out the bathroom, and then out of the door to your room, heading into the hallway, your bare feet pad on the concrete floor as you make the short walk just a few doors down to dean's room. you stop in front of his door, taking a shaky breath before raising your hand, hesitating for a moment before knocking softly.
you hear shuffling, as if he's getting out of bed, and then the door opens and he's suddenly in front of you, arms crossed over his chest as he leans against the doorway.
your breath hitches at the sight of him, your stomach flipping as you look up at him. his hair is spiked and damp, reflecting the shower he probably just took, his stubble highlighting his jaw. his plaid pajama pants are slung low on his hips, just enough to show a sliver of skin between the waistband and the hem of his black t-shirt that hugs his shoulders tightly, stretching over his chest.
dean says your name in a low voice, tilting his head as he looks down at you. you snap out of your trance, flushing slightly as you realize you were caught staring. "what're you doing here?" he asks, and doubt pools in your chest.
"i...i have a proposal," you say, nervously biting your lip as you look up at him.
dean's eyes track the movement, his jaw clenching as he flicks his gaze back up to your eyes, brows raising in question. "a proposal?"
you nod, shifting anxiously on your feet. you take a breath, forcing yourself to calm down as you smile nervously up at him. "can i come in?"
he doesn't say anything, just continues to stare at you, pushing off the doorway and stepping back, allowing you to walk by him. you step into the threshold of his room, forcing yourself to push away the nerves as you stand in front of the bed. your eyes follow him as he closes the door behind you, walking over to stand in front of you, arms still crossed over his chest as he looks down at you.
"so, what's this proposal of yours?" dean asks, the rough timbre of his voice sending a shiver up your spine. you snap out of it, meeting his gaze head on as you speak.
"okay, i was thinking about the mark, and the blood lust." you can see his jaw clench at the mention of the mark and your stomach flips, but you continue. "so i thought, what if...what if there was another way to channel that?"
something flickers in his eyes at your words, and he raises his eyebrows in curiosity. "what d'you mean?"
you swallow nervously, biting your lip as you consider what you're about to say. "before i say it, i just want you to know that if this makes you uncomfortable then i can just go and we'll pretend that this never happened and-"
dean cuts you off with a grunt of your name, tilting his head as he narrows his eyes at you. "just spit it out-"
"i want you to fuck me." the words come out of your mouth before you can stop them, both yours and dean's eyes widening at the bluntness of them.
"you want me to-"
"fuck me," you restate, deciding to just go with your forwardness. "i was thinking about what the mark makes you feel, and how it makes you turn that into blood lust, but then i thought about what if you could channel it into something else. give you some other way to let go."
dean doesn't say anything, just stands there, nostrils flaring and jaw clenched so tight your worried he's going to break something as he stares at you, eyes raking over your features as if something in them is going to tell him that you're joking.
you look away as you flush under his stare, regret and embarrassment seeping into your chest. when he still doesn't say anything, you shake your head, biting your lip as you turn to head back towards his door. "i knew this was stupid, i'm sorry-"
dean doesn't even give you the chance to finish your apology as he grabs your arm and spins you back into his chest, pulling a gasp from your lips.
"stop doing that," he growls, and when you look up into his eyes, they're so dark it makes your breath hitch. his hand that's not gripping your arm comes up to cup your jaw, his thumb brushing over your bottom lip, tugging it lightly. "drivin' me fucking crazy."
you're too dazed by his sudden proximity to respond, the woody, leather filled scent that's so purely dean invading your senses and making you dizzy.
"let me get this straight," dean says, his voice low and slightly strained as he thumbs at your bottom lip, his eyes glued to the action. "you want me to fuck you, to get rid of the blood lust?"
you nod, lips parting automatically as he tugs at your bottom one, eyes wide as you stare up at him. "yea-yeah. it would still be letting that energy out, just in a different way," you tell him, your voice slightly breathless.
"and you want that?" he asks, eyes lingering on the way your lips brush his thumb as you speak before slipping back up to meet yours. "you want me to let go with you, sweetheart?"
you nod again, swallowing thickly as your mouth goes dry at the nickname. even though you'd heard it from his lips a thousand times before, this time it felt different, heavier, and you felt it weigh on your heart. "of course, if it'll help you-"
"no," dean cuts you off, growling your name and gripping your jaw tighter. "i'm asking you if you want this. not if you want to help me, i'm asking if you want me to fuck you, because if i won't touch you if you don't want this."
"i want this," you answer without hesitation, your voice breathy and your eyes wide, pupils blown with lust as you look up at him. "i wouldn't do this if i didn't want it."
dean groans, eyes clenching shut as if it's physically paining him to hold back, and his hand on your arm slides around your waist, tugging you flush against his chest. when he opens his eyes again, the sapphire green that wormed it's way into your heart is almost entirely swallowed by lust-blown black, the sight making your heart stutter.
"if we do this," he starts, his voice dangerously low. his hand caresses your waist before moving to your hip, gripping the flesh tightly through your clothes. "i'm not so sure 'm gonna be able to control myself. i don't wanna hurt you."
you shake your head, eyes determined as you hold his gaze, your hands coming up to his chest, fisting in his shirt and pulling him impossibly closer. "you're not gonna hurt me, dean," you whisper, pushing up on your tip-toes so that your lips are a breath away from his. "i want this, i want you to let go with me. i want you to use me."
dean just stares at you for a moment, his hand on your jaw moving to cup your cheek as his eyes bore into yours, jaw clenched and nostrils flared. as soon as his eyes flick back up to yours, something snaps in him and he surges forward, crashing his lips to yours.
you moan at the intensity of the kiss, your hands moving from his shirt to wind up into his hair, fingers tangling tightly in the still damp strands. his hands are suddenly everywhere, moving from your cheek to grip your hair, the hand on your hip slipping under your shirt to caress your bare skin, groaning against your lips when he finds that you're not wearing a bra.
your lips part instantly as you feel his tongue run along your bottom lip, moaning into his mouth as he tilts his head, running his tongue over your teeth before sucking your bottom lip into his mouth. your head is spinning as your teeth clash, your hands in his hair holding him tightly to you, arching your body into his.
when you both finally remember you need air, you pull back with a pop, a string of saliva connecting your now swollen lips. dean rests his forehead against yours, his hands finding a place at your hips, gripping them tightly as he catches his breath.
"last chance to back out," he breathes, looking at you with hooded eyes that make your knees weak.
"not a chance, winchester," you whisper back, your voice equally strained as you pant softly, trying to force air into your lungs.
dean groans at your words, and without hesitation, he slams his lips back to yours, one hand fisting in your hair as the other creeps up your back, pulling your shirt up with it until he has to pull away to tug it off you, throwing it somewhere. his pupils grow impossibly larger as he takes in your bare chest, your nipples pebbling as they're exposed to the cool air. his tongue darts out to wet his lips before he's on you, surging forward and capturing one of the hardened buds in his mouth.
you yelp softly at the sudden action, the sound melting into a moan as you arch into him, hands grasping at his hair to hold him to you.
"fuck, dean─" you gasp, head falling back as his tongue swirls around your sensitive skin, his hand coming up to cup your breast that his mouth isn't currently ravishing. after he's satisfied with the job he's done, he switches, bringing his mouth to your other breast, his hand moving to cup and grope the one his mouth had just been working at, pinching your nipple between his thumb and forefinger.
when you whimper his name as he bites at your bud, he pulls himself away from your chest with a pop, lips slick and eyes blown as he looks down at you. you stare up at him, eyes wide and lips parted as you pant, just taking in the sight of him, so worked up over you.
"fuck," he groans, jaw clenching as his eyes greedily rake over your flushed features, his spit-slick bottom lip caught between his teeth. your hooded eyes follow the movement, your faces close enough that you can feel his breath on your heated skin, which sends a shiver up your spine.
you've seen dean shirtless many times─patching him up, or when motel rooms got too hot, but this was different. now, his toned chest was heaving with heavy breaths, his tan skin flushed with desire just for you.
you're staring, lips parted as you pant heavily, your eyes greedily raking over every inch of skin he's offering to you. your hands twitch to reach out, to feel every ridge, dip and curve of his body, and you're too far gone to deny yourself.
you rush forward, wrapping your arms around his shoulders and attaching your mouth to his neck. your lips trail up his neck, sucking at a spot under his jaw that has him groaning your name in a way that makes your knees weak. you're sure you would've collapsed by now if dean's arms weren't wrapped so tightly around your waist you could feel his biceps flex against your skin as your mouth ravished his neck and up to his jaw.
you're craning your neck to reach his skin, and you're body feels so hot you're worried that it's going to burst into flames if you don't do something about it. the chorus of more, more, more chants in your head, fueling your trembling legs as the walk forward, walking dean backwards until the backs of his knees hit the edge of the bed.
he falls to sit on the bed with a grunt, his grip never loosening around you as you follow him, crawling into his lap eagerly, moaning into his neck when his bare chest presses against yours. you arch against him as you bite and suck on his neck, lips trailing down to nip at his collarbone, leaving a path of spit behind you.
"shit─need t'feel you, baby," dean rasps, his hands moving to grip your hips tightly, grinding you down onto him. you whimper in agreement, reluctantly pulling away from his salty skin, licking your lips to savor the taste of him.
you sit yourself up on your knees in his lap, cupping his face in your hands as you tilt his head back to look up at you, your thumb tugging at his bottom lip just as he did to you before. just the sight of him sends a wave of aching desire between your legs, your panties growing wetter by the second.
dean looks absolutely wrecked. his plush lips are parted and spit-slick, swollen from your bruising kisses, the white of his teeth peeking through the brightened pink as he pants heavily. his hooded eyes are so dark, the mossy green almost completely gone as he stares up at you with such reverence it makes your pounding heart stutter in your chest.
his rough hand squeezing your hips brings your attention back to the moment as he turns his head into your touch, lips ghosting your palm, his eyes staying locked on yours.
"c'mon, sweetheart," dean groans, his voice almost breathless as he squeezes your hip again, the action almost pleading. "can't take this anymore, just need you, need t'feel that pretty pussy 'round me."
his words make you moan softly, but they snap you into action. you scramble off his lap, stepping back from the cage of his legs as you hook your fingers in the waistband of your sleep shorts, bending over towards him as you tug them down, shimmying them over your hips and thighs until they fall to the floor.
dean's eyes hungrily watch your every movement, jaw clenching tightly and a low groan escaping his lips as the delicate red lace of your panties is exposed to him.
"son of a bitch," he mutters, his voice a breathless whisper so quiet you almost miss it.
feeling spurred on by his words, you step out of your shorts, leaving them on the floor as you stand between his legs again and start to sink down, your mouth watering at the thought of tasting him. but his arm shoots out to grab yours, stopping you from dropping to your knees with a grip so tight you think it might leave bruises. your pussy clenches at the thought, the idea of looking in the mirror and seeing the mark of him on your skin, as a reminder of this chance you may never have again, nearly making your eyes roll back.
"no, no," dean practically snarls, straightening you up as his hands go to the waistband of your panties, ripping them from your body with a ferocity that makes you gasp. "next time baby, i promise, i'll let you use your fuckin' gorgeous mouth on me, but right now i need to fuck that pretty pussy until you can't even think anything but my name."
a breath leaves your lungs in a shaky gasp, the filthiness of his words making your head spin.
"okay─" is all you can manage, your voice shaking as he tugs you back into his lap, groaning when he feels your bare, hot core against his still clothed and straining cock. he doesn't hold the position long though, because in a blink of an eye, he has you flat on your back, breasts heaving as you stare up at him, your eyes wide and needy.
you part your lips to comment something about how he still has pants on, but the words catch in your throat as a moan when his fingers suddenly swipe through your weeping heat. you arch your back against the mattress, trying to push yourself up against his fingers as they circle your throbbing clit, sending sparks of pleasure behind your eyes.
"that's it, that's my girl─ fuck, you're so fuckin' pretty," dean praises, leaning over you to suck one of your peaked nipples into heated mouth.
his words make you whimper, and your hips buck up desperately into his hand, chasing the burning pleasure he's making you feel. "shit, dean, please, please─"
your whines are cut off into a moan when he plunges the same fingers that had been working your aching bud into your sopping cunt, your walls instantly tightening around his digits.
"i know, pretty girl, i know," he croons, his raspy voice muffled against the heated skin of your chest. his plush lips trailing up to your neck, his stubble scratching at your sensitive skin as he noses under your ear, teeth tugging gently at your earlobe. "jus' give me one before i fuck you, yeah? wanna feel you come around my fingers before i fuck you stupid on my cock."
you whimper in response, tossing your head back against the mattress with a moan as he drives his fingers into your heat again and again, curling them just right to hit that gummy spot deep within you that makes your toes curl.
"oh god, oh god─" you babble, eyes squeezing shut as you feel the band in your stomach tightening, pulling you closer and closer to the edge. "dean, close, m'so close─"
your words only encourage him, his teeth tugging at your ear once more before he trails them up to your jaw, resting his forehead against your cheek. he presses his lips to the burning skin there as his thumb moves to circle your clit, making you cry out under him, your hands flaying to his shoulders, nails digging into the taut skin as you buck against his hand.
"yeah? y'gonna cum, baby? gonna soak my fingers like the good girl you are?" dean coos, lips moving against your cheek, letting his teeth graze your skin. "c'mon, pretty girl, cum on my fingers so this perfect fucking pussy can take me like she needs to."
you fly over the edge with a cry of his name, eyes rolling back and spine arching as your orgasm crashes over you, stealing the air from your lungs. your legs tremble around him, and you can feel his smug smirk against your cheek, your mind too fuzzy to comprehend the words he mumbles against your skin.
his fingers don't stop, working your soaked pussy until your whining, squirming away from his touch as your eyes flutter open, mouth slack as you gasp for breath. your eyes flick up to dean as he moves his face to hover over yours, and his hand has moved but he's not saying anything, and he's just staring at you, and the reverence in his eyes makes you want to shrink, but there's nowhere for you to go.
"dean," you whisper, your voice still shaking and barely audible as your eyes search his, trying to read his expression. he still doesn't say anything, just watching you with his devastatingly beautiful eyes and making you feel like he's worshipping you with his gaze. "what's wrong? do-do you want to stop─"
"do you know," dean mumbles your name, cutting you off effectively. "how fucking beautiful you are?"
the unexpected compliment makes your breath hitch, your heart pounding so loudly in your chest you're sure he can hear it. all you can do is stare up at him, and he's so close you can count every freckle on his impossibly perfect face, the moment so intimate it makes your heart clench in your chest.
"you drive me goddamn crazy," he continues, pushing himself up to stand between your legs that hang off the edge of the bed. his hands drift down to the waistband of his pants, pushing them and his boxers down in one swift movement, his eyes never leaving yours as he kicks them away. "you make me forget everything, y'know that? you make me forget about this damn mark on my arm, you're in my head and then suddenly, all the mark wants is you."
your eyes drift down to between his legs, your mouth watering as you see his cock, hard and heavy in front of you, already red and leaking precum. when you continue to stare, dean leans over you again, grasping your chin in his hand, forcing you to meet his eyes.
"i mean, fuck, just look at you, sweetheart," he breathes, his gaze raking over you, lingering on your heaving breasts before flicking back up to meet your eyes. "look so fucking gorgeous...all fucked out 'n stupid just from my fingers."
you only whimper in response, the sound breathless and soft as your spinning head tries to process his words. "please, dean," you rasp, your pleading eyes searching his, lifting your hips up to try and feel hi until he groans softly, eyes fluttering. "need you, please, fuck me.."
he stares at you for another moment, his jaw ticking and you can feel his cock twitch against your inner thigh. he finally moves again, reaching out and grabbing a pillow, lifting your hips and placing it under you. when he decides you're properly situated, he settles between your spread thighs, grasping one tightly in one hand while the other pumps himself slowly. he leans over you, guiding himself to your weeping entrance as your hands fly to his shoulders, grasping at the hard muscles.
he suddenly stops just before his leaking head brushed your folds, the hand on your thigh tightening as his eyes flick up to yours. "condom?" he asks, his voice strained as he forces himself to hold back.
you shake your head, biting your lip as you watch the way his pupils dilate, the sight making your aching core clench around nothing. "wanna feel you, all of you."
"fuck," he groans, his eyes slipping shut as he pumps himself faster, lining up with your aching pussy again. "baby, you're gonna be the death 'f me."
you just hum in response, your eyes glued to where he rubs his red, swollen tip through your puffy folds. with one more squeeze of your thigh, he pushes in, punching harmonic moans out of both of you. your back arches, eyes rolling back as your tight walls stretch around him, the pleasurable burn making your nails dig into his skin.
dean watches you, eyes wide and blown so dark with desire he looks almost crazed, staying still as he lets you adjust to the feeling of him inside you. "that's it, look at you, takin' me so well," he praises, rolling his hips gently to see your reaction.
"ohh shit," you moan, a gasping whimper catching in your throat when he rolls his hips again. he grasps your hips with both hands as leans over you, his bare chest pressing against yours. he stays like that, keeping still longer than he did before, and it doesn't take long until your squirming under him, whimpering softly as you grasp at his shoulders. "move, dean, please─"
as soon as the plea leaves your swollen lips, his hips snap harshly against yours, making you cry out, your eyes flying open to meet his. your mouth goes slack, lips parted in a silent scream and your brow furrowing as he pistons his hips into you, changing angles slightly until he hits that gummy spot deep in you that makes you cry out his name.
"yeah, yeah, i know, pretty girl, that's it right there, huh?" dean's voice is strained, the words a groan against your lips as he licks into your slack mouth, making you mewl under him, the sound only encouraging him to go faster. "squeezin' me so tight, shit, perfect fucking pussy was made for me, fuck─"
he pounds into you mercilessly, your tight walls tightening around his cock, sucking him in as his tip hits your cervix, making stars flash in your eyes. you swear you can feel him everywhere. his hot breath against your parted lips, calloused hands gripping your thighs and sliding up to your chest to pinch and tweak at your hardened buds, his cock making you so full you swear you can feel him in your throat.
you can feel your release creeping up on you, your hands slipping down to grip his biceps, moaning when the muscles flex under your touch. dean seems to sense that you're getting close, and he moves one hand from your chest, trailing his fingers down your torso until he reaches your clit, rubbing tight circles on the aching bud.
the sudden overwhelming pleasure makes you cry out, eyes rolling back as you claw at his skin, broken mewls and gasps leaving your lips. "dean-!"
"yeah, fuck, beautiful, say my name," he groans, dropping his head to your neck, his hips never faltering their bruising pace. "want you scream it when you cum around my cock."
"oh shit," you gasp, hands flying to his back, nails dragging down his skin as you feel yourself getting dangerously close to the edge. "close, shit, m'close dean─"
"yeah, i know, baby, can feel you squeezing me." his fingers speed up on your throbbing clit, and with just the smallest bit of added pressure, the band in you snaps. hard.
you think you scream, but your brain shuts off as your orgasm crashes through you, the pleasure mind-numbing and paralyzing. dean continues to fuck you through it, his hips faltering as he feels your walls clamp down on him with your release.
"fuck, that's it. good girl, good fucking girl," he grunts your name into your neck, his voice strained as you feel him twitch in you, his thrusts just extending your orgasm and melting into another one. "you don't know how fucking long 've wanted this. your perfect fucking pussy gripping me so tight, fuck─ you were made for me, fucking made for my cock, never gonna let you go after this, ngh, you're mine now, sweetheart. all fucking mine."
he continues to babble as his hips falter, lifting his head from your neck to crash his lips to yours, devouring your mouth with his teeth and tongue.
"gonna cum in your tight fuckin' pussy, gonna fill you up, make you feel me for days." you whimper into his mouth, the two of you more so just panting into each other's mouths rather than kissing.
"please, dean, need it, need you so bad," you moan, feeling that band tighten once more. "wanna feel you, please, please─"
"oh fuck, gonna cum," he gasps your name into your mouth, his grip on your hips tightening, and somewhere in the back of your fucked out brain you register that there are definitely going to be bruises there tomorrow. "fuck, m'gonna cum─"
he thrusts once, twice, burying his face in your neck and then his hips still, pressing his cock as deep into you as he can get as he twitches, groaning loudly as he spills into you, his release hot and heavenly in your tight walls. the feelings sends you over the edge again, a weak, broken cry leaving you as your vision practically goes white with pleasure.
you stay like that, trembling and panting softly under him, your eyes hooded and hazy, your shaking hands slipping from his shoulders and falling to his biceps weakly. for a long moment, dean doesn't move, just breathing heavily into the crook of your neck, his lips brushing your sensitive skin with every breath.
eventually, he shifts his hips, moving to pull out, and the movement makes you whimper from the oversensitivity. instantly, dean pulls back from your neck, his brow furrowed as he looks down at you, his gaze filled with concern.
"shit, did i hurt you?" he asks, and you can hear the panic creeping into his tone. "i'm so sorry sweetheart, i didn't mean to─"
you cut him off with a shake of your head, forcing your eyes to focus as you look up at him, a weak, fucked-out smile forming on your lips. "you didn't hurt me, dean," you assure him, your voice raspy. "i'm fine, just sensitive."
"oh okay," he says, nodding and lets out a breath as if he'd been holding it.
he takes another moment, eyes raking over your face again, and he looks like hes't going to say something, but he bites his lip, pushing down whatever it is. slowly, he lifts himself on his arms, pushing up so he's almost sitting, squeezing your thigh comfortingly as he pulls out. you wince slightly at the movement, shivering when you feel his release dripping from your spent cunt.
he pulls away from you completely, standing up and walking over to the corner of his room and your stomach sinks as you watch him rifle through his stuff. you knew this was coming, the part where he awkwardly mumbled a thank you and you take his rejection without a word, making the walk of shame back to your own room, and you never speak of this again.
you can feel the familiar burn of tears forming behind your eyelids as you push yourself up, placing your feet on the ground. you don't look up at him as you lean over, grabbing your discarded shirt from the floor. you bite your lip anxiously as you stand up from the bed, intending to put your shirt on only to stumble and sway as your weak legs shake under you.
"woah, woah─" dean's arm comes around your waist, catching you before you can fall and you lean against him without really meaning to sighing at the warmth of his chest. "where do you think you're goin'?"
he turns you in his arms so your chest to chest with him, and you keep your eyes glued to his anti-posession tattoo, not quite ready to look him in the eyes and see the rejection. "i'll just get dressed and go back to my room─"
"hey, what? no," he interrupts, confusion lacing his words. his hand moves to cup your chin, tilting your head up until you have no choice but to look into his eyes. his brow is furrowed, and you have the sudden need to reach up and smooth the crease with your fingers. "why would you do that?"
your lips part to speak, but no words come out as the intense emotions in his eyes steal your breath.
dean says your name in a low voice, his gaze roaming over your face as his thumb stroked your cheek gently. "did you think i was gonna kick you out?"
"i...i didn't think you'd want me to stay," you admit in a breathless voice, eyes wide as you stare up at him.
he doesn't say anything for a moment, just gazing down at you as his hand raises to brush some of your hair away from your face, and if hekeeps looking at you like that you think you might catch on fire. "i meant what i said."
the words are so simple, so blunt that you don't know what he's referring to. "what are you talking about?" you ask, slightly breathless as your brow furrows in confusion.
"what i said, earlier, i meant it," dean repeats, the hand that's not cupping your chin raising to your forehead, his thumb stroking at the crease between your brows, the tenderness making your breath hitch. "i've wanted you, wanted this for so long, sweetheart."
his words stop your heart, and you look up at him with wide, shocked eyes. you can feel your pulse pounding in your chest, your shirt in your hand falling to the floor as your lips part in shock. "you have?"
"yeah," he mutters your name, both of his hands moving to cup your face now, and you subconsciously lean into his touch, making him smile softly. "i have. i'm honestly surprised you didn't notice before. even cas said i was bein' obvious."
your head reels from his confession, the words processing in your still slightly hazy mind. "you...what?" you ask, still staring up at him with wide eyes.
"i mean, hell, how could i not want you?" dean chuckles, almost to himself as he gazes down at you. "you're smart, 'nd funny, and you could kick my ass any day of the week. not to mention you're so fucking beautiful it makes me weak."
"you...you really mean that?" you ask, brow furrowing in doubt. "you're not fucking with me?"
he shakes his head, smiling down at you as his thumbs continue to caress your cheeks affectionately. "you, this...it's all ive wanted for a long time."
"i..." you start, unsure of what to say as you search his expression for any hint of him lying. when you find none, a smile matching his spreads across your lips, and you lean into his touch, bringing a hand up to rest over his. "ive wanted this too. for a while, actually."
dean grins at you─a real, wide, boyish grin that lights up his ethereal features, making your heart stutter in your chest. "i guess we're both idiots then."
"i guess we are..." you agree, pushing up on your tip toes to ghost your lips over his. you hover there, just breathing him in, eyes flicking between his before you close the gap, pressing your lips softly to his.
its nothing like the kisses you shared before. in fact, it's really just the gentle press of your lips to his, savoring the way his smile feels against you, and you suddenly don't know how you've lived your whole life without kissing dean winchester like this. you certainly don't think you can live without it now that you've experienced it.
after a few savored moments, you pull away, smile staying on your lips as your eyes flutter open. your hand slides along his arm, and you feel him tense when your fingers brush over the mark.
"i trust you, dean," you whisper, curling your fingers over the raised skin, squeezing his forearm lightly. "i know you would never hurt me, and i need you to know that im not going to leave."
"but-" he starts, but you cut him off by raising your free hand to press a finger to his lips.
"no buts," you counter, shifting your hand to cup his cheek, smiling lovingly at him. "just because you think you're dammed doesn't mean you actually are. because you aren't. no matter what you think of yourself, it will never change the fact that you, dean winchester, are the good man. the best man ive ever known, and ill be damned if i let you think any less than that."
"sweetheart..."
"stop. don't fight me on this─"
"i wasn't gonna fight you─"
"yes you were, i could see it─"
he says your name, low and serious, but there's still a soft smile on his face. "you're too damn good for me."
"what did i just say─"
"just let me say this, will you?" he says, giving you a look that makes you shut your mouth, eyes locked on his. he sighs, just staring at you for a moment before he speaks again, his voice softer than you've ever heard it. "youre too good for me, i know that. you're too smart, too kind, just too damn good. but damnit, i want to be selfish so bad and keep you for myself."
you just smile at him, eyes slipping shut as you lean up again to kiss him a little deeper than the one before, but still soft nonetheless. "you have me, dean," you whisper against his lips, your eyes still closed. "you've always had me."
"i don't want to hurt you," he mumbles, and you can feel his furrowed brow as he leans his forehead against yours.
"you won't hurt me."
"you don't know that─"
"yes, i do." your tone is sharp, and it makes his eyes snap open to meet yours again. at this proximity, you can see the specks of gold that flicker in the deep emerald that makes your heart skip a beat. "we'll figure this out, dean. we'll get through this and get that damn mark off you. we'll figure this out, together."
dean smiles at that, a soft, relieved curve of his lips that makes the corners of his eyes crease. he looks at you with so much emotion and affection that you want to just crumble into him and never let him go, hide him away from the world so that it can't hurt him more than it has. "together," he repeats, his voice a hushed whisper.
you can tell that he believes you, and the thought makes pride swell in your chest. you may not know much about your fucked up lives at the moment, but the one thing you know for sure is that you were never going to let dean go through it alone. ever.
a/n, this ended up being way longer than i intended, but oh well. anyways, i can't get moc!dean out of my head, so here we are... and happy late new years!
ps, the end was written at 3 in the morning (again) so i sincerely apologize if the ending is rushed
Pairing: Alpha!Dean Winchester x Female Omega!Reader
Summary: You wake up in a strange alpha’s cabin in the middle of a snowstorm, all with a busted ankle. He holds shadows in his eyes, even though his hands are gentle. There are iron shutters around his heart, even though he saved you. You might just save him in return.
AN: Another short series for @jacklesversebingo! This is a canon ending-divergent AU, but still an Omegaverse story within the canon SPN world.
Song Inspo: “Against the Wind” by Bob Seger
JVB Prompt: True Mates
Series Tags/Warnings: 18+ only! A/B/O dynamics, scenting, injuries, angst, smut, fluff and feels. Background Sam Winchester x Eileen (Saileen).
Chapters:
✦ Part 1: In His Hands
✦ Part 2: Seems Like Yesterday
✦ Part 3: Nothing Left to Burn
✦ Part 4: Running to Live
✦ Epilogue: Shelter
Series Complete!
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“That was way too fucking public,” Dean growled, his knuckles tight on the wheel of the Impala.
“Rowena will make sure that any witnesses are taken care of,” Sam answered calmly.
The night sky swallowed the country road in front of them. Sam rode shotgun, his phone lit up in front of him as he checked his email. You brought your mouth up to the roll of bandage tape that you were using to wrap your wrist, which you were pretty sure was sprained, and ripped the piece in half with your teeth. Dean glanced through the rearview mirror, and as your gaze met his, your stomach fluttered.
Get a grip on yourself, you scolded. It had been easy to forget about everything while you were fighting off the advancing coven and trying to keep club-goers from getting hurt. All of the teamwork between you, Sam and Dean had been natural and cohesive. Once the danger had been minimized (one witch incinerated, the other three simply immobilized), you had gone to check on Dean who was holding his shoulder and it all came back to you; the kiss to hide your faces, the dance that had been not so subtly sexual. And to make it worse, Rowena had walked past and fucking winked at you like she knew something.
Now you had all the time in the world to sit and think. You really wanted to talk it through with Dean, but you couldn’t bring it up in front of Sam. Not just because you wouldn’t make him sit through that, but because he would never let either of you live it down if he found out something had happened. Sam had teased you a couple times when you were at Dean’s throat about just going into a bedroom and letting all the tension out. Of course you had thought he was just being an idiot, not that he actually saw sexual tension between you two. But if he had seen it this whole time, and now you two are making out on a case? Oh, he would be giddy for weeks.
Maybe one of the witches put a spell on us, you pondered. Yes, that was a definite possibility. Lauren had actually seen you and Dean, and figuring out that you were hunters, had created a little love spell to get you distracted so that you wouldn’t come after the coven. That has to be what happened.
Because what were the actual chances of Dean falling for someone like you?
00000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000
It was almost 3am when the team rolled back into the garage of the Bunker. It was getting harder and harder to make pit stops at motels when everyone knew their own bed awaited them with just a few extra hours of driving. The atmosphere was quiet, Sam doing most of the heavy lifting without asking since Dean was still nursing his shoulder. Everything that you tried to grab got pulled out of your hand by Dean like you were the start of some conveyor belt. When Dean tried to grab your duffle out of your hand, you finally snapped at him.
“This is mine!” You hissed. “Do you want to carry it and me to my room? Can I at least carry my goddamn pillow?”
Dean threw up his hands defensively, muttering sorry, and then he was marching around the Impala. You tried to call after him, but he was gone.
Great job, idiot. With a sigh, you padded through the maze of hallways to your bedroom.
You tried to turn off the guilt as you started your nighttime routine, but it gnawed at you more and more. He was just trying to do something nice, and you had to go and bite his head off. Then as you slipped under the covers, your mind shifted to the feel of Dean pressed against you, hips gyrating together, and you growled in frustration. You were not gonna be getting any sleep tonight. Not until you talked to Dean.
Throwing off your covers, you pulled a hoodie over your pajamas and crossed to the door. Yanking it open, you stopped short, for there stood Dean. When he saw you, he gave you a sheepish grin.
“I was just coming to talk to you.” You offered first.
“Oh.” Dean ran a hand through his hair. “I figured you were getting a drink or something. I know it’s late.”
“I can’t sleep. There’s too much I…” The words died on your lips. How did one even begin to have a conversation about everything that had happened tonight?
“Yeah. Can I come in?” Dean waited until you nodded before entering. He paused for a second before choosing to pull out the chair of the desk, sitting on it backwards. You crossed your legs under you on the bed.
If the air in the club had been hot and sweaty, the air now in your room was a mixture of awkward and uncomfortable.
“How’s your wrist?” Dean finally asked.
“It’ll be fine. I broke it five years ago, so I’m always gonna have problems with it. But its just twisted or something.”
“I didn’t know you broke your wrist,” Dean’s eyes softened slightly.
“There’s a lot we don’t actually know about each other.” You smiled at him and felt the tension start to suffocate the air again. You knew that you needed to push through it though, and get to the point, otherwise you were gonna be awake all week. You took in a big breath, bracing yourself. “Look, I’m sorry about kissing you. I think Lauren may have actually seen us and put a spell on us.”
Dean, who had been opening his mouth to answer the “I’m sorry”, froze as the rest of the words tumbled out of your mouth. He narrowed his eyes, cocking his head to the side, and he suddenly resembled a puppy dog that was trying to figure out what its owner was saying.
“You…what?!”
“Well, I mean it makes sense. I don’t know where else that cockamamie idea could have…”
“No, Y/N.” Dean shook his head forcefully. “There was no spell. I kissed you tonight.”
“You…kissed me.” You repeated slowly.
“Well, you started it. But I definitely finished it.” He chuckled, his eyes lighting up at the memory.
That weird sensation came over you again, your brain short circuiting at the thought of Dean Winchester doing these things on purpose. You tried to find words, but instead a wad of spit lodged itself in your throat, and you started coughing and choking. Dean was on his feet in an instant, coming over and putting his hand on your back.
“You okay? You looked like you were having a stroke.”
“I think I was,” you groaned as Dean sat down next to you, his hand still resting in the same spot. You tried to form another sentence, but you couldn’t stop thinking about his touch. Then he started rubbing small circles, and you could have sworn you heard a high-pitched radio frequency start bouncing through your head. “Dean, what are you doing?”
“I’m…am I distracting you?” He pulled his hand away, his face suddenly filled with concern. You groaned, throwing your hands over your face and leaning forward into your lap.
“What is happening?” You hollered in frustration. You sat up quickly, making Dean startle and sit back. “No, seriously, like do you like me? Have you liked me for a while? What is happening Dean?”
Dean chuckled, reaching up to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear.
“I’m not sure where my confident, kick ass hunter friend went. But let me explain.” Dean grasped one of the hands sitting in your lap, squeezing it lightly before he continued. “I don’t know if it fully crossed my mind before tonight. But when you kissed me, I felt something that I haven’t felt in a really long time. And watching you dance out there, completely losing yourself to the music? It made me want to feel that way too. You make me feel alive, y/n. You make all of the bad days seem a little less gray. And I want to see where this could go.”
A tiny smile crept onto your face.
“That was smooth, Winchester.”
Dean grinned, like a kid who had just been told he did a good job. With a chuckle, you leaned over and pressed your lips against his in agreement. Dean kept the kiss soft, his lips gently brushing yours over and over. Part of you wanted the passion and heat that you’d had before, but you were also exhausted and knew that you needed sleep.
A ding erupted from your phone in your pocket. Wondering who could possibly be texting you at this hour, you pulled out your phone. It was from Rowena.
Opening up the image file, you found a picture of the dance floor at the club. In the middle was you and Dean, fully wrapped around each other in mid-kiss.
“Ohmygod!” You exclaimed. You spun the phone to show Dean.
Tags: Dean Winchester/Female Reader, light angst, shapeshifters, first kiss, emotions, very light fluff, romance, love confessions
Summary/Warnings: Dean knows you. He knows you better than anyone, better than you know you, better than he knows himself. He'd lay down his life for you in a heartbeat, and knows you'd do the same, even if it's not in the same way.
But something's… different.
Author's Note: Request from @maddie0101! Many feelings here. Enjoy!
Word Count: 5.8k
Something was off.
Dean couldn’t place it. He didn’t have words for it. And She was speaking and moving as she always did, but something was off.
It was more of a feeling, deep in the cavity of his chest. Dean knew Her. He knew everything about Her. He knew Her every tone and habit and expression, he could read Her better than a book and watch Her for a million lifetimes and never get bored. She was the only person he trusted as much as Sam, the only person he protected as much as Sam, the only person he-
That was a thought Dean wasn’t allowed to have. He’d drawn that line long, long ago when it had first wormed its way into his brain and heart, taking root without permission and infecting him with rushing blood and a trapped mind that only circled around Her. It led to a path that only ended in destruction and grief, because he’d weighed the options and She’d either walk away and he’d lose Her like that, or She’d stay until Dean pushed his luck too far and he’d lose Her with his guard down and a body cradled in his arms.
Dean couldn’t afford to lose Her. He known that, somewhere deep, deep down, from the very start. She’d smiled at him, drenched in blood and aiming a gun at his temple, and he’d know this would be someone he’d have to keep.
Someone he’d never get to hold close enough, someone he’d watch move through the world as always feel guilt gnawing at his organs for craving more—for a minute he’d once entertained the idea of getting Her without strings, just to have Her closer, but she deserved far better—and who’d he’d do anything to keep.
He didn’t get to keep people. So far, She’d managed to be a rare exception to the unspoken law of the universe that Winchesters don’t get nice things.
Dread always circled through his every breath that one day, if he pushed it, that would change.
So he didn’t allow himself to have the thought. And he accepted that what he had with Her—companionship with only words, lips that traded grins and nothing more, and a deep, deep knowledge of each other that could never go as deep as he wanted—could be enough.
It couldn’t be.
But had to be.
So Dean just knew Her. Knew Her like She was scripture, and everything about Her had been printed on his bones.
And they itched. She brushed past him in their motel room, just a little too close, and Dean’s bones itched.
So something was off.
“Dean.”
He grunted as he nodded at Her, trying not to stare of dwell on how She’d said his name. It wasn’t right. Too much emphasis on the Da, and not enough of the een. She wasn’t looking at him, either. She always looked at him when She said his name.
“I don’t think there’s a case here.” She hummed, bending over their motel table to flip through the case papers. “I know Sam said werewolves, but we haven’t seen anything-“
“We haven’t been looking that long,” he muttered Her name, watching her carefully. “People are going missing, no one’s finding bodies until weeks later, we’ve got werewolf written all over this.”
She shrugged. “It’s probably just a psycho human-“
Dean frowned at Her. “Since when are you willing to risk lives on probably? You’re the one who told Sam you wanted this case, you could’ve just stayed at the bunker like we planned-“
“No- I just-“ She sighed, giving him a strange look, and rolled Her eyes. “Forget it. We’ll finish the case.”
“Forget-“ He shook his head, taking at firm pace forward. “Forget what? I don’t know what the hell his going on with you, sweetheart, but-“
“Don’t call me that.”
Dean blinked. “What?”
“Don’t call me sweetheart,” She mumbled. “It’s not nice.”
“I- I’ve calling you that since we met-“
“And it’s always been mean!” She snapped. “You- It’s- I said forget it, Dean. Just-“
“Forget what? I don’t what the hell is pissing you off so much, I can’t just forget something I didn’t even do!”
His voice was raising, and he didn’t know what was happening. They never fought like this. Every argument they’d ever had was built up over months and months, and he’d see it coming. He’d walk into the War Room, She’d be glaring at him, and they’d snap in perfect tandem about whatever the hell was fucking up their lives. Then the dust would be settle, and Dean would see every single crack that had begun to form fuse perfectly back together, now lined with gold.
This was blindsiding him. Everything had been fine this morning. And in the months leading up to the morning. He didn’t know what he’d done wrong. And there had always been a fear—rooted deep, deep down in his gut and festering whenever Her gaze wandered or She got bags under her eyes—that She’d realized he wasn’t worth fighting for, but he’d expected to see that coming too. He’d prepared for that. Planned for how he could change Her mind, and how he’d learn to live with himself when he failed to.
But this was out of nowhere. And She was hissing and sneering, and the only thing that was heavier and more burning than the feeling of off in Dean’s bones was that rotting fear.
“You- God, Dean, you can be really dense sometimes-“
“How?! I-“ He groaned, running a hand over his face. “I don’t know what the fuck is happening, sweet-“ He cut himself off with a swallow, taking two steady paces back. She looked like She was going to hurt him. “Look, whatever it is I’ll do better, but I’m not a damn mind reader-“
She laughed. It was a little cruel—She was never cruel—and colder than Her normal laugh. Off. “No shit, you can’t even pick up basic signals-“
“What are you talking about-“
“Why do you think I wanted this hunt?” She braced Her hands on her hip, raising Her chin at Dean with a challenging tone. “It wasn’t because I love werewolves. I don’t even think these are wolves.”
Dean started at Her, saying her name slowly—he felt like he was walking on a minefield, and that was off too, because She was supposed to be the safest place in the world—but She cut him off with a shake of her head.
“No, Dean. Guess. Why do I take all these cases with you, and tell Sam not to come with us?”
“Uh-“ He shifted on his feet, suddenly incredibly uncomfortable. “Free wifi-“
“We have wifi at the bunker, dumbass.” She snapped, and the words pierced through his skin. She always called him a dumbass.
She never said it like that.
“I-“ He swallowed, and the feeling of off was quickly shifting into wrong. Something was wrong. “I don’t-“
“God, Winchester.” She rolled Her eyes again, and suddenly She was walking forward. “You’re such a fucking idiot.”
Dean opened his mouth to protest, but suddenly She was on him. Kissing him.
She was kissing him.
His body was faster than his brain. Stronger as well. It caved to Her in a second, because She tasted like honey and peppermint, and Her lips were soft against him—if a little more demanding than he’d thought they’d be—and She was holding him closer than he’d ever dared to dream he’d be to Her.
She bit his lower lip and deepened the kiss, and Dean tried to pull Her hair or walk her backwards, but She wouldn’t let him.
And She wasn’t molding right into him. Dean had always thought She’d mold right into him, let him please Her rather than fight him on everything with demanding movements and fists in his shirt, and maybe that had been a fantasy, but he’d been so sure. She always curled right into him in the Dean Cave, and let Dean guide Her through the dark, and—when She was sick but wouldn’t say it aloud—Dean was allowed to care for Her. He was barely allowed to touch Her here, only permitted to let Her keep kissing him, let Her try and claw at his chest when his own desperation was starting to wane and falter in a way it really fucking shouldn’t be-
“I love you, you meat-head.” She hissed against his lips. “That’s why I’m here.”
And the world crashed down.
Dean’s body was still faster. But it wasn’t numbed by desire anymore. It had been washed in ice-water and shocked into an almost rabid state, because he’d been right.
Something was very wrong.
She could never love him. It was the only thing he knew better than Her. That he was fundamentally unworthy of only Her attention, so love would never even grace the table. Nobody loved Dean, not like that, and certainly not enough to swallow it and never demand a single thing of him, so She could never love Dean.
And he had to fight.
Dean slammed his body forward, and forced himself not to flinch as the woman with Her voice screamed. It wasn’t Her scream. It wasn’t high enough, and it was a little off-key, and Dean knew it wasn’t Her.
From there the world moved too fast. He didn’t know what he was dealing with yet—how strong it was, if it had any quick and easily exploitable weaknesses—but he had the upper hand of surprise and pure, furious, almost righteous feeling anger, and it served him well. That wasn’t Her, which meant he’d just kissed someone that wasn’t Her, and the real Her could be in danger—She had to be, because She’d never just leave Dean–and he was blinded. He couldn’t kill this bitch, not until the real Her was safe, but he could really fucking hurt it.
He aimed his gunshot for the foot, and the scream the imposter let out was guttural. He didn’t care. Nothing else mattered but hurting them, because he needed to get the interrogation over and just find Her.
There was a brief, terrifying moment after he knocked the imposter down, started to tie it up, and heard a low, soft moan escape it’s lips where he was almost paralyzed with a new type of fear. Fear that he had hurt Her. That it was the real Her in front of him, just some demon son of a bitch piloting Her words and movements.
Dean swallowed, and pulled Her shirt down, keeping his eyes carefully averted from any cleavage or visible parts of the breasts that looked like Her’s—the ones he dreamed and fantasized about every single night—but weren’t, and trained his focus on Her unbroken anti-possession tattoo.
Unbroken.
She wasn’t possessed.
That just wasn’t Her.
It would be up soon. He grabbed a silver knife from his jacket to test the most obvious theory, sliced it into the imposter’s forearm, and nodded when the cut began to blister.
Shifter.
He could work with a shifter.
Dean left It tied up as he went out to Baby’s trunk and grabbed an array of weapons, because since he didn’t have to worry about hurting the real Her, he could very easily make this quick.
“Hi, Dean.” It was up when Dean returned, giving a wide smile that was truly so much worse than Her’s. “Don’t suppose you’ll let me out if I say please?”
He ignored It, kept looking through his weapons, and It sighed.
“I know the jig is up,” It nodded to its burning arm, then looked to Dean with a pout. “But I promise I wasn’t going to hurt you.”
“That so?” He let out a dry laugh. “Real sad that promises from your kind don’t mean shit then.”
It sighed. “You know, that’s not very nice, Dean. I didn’t choose to be this. And if you actually got to know me-“
“Only thing I need to know about you,” He grunted, grabbing out his longest, pure silver knife. “Is where you stashed my real partner.”
It rolled its eyes, even as Dean began to approach the chair. “C’mon, don’t be like that-“
“One chance.” He snapped. “Where is she.”
“She’s fine-“
“Where.”
“I’m not going to tell you until we have a real conversation, Dean-“
It cut itself off with a scream, and Dean got to work. It dragged on, with blood and screams that weren’t Her’s but sounded too close, and he was starting to feel little sick. The longer this went on, the more She was alone, the more she was in danger-
“Time-“ It spat out blood, shaking its head and recoiling as Dean raised his third knife of the night. “Shit, time out, please-“
He lowered the knife, but didn’t step back. “You ready to talk, bitch?”
“I-“ It coughed, and gave him an odd look, its voice suddenly pleading. “Can you at least tell me where I slipped up?"
Dean frowned. The question didn’t sound like a trick, but it also didn’t seem right. “Slipped up?”
“How you knew.” It whined. “I did all the things that loud bitch did-“
His eyes narrowed, and the knife raised again. “Don’t fucking talk about her like that-“
“But I did! I didn’t use anything that wasn’t in her brain, and I-“
“You said you loved me.” He grunted, and he didn’t know why he was indulging It. Maybe because It would be dead soon, and he was tired, and he really fucking missed Her. The real Her. The Her who would have done this faster, with smarter words and less blood on the carpet. Fuck, there was so much blood on the carpet. They’d have to skip town, once he found Her.
It's eyes had widened. “But I do love you!”
Dean rolled his eyes. “No, she doesn’t-“
“No her. Me. I mean,” It snapped Her name, and Dean’s whole body tensed. “That whore is in love with you too, but she doesn’t love you like I do.”
“Shut up-“
It cut off Dean’s words—pushed through gritted teeth and sour on his tongue—with more high, pathetic and vile whines.
“I’ve been looking for you forever, Dean. I love you. I brought you here, killed all those people to get your attention, planned this out so well so you’d be mine.” It sighed. “I just want you to be mine.”
He gaped at it. “You’re a fucking psycho bitch-“
“And we’re made for each other!” It leaned forward in It’s chair. Dean was going to vomit. “We could be monsters together, I’d be so much better for you than any other woman, I could even keep this one’s skin on if it made you happy-“
“Shut your fucking mouth-“
“No, Dean, you have to see it.” Its eyes looked like Her’s, but the difference hadn’t been this obvious all night. The real Her would never look at him like that. Like food. “We’re made for each other, I’ve been in love with you before I even met you, and I’d do anything for you. Don’t you want someone who’d do anything for you, who’d always give as much as you did, who’d be devoted to you and no one else-“
Dean ran a hand over his face, his eyes squeezed shut, and It cut itself off.
“Are you-“ It sounded disgusted. Dean didn’t have time for this. “You’re not in love with her.”
He swallowed. “I told you to shut up, or I swear to god, I’ll cut out your tongue-“
“You are. You love the whiny little whore I’m wearing-“
His eyes snapped open. “Don’t fucking call her that-“
“Why?” The shifter sneered. “She’s obsessed with you, it’s fucking pathetic-“
Dean snorted. “That’s rich-“
“Well at least I did something about it! She was going to,” It scoffed, shaking its head. “God, the slut was ready to get on her fucking knees for you every single second, but she was going to just brood and mope about it for the rest of her life. She knew she didn’t deserve you, and she was right, because I-“
It’s words were taking a moment to sink into Dean’s skin, and when they finally lighting struck down his spine, and the whole world flipped.
He knew, firsthand, how shifters work.
This one didn’t seem smart enough to lie about something like this.
The knife returned to It’s throat, and Dean’s words were a low hiss. “What the fuck are you talking about.”
It said Her name in another sneer, but the cockiness was gone. “She so in love with you it’s sad. You know the very first thought I downloaded from her? Where’s Dean.” It almost cackled. Dean’s skin felt like it was going to curl and mold off his body. “I mean, you can take care of yourself, and I would never coddle you. I’d never want you to be different-“
“Different?” Dean snapped. “What the fuck do you mean, different-“
“I mean your bitch seems to think you’re some sort of angel, that you deserve better.” It rolled its eyes. “I will say, she’s right there. You deserve better than her, you deserve me.” It raised It’s chin holding Dean’s gaze. “I know you’re not an angel, Dean. Look at you. We’re the same, we’d be perfect for each other, if you just tried to love me-“
Dean laughed. A real, loud, full laugh. He didn’t need to try to love anyone. Loving Her, his Her, was easy. It was like breathing, and effortless, and so natural he’d think he’d been damn near born to do it.
And all he wanted–whether what It was saying was true or not—was Her back.
Dean leaned down until he was spitting in It’s face. Until It could feel the full, unyielding fury burning off of his body.
“I do not love you. I could never fucking love you, and we are nothing,” Dean pressed the blade further into It’s throat, narrowing his eyes. “Alike. And you are going to tell me where the fuck the woman I do love is, or I will make your death long and painful, until you’ll be fucking praying for Purgatory.”
It swallowed, and finally shut up.
Dean grinned. He was going to get Her—his Her, the real one who’d follow him to hell and deeper—back.
He angled It’s head up with the knife, raising his brows. “Talk.”
——————
You don’t want Dean to save you.
He shouldn’t have to. He’s always saving you, and you always owe him a little more than your life—whatever part of you he’d take, whatever piece of your soul or mind you could offer him to settle this intangible and massive debt—and you love it, but it needs to stop.
Before he gets hurt.
You don’t know how he keeps doing it and asking for nothing in return. You don’t understand it. He’d saved you that first night, when there had been screams and empty eyes ghosting over your ears and vision, and he’d stared at you with the prettiest face you’d ever seen, repeated your name back to you like it could mean something, and looked at you like you could be more than a body.
Like you could be a person. Who mattered.
To Dean.
And you’d heard of him before that. Every hunter who walked the earth knew about the Winchesters. You’d tried not to waste your time on celestial and infernal politics—you didn’t really have interest in falling to the orbit of anything you couldn’t handle—but then you met Dean, and nothing had been more vital than staying at his side. You could be good at hunting demons and angels. You could be as useful as Dean needed you to be, and nothing more or less.
He could keep looking at you like a friend, and you could keep pretending it didn’t rip open your chest and dissolve your heart, because you were a good hunter, but a better actress.
Because you’d met Dean, and he’d allowed you to be his friend, and you’d never dared to ask for more.
“How come I never see you walking off at the end of the night?” He’d asked once, and you’d raised your brows at him.
“As opposed to what? Swaggering off?”
He’d rolled his eyes, even as he smiled. “You know what I’m talking about, smartass. You always leave with Sammy if I’m out, or with me if I’m not. Why?”
You still hadn’t understood. “Wha-“
“He’s asking why you don’t do one-night stands,” Sam had said from across the table, not looking up from his computer. “Because he thinks with his dick and wants to-“
Dean had slammed his elbow into Sam’s gut, and you’d been pretty sure you were going to burst into flame.
“I- um- I just-“ You’d swallowed, crumpling up your napkin and unable to look Dean in the eyes. “I’m not a one-night stand girl. I guess.”
Dean’s jaw had clenched slightly—you don’t think you’d been meant to see it, but you had, you always did—and he’d nodded slowly. “So nothing, uh- You’d never just be casual with a guy?”
“No,” you’d mumbled. “I- I’ve never known how to just-“ You’d sighed, frowning at your hands. “Can we please talk about something else?”
“Whatever you want, sweetheart.” Dean’s voice had been filled with a tone you couldn’t identify, but when you’d looked up to study his expression he’d already turned back to Sam.
You’d been so thrown by that—by not knowing something about Dean, when you always knew everything about Dean, and he knew everything about you, because you both didn’t know how to stop telling each other stuff—that the ache of him calling you sweetheart had been dulled.
You hated when he called you that. You hated how intimate it was, but how you never felt further away than when Dean used that name. He called everyone sweetheart. And when he called you sweetheart, it was because you were his closest friend and nothing more.
And you’re really fine with that. You are. You don’t get all of Dean, but you get more than the other women who share his bed. You get to see him with spiky hair and a grumpy expression in the morning, and you get to bring him coffee and feel his knuckles brush casually against yours, and fall asleep at his side when you’re watching a movie. You get to have him carry you to bed, because that’s what friends do for each other. You get to share more than one drink with him when he needs it, and have him sit on your bed when you need to the company.
You love being Dean’s friend.
Almost as much as you love Dean.
But you can survive keeping that to yourself. You’ll die with that fact locked away deep in your chest, because you are more than okay just being Dean’s friend.
It didn’t stop the longing. The plague like, haunting thoughts of if.
If Dean ever loved you, how would he do it. Would it be soft, or harsh, or something in-between. If it was soft, would it mean he touched you like you were delicate—like you’d never been touched before—and if it would rough, would it be rough with the same violent, rushing fervor you felt for him, and if it was in-between would it be because you were everything to him, and everything was always complicated, so of course wasn’t on way or another.
If you slept at the foot of his bed like a dog, would he notice, or would it just be an extension of how you could be his weapon, his shield, whatever the fuck you needed to be to mean something to the man who meant too much.
If he called your name, would you ever not turn around and run to him, or could you learn to freeze yourself in place and plant roots that kept you sturdy if he left.
If you left, would he care, and miss you all the time, or would the feeling fade and pass.
If he knew you loved him, would he sweep you off your feet or cast you down like an angel that had spoken a little too loud.
And he would never know. So these little thoughts were more designed to torture you than they were to actually dwell on the answers. Dean would never know you loved him. Not if you continued to be more careful than you’d been today.
Because today you’d been sloppy. You’d been tired and you spinal cord felt like it was on a thin wire, and the tension had been so fraught only in your head that your tongue had been bleeding by the time you’d gotten to the diner.
You’d excused yourself to go to the bathroom, because you needed to glare at your reflection in the mirror and remind yourself that the girl gripping the sink would never be worthy. That you could take all the stupid cases you wanted and find every excuse to spend time with Dean, but at the end of the day the job mattered more than anything else to Dean, and Dean mattered more to you than the whole universe.
So you’d have to focus on the job.
The job that you’d been pretty sure Sam had been wrong about. This wasn’t a wolf. A wolf wouldn’t be this clean. This felt purposeful and careful, and you hadn’t been sure what it was, but it was worth exploring other options-
You’d been so lost in your thoughts you hadn’t seen the woman behind you. Not until it was too late, and the rag was already over your mouth.
The upside to all this—to waking up the basement of the diner with your hands tied to a pipe, your head spinning and pounding as the chloroform wore off—was that you’d been right. Not a wolf.
Werewolves couldn’t turn into a picture perfect reflection of you.
Werewolves couldn’t make you worry about Dean like this. Because Dean could handle a werewolf.
This shapeshifter was batshit crazy and insane, and you were terrified for him.
“You know,” She’d told you as she’d shifted around in your body, examining your hands and bouncing on your feet. “This is one of the better bodies I’ve occupied. I know you don’t like it that much.” She’d tapped her head, raising her brows. “But I promise you, if you weren’t such a desperate little slut, you might have actually gotten Dean Winchester’s attention.”
She’d laughed to herself, you’d narrowed your eyes, and she’d scoffed.
“Don’t make that pouty face. I’ll treat him well. Better than you could, at least.” The shifted had smoothed out your clothing on her body, and rolled her neck. “I don’t really have a plan, but we’re made to be, you know? Soulmates. I knew it from the first time I heard about him, then even more after I saw him. And all the other shifters told me to stay away, but they didn’t get it.”
You’d rolled your eyes, and it had been her turn to glare.
“Please, like you-“ She’d paused, then smile at you. It had crawled over your skin and left you shivering and cold. “You do get it, actually. You feel the same way, you’re just- Fuck, you’re pathetic. You really think he’d look at you like this. Like he’s going to look at me? You know,” she’d leaned down, sneering in your face. “One day I’ll tell him, and he won’t even wonder what happened to you. Because he’ll have me.”
You’d tried. Dean was in danger, and this bitch as horrifying, so you’d thrashed and pulled at your bounds, but it had been pointless. The shifter had done her job well, and you were almost immobile.
“Aw,” she’d patted your head, giving you a sweet, mocking before turning around and calling over her shoulder, “Try not to die too fast! I need you for now!”
For now.
The shifter had needed you for now, so you were still alive.
But you didn’t think she’d come back for you. And Dean was in danger, and if the shifter had all your thoughts and memories, she’d just have to play her cards right to get him out of time. Finish the hunt fast so Dean thought everything was resolved—maybe push the not a wolf thing you’d mentioned earlier, and find a different scapegoat—and leave you rotting in the basement as Dean drove her back to the bunker.
The bunker.
Where Sam was, and years of lore were stashed. The place that was supposed to be secure from all monsters and evil, that Dean would be leading a shifter into thinking it was just you
And he wouldn’t know. You couldn’t blame him—the shifter knew everything you were, and Dean might know you well, but the shifter was, by all intensive purposes, you—and he would only be able to question it when it was far too later.
You don’t have time to see if Dean—yet again, because you’re weak and never learn—saves you. You have to move.
You have to save Dean.
It’s long, and rough, and painful, but you get out of the bonds with sharp glass on the floor and rope burn on your wrists. When you pull down the gag from your mouth you’re already screaming for him, even though you know he’s not here.
You vault up the stairs, yank open the door with another shout of Dean’s name, and slam right into something steady and warm.
You’d have toppled down the stairs if they didn’t wrap an arm around your waist and hold you up.
And you know that arm.
That arm belongs to-
“Son of a bi-“ Dean cuts himself off your name, his eyes on wide yours. “You’re-“
“Fuck, Dean-“ You grab his face between your hands, turning it to examine it at every angle, to check that that’s him, even you’d have no way to be sure, you’d have to find one, there would have to be a way because you know Dean better than anyone so surely, you’d be able to work this out-
“I’m me,” he catches one of your hands, nodding to the watch on his wrist. “Silver watch, remember?”
You let out a long, slow breath, and nod. “Okay, yeah, are you okay-“
“I’m good.” Dean’s nostrils flare slightly, and you swallow. He’s looking at you the same way he looks at pie or the Impala. Like you’re his. “What would you do if I kissed you?”
“I-“ You couldn’t have heard him right. You’re gaping and breathing heavily, and just that word from Dean is making you short-circuit and ascend and fall apart. “I’d- yes-“
Dean slams his lips into yours, and you must have died. You must have rotted away in that basement, because there’s no other explanation for why Dean’s kissing you like this. With a fervor and passion and care—like he’s practiced and practiced elsewhere but it’s all just for been this, like everyone before you had been paper in comparison, and you’re set into stone—and holding you so close that you can’t tell when you ends and he begins.
“De-“ You gasp when he squeezes your hips, your fingers curling on his shirt as you hold on for dear life. “Fuck- I- More-“
He responds with a growl down your throat, and this isn’t heaven.
You’ve been to heaven.
This is better.
It’s Dean everywhere. All over and around you, muttering your name like a prayer against your lips as he presses his tongue on your lower lip and groaning when you open for him without question. You’ll never need to kiss anyone else. You’ll never need anyone else. Dean’s touch and kiss are fire in your blood and it’s waking up parts of you that you hadn’t known existed. Nerve points deeper in your body that start to sing for Dean as he pulls at your hair to give himself further access, and lighting up your whole body from within when he pressed you against the stairwell wall, and you felt holy.
“Yeah,” he mutters against your lips, as if he can’t bear to move. “That’s right.”
You hum, opening your eyes to find him already watching you. Neither of you bother to pull away.
“Right?” You ask, and he nods.
“It’s- uh- You’re you.”
“I am.”
He nods against your brow. “Good. I love you.”
It hits you like lighting. It’s bigger than the kiss. It’s bigger than anything, and it steals your breath all while shooting your veins up with a newer, brighter life that you’re more than happy to die for.
“You-“ Your voice is barely a breath, and Dean’s not pulling away or flinching. He said it. To you. He should be shaking his head or something, because Dean doesn’t do love—especially not with you—but he said it. “You love me?”
“Yeah.” He swallows, leaning back just enough for you to see his every handsome feature. His tongue swipes over his lips as he stares at you, and you almost fall over. “Do you- uh- you don’t need to say it back-“
“I love you too.” You say it without a thought. It’s the only thing you’ve ever been sure of anyway. “So much. Always. All the time, and after that, and maybe before too, I love you, Dean, please don’t think I don’t love you-“
He cuts you off with another, longer kiss, and it’s not as arduous as the first one, but it’s almost more devout.
“I’ve got it, baby.” He traces his thumb over your cheek as he pulls away, and fuck, that’s so much better than sweetheart. “Don’t go hurting yourself, I only just got you.”
“You’ve had me. Forever.” You whisper, and he chuckles, mostly to himself.
“I’ve been an idiot, haven’t I.” He sounds like he’s asking, watching you so closely you think he’s looking right into your soul. “Thinking you- That you didn’t feel this.””
“Yeah.” You smile, and he almost folds over you as the relief visibly washes over his body. “But I think it’s cute.”
He scoffs. “I’m not cute-“
“Yeah, you are.” A thought tugs at your head. “What happened to the shifter-“
Dean makes a face. “It tried to come onto me.”
“It what-“
“And I turned it down.” He gave you an amused look. “Jealous, baby-“
“Shut up, you dumbass.” You roll your eyes, whack at his chest, and you don’t think you’ve ever seen him grin that wide. “Is she dead?”
“Shifter-soup.” He offers you a hand. “You want to help me bury the bitch?”
“Of course.” You tangle your fingers in his, and squeak as he pulls you right to his side. “Cn I spit on the grave?”
Dean laughs, pressing a kiss to the top of your head, and the tingle it leaves on your skin is the most natural feeling in the world. “Baby, you can do whatever you want.”
End Note: Had a lot of fun with the small details on this one. Once again proving a whore for knowing every single part of someone you love.
If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3
Tags: Dean Winchester/Female Reader, smut (blowjobs), the lightest angst, light fluff too, pre-established relationship
Summary/Warnings: It's unfair that Dean can look this good just sitting in traffic. That he can be doing nothing at all and you'll crave him more than oxygen.
It's amazing that you can prove that to him, though.
Author's Note: Request from @krabog! Added some emotions and the lightest of angsts because I cannot help myself apparently.
Word Count: 2.5k
Sometimes, you forget traffic exists.
You drive most often at midnight. And you drive means Dean drives, and you sleep in the backseat, letting the music drown out Sam’s snore and pretending you don’t know Dean avoids pothole specifically to let you rest. If there’s traffic, you never see it, and you wake up when Dean parks and half carries you inside.
If you’re in a motel, sometimes he’ll kick Sam out, and you’ll take good advantage of having a bed. A real bed—even if it’s not your bed, it’s still a bed—that Dean can utilize better than a wall, that you can lay and rest on after your knees grow weak and you face becomes only a blissful, fucked out smile.
But you don’t have a bed right now.
Now all you have is the bench of the Impala, and inching hours until you return to the bunker.
You should’ve agreed to stay the extra day in California. There was a motel—with a bed—and you could’ve spent the whole day in it before passing out for the ride, letting Dean do whatever Dean things he gets up to during these infinitely long drives you know he loves so much.
But you’d wanted to be home on the early side. To take a shower with even water pressure, and eat food made by Dean and not a sketchy gas station company. And your stupid boyfriend fucking loves you, so he’d shrugged on his jacket, kissed your temple, and muttered then I’ll make sure we’re home before the sun’s down, sweetheart.
You aren’t going to back in Kansas before the sun’s down, let alone the bunker. Sam’s going to get a free spa night—he doesn’t think you know about them, but you’ve found his face masks, and they’re not half bad—while Dean get to make you listen to the third classic rock album you’ve definitely heard before, and you’re going to-
You’re going to explode.
Because what Dean gets up to on his drives isn’t anything different than normal Dean things. Singing too loud, but with a deep, drawling voice that seems to vibrate and echo around your skull until you feel a little drunk. Rolling up his sleeves so you can see his forearms, flexing against the steering wheel with his every movement, making phantoms of those same arms wrap around your fuzzy, almost gooey stomach where you know he’s touched you before. Drumming a little more off beat than you’ll ever tell him, because he gets a big, goofy grin on his face that makes your chest feel like a small sun is blooming in your ribs, and you get to see his hands.
You’ve been able to see his hands a lot today.
It’s not very productive.
Because you think Sam usually spends the time in the car reading a book, scanning over a newspaper, or researching with his stupid magic wifi. Sam gets things done in the car, giving Dean flawless directions whenever he’s asked and making small, dry jokes into conversations without breaking his focus.
But you’re not Sam.
And to say you had focus in the first place would be a… gross overestimation of your self-control.
Because you can see Dean’s hands. Big, rough, calloused and broad hands moving so carefully. Deliberate fingers wrapped around the wheel—exactly how he holds your waist—and tapping in that off-beat pattern. He crooks his finger like that sometimes. And when his muscles flex it’s because he’s tossing you backwards with a gleaming promise in his eyes. Pretty eyes that are focused on the road with the same intensity they focus on yours, and his lips are a little parted and you could touch them. Touch him. Dean is right there and he’s yours to touch, against every reasonable odd, and he sweats like that too—when he’s moving over and around you, dripping a little brow and making his skin seem to shine—and his short hair is shifting slightly in the wind as if you’re running your fingers through it. And he really is yours to touch, so-
He clears his throat absentmindedly, and the sound jolts right through your blood.
“You feeling good, baby?”
He’s looking at you. Right at you. All the intensity and white-hot care is aimed at you, and it usually is, but that doesn’t change the way it sparks and flares at the heat in your belly.
“Uh,” you have to swallow, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand, just in case any drool had escaped. “I- Um-“
Dean raises his brows, slight concern flashing in his eyes. “Is something-“
“I’m fine.” You sound like your lung had been punched out of your chest. You feel like it, too. Your every breath is ragged, and there’s a sticky heat on your skin that makes the world feel like it has a fever, and Dean’s frown only deepens.
He grunts your name, pressing the back of his hand to your brow. “You’re kinda warm-“
“It’s hot.” You whisper. “I’m okay, I promise.”
“You- Windows are down.” He’s still frowning at you, glancing at the road only whenever he needs to move another inch forwards. “We can stop and get you some ice, once we’re out of this goddamn backup-“
You place your hand over his, dragging it down from your brow with a soft smile. “Dean. I said I’m okay.”
“Yeah, but I could-“
“I don’t need ice. Besides,” you gesture out the windshield to the seemingly infinite line of cars before you. “We’re gonna be here a while. It’s gonna be hours before we get to a gas station.”
Dean’s jaw ticks, he glares out at the road, and you recognize that glower. Drawn brows that turn too inwards, scowl that’s aimed at the cars, but always seems to bounce back and hit him instead.
You know before he even speaks that he’d learned the wrong lesson from your words.
“Shouldn’t have taken the interstate.” He mutters. “It’s fucking spring break for all the college kids, they’re gonna be drivin’ like idiots and backing everything up. Shoulda fucking known that, I woulda gotten you home an hour ago-“
“You would’ve been home too,” you offer, squeezing his hand, and he rolls his eyes.
“I’m not the one with a damn fever, sweetheart-“
“I don’t have a fever-“
“And now Sammy’s gonna get on my ass about keepin’ Advil in the med kit, and he’s- shit, he’s gonna be right, cause apparently I can’t be trusted with my girl in my goddamn car-“
You sigh. You’ve heard these rambles too many times before. It’s a sort of threshold Dean had crossed with you a few years ago, where whatever barrier or ward he usually kept up against his worst thoughts crumbled, and he started saying them aloud.
You think it’s half because he’s trying to drive you off. To give you a good reason to leave before he loses you, no matter how many times you remind him that he won’t lose you, because if you die you’ll simply haunt his ass until Sam finds a way to bring you back.
He doesn’t think that joke is funny.
Sam does.
And then there’s the other reason. He tells you these things because he trusts you. Because he’d never say them aloud to anyone else, but you’re you—and to Dean at least, that seems to mean something—so he can tell you anything.
It’s sweet.
It doesn’t make it hurt any less.
“And you’re gonna freakin’ die, if this goddamn Honda doesn’t fuckin- move bitch-“
“Don’t honk at the Honda, Dean.”
He stops himself, hand an inch from the horn, but the rambles continue. “Should’ve gotten you ice at the last station-“
“You asked.” You remind him gently. “I said no.”
“Shoulda just gotten it anyway, now you’re sick and we’re stuck in damn New Mexico-“
“Dean-“
“I’m gonna call Cas, make him bring you home now-“
“Dean.” You snap, and he finally cuts himself off when you squeeze his thigh, an adorably confused look on his face. “I am not sick. Do not call Cas.”
He shakes his head, glancing back to your brow. “I need to help you, sweetheart, you’ve got a fever-“
“I- I don’t have a fever. It’s hot outside and I-“ You let out a long breath, forcing yourself to hold his gaze. “I’m horny, dumbass.”
“You’re-“ He blinks at you, and it’s a good thing that the traffic has come to a complete stop. He might have crashed the car. “I, uh-“
“Roll up the windows.” You lean forwards, glancing out the windshield just to check you’re in no danger of reaching the front of the line. “Dean, please, windows-“
“Please what?” His voice is hoarse as he says your name, his eyes never leaving yours as the windows close. “You’re- Baby, what are you-“
“I’m gonna suck your cock.” You mumble, tracing your hand up his thigh, stopping right at the zipper of his jeans to give him your best, pouting and needy expression.
It’s easy.
You can feel the desperation deep in your core, and he’s staring at you like you’re an angel fallen into his lap, and any worry about fevers or ice has vanished into the air as it starts to hum with the electricity of Dean.
His hand is moving to tangle in your hair, and his eyes are almost wholly black as he watches you palm him through his jeans, a low groan escaping him when you squeeze, and give him a soft, innocent smile.
“Please?”
“You’re beggin’ to suck my cock?” He mutters, and when you nod, he twitches under your hand. You can almost feel the strain of his jeans. “Sweetheart-“
“Please.” You’ll repeat it over and over, fluttering your eyelashes and pouting up at him, until he finally believes that you really do want it. “I’m so fucking horny, Dean, please, I need to-“
“Jesus Christ.” He mutters, glancing out the window as his fingers trail over your mouth, his thumb pressing between them almost without thought.
You really don’t think he knows he’s doing that.
You wrap your lips around him and suck anyway.
His eyes whip back to yours, and the bob of his throat his visible as he scans you over with an open, awestruck expression.
“That bad, huh.” His voice is barely a rasp and when you only moan around him, you could swear he fucking growls. “Say please again.”
You let go of his thumb with a pop, playing with his zipper as you speak. “Please, Dean, please let me suck your cock-“
“Son of a bitch, you’re my dream woman.” Dean shakes his head as if he can’t believe what’s happening—it seems pretty plausible to you—and cups the back of your neck, pulling you up in a long, deep kiss that makes everything spin around you, before muttering against your lips, “Go to town, baby girl.”
This should be embarrassing. Anyone could drive past and see you, and it’s technically a crime, but you don’t really care.
You commit crimes all the time. It’s part of your job.
And when you pull Dean’s cock out of his jeans it’s thick and hard in your hand, the tip already leaking with pre-cum and throbbing under your touch, anything that could’ve been embarrassing about this vanishes into the air.
The only thing that matters is the hiss that leaves Dean when you take him fully in your mouth, squeezing the base of his cock with one hand and steadying yourself with the other, letting him bump the back of your throat before you start to set a pace, and his hand fists in your hair.
You’re going slow. Almost lazy. Bobbing your head up and down, stroking what you can’t fit with that free hand and moaning around him whenever you gag. You might be grinding into the bench of the Impala, but Dean is also salty and heavy on your tongue, and he’s making all the best noises you’ve ever heard, so you’ll keep doing this as long as he lets you.
“Holy- Fucking-“ Dean groans your name, and you pick up your speed until wet, sinful sounds are filling the car. “You’re- Fuck, you feel so good, baby, look so fucking pretty with my dick in your mouth-“
He knows what that’s going to do to you. You whine around him, you start to shamelessly hump the air in search of any relief or friction for the ache between your legs, and Dean chuckles above you.
“I know you like that, sweetheart, like hearin’ how- fuck- How good you feel, how fuckin’ gorgeous you are, how good you’re sucking my cock-“
You almost squeak, swallowing when your pace becomes almost frantic—the head of him hitting your throat and a little drool running out of your lips—and he lets out another rasping laugh. Asshole.
You don’t give him any warning before you let your hand slip further down to play with his balls, and the moan you let out as his hand yanks at your hair is the lewdest sound you’ve ever made. His teasing banter and praise have vanished into the air—replaces only by groans of your name and low, grunted curses—and his hips start to rut up to meet you as you hollow out your cheek and he twitches in your mouth-
“Shit- I- Close, baby girl, you gotta-“
Dean lets out a loud, echoing moan and you squeeze his balls and swirl your tongue around the throbbing head of his cock, right before taking him until you’re gagging and whimpering, and sucking like your life depends on it.
He cums with a shout of your name, jerking up into you as you relax your jaw best you can, swallowing every spurt of cum he shoots into your mouth, rubbing the base of his cock until he’s panting and pulling you upwards, into a deep, rough and sloppy kiss.
You know he can taste himself, lingering on your tongue.
It just seems to spur him on.
“You,” he mutters. “Are somethin’ else. That was-“
He groans, and you smile against his lips.
“Good?”
“The best.” Dean pulls away, but keeps you half on his lap as the car moves another inch. “Once we hit that gas station, I’m returning the favor, sweetheart. Can’t leave you all needy like this.”
He smirks down at where your thighs are still rubbing together, and you try to brush him off. You might be able to feel your need humming and pulsing right at the apex of your thighs, but that doesn’t need to be Dean’s problem. There’s a little bit of cum that still rolling down your chin, that Dean wipes off and fucking feeds to you—grinning as you lick is off his finger before he tucks a stray hair behind your ears and looks back to the road—and you’re alright.
“You don’t need to, De-“
“But I’m gonna.” He shrugs, and you flush nodding a little stupidly and leaning your brow on his shoulder.
“I’m serious, you don’t-“
“I’m serious,” he drawls your name, giving you a pointed look. “I’m a man, baby, a real man gets his girl off for fun, I’d have to be a douchebag to not make you cum all over my face after that. Got it?”
You swallow, but him a soft, easy smile as the car starts to fully move, and the traffic vanishes into the distance behind you.
“Got it.”
End Note: Writing about this isn't enough I need it to actually happen to me.
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