✦Bucky Masterlist - Main Masterlist - Read on aO3!✦
✦summary: you fell for bucky a long, long while ago. and you think about him, every day and every night. if only you knew that he thought about you too.✦
✦warnings/tags: bucky barnes x female!reader, friends to lovers, light emotional angst, everyone's bad at feelings, fluff, smut, plot and porn mix (dirty talk, use of sex toys , fingering, pussy eating like crazy, fantasization, praise kink, manhandling, perfectly "appropriate" use of bucky's metal arm, nipple play, dumbification, semi-public sex, dry humping, sensitive reader, finger sucking, masturbation, bucky gets nasty, body worship, overstimulation, mean!bucky, oral m!recieving, praise kink, monster dick bucky, he fucks like a machine), no use of y/n, no descrption of reader✦
✦wc: 7.5k✦
✦Author's Note: request! who wouldn't fantasize about bucky barnes?✦
You think you might be a freak.
Compared to everyone else in the building, you’re perfectly normal. On the outside. Where everyone can see. You don’t have any powers, and you’ve never been shot up with serums or infinity stones. You’re a human, with a sharp tongue and shaper brain, pretty features and a charming smile, and absolutely no desire to be anything else.
Tony even asked you once. If you’d consider it. The whole hero thing. You’d laughed and shaken your head. You told him that you’re not that kind of brave. That you prefer to stay behind the scenes, helping with the tech and med services. Tony had laughed with you, and remarked causally that you’d be good at it.
You’d smiled and waved him off. But he was wrong. Because you can’t be normal about anything.
You’re not casual. You’re obsessive, and quietly insane. You don’t become the top of your field like this while being anything else. It’s easy to contain yourself in this kind of work, in it’s order and chaos all at once. There are rules that you to follow, then break, and everyone praises you and you glow like a diamond catching sunlight.
Not absorbing it. Because it passes right through, and it’s never enough, and you get addicted to it. The praise, from these living gods. They all love you, and you bask in it, and then you look at him.
Bucky.
The only one who doesn’t praise you. Who doesn’t treat you like a good dog, bringing them treats and newspapers. When you met him, he barely treated you like anything at all. Tony had introduced you, he’d looked you up and down, shaken your hand, and walked away.
But you.
You’d been a fucking goner.
Bucky’s handsome in the way you used to only see in movies. Your exact type, from the hair to the eyes to the way he carries himself. Silent and in control, kind but not overly nice, polite without expectation. You’d made it two years without developing a crush on anyone. Somehow, surrounded by some of the world’s most handsome men, you’d maintained that tiny sliver of your sanity.
Then there was Bucky. And you lost yourself.
You’re not weird around him. You’re not a stalker, and you’re not that kind of insane. You’re perverted in the privacy of your head, drooling over his massive hands and muscles, but swallowing it before it leaks out of your lips. You don’t react when Tony says his name, save for a traitorous pulse in your cunt.
“You ready to look at his arm?” Tony asks, and you hum.
“Think so. Just maintenance?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Tony sighs. “I’d work on Terminator myself, but Cap says I spend the whole time looking like I want to throat chop him. So,” he shrugs. “Don’t look like you wanna throat chop him.”
You laugh softly, and grab the tools off the bench. It’s not a big deal. You’re the only person besides Tony, in the whole building, who’s qualified to work on Bucky’s arm.
But that means you get to be close to him. Just the thought of it makes your skin hot, your heart buzzing more than thumping, your fingers fidgeting with the straps of your toolkit as you restlessly wait.
Bucky says your name, and your head shoots up. He’s there. He’s right there, and watching you with those careful, beautiful eyes.
“Hi,” you say, and it sounds so pathetically breathless.
Bucky tilts his head. His hair looks soft. You want to run your fingers through it, to pull on it, to feel it tickling over your face as he ruts into your drooling pussy-
He’s staring at you. He must’ve said something that you didn’t hear. Fuck.
“What?”
His lips twitch. Just the smallest movement up, almost impossible to catch. Your heart skips, and you almost miss his words again.
“You the one workin’ on me today?” His voice is low. It rolls through the air like thunder.
You wonder, if there’s any part of him that isn’t addictive.
You’re here for a job. You’re here to give him medical treatment. You plaster a sweet smile on your face, and gesture to the chair. You can be normal about this.
“Tony has bad bedside manner,” you say smoothly, and Bucky chuckles.
God, that’s worse than the smile. It echoes through your chest, and you almost choke on it. How fucking bad you want him.
“He does call me Schwarzeneggerevery time I’m here,” he mutters, crossing the room. “Don’t even know what that means.”
You hum, pretending to look at your tools. He’s sitting down next to you. Your knees are bumping. You’re normal. “Arnold Schwartzinagor. Actor who played the Terminator.”
“Ah.” Bucky pauses. “Sam calls me that, too. It a good movie?”
“It’s fine.” You shrug. “If you like stuff from the 80s.”
“I don’t know things from the 80s.”
You laugh softly, and look up with an apology on your tongue. You find Bucky staring at you, and your breath catches in your throat.
His eyes are so intense, you think they can see right through you. To the lust, pounding in your bloodstream. You have to open your mouth to breathe. Bucky’s eyes flick down. Just tracking a movement. Nothing about you.
You kick yourself internally, and push the casual smile back into place.
“I think you’d like some of it.” You reach for his arm, and Bucky turns it palm up, still staring at you. “I mean, any decade will have it’s ups and downs.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” You run your fingers over the plates of metal, and for a second, forget all about the Bucky attached to them. It’s a beautiful artwork of technology. Overlapping, gold-inlaid, smooth under your fingers. You turn the wrist slowly, and there’s only a faint whir. No clicks. Shuri must be using a muffler, or some kind of fluid that moves the wires instead of gears-
“You want me to go?”
Your head shoots up, a panicked flush spreading over your cheeks. “No- No- I- I’m just-“
Bucky raises his brows, light amusement dancing in his eyes. Your words falter. He’s fucking with you.
“Shut up,” you roll your eyes, and Bucky chuckles again.
God, that sound. It’s going to be the death of you.
“It’s just- It’s amazing technology.” You mumble defensively, and Bucky shrugs.
“I can tell, from the way you’re eye fuckin’ it.”
“Eye fucking.” You shake your head, biting back your smile. “How do you even know what that means?”
“Too much time with Sam.”
“Hm,” you grab your screwdriver, running your hands up the mock muscle—he should be thanking Shuri even more, she didn’t have to give him biceps—looking for a panel. “Tony told me you weren’t going to talk.”
“Tony’s got that bad bedside manner,” Bucky shrugs with his good arm. “You gonna be nicer to me, doll?”
You just hum, ducking your head to hide your flush. Doll. He called you doll.
And Bucky huffs an amused laugh, at your non-answer. But he keeps talking to you. He tells you what Sam’s already gotten him to watch, and what Steve’s trying to get him to watch next, and what Steve’s saving so they can look at it together.
“Is Star Wars any good?” He asks, and you snort.
“Do you like cowboys?”
“I’m neutral.”
“Do you like space?”
“Yeah,” he pauses, then mutters, “I wanted to go to the moon. When I was a kid.”
You look up, and find a faraway look, etched over his handsome features. Your smile softens, and you lower your voice to a whisper, because this feels like a secret. “Yeah?”
Bucky nods, his eyes finding yours again. “I heard we got up there eventually.”
“We did. A few times.” It’s hard to hold his gaze. An unbearable ache is staring to pool between your thighs. “But now there are aliens on earth, so the final frontier is less… Coveted.”
Bucky’s lips twitch. It seems to be the closest he really gets to smiling. You want to see it over, and over, and over again.
“I think you’d like Star Wars.” You’re still whispering. You don’t know why.
“Alright,” Bucky says. And that’s it. He just… Trusts your words.
He asks for you again, next week. Tony claps you on the shoulder and thanks you, because Christ, he stares at me and I feel like I’m under surveillance. You roll your eyes and don’t respond. It doesn’t feel like that when Bucky stares at you, but he also does stare at everyone. So you’re not special. You’re just another person in his line of sight.
“I tried those donuts you were talkin’ about,” he tells you one afternoon, and you hum.
It’s the new routine. Bucky comes for you to work on his arm. You’re normal about it. You talk like people, and his lips twitch, and you feel something press on top of your chest, trying to gnaw your heart right open.
“Liked them,” he adds, staring at you. As always.
You hum, looking at him under your lashes. “Did you have the cookies and cream?”
He nods. “Just like you told me to.”
You smile despite yourself. It’s those small confirmations that he thinks about you, which get you the most. It means you mean something to him. It drives you insane.
“Sam says there are all kinds of ice cream flavors now, too.”
“Sam’s right.”
Bucky sighs. “Hate it when that happens.”
You laugh, a bubbly, pathetic sound that only Bucky pulls out of you. His fingers twitch under your hand, and you glance up.
It would be wise, if you stopped doing that. Every time you find him staring at you, you feel fucking insane.
“You should try cotton candy ice cream,” you murmur. “It’s fucking crazy.”
“That is my favorite kind of thing.”
“I know.”
Bucky’s lips twitch, and your heart almost bursts. “You got a good place? For ice cream?”
You shrug. “The grocery store?”
Bucky grunts, and his fingers twitch again. You focus back on his hand, because you don’t understand why they keep doing that. The rest of the session passes, and Bucky smiles at you before he goes, and you hold onto it like he just handed you a pearl-strung noose. Clutched between your teeth and priceless, but making your breathing short.
The rest of the day always passes in a daze, after you see Bucky. The seconds rush past you in an avalanche, and then you’re in your room, and you let it take over.
How much you want him. How much you need him.
You lay, flat on your back in bed, and let your thoughts run wild. Bucky’s massive hands, one cool and one burning hand, would wander up your thighs. He’d shove your knees open, and kiss over the sensitive, hidden patches of skin. The stubble he’s been growing would scrape and tickle, as he kissed over your weeping pussy.
“All for me?” He’d murmur, and you’d nod helplessly. “You just walk around, pussy leakin’ because of how bad you need it?”
And you’d whimper. You do. There’s nothing you can do to help it, but save that desire for locked doors and hot, tangled sheets. Your fingers—smaller than Bucky’s, but all you have—rub over the swollen lips of your pussy, spreading your arousal as you picture that it’s Bucky instead. You push one finger in slowly, then a second one because you need them to stretch you like Bucky’s would.
“Messy girl,” he’d coo in your ear, and your back arches. You start to fuck yourself, slow and tentative as your thoughts run wild.
This is what just one of his fingers would feel like. Pumping in and out of you, his palm grinding down on you clit until you’re trembling beneath him. You’d try to push up into his hand, but he’d shove you right back down and kiss over your throat. Licking and nipping and driving you out of your fucking mind.
“Buckyyyy...” You moan at the air, and when you squeeze your eyes shut you can almost feel him.
“There you go, babydoll,” he’d kiss under your ear, his body pressing over yours. Warm and massive, pinning you to the bed, forcing you to just take it. “That’s it. You like that, don’t you. Like fallin’ apart on my fingers.”
You whimper and grab at the sheets. Your wrist aches, and you can’t hit that gooey, wet spot inside you, but god you just need to cum.
“I know,” Bucky would hit deeper. Wet, lewd sounds would fill the room, as he pounded his fingers into you at an unforgiving pace. “I know, sweet girl. C’mon, show me how pretty you are when you cum.”
Your back arches off the bed. Your hand shoots over your mouth as you moan and cry out his name, your thighs shaking and pussy squeezing down on your fingers. You lay there for a while after you’re done, holding the sheets in a vague form of Bucky.
Tomorrow, you’re going to see him again. Maybe just over breakfast, or passing in the hall. But you’ll see him. And you’ll have to look him in the eyes, and pray that he can’t see it just under your features. That all he’d ever need to do it touch your head, and you’d fall to your knees.
You’re devoted to him. He thinks of you as a friend, and he’s not your boss, but he’s boss adject, and there’s nothing about him that’s accessible. There’s no world where this ever goes beyond fantasy.
But god, you’re going to fantasize. You can’t hurt anyone, by just fantasizing.
That’s what you’ll tell yourself over and over, to avoid the guilt.
It’s all just a fantasy.
You‘re perfectly professional about it. It’s not Bucky’s fault that he’s so handsome it feels like you shouldn’t be allowed to look at him. You can keep your desire bottled up, keep in the warmest, wettest pits of your stomach. It can seep out between your thighs when it becomes too much to bare. It can breed into itself and spread up into your heart, festering in the dark. But Bucky will never see it. You’ll be good, and you’ll act sane, and that will be it.
He’s been through too much already, to add your insatiable, ardors devotion to his list of problems.
You’ve developed an easy friendship. That’s all you’ll allow yourself to have, all you let yourself think about in his presence. When you’re working on his arm, you don’t think about those big, cold fingers being buried in your pussy until you’re alone in your room. All your daydreams are trapped in your sheets, and your moans absorbed and locked in your pillowcase.
You think about Bucky pinning you down with a warm, splayed hand on your abdomen. About his smirk, as he bullies three metal fingers into your pussy, forcing a perfect stretch before fucking you like a toy. His cold thumb swiping over your clit, sending shivers through your body. His eyes gleaming and attention burning, as he drags out orgasm after orgasm.
That hand would be like having a personal fuck machine, and he’d act like it until the very end. All taunting and teasing until you were spent and limp below him. Then he’d kiss the corner of your mouth, your cheek, the space between your eyes. He’d coo about what a good girl you were for him, and you’d whimper, your voice lost from screaming his name.
“What’re you thinking about?” Bucky says, sitting next to you at the kitchen counter.
You swallow, and shrug meekly. You never feel small around anyone but him, but you’ve never been this lost in anyone but him. It’s a miracle no one’s noticed, how Bucky shows up and suddenly you’re all flushed cheeks and girly giggles. You might as well be twirling your hair and kicking your feet. It’s pathetic. You can’t stop.
“Nothing?” Bucky pushes a little, and you give him a close-lipped, full smile.
“Nope.”
“You looked like you were thinkin’ about something.”
“I wasn’t.” You look back to the sandwich you’d been working on. Bucky keeps staring at you. He always does. “Nothing going on up here, Barnes.”
Bucky’s lips twitch.
The whole world seems brighter, like he’s just like some holy kind of candle.
“I don’t believe that,” he murmurs, and you shrug.
“You don’t have to.”
“Well, I don’t.”
“Good for you.”
“It is, isn’t it,” he chuckles. “I’m gonna love being right.”
You blink, shooting his a sideways look. “Being… Right?”
“I know you’re thinkin’ about something.” He shrugs. “I’ll figure out what.”
Oh. Under no circumstances can he find out what you’re thinking about. “It’s not anything interesting,” you try lamely, and Bucky smirks.
“Ah. So it’s something.”
“I- That’s-“ You sputter. “Why do you even care-“
“I like knowin’ what you’re thinking,” he shrug. “It’s always interesting.”
You blink at him. For some reason, that makes your throat close up, your eyes burning with embarrassing tears. Your knees are wobbling, and you’re sitting down. You grunt and look back to your sandwich, and Bucky chuckles.
“C’mon. Tell me.” He leans closer. There’s a gravity, from his heat, and it makes you want to just collapse over his chest.
You look at him from the corner of your eye, and you won’t tell him. That’s against the rules. It defeats the purpose.
But god, he’s looking at you. Really looking at you. You can count each shade of blue in his eyes. If you move just an inch, your noses might bump.
“I’m hungry,” you whisper, and Bucky’s brow knits.
He looks down to your sandwich. Then back to you. Adorable confusion flashes over his face. “You should… Uh- Eat.”
You nod, and he clears his throat, leaning back. You wish you could grab the collar of his shirt, and drag him back.
“You ever seen this thing called the Princess Bride?” He asks, not touching any food himself.
Just sitting there. With you. You try not to think about it too much.
You nod, chewing on your sandwich with puffed out cheeks. “’S a really good movie-“
“Chew then swallow, doll.” Bucky’s lips twitch, and you flush and obey.
“It’s a good movie,” you mumble, giving him a sheepish smile. “Sorry.”
Bucky shrugs, his gaze dropping to your mouth. Your breath hitches. You go perfectly still, afraid that if you shift, he’ll look away.
His tongue darts over his lips. He tips his head, his forearm flexes as he curls his fingers, and your breathing gets shallow. Something electric has shifted in the air, and it’s making you dizzy. Bucky reaches up slowly, and if you weren’t rooting in place, you think you’d fall out of your chair.
His thumb wipes the spot right above your lips, and a shock rushes through your body. His nostrils flare, his eyes lock onto yours, and his touch lingers.
When he pulls back, the movement is slow. Controlled. Your tongue flicks out, to lick where his thumb had been. Bucky’s nostrils flare.
There’s something on his thumb. Tiny little breadcrumbs that must’ve been stuck to your cheek from the sauce. Bucky brings the finger up to his mouth, holding your gaze, and sucks the crumbs away. Heat pools in your tummy, and your thighs press together.
Bucky stares at you. You grab the edge of your seat with white knuckles, trying to keep yourself from falling off.
“Crumbs,” he mutters, and you nod.
“Yeah.”
“I- Uh-“ He coughs, and looks away. Disappointment sinks like a boulder into your stomach.
You don’t know what you expected. Hell, you’ve told yourself what to expect. You’re not allowed to be disappointed by him. You’re not allowed to want anything from him, except for what your head can offer.
“Sam’s been tryin’ to make me watch it,” he mutters, and you blink.
“What?”
“Princess Bride.”
“Oh.” You’re still a little drunk on his proximity. He smells like something rich and spicy, and it’s fogging up your brain. “Cool.”
Bucky nods. “We’re gonna watch it next Friday. In that common room, where Stark makes us do game nights.” He gives you a sideways look. “I never see you at those.”
You shrug. “I’m not an Avenger.”
“Stark says you get invited.”
You do. But that would be a night of drinking and laughing and being closer to Bucky than you can handle, so you usually lock yourself in your room and pretend he’s fucking you stupid.
“You’re invited to movie night, too.” He adds casually, and you swallow.
Movie night. Where Bucky would be near you. In the dark. You can’t go there. You’ll lose your mind.
But he’s looking at you with such dim, cautious light in his eyes. There’s no expectations. Just hope. And it pulls the words out of you before you can stop them.
“Oh- Okay.”
Bucky beams, and that makes it worth it. The risk, that he might brush your hand in the dark and you’ll moan loud enough for everyone to hear.
He reaches up, and wipes a few more breadcrumbs from your cheeks. Time seems to stop, when he touches you. It’s dangerous, and you barely manage not to fall all over him before he pulls away.
“You get messy,” he mutters, and oh, God.
You shouldn’t have said yes. Why the fuck did you say yes. Now you’re going to have to sit next to him, after that.
You get messy. He has no idea.
That night, you end up back in your bed with a vibrator pressed over your panties. It makes the feeling stronger, with the friction of the fabric, and you toss your head back. It’s easier and easier to get lost in the fantasy, lately. The better you know him, the clearer it gets.
You can almost feel his hands, mapping over the curves and soft dips of your body. You can almost smell him.
He mouths at your breast, pinching and rolls your nipple between metal fingers. You make a broken, pathetic sound, and he smirks.
“I know, doll. Too much, isn’t it?”
You whimper, pressing the vibrator down. Bucky hums, his hand wrapping around yours, and your hips jerk when he angles it to shove right against your clit.
“Too much,” he coos, making out with the softness of your breast. “I’m barely even touchin’, and you’re already about to fuckin’ fall apart for me.”
Your eyes roll back, as Bucky starts to guide the vibrator up and down. Your mouth falls open in a long moan, as he grabs your hips and pushes them higher, further exposing your pussy. He bites at your nipple, then turns his attention to the neglected one. You writhe in the sheets, gasping his name, and he smiles.
“Dirty girl.” He pushes your hand back, just enough for him to rip away your panties, exposing your cunt to the cold air. “Look at that, pretty little pussy fuckin’ shining for me.”
You grind down, trying to find friction on the sheets. Bucky pushes the vibrator against your bare pussy, and your eyes roll back in your head. He starts kissing all over your chest, pawing at your breasts and swirling his tongue around you nipples, sending electric shock through your body. He licks the sensitive buds the same way he licked his thumb. Your hips start to roll mindlessly, as the coil in your stomach threatens to snap.
When you cum, it’s with a cry of his name. The coil snaps, and heat floods out of your pussy, all over the vibrator and your hand. Your body convulses with the sheer force of it, and Bucky kisses down. Over your abdomen, your hips, your inner thighs.
“What a mess, baby.” He mocks, before pressing the sweetest kiss to your clit.
You sob, trembling in the sheets, and grab at his hair.
But your hand finds nothing.
Because it’s just another fantasy, kept in the confines of your mind.
Movie night was a bigger mistake than you could’ve ever imagined.
You show up, and it’s just Bucky and Sam. Sitting on opposite ends of the couch, because men are strange creatures.
“Stevie’s on a mission,” Bucky says, staring at you like he’s seeing an angel. Like he didn’t invite you.
There’s an odd rasp to his voice, too. Maybe he’s just tired.
Sam says your name, that signature, I know something that everyone else doesn’t smirk on his face. You don’t think much if it. He always has it, even when he doesn’t know shit.
“Buck told me you’d be comin’. I didn’t believe him.”
“Sam.” Bucky grunts, and Sam shrugs.
“What? I didn’t.” He grins at you. “You never leave your lab-“
“She leaves her lab.” Bucky gives you an apologetic look, but you just laugh.
“No, he’s right. I really don’t.”
Bucky sighs, rolls his eyes, and pats the seat next to him. You smile to yourself, taking a long breath before you move. You’re going to be normal about this. Very, incredibly normal. So normal, they’ll think something’s wrong, because no one’s ever been this normal in history.
You last ten minutes.
The movie starts. You’ve seen it before, but you try to pay attention to every, tiny detail. The only other option is paying attention to Bucky. To the weight of him at your side, the way his knee brushes against yours and his arm is slung over the back of the couch. You’ve never seen him so relaxed and tense, all at once. He’s sunken into the cushions, but whenever you look over, his jaw is tight.
You could swear you catch his gaze, once or twice. If you do, he looks away immediately. And you feel it, that buzzing heat over your skin. But you’re supposed to be watching the movie. He’s supposed to be watching the movie. So you really, really try not to look over.
Bucky’s knee pushes against yours, and you swallow. His fingers trail near your shoulder, and you wrap your arms around your stomach to suppress the shiver. He’s warm. So fucking warm you can feel it, blooming in your core. You shift in your seat, and you’re already wet.
The movie isn’t even a third of the way done.
Bucky’s fingers rest on your shoulder. It’s so light, so casual, you’re not even sure he knows he’s doing it. You take the risk, and turn to fully look at him. He’s gotten even more relaxed, the knit of his brows loosened, pretty pink lips parted as he watches the TV. You want to reach up, and trace the stubble of his jaw. Maybe kiss up the column of his throat, dig your nails into his pecs and make out with that full, perfect mouth.
You let out a tiny sigh. Bucky doesn’t react to it. Too lost in the movie. Not paying you any mind.
And you should look away. You’re not here to Bucky watch.
You turn your head for three whole seconds, before your eyes start to ache. As if they can’t stand not to look at him. You try to resist it, but it plays over and over, on a loop in your brain. The image of him in the dark. The heat from him, almost penetrating under your skin and making you rise up like a balloon. Your head is in the clouds. You have to look at him.
You close your eyes, trying to fight it. Bucky’s hand drops from your shoulder, down to your upper arm, and your breath hitches.
Your eyes shoot open, and Bucky’s right there. Staring at you, with the same intense, focused need that’s clawing at your ribs and up your throat.
He grabs your chin, between strong but gentle fingers. You swallow, letting your gaze trail down his body. His massive chest, torso that looks perfect to hook your legs around, his thick thighs and his crotch.
The bulge, pushing through his sweats. It looks thick. Long and thick, demanding some attention. You look back to Bucky with your best, doe-eyed pout. He smirks, and leans down to kiss you. It’s slow and deep, his tongue swiping over your lower lip before pushing into your mouth. You moan, and Bucky weaves his hair through your hair, tugging slightly. Your second moan is downright pathetic. You grab his thigh, letting your nails brush against the outline of his cock.
Bucky hisses against your lips, and pulls back. You bat your lashes at him, and his lips twitch.
“Messy girl,” he mutters, before pressing a sweeter, mocking kiss to your lips.
He pulls away too quickly, but before you can give chase, you’re lost in a daze. Bucky’s pulling down his pants, taking his boxers with him. His cock springs free, thick and veiny, massive even in his own hand. He strokes himself slowly, giving you a prompting, amused look. You swallow, licking your lips.
“C’mon, doll,” he beckons. “Show me what you can do.”
Almost in a trance, you nod. Bucky’s eyes darken, as you crawl over his lap. You move his hand away, and fist his cock in one hand. He grabs the back of your neck, not to push, but for balance. A low, guttural sound rolls through his chest as you start to pump him, and you smile to yourself.
He really is perfect. A heavy, certain weight in your hand, jumping slightly whenever you squeeze him near the base. You shift back on your knees, using your other hand to massage his balls. He hisses, his grip tightening on your neck, and you smile.
When you look at him, there’s nothing but pure devotion in his gaze. You squeeze again, then pick up your pace, and he groans out your name.
You kiss him, pushing his head back against the couch cushions. He grunts, but lets you guide him. As if he knows that it’s all just a show, before you let him fuck your face like an animal.
“Relax, baby,” you breathe against his lips.
Bucky lets out a deep, rough laugh. “Little hard to do that right now.”
You giggle, swiping your thumb over the slit of his cock. “Is it? Hard?”
Bucky groans, and deepens the kiss. You slide off of him, before he can just grab your hips, pick you up, and sit you on his dick.
You move back, lowering down to your stomach so you’re eye level with his dick. He’s pulsing in your hands, trying to hold himself back. You don’t want him to. You want him to cum everywhere. Down your throat and over your face and tits, claiming you in one of the most primal ways possible.
“Doll…” Bucky rasps, and you look up at him under hooded eyes. He’s a wrecked. Bulging muscles and sweat, slicking on his brow. “Don’t tease- Jesus-“
You wrap your mouth around him, and take him as deep as you can go. He bumps against the back of your throat, but you suppress your gag reflex, relaxing to try and get even more. Your nose brushes against the hair at base of him. Your tongue presses flat against Bucky’s shaft, your fingers still working his balls, and he fists his hand in your hair.
“So- So fuckin’ warm-“ He chokes out. “Holy- You’re somethin’, sweetheart- God-“
You hum, and Bucky’s hips jerk up. He stutters out an apology, but you just moan again. He tries to pull you off, muttering more apologies, and you dig your nails into his thigh. You want it. You want him to use you.
He gets it, after a moment. His grip on your hair tightens. He starts slow, jerking his hips up as he pushes you a little further down, before yanking you back. You moan around his cock, drool falling from your swallow lips. Your eyes roll back. He’s using you, god, he’s using you, and it’s the best fucking thing in the world.
Bucky fucks your face like a fleshlight, and you grind your ass up against nothing. He hits the back of your throat, over and over, salty and heavy on your tongue. The sounds he makes are beautiful and sinful, and-
“Something on my face, doll?”
You blink, and Bucky’s cock isn’t in your mouth anymore. You smack your lips, trying to find it. Bucky frowns at you, the light of the movie making him even more, impossibly handsome. Sam ignores you both, popcorn stuffed in his mouth.
Bucky looks worried. He said something.
“Hm?”
“You were, you were- Uh-“ He clears his throat, then shakes his head. “Never mind.”
He looks back to the TV, and your face burns. His thigh is pressed right against yours. You can swear, when you lick your lips, you can still taste his dick.
You’re so, so fucked.
It only gets worse.
Eating breakfast becomes a trial, because Bucky is always there, and you’re always thinking about his fingers while he eats. How they’d feel stuffed down your throat, gripping your hips, scissoring deep inside of you. He wipes cream cheese off your cheek, and you almost moan.
“You feelin’ alright?” Bucky says, always so caring and worried, and you nod weakly.
“Yeah. Just- Just tired.”
He looks at you like he doesn’t believe you, but lets it go. If you were smarter, you’d be avoiding him. But you’re not. And you still have to work with him, anyway. It makes avoiding him rather impossible.
For a while you cling onto the idea that work would be sacred. That while Bucky’s in your office and you’re examining his arm, it’s purely professional. Not a single dirty thought.
You last about a week, with that one. Bucky startles you walking in. You trip, and he catches you around your waist.
“Careful,” he smiles down at you, all handsome and stupid.
“Uh huh,” you breathe out, and you could’ve sworn a flood gushed out between your legs.
Bucky’s nostrils had flared, and he’d helped you up to your seat. You’d already had the new fantasy, blooming in your mind like the little fucking pervert that you were. You’d tried to shove it down, swaying in the middle of the room, but then you’d looked at him. Sitting with his legs spread in your chair. And you’d been lost.
You imagined climbing into his lap. His arm wrapping around you as you sat down on his cock, grinding slowly, lashes flutters as he kneaded and pulled at your hips and breasts. He’d stand up, taking you with him like you weighed nothing, and pin you to the wall. One arm would stay around you, holding you in place as his mouth started to explore your dripping cunt.
His tongue would work you open, pushing in and out of your pussy. He would’ve already cum inside of you, and every stroke of his tongue would send a wave of your mixed arousals over his beard. You’d watch him, moaning his name, and his thumb would bully and flick and tease your clit, until your were dazed and gasping for air and-
Bucky says your name, and you could slap yourself. This is getting out of hand.
“Sorry,” you mumble, sitting next to him. He smiles at you, so kind.
Always so kind.
“You’ve been kinda out of it, lately.” His words are casual. You still daydream about shooting yourself and running away.
“Just getting lost in thought,” you murmur, and he hums.
“Anything I can help with?”
You shake your head, because if you speak you’ll start begging. Please, please, please, he’s the only one who can help you, you’re going insane with how much you need him, and he could save you, he could really save you-
“Movin’ usually helps me.” He offers softly. You almost don’t hear him. “Y’know. Using my body. Remembering that it’s mine.”
“Yeah?” You say softly, cleaning the panel near his shoulder. He looks at you, and you risk looking back.
You can’t read that expression. You’re not sure you want to.
“Yeah,” he mutters. His gaze might flick down to your lips, but you don’t trust your own mind anymore. “You wanna try it with me? I head to that gym in the basement every night. It ain’t bad.”
And you should say no, but you can’t help it. You nod, and Bucky’s lips twitch, and God, what you won’t do just so he smiles.
You will torture yourself, apparently. Bucky’s too hot to be allowed in a gym. Wearing a tank top that shows off his massive arms, smiling at you all lazy, in the way that’s more of a guard than the slip that you always crave, but a smile all the same.
First, you try walking on the treadmill and just watching him the mirror. He’s lifting weights, and his arms, they should be classified as weapons. You want those biceps keeping you in a head lock, against his chest or at his side. Keeping you still, while his cock pounds relentlessly into your pussy.
Bucky meets your gaze in the mirror. His lips twitch, and you look away, face burning.
You feel him, more than you see him coming over. The gravity of his presence, you think you’d be able to feel him blindfolded and dropped in a crowd of a million people.
“Come on,” he offers you a hand. “Lemme show you something.”
And you can’t say no to him. You really should learn how.
Because the something is training. Wrestling. Throwing fucking punches and trying to get the other down.
“Bucky, I can’t-“
“Yeah, you can.” He raises his fists, nodding to your own. “Up, doll.”
You sigh, raising them slowly. “You’re going to kick my ass-“
“I am. And then you’re going to get better.”
You scoff—he’s ridiculous—but listen. Bucky smirks, and lunges. You yelp and try to scramble away, but he’s too fast. You’re pinned under him in seconds, whacking at his arms and wiggling.
“Bucky- Get off-“
He laughs, standing up with a proud grin. You’ve never seen him so relaxed, so confident. It makes you hornier than you ever could’ve imagined.
He’d been over you. Everywhere over you. Pinning you down and manhandling you, and- Oh God-‘
“Up,” he beckons, and you swallow.
“I- I don’t know-“
“Yeah, you do.” He gives you a playful smile. “Get up.”
You sigh, and scramble to your feet. Bucky raises his fists again. You narrow your eyes, and match.
He chuckles. “Getting competitive?”
You shrug. “You wanted me to.”
Something flashes in his eyes. You’re not sure how to read into it.
“Damn right I do,” his voice is lower. You’re not imagining that.
You don’t get time to think about it, before he’s moving again. You hold your own exactly a second longer than before, but it ends the exact same way. You, pinned under Bucky’s broad, strong body. His face is pressed near your breasts, his fingers digging into your hips, his legs shoving yours apart to stop you from flailing around.
It goes on longer than it shoulder. This strange game that you like playing more than you should. Bucky starts trying to properly get you to throw a punch, but he gives up fast. Soon you’re more play wrestling than doing anything else. You’re giggly and dazed, charging at him like a bull, and he acts as bored and collected as always, but you can see the amusement dancing in his eyes, every time you try to climb him like a tree.
Then something shifts.
He gets you beneath him, and you try to shove at his chest. He catches your wrists and pins them up over your head. Your breath hitches, and he blinks. His hips drop against yours, and you can feel it. The bulge of his cock, pressing into your core.
He’s hard.
Not fully, but enough. Enough that you can imagine every ridged and curve of him, sliding between the puffy lips of your pussy. Your thighs clench, and Bucky grunts, rutting forward.
You both freeze, and your eyes lock. It’s one of those seconds, where you just stare hopelessly at each other. You almost apologize, but your tongue is limp. Bucky’s face is redder than you’ve ever seen it. His cock twitches in his pants.
And this isn’t a dream or fantasy. Bucky mutters your name, and it’s so real you think your heart might pound of your chest.
Bucky moves first. He clears his throat and moves to his feet.
“Better.” He offers you a hand. “That was…”
He trails off. You stare at each other, lost for words.
Bucky turns, and leaves without another word. You sway in the center of the room, breathing shallow, head spinning.
What the fuck just happened.
Bucky kisses up your spine, his mouth hot and possessive. His tongue flicks against your neck, and his fingers dig into your hips. He drags your ass up in the air and you mewl, pressing your face into the sheets.
“Ah,” he scolds, slapping your soaked, swollen pussy. “Lemme hear you, doll.”
You turn your head, moaning loud and shamelessly. Bucky chuckles, kissing a soft spot on your neck.
“That’s it,” he murmurs, notching his cock against your entrance. “Good girl.”
You coo like a baby bird, flushed and dazed. He’s big, so big that it almost hurts. He doubles over you with a groan, pressing his face into your shoulder as he slowly pushes every inch inside of you. The stretch burns in the best way, and you clench down around him.
“No,” Bucky leans down, kissing the corner of your mouth. “Nothin’ to apologize for. Just gotta relax, babydoll. Lemme do the rest.”
You hum, and take a deep breath. You’re grounded, in the feeling of Bucky everywhere. His warmer arm wraps around your neck, forcing you up enough for his lips to trail open kisses over your face.
“That’s my girl,” he mutters against your ear, bottoming fully out. “That’s it. Just take it for me, just like that.”
You mewl, pushing your ass back up, then crying out with delight as Bucky pulls out, and slams back in. He’s met with no resistance, from how your pussy is gushing out with every thrust, every touch, every hot kiss.
But there’s nothing else to be expected. Not with how Bucky’s using you, how worshipful his every touch and kiss is, all while he fucks into you so hard you think the bed is going to break. His breath is hot on your back, the head of his cock drill against that one, gooey spot deep inside you. His cold arm locks around your middle, and his fingers tease and graze over your clit. Rubbing in tight little circles, making your eyes roll back in your head.
Bucky grunts, hauling you up so you’re pressed against his chest. You’re pinned down on his cock now, wet and warm and tight. So fucking tight that it pulls a low, rumbling moan from his chest. His hips slam up in a barely controlled rhythm, chasing more of your heat. You’re limp in his arms. Dazed and smiling like you’re drunk. Bucky uses his arm around your neck to push your head further back, and you have the nerve to fucking giggle.
You’re so beautiful like this that he almost cums right there. Fluttering lashes and the sweetest sounds, you pussy milking him like a machine. He kisses you because he can’t help it, and you hum happily, grinding your ass down into him.
He needs you to cum first. He gropes at your clit, letting his fingers fumble for a second to work you up into a teased, messy frenzy, before he pushes down and rubs in a steady, unyielding rhythm. You cry out his name, squeezing down so hard on his cock, and Bucky buries his face in your neck.
He cums, so hard that his vision goes white. Thick ropes of cum spurt over his hand, squeezing hard at the base of his cock.
It’s not as warm as you’d be, he thinks.
And he thinks. All the time, Bucky just thinks about you. About how you’d feel, molding around him. About how you’d sound right in his ear, how you’d get smiley and drool, and he’s feed you his fingers just so you have something to do with that pretty mouth. You’d moan around them, and he’d thrust up into you so hard he’d knock the damn worries out of your head.
It’s his favorite time of the day, this. Your rooms are closer than you seem to think, or you just forget how good his hearing is.
And every night, right before bed, he gets to settle into the mattress and beat his cock into his hand, listening to you moan and call his name. He’d never tell you. You deserve better, than a broken robot like him. He counts himself lucky he even gets to be your friend, because he’s a man well practiced at restraint. At not getting what he wants.
But this space, where no one can see, he allows himself things. He allows himself you.
But only ever in his head.
✦End note: this might be one of my fave bucky fics i just got to be soooo horny with it✦
✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦
✦Bucky Masterlist - Main Masterlist - Read on aO3!✦
✦summary: you and Bucky have been at odds since you first met. he can't stand you. you pretend you can't stand him. and if Bucky ever knew how you really felt, you think you might die. not when there's no chance he'd ever feel the same way. right?✦
✦warnings/tags: bucky barnes x female!reader, modern!au, drinking, no use of y/n, mutual pining, no description of reader (pictures for aesthetic only), fluff, angst, drunken and sober love confessions, little plot to get to all that porn, feral level smut, (dirty talk, mean bucky but you're into it, teasing, possiveness, pussy spanking, praise kink, manhandling, sex toys, oversitmulation, squriting, bucky's packing, p in v sex, creampie, breeding kink), soft!bucky outside of smut✦
✦wc: 13.5k✦
✦Author's Note: i think i got possessed with this one. was barking to myself writing. Enjoy!✦
He’s the kind of beautiful that makes you want to strangle him.
Bucky walks around your apartment like he owns it, laughing all loud and musical, smiling like he fell out of a movie, running a hand through his hair and forcing you to see his sculpted torso and tanned skin. He barely fits in his shirt as it is, there’s no need for him to show off about it.
You’ve pressed yourself right to the corner of you couch, watching him silently. Watching all of them, but mostly Bucky. And his shining eyes and full lips and thick arms. Those things should be classified as weapons, or at least hazards. It’s too easy to imagine him wrapping them around you, pining you to the couch, handling you like a doll but still so gently-
“You’re staring at me again.” He drawls, and you start.
You give him an unimpressed glare, hoping your flush stays hidden in the low light of the room. “Shut up.”
“So nice to me, sweetheart.” He mocks, leaning a little further down. “Bet you dream about me, don’t you. Up all night with that rabbit Nat got you-“
You shove your foot up, slamming it square on his chest. He’d been getting too close. You’d been able to smell his cologne, and it made your head spin like opium. Bucky laughs again, walking away like you’re not even worth the argument. Your heart stings, but you ignore it. It’s an old bruise. You’re usually good at not pressing it, at pretending it doesn’t exist.
But Bucky exists only to torture you. So it never fully heals.
He’d been teasing about the rabbit thing. It had been a gag gift for secret Santa, and after Nat had even gotten you a very nice pair of shoes when you were in private. But Bucky’s clung onto it, like it’s the funniest thing he’s ever thought of. You, with a vibrator. You possibly being able to get off, when you’re the uptight little prude. The one who never brings back hookups, never dates, just sits in corners like an ivy, clinging to the shadows and watching everything else live around her.
You’ve never been fun. Never been someone Bucky would’ve chosen to know. He didn’t choose to know you. You knew a girl who worked with another girl, and that girl had a boyfriend who knew a girl who needed a roommate. You needed a roommate. You had good credit—because you’re boring—and the girl interviewing you had taken a liking to you.
Natasha rode a motorcycle. She worked in a job she was allowed to tell you about—something in black ops, that explained all the wigs in her closet—and spoke five languages. She baked calm down, and went to shooting ranges to calm down, and insisted on getting you a gun license so she’d feel more comfortable with all the hidden guns in the house.
“Hidden guns?” You’d asked, feeling your face blanch. She’d just smiled.
“You’ll never find them all. Let’s go, it’ll be easy.”
It had not been easy. But you understood how—to someone like Nat—it might be. She’d never lost patience with you, but she’d still made it look easy. When you’d gotten home and mumbled that you needed to go shower for an hour, she’d just patted your head like you were a bunny and smiled.
She might’ve been your first real friend in a while. Because it’s not that you’re not… personable. You’re just a little mean tongued. And nervous. And boring, and blunt, and you don’t like leaving the house unless someone grabs the scruff of your neck and drags you. You go to work, and you go home, and that’s mostly it. Your closest friends before Natasha had been co-workers. And you’d been really, truly happy with that.
But interesting people have interesting friends.
Natasha had a lot of friends. And they moved in and out of your apartment like they lived there.
Tony was a tech titan who you used to watch on the news, and now he left crumbs all over your couch. Wanda was a refugee and artist, and Clint worked in that same black ops thing Nat did. Steve had worked in it, but left to start his own non-profit with Sam. They all went far back, to elementary schools and playgrounds and clubs. They had history, but they were kind to you. Treated you like your little bachelor’s degree and normal person job fit in with their grand showmanship and large personalities that had been sucked right off the movie screen.
Most of them treated you like that.
Bucky didn’t.
Before you’d been introduced to him, Nat had described his as basically Steve’s brother, and it had been a striking endorsement. Steve had been kind to you. He brought you to a movie you’d really wanted to see, and never made fun of your stuffed animal collection. No brother of his could be all that bad, certainly not one even Nat described as charming and kind and not bad on the eyes.
Only one of those things was true.
Bucky Barnes is not bad on the eyes. You’d classify as maybe a medicine for the eyes, a miracle for the eyes, a blessing on a weary and tired viewer. He works in security or something, and it shows in his body. Sometimes he lets his hair grow out, and it’s frames his strong jaw and nose perfectly, all while making you want to run your fingers through each lock. You’re sure it would be like petting a very well-kept dog. He cares for it better than you care for yourself.
He’s got those eyes that knocked all the thoughts out of you, the moment you saw him. They’d sparkled and shone with his polite, white smile, and you’d just been swaying there like a lost scarecrow in a tornado. Your brain had been reduced to a fuzzy TV static and loud blaring noise, like you’d lost your own connection. Bucky had flexed his hand, a silent reminder you were supposed to shake it, and you hadn’t been able to get enough control over your body to even smile back.
His hand had been big. Calloused, with thick fingers and a lot of tiny scars. You’d shivered just at the idea of his touch. It might’ve been warm.
Might’ve been.
If Bucky had ever bothered to touch you at all.
By the time you’d dragged control back into your body, Bucky had given up and moved on. His ears had been a little red, in the moments after. You’d opened your mouth to apologize, make any excuse that would get him to offer a hand again.
He’d turned and walked away. Hadn’t looked at you for the rest of the night.
And when he looks at you now, it’s with something sharp behind his gaze. He never looks at anyone else like that. Never teases or mocks them, either. Acting like their mere presence in the room is a plague on his refined, perfect existence. He certainly never suggests they won’t be able to make it up five flights of stairs or asks if they’re sure they want to go out for the night.
You hate stairs. And you don’t want to go out for the night.
There’s only one thing more powerful than your picky little aversions, though.
The petty, blistering feeling at the top of your chest, that refuses to let Bucky win.
“You’re really coming with us?” Bucky calls your name from the kitchen, and you lift your chin, trying to look down your nose at the massive man.
“I was invited.”
“You’re always invited, you never actually get off the damn couch-“
“Barnes.” Nat walks past him, whacking his arm. “Don’t question miracles.”
You roll your eyes. “It’s not a miracle-“
“Yes it is.” She grabs your arm, hauling you off the couch like you weigh nothing. “I’ve been asking you to do this for years, I’m not letting Bucky frighten you off with his Buckying.”
That makes you giggle, and Bucky frowns. You catch him shooting Steve a look you can’t really read, and Steve just shrugs in return.
“I’m not trying to ruin it.” Bucky says, lofty and bored. “I’m just sayin’ she never comes out with us, and it might be a lot for the little doe to be shoved into the jungle or whatever-“
“You’re a poet.” Natasha says, giving him a flat glare. “Go wait in the car.”
Bucky scowls. “The car-“
“If you act like a dog, you wait in the car.”
“I am not acting like a dog-“
Sam raises his hand. “I caught him humping the furniture this mornin’ when he heard about it-“
“Sam.” Bucky hisses. “Shut the hell up before I knock your teeth out-“
“Steven.” Nat gives him a firm nod, and he sighs.
“Yeah, I got it.”
Bucky and Sam aren’t small men, but Steve grabs them by the collar and drags them out of the room without breaking a sweat. Leaving you and Nat in a suddenly very quiet apartment, a lingering smell of spice and pine still clouding the air.
Another reason you hate Bucky coming over. He’s mean to you, and he’s nice to everyone else, and he questions you then leaves the whole room stained in his presence.
“Ignore Barnes.” Natasha says it like an order, and it probably is.
You smile at her. “I always do.”
You think it comes off airy and convincing. Nat looks at you like she’s trying not to either scoff, or laugh. Before you can insist on anything, she’s grabbing your hand and dragging you into the bathroom. You did promise you’d let her get you ready. When you’d told her you could do makeup and prep yourself, she’d snorted and said maybe, but I’ll do it better.
One of the first lessons you learned was not to argue with Natasha when she’s sure of something. You let her sit you on the counter and sort through your makeup bag, finding everything she deems worthy of being on your face tonight. Your outfit hangs on the door, and you did choose that, but after Nat vetoed three others.
It’s nothing special. A short dress and heels that will blend right in a club. It hadn’t been that different from your other suggestions. But it had gotten a curt nod of approval and smirk from Nat, so it had something. You’re smarter than to question what.
“You should talk to Bucky tonight.” Nat says suddenly, and you blink at her in surprise.
“I- What?”
“Make him apologize. For being an ass to you.”
“That’s- It’s fine-“
“No, it’s not.” Nat gives you a firm look, and you sigh.
“I know, but- I don’t really care, okay? That’s just- It’s Bucky, right?”
You give her a weak smile, and this one doesn’t even convince you.
It is just Bucky. He’s charming and sweet and handsome, and he hates just you. So you hate him in return, just for being so perfect and deciding you’re the only person in the world not worthy of his attention. It would be easier if he really was a bad man. If you didn’t know he volunteered with kids and Steve’s foundation, if he didn’t advocate for his fellow veterans, if he hadn’t made his ma’s chicken soup when you and Nat had both caught something last winter, and taken the time to drop it off in person.
For Nat.
Because you’re just… Not worth it for him. Not worth his time, not worth his smiling, barely worth anything more than glowering stares and taunting words. And you’re not weak. You fight back every day, and keep all of your desires and affection buried deep in the pit of your stomach and swollen like an infection around your heart.
He never has to know that you think about him all the time. That you feel yourself bloom whenever your eyes meet, then wither when his gaze snaps away. Whenever he presses his body over yours just to tease you, the heat of his body makes your breath hitch. You spend long days daydreaming about how good a boyfriend he’d be, if he didn’t hate you. Attentive and caring and giving.
Every night you think about how giving he’d be. Flowers and coffee like he brings Wanda for galleries, or for Nat or Clint when they’ve been working late night shifts. He likes watching TV, you know, because he spends a lot of time sitting next to you on the couch and loudly making comments until you threaten to force-feed him bleach. But if that wasn’t the blunt and unforgiving knife of reality, you could just lay in his arms forever.
He could pick you up and carry you to bed. The same bed that you put that accursed vibrated between your legs, close your eyes, and dream of him railing you into the mattress. Fucking you until you can’t stand, until you can’t speak or thing, until your eyes are rolling back and your mouth can’t even figure out how to close, so he kisses you possessively or gives you some of those thick fingers to suck on-
“You should still talk to him.” Natasha’s words are blunt. If she’s noticed how you’ve been working yourself up, she doesn’t say a single word. “Before he does something stupid.”
You snort. “Bucky always does something dumb-“
“No. He does a lot of dumb things. Close your eyes.” Nat picks up an eyeliner, and you obey. “But there’s a difference between dumb and stupid. Stupid is harder to take back.”
You grunt, and you don’t think anything stupid Bucky does is going to have anything to do with you. But something scratches at your brain, and it’s green and bitter. Your fingers fidget in your lap, and you shouldn’t ask, but-
“Is he bringing someone?” You blurt, and just the idea makes you sick. Bucky with some model-type, holding her hips while she grinds onto him, all the honey he’d pour into her ears and down her throat while you just hugged yourself in the corner of the room. Her sitting on his lap in your apartment, you trying to hide the ugliness of jealousy but never being able to spare her more than a crude sneer. It’s the only reason Nat would possibly want you to talk to him. You and Bucky’s childish game of pulling each other’s hair and biting without teeth and seeing who breaks first, it ruins his picture of the perfect suitor. If you keep it up, you’ll ruin this for him, and he deserves to be happy but the thought of him being happy while you just sink into yourself like quicksand makes you want to die-
“Jesus, no.” Nat laughs. “That’s- Never mind.” She shakes her head, still chuckling about some secret you apparently don’t get to be a part of.
“What?” You try to push. “I’ve heard about his- You know. Promiscuity.”
Nat snorts. “From who?”
“Sam.”
“Sam’s an idiot.” She dismisses plainly, and you frown.
“Tony’s mentioned it too-“
“They’re both idiots.”
“Bucky’s told me, he said he leaves all his girls satisfied-“
“Bucky is the biggest idiot of all of them. Open.”
You listen again, and find Nat smiling at you with a strangely soft affection. Like you’re some wet kitten she rescued off the street.
“Put on your dress.” She says, wiping the corners of your slightly pouting lips. “Talk to Barnes.”
At the very least, you manage to follow one of those orders.
The dress is a little shorter than you thought it would be. It rides up your thighs, forcing you to pull it down with every step. In the car you cross your legs and stare at the floor, grounding yourself in the bass of Nat’s loud music as your heartbeat starts to pick up. You’re going out. You’re going out. Spiting Bucky was not a good enough reason to do this, it’s going to be loud and you can dance but not in front of strangers, and you’re going to be even more boring than usual and you feel like a fraud.
“Nice dress.”
Bucky’s voice is a low behind you, his breath fanning on your neck. You almost scream.
“Christ, calm down.” He’s grinning when you whip around, leaning forward in his seat to whisper. Sam and Steve are next to him, one very pointedly staring out the window, the other looking at something on his phone and humming like he’s already trying to drown out you and Bucky’s fighting.
“You scared me-“
“You saw me get in the car, sweetheart. Not my fault you’re jumpy-“
“I am not jumpy-“
“You are. Like a bunny.” His grin widens, and you scowl.
The shifting streetlamps make him look like an angel. Golden halo rays behind his head, long shadows that make him look even more rugged than usual. His lips look fuller, softer, eyes glimmering like a floodlight through the dark, and-
“Shut up.” You snap, turning back around. You can’t keep looking at him. It’s dangerous.
“I was just saying your dress was nice.” Bucky’s breath tickles your neck. You wrap your arms tight around your stomach.
“You also called me a rabbit.”
“Called you a bunny-“
“That’s the same thing.”
“No, it’s-“ He sighs, shaking his head. “You’re impossible, you know that?”
You flip him off over your shoulder, glaring firmly out the windshield. You can feel him retreat, but the closeness had lit up your nerves, and now they’re buzzing with hope that he’ll return.
Stupid fucking body. Stupid fucking Bucky.
You refuse to look at him when you arrive. You stumble a little bit in your heels—Natsha insisted on six inch, which is far too tall for anyone—and Bucky catches your arm, holding you upright. You brush his hand off like a fly and march on, refusing to give him the satisfaction of some other comment about how you’re like a baby deer.
When you get inside, you can smell it. The stench of sweat and alcohol and something fruity they probably use to cover the first smells. You cling to Natasha, letting her guide you through the crowd to the bar. She orders you two shots because you need them, and you don’t argue. Between Bucky and the club, you do.
You down them both without flinching, and Sam whistles from behind you.
“Damn, you took those like a champ.”
You shrug, and Sam elbows Bucky.
“You see that, Buck-“
“Yeah. I saw it.”
Bucky’s voice is lower than usual. Almost sullen. You’d examine him, try to figure out what’s wrong with him, but you’re not supposed to be letting yourself care. He’s not your problem tonight. You’re here to indulge in fun.
You’re already not very good at that as is. Bucky’s consuming presence isn’t going to help.
Another drink might.
You’re three shots in when Nat brings you out to the dance floor. The liquor is pulling you lose, the frayed knot that’s always in your chest going slack enough to allow you to dance. You’re smiling and laughing like a normal person, almost completely able to forget to check where Bucky is in the room.
Near the edge of the crowd, drinking and talking to Steve.
A fourth shot might be needed.
You’re smiling like a fool now. The room is tilted a little, all the colors neon, but they blind out your usual worried and the tilt helps your worries slide off your body. You’re able to forget about Bucky until you notice a girl talking to him, and you take a fifth shot. A sixth, when he vanishes for nine and a half minutes, and your brain starts to map everything he might be doing to that girl.
Seven, when the first stranger asks you to dance and you’re not drunk enough to forget about Bucky and say yes.
Eight, when he tries to kiss you and you shove him away, because his lips aren’t pink enough and he’s not broad enough for you to every pretend.
Nat tries to cut you off there. You slip past her, and take a ninth. The room is just a blur now. You can’t fully remember who Nat is, and why you’re trying to avoid her. There’s a man with his hands on your hips, and he’s got dark hair that looks too greasy for you to touch. Another man calls you sweetheart, but he says it a little wrong and it makes you want to cry. None of them have the right eyes, and the ones that are closer don’t have the right smile.
You feel like you’re going to cry, by the time you’ve rejected the eleventh man. Or only fourth. Numbers don’t feel real right now. Most everything doesn’t feel real.
Everything except Bucky.
Because your own name is just a sound in your head that sounds foreign, but Bucky says it and you know to turn around.
It’s less because it’s your name. More because Bucky called you.
You smile, swaying on your feet, and you’re not even sure where you are anymore. It’s somewhere with a lot of people. Loud music. It’s dark, but bright at the same time, and Bucky looks like a walking dream as he moves towards you. Your vision swims, but he’s made of clear lines and a stern expression.
He’s mad at you. Your face falls, lip wobbling, and you take a step back. You don’t want him to be mad at you. Your heart is already beating in your ears, Bucky’s anger or distain might make it burst.
“Where the hell did you go?” He snaps, and you bow your head.
“I- I dunno-“ You hiccup, hugging yourself tight.
“Nat’s been looking for you, Steve barely stopped her from trying to make the building go into lockdown, and I-“ He cuts himself off, running a hand over his face, and you blink the tears away.
You’re looking up at him under your lashes, and he’s still angry. Some distant voice in your head tells you it’s your fault entirely. That he must’ve been about to go home with someone when they lost you, and now he’s pissed he had to pause his night to find you. You sniff, wiping your nose with your arm.
Bucky’s frown deepens. He takes a step forward, and you try to step back but balance feels like an Olympic feat right now.
His arm loops around your waist, pulling you right against his chest. You stare up at him, tears streaming down your cheeks from feelings you can’t even name anymore. They’re hollow and big and full and made of a million little cuts. They burn in your heart and through your blood, but also freeze in your throat and muscles. You can’t move. You don’t want to move.
Bucky’s big hand is splayed on your back, and you don’t want to go anywhere you can’t feel him.
That voice from before reminds you that’s not allowed, so you wiggle a little.
Bucky holds you tighter, and you surrender in a split second. His frown deepens, and you think you’re still crying. Your cheeks are certainly burning, and your throat feels oddly tight.
Gentle fingers brush under your eyes, and you hum softly. Bucky’s nostrils flare, those fingers brushing hair from your face before cupping the back of your head, forcing your gaze onto his.
“Jesus, woman.” He mutters, those beautiful eyes scanning over your slack face. “How much did you have to drink.”
“I dunno.” You breathe. His brow furrows.
“Best guess.”
You shrug, shaking your head, and Bucky sighs. You want to shrink and hide from him, from his obvious annoyance and disappointment. It’s nothing new, but it’s raw like this. You can’t figure out anything, let alone how to pretend like his hatred doesn’t bother you. You try to turn and hide your face, but Bucky just pulls it right back.
“Over five?” He prompts, and his voice is so soft. Like he’s trying to coax the answer out of you.
“I- I don’t know.” You whine slightly, and he sighs.
“Yeah. Alright.” Bucky’s throat bobs, and he looks up. Glances around you, his hands never leaving your body.
You stare up at him in the dark. You’re not supposed to be looking at him, but it’s impossible. He’s magnetic, and beautiful, and you’ve never been this close to him without one of you trying to claw at the other.
But your fingers cling to the fabric of his shirt, and it’s not to draw blood. You just don’t think that if he walks away you’re going to be able to stand up.
Bucky looks back down at you, and his tongue flicks over his lips. His thumb drags slowly over your cheekbone, leaving a little trail of fire in its wake. Your breathing gets shallow, your eyes fluttering. Everything feels like a lot. Like you’re so high in the atmosphere the air is starting to get thin. Bucky’s brow furrows, and he works his jaw like he does when he’s thinking.
You’ve always wanted to reach up and touch the lines that form on his face, when he worries. They’re deep, and still handsome, but they only ever mark that he’s stressed. He shouldn’t be. It’s only you, and you’re nothing to him.
He lets out a heavy breath through his nose, his hand dragging down to cup the back of your neck. You tip your head back, waiting for him to do something. Kiss you. Bite you. Slam you back against the wall and relieve the ache, building up between your thighs. Maybe just smell you and let his lips brush over a sensitive spot on your neck, teasing you like always until you’re crying and begging for him.
Instead, Bucky just sighs. He pulls you forward, twisting you until you’re in front of him. His arms cage you to his chest, and he’s almost herding you down the hall.
“Where’re we going?” You tip your head back, and find him glowering at everyone around you.
They’re all moving so fast, stumbling in your path then scrambling away under Bucky’s glower. His eyes flick down to yours for a second, and maybe it’s the delusions of grandeur and liquor, but you could swear they soften slightly.
“We’re gettin’ you home.” He mutters, shouldering the door open. “You need to sleep this off.”
You wrinkle your nose as the chill of night air hits you. “But it’s cold-“
“Car will be warm.”
“But we don’t have a car-“
“We’re taking Nat’s.”
You scoff. “Nat would never give you her car-“
“Well, she did.” He grunts, voice dropping under his breath. “You’d never give me your car.”
“I don’t have a car.” You snap, and Bucky chuckles dryly.
“Yeah, I know.” He opens the door, giving you an amused look. “Up and in, baby.”
Your whole world stops for a second. You feel like you’re floating, a ditzy smile crossing your face, and you start to giggle because he called you baby. Bucky called you baby, like you matter to him, and he’s touching you.
Bucky sighs when you don’t move, and bends down. He scoops you up and drops you in the car like you weigh nothing. You’re still giggling when he closes the door and walks around the hood, sliding into the driver’s seat. For a second you stop, looking out the club with a frown. The world is still hazy, but you can see the neon sign, and it feels like you’re forgetting things that are very important-
“They’re all goin’ back to our place.” Bucky grunts, and you look over to find him staring at you with one of those stone-faced, unreadable expressions that he only uses around you. “It’s closer, cab will be cheaper.”
You frown. “Why aren’t they riding with us?”
“’Cause we’re going back to yours.”
“Why?”
“’Cause.” Is all Bucky offers. He starts the car before you can ask another question, and puts his arm around your seat to back out of the spot.
Nat has a back cam. He just always does it like this, and you’ve always chalked it up to his big, responsible man thing. Usually when the arm is around you, you glare out the window and pretend you can’t feel how close he is. How his fingers brush your upper arm, or how his smell gets stronger.
Tonight you can’t really remember why you do that. And Bucky does really smell good.
You turn your cheek, pressing it into his bicep. Bucky freezes, the car jerking to a stop, and you can feel his attention. It sparks a tiny fire in your core, and seeps down between your thighs. Your lips graze his skin, and he coughs.
His fingers dip down, brushing near your collarbone. You hum happily, and the car starts moving again.
When you’re out of the parking lot, Bucky doesn’t remove his arm like usual. You’re grateful. If he did, you might have chased it right into his lap.
“You have fun?” Bucky breaks the silence, voice gruff.
You nod, turning to watch him drive. He always does it in a way that’s almost unfairly attractive. He holds the wheel lazily, like he knows it’s under his control. You want him to hold you like that.
Bucky clears his throat. “You, uh- You did good.”
“Good?” You murmur, not fully understanding the praise.
You know it makes you throb, and press your thighs together. Bucky’s eyes flick to the motion, and his throat bobs.
“Yeah.” His grip on the wheel is white knuckled. “Good.”
Silence settles again, and you let yourself stare at him. He’s beautiful. So beautiful it makes you unsure that he’s real. You’d like to trace the line of his jaw, hear his smooth, deep voice again. Hear it say your name, because it’s the only thing that reminds you that you’re real. You can’t remember why you ever deprived yourself of this. Of him, and all his quiet glory. He’s a loud man, but never boastful.
He’s only really boastful to you. When he fixes the shower for Nat or someone brings up his army service, he waves them off and laughs, and you’ve always loved that about him. You love most things about him, even when he’s being insufferable. You sort of love that he’s insufferable, too. You’re not that easy either. And if you wrapped around him, you’re hoping he’d be too chivalrous to cut you off. He could mock you all he wants, you’d just hide your face in his neck and breathe him in. Grounding. Handsome. Impossible to resist.
Your fingers are itching, to touch that sad little furrow. There’s nothing for him to worry about. The world revolves around him.
“Saw you got some numbers.” He grunts suddenly, and you pause.
“Numbers?”
“Phone numbers.”
“Oh.” You reach for you bag, checking that the hard line of your phone is still there. It is. You don’t know what he’s talking about.
“You gonna call any of them?”
“Any of who?”
Bucky gives you an exasperated look, then double takes slightly. His worry lines deepen. It makes you pout, grabbing at your own hands to stop them from reaching for him.
“The guys.” He says slowly, frowning at the road. “That you were talkin’ to.”
Oh. Phone numbers. “No.”
His brows raise. “No?”
You shake your head, and Bucky prompts you with an oddly tight voice.
“Why?”
They’re not you. Even your drunk brain seems to know it’s bad idea to say that. “I didn’t want them.”
“Hm.” Bucky taps his hand on the wheel, shooting you a strange look. “Why?”
You can’t tell him that, but you also can’t think of a good excuse this time. You make a lame, half-hearted sigh, and turn your face back into his arm.
He doesn’t push it. He doesn’t talk for the rest of the drive. His thumb drags little circles on your upper arm, lulling you into a half-sleep only interrupted by the bump of the road. You’re not sure how much longer you’re in the car, and when it stops you can’t really remember what you’re supposed to do now.
Bucky helps. He slides away from you, squeezing your thigh in a silent reassurance before he steps out of the car. Your hand traces over where he’d touched you. Bare skin on skin, hands still light and gentle. He seems to have burned his handprint into you, and it spreads until you’re tingly and weak-kneed.
The door on your side opens, and his voice is low in your ears.
“C’mon, pretty girl.” A strong arm loops around your stomach, pulling you back. “Let’s get you in bed.”
You hum, and let Bucky guide you. You trust him completely, with all your heart and not a single question.
He handles you carefully. Guides you inside, holds you steady in the elevator, takes your keys from your shaking fingers and opens the door. You’re sent to take a shower, but start to trip over nothing the moment Bucky lets go of you, so he sighs and draws you a bath.
“How am I gonna stand?” You mumble, sitting on the toilet while he runs the water. “Or rinse.”
Bucky grunts. “I’ll help.”
You hum in approval, and start to pull off your dress. Bucky makes a strangled sound, eyes flying up to the ceiling, and you’ve never seen his face so red.
“What the hell are you doing?”
“Getting ready for a bath?” You frown at him, and he groans.
“You- Fuck.” He takes a heavy breath through his nose, closing his eyes. “Just- Keep your underwear on, alright?”
You nod, trying to ignore the heavy sting that he doesn’t want to see you naked. Bucky won’t even fully look at you as he helps you into the tub. He leaves the room while you sit helplessly in the water, barely moving until he returns. You wrap your arms over your chest, suddenly consciously that maybe you’re not pretty enough for him to look at you. You pull your knees to your chest and sniffle, just waiting for him. You don’t even know why he left in the first place. You wanted him here.
Bucky sighs, when he opens the door to find you crying.
“Christ, I leave you alone for five seconds- Hey, woah-“ He kneels on the bathmat, hand flexing before he reaches out and wipes away your tears. “It’s alright, you’re alright. Don’t cry, sweetheart, you’re okay-“
You bite down a sob and turn your face, pressing it right into his shoulder. Again, Bucky stiffens. His arms hover for a second, breathing shallow, and you think he’s going to shove you away.
But he doesn’t. After that single, million year heartbeat of a moment, he grabs you. Holds you tight into his body, cradling your head and rocking you back and forth. The water flows under you, pushing up on the lip of the tub. A little bit flows over, splashing his pants.
He doesn’t seem to mind.
“C’mon, baby.” He murmurs, slowly starting to rise. “Let’s get you to bed.”
You nod, wrapping your arms tight around his neck. When he gets you on your feet, he stops for a second. His lips brush near your ear, and an electric rush dart through you. Then, fast but certain, he kisses the side of your head.
It’s so quick you’d think you imagined it, if you couldn’t feel the burn of his lips long after he pulls away. You reach up to brush it, when Bucky deposits you on your bed. You watch him move around the room like he belongs there.
He does.
He’d belong with you, if he wasn’t such a massive butt about your existence.
“It’s your fault, you know.”
Bucky glances up from your dresser, fisting a shirt in his hands. “What?”
“You.” You say, because it’s that simple.
He’s the reason you’re drunk. That you didn’t score tonight, that you’d been crying, that you have to be coddled like a baby.
Not that you mind that last one. It’s wonderful, having him touch and speak to you like he cares.
It’s still all his fault.
“What’s me?” He says, and you roll your eyes at the ceiling.
“All of it.”
Bucky says your name, and you wave him off with a dramatic sigh. You can hear him pad slowly across the room, and when he pulls you up gently you flop over his body. A useless ragdoll he’s trying to get a shirt onto.
But the harder you make it, the longer he’ll stay. The longer he’ll be nice, and touch you, and-
“I love you.”
Bucky stills. Your words hang in the air, but you don’t understand why. You’ve said far worse things to him, and he must have known. You know. You’re pretty sure Nat does too, with all the looks she’s always giving you after Bucky teases you and you flush, or you bicker and he marches away with a scowl.
It’s not some grand confession. You love him like the seasons turn and the sun always rises. It’s a deep, mechanical part of you that can’t be rewired, and you know because you’ve tried. But Bucky’s leans back and stares at you like the sky is falling.
“What?”
His voice is a croak, and you frown at him.
“I love you.” You say it slower this time. Maybe you’d slurred the words, and he hadn’t understood. “It’s your fault, because I love you and you’re just… There.”
He blinks at you slowly, obviously still not understanding. You roll your eyes, and flop back down.
Bucky coughs, grabbing your knee as if to steady himself. He’s sitting down, and it’s not like he’s in love. The world is perfectly under his feet. You’re the one suffering.
“I’m here?”
“All the time.” You whine, and his grip on your knee tightens.
“But you love me.”
“Mhm.”
“So why’s it problem that I’m here-“
“Because you never do anything.”
You can hear the frown in his voice. “I do things. I do lots of things-“
“You never touch me.” You prop yourself on your elbows, glaring down at him. “You just- You’re there, and you don’t like me and it- It makes me-“
“Makes you what.” Bucky’s voice is deep, his eyes dark on yours, and you stick your tongue out at him.
“You don’t get to know.”
“I don’t get to know?” He snorts. “No, you can’t just- You can’t say that kinda stuff then-“
“I wish you’d touch me.” You tell the ceiling.
Bucky grunts. “Yeah, I’ve heard. But-“
“Think I could cum just from listening to you talk.” You hum, your voice sounding like a faraway dream.
Your eyes are getting heavy, and Bucky’s gone completely silent. The words start to float out of you, like steam escaping through windows, into the warm, open sky.
“I’d like to touch you, too. Put you in my mouth, or just- ride you.” You sigh. “I want everything. I’d do- Do anything you told me too if you asked. Anything.” You look back up at him, your lip wobbling again. “But you never ask me. Why don’t you ever ask me?”
Bucky’s gaping at you, and he shakes his head, his voice a low croak. “I, uh- You’ve never-“
He swallows, glancing down, and you follow his gaze.
He’s straining through his jeans, shifting uncomfortably. You giggle, flopping back down. Your eyes start to droop, the room fading in and out. Bucky rises over you with a sigh, pulling the blankets up.
“’S nice.” You murmur. “You. Bein’ here.”
You yawn, and Bucky’s laughs. Under his breath, like an inside joke he won’t bring you into.
“Yeah. I know.” His hand grazes over your cheek, and you hum sleepily, eyes closing.
His lips press to your forehead, and it’s like a spell. The world, slowly and easily, starts to slip away.
“Sleep well, baby.” He mutters, and under that command, you do.
He’s not there when you wake up, and you have to be okay with that.
You don’t know how you’re ever going to face him again anyway. There’s a fog hanging over your brain, but it’s not thick enough that you can’t remember last night.
Bucky saw you naked. He was in your room, and put you to bed, and you-
You told him you loved him.
That you wanted him. That you could cum just from him talking to you.
You have to move. You have to change your name and move as far away as possible. Maybe Siberia, or Russia, or Romania, or somewhere he’ll never find you again. Because you told him you loved him, and now he’s gone.
He left a water on your bedside table. Mocking you with the fact that last night was real.
You force yourself to sit up, rubbing your temples, and take the glass. If you’re never going to see Bucky again, and you don’t plan to, there’s no need to spite him with ignoring it.
When you stand up, it takes a few deep breaths to start moving. Nat isn’t home yet, and she probably won’t be for a while. That gives you plenty of time to wallow before you vanish forever. You can spend the morning moping and cursing yourself, then worry about consequences.
You make cereal and put on coffee. Stare at the little bits floating through the milk, and try not to think about Bucky. If he’s thinking about you.
If he is, you don’t want to imagine what. That you’re a whore for throwing yourself at him, a fool for think he’d be open to such a confession—from you of all people—or maybe just the same as he always did. Maybe he’d known the whole time, and he just thinks you were gutsy to say it aloud when he so clearly wants nothing to do with you.
Nothing at all, but taking care of you while you’re drunk. Giving you a bath and putting you to bed, handling you like something precious and kissing the side of your head.
That could have been just more mocking. The same game he’s always played, accusing you of wanting him then laughing. Like he’d already known.
But playing that game while you’re out of it isn’t Bucky’s style. He likes you biting back, sometimes he dangles comments over your head and grins when you snap at them. So there’d be no reason for him to play when you weren’t even able to a join him. But then there’s no reason for him to act like that at all.
It’s too early to be thinking this much. You put all your hopeful bets on Bucky having somehow forgotten everything, so you don’t have to move.
The door opens down the hallway, and you glance up. It’s early for Nat to be back.
But it’s not Nat that calls your name through the house.
“Where’d you- Hi.”
Bucky walks into the kitchen, and you stare at each other. He’s wearing his clothing from last night, his hair mussed, two paper coffee cups in his hands. You swallow, and he coughs, glancing around the kitchen.
“I got you coffee.” He mutters a little bitterly, and you follow his gaze to the rumbling coffee machine.
“Oh.”
“You don’t have to- It’s here.” He puts it on the counter, and you nod, focusing back on your cereal.
You’re both silent for another long moment. There air is thick, like a swamp at the height of summer. You’re not sure how you remember to speak.
“How’d you know I was up?”
“Your door was open.” He mutters. “Made sure it was closed before I went out.”
“Did you-“
“On the couch. Just, uh-“ He rubs the back of his neck, eyes locked onto yours. “I wanted to make sure you weren’t alone, and- I think we, uh- You said some things. That we should talk about.”
You rip your gaze away as you flush, but if you’d had any hope of pretending you’d been too drunk to retain the night and just hoping he’d leave you be, that ruins it.
Bucky’s eyes narrow. He walks forward, until he’s right at your side. You can feel his presence buzzing through you, and swallow.
“You remember.” His voice is low, and he leans further down before you can protest. “Don’t lie to me. We’ve both been lyin’ way too much.”
You don’t dignify him with an answer. With even a glance.
Bucky leans closer.
“You said you wanted to touch me.” He’s almost growling in your ear. “You said you wanted me in your mouth, that you wanted me to ride you, that you’d do anything I told you-“
“James.” You hiss, twisting to glower at him.
Mistake.
He looks hungry. His eyes are blown out, only inches from yours, his tongue darts over his lips when you look down at them. He’s watching you like a dog that’s finally been told it can have its bone. Your grip on the counter tightens. It’s hard to stay upright.
“Full name.” He hums, the corners of his lips tugging up. “I’m in trouble.”
“You’re being a dick-“
“Yeah, but you like it.”
“I- You-“
“You love it.”
You freeze at that word. The air feels thin now. Your face is burning, and Bucky’s as collected as ever. Like this is all still just a game to him.
“Fuck you.” You spit. It takes everything you have.
Bucky doesn’t even flinches. “Yeah, you want to.”
Your mouth falls open, and he leans in closer.
“You meant it, right? Everything you said?”
Denying seems pointless. You try to anyway, but your lips barely prepare for the word no before Bucky’s giving you a stern look—don’t lie to me—and your voice dies.
He says your name, and it’s the same voice he used last night. Lighter, gentler, man trying to tend instead of force. You weren’t any match for it last night, but that doesn’t seem to be the drink’s fault. You give in just as easily right now.
“Yes.” You breathe.
Bucky’s eyes flash. “All of it?”
“Bucky…”
“Do you want me.” His voice is demanding now, and you try to look away.
He catches your chin, pulling you back. Forcing your gaze onto his, onto those beautiful, enchanting eyes.
You nod, and he hums in approval. The sound settles, molten and warm in your tummy.
“Do you love me?”
His words sound so sincere and taunting at the same time. You can’t look away, so you glare, and he chuckles.
“Come on, baby.” He brushes his lips over yours, his voice becoming something low. Something dangerous.
You don’t even bother to move away this time. You’re breathing in your chest, your stomach filled with too much desire to do much else. The brush of his lips let you taste coffee and mint, and his grip on your chin is commanding. You’re only putty in his hands. A lost cause that doesn’t really want to be found.
“Don’t make me fuck it out of you.”
Bucky’s eyes gleam, and he’s playing again. He knows he has you, that you want to be had.
His hand drags slowly, gently, on your waist. His fingers dip under your shirt, the soft touch making you gasp. You lean forward, and Bucky leans back. He tilts his head slightly, something stern still in his gaze. You blink hopelessly, trying to figure out what, and he squeezes your hips. It’s grounding and electric, and he presses back forward as you go still below him.
“Do you want me to fuck it out of you.” He growls, and your mouth falls open with a whimper.
Permission. He was holding himself on a leash for your permission.
Doubt drains from your head, far down south where a warm, summer storm is brewing between your thighs.
You spread your legs slowly, and grab his hand on your hips. Push it slightly down, until his attention follows.
Bucky’s jaw clenches, and his hand on your chin drops. You watch as he moves so tantalizingly slow, brushing the band of your panties before dragging down the seam at the apex of your thighs. He rubs you over the fabric, and your hips buck into the touch.
“Fuck.” Bucky hooks two of his fingers, tearing your underwear in one rip. “You’re so wet. Soaked through the panties, soaking my fucking fingers.”
You moan, pressing your face into his shoulder. Bucky dips his fingers into your heat, smearing the arousal all over your pussy, and you shake.
“Bucky-“
“You got this,” he spanks your pussy, then drags the mess down your inner thighs. “’Cause I’m here? Or just from thinking about me?”
“B- Both.” You mumble, trying to keep still as the broad pads of his fingers find your clit, rubbing in slow, tantalizing circles.
He hums. “You think about me a lot?”
Pressing hard on the sensitive button. Your knees give out, and you’re only caught by his arm around you’re lower back.
“Careful, baby-“
“All the time.” You whimper the confession, looking up at him with big, teary eyes. “Think about you all the time, Bucky, you’re- You’re so- Oh my god-“
Bucky yanks his hand from your pussy, grabbing your jaw and angling it back for a kiss.
It’s slower than you thought it would be, with how he crashed over you. You’d been expecting rough and harsh, all spit and ownership. Instead there’s a certainly behind it—a rough passion that’s demanding and hot—but it’s slow. Bucky doesn’t use his tongue until you open your mouth, and he hums in satisfaction when you grab at his hair, tugging slightly.
He grabs your ass, hauling you up on the kitchen counter. His hands wander your body lazily, tracing the softness of your hips and curve of your spine. He chuckles when you arch into the touch, deepening the kiss. Stars swim behind your eyes, and you realize you’re still grinding up into his torso.
“Bucky.” You plead, and he presses another tiny kiss to your lips, taking his sweet damn time.
“Off.” He tugs at the hem of your shirt, and you lift your arms to help him.
He leans back when you’re uncovered, and this time he isn’t trying to cover anything else. He palms one of your breasts, licking his lips before he takes the nipple between his fingers and rolls it. You squeak and his eyes dart up, almost studying how you shiver and blink at him.
“So reactive.” He switches to the other breast, and your fingers dig into the nape of his neck. “Almost came before I even really touched you, sweetheart. If you can’t hold it, you’re gonna be a fuckin’ wreck before I’m even done with you.”
You shake your head, face heating further. “It- It’s been a long time-“
“Yeah, but that’s not it.” He drags his hand down, over your abdomen. Back between your thighs. “You got that little toy keepin’ you satisfied-“
“Not satisfied.” You breathe, head lolling to the side as Bucky resumes his tight circles on your clit. “Not you, Bucky, fuck-“
He groans, dragging you back into a deep kiss. You give him everything you have in return, nipping at his lips and yanking his hair. Bucky groans and picks you fully off the counter, walking you both to your room and kicking the door shut.
“You drive me fuckin’ crazy.” He grunts between kisses, his own steps getting a little uneven. “The stuff I wanna do to you, no way we’re covering it in one night. Years to make up for, gotta ration it.”
“Years?” You pull back, and Bucky grins.
“Oh yeah. You’re not the only one who’s not satisfied, babydoll.”
“But-“
“Ah.” He kisses you, lowering you onto the bed. “Nope. Not now.”
You frown up at him. “Bucky, you said we needed to talk-“
“And now I’m sayin’ not now. And if my memory’s right,” he grins down at you. “You’re the one who said she’d do whatever I want.”
You flush, crossing your arms over your chest, and Bucky laughs. He pulls his shirt off, and you almost fall backwards on the sheets like it’s an atomic blow.
There have been glimpses. Moments. You’ve been to the pool with him before, and he’d been shirtless there too.
But he hadn’t been standing over you, massive and radiating power. You hadn’t been close enough to trace your fingers over the scars littering his muscle, remnants from his time in the army. You reach up in a trace, tracing one closer to his pant line, and he flexes under your touch. A low sound rumbles through him, and he catches your wrist with a warning look.
You giggle. “You’re not the only one who’s sensitive.”
Bucky’s eyes flash, his voice dropping impossibly low. “I’m gonna fuck you until you can’t speak.”
Your shift in the sheets, more desire building in your already aching pussy. Bucky’s attention darts to the movement, and his throat bobs. Every muscle in his body strains, and you give him a sweet smile.
“Prove it.”
Bucky makes that deep, growling sound again and grabs your face between his hands. He presses over you, shoving his tongue down your throat, and this is the kiss you’d been expecting from before. Rough and starved, almost marking you as much as kissing you. He bullies you down into the mattress with his weight, and you spread your legs wide to accommodate him.
“You’re so soft.” He mutters, kneading your thighs as his mouth starts to trail hot kisses down your neck. “Thought about touchin’ you like this forever, about how beautiful you’d be under me. And let me tell you, baby,” he nips under your jaw. “Better than I managed to dream.”
You grind up below him, trying to chase a little more friction. You keep meeting the rough fabric of his jeans, and the drag is beautiful, but it’s still not enough.
“Needy girl.” Bucky drags your legs apart, pressing his hips firmly over your core. The sudden pressure does the trick, and you moan, tipping your head back in brief relief. “Yeah, you like that. Feels so good and I’m not even doin’ anything.”
“Bucky, don’t- Don’t tease-“
“But it’s so fun.” He coos, kissing the corner of your mouth. “You get all nervous, makes me want to stuff you up with cock and see how you squirm-“
You make a loud, wanting sound, trying to fuck your hips up into the air. But Bucky’s heavy. You can only claw at his shoulders, and it just makes him tease more.
His rolls his hips, dragging the bulge in his jeans over your burning core. Your mouth falls open, and he kisses you, sneaking and arm tight around your back.
The forced arch of your back makes your legs open widen, giving him further access. He starts to rut against your bare pussy, and it’s perfect torture. Your arms are tight enough around him to choke, but it doesn’t slow him down. Bucky dry fucks you, your pussy throbbing desperately for release, arousal trickling down your ass and every thrust filling you with a burning pleasure.
You hadn’t been lying. It’s been a long time. But that’s not the only reason why you’re already so close to the edge again. Bucky’s body is everywhere around you, his thick arms holding you tight, his lips wandering over your neck and cheeks, leaving sloppy, open-mouthed kisses. The friction is everything, he’s everything, and you don’t have enough restraint to fight it.
The orgasm is sudden and harsh, shaking your whole body. You claw at his back, twitching and whining in his ear. You didn’t know you could cum that hard, hard enough to make eyes close from the overwhelming sensation, and it’s just from dry humping.
Bucky groans in your ear and pulls back suddenly. His eyes are lidded, expression lustful, and his palm flexes near his bulge like he’s forcing himself not to rub it. Your breathing is uneven, your pussy still aching, and you reach down to try and rub your clit until he collects himself.
He catches your wrist and pins it to the mattress, shaking his head. “You just fuckin’ came, baby.”
“I- I know- I just-“ You try to turn, and Bucky slaps your cheek lightly. Forces your attention back to him.
“You’re a big girl. Use words.”
You want to glare at him, but something about the slightly mocking order makes your pussy throb. Bucky raises his brows, and you barely manage not to drool.
“Want more.” You mumble, and he grins.
“And?”
“And?”
“You what?”
You stare for a second, then roll your eyes. “Oh, fuck off.”
Bucky smirks, squeezing his hold on your wrist. “’S alright. We’ll get there.”
You stick out your tongue, and he hums.
“That’s not very nice, baby. Think we need to work on your manners.”
“My manners are fine-“
“You’re a brat.” He teases, and you flush.
“I am not-“
“Yeah, you are. You’re a wet, needy little fuckin’ brat.” Bucky starts to move your hand between your legs, and you pretend to try and pull away.
He sees the challenge, and yanks it down. Presses it against your core, making you shake. Your eyes flutter, and Bucky laughs.
“Look at you.
“You really still got that vibrator?”
You nod, and he pulls your hand up. kisses your knuckles, eyes sparkling.
“Grab it.”
You scramble up the moment he lets go of you, yanking open your bedside drawer and pulling out the pink rabbit. Bucky grabs your hips before you can roll back over, pulling you backward with your ass in the air. You twist to look at him and find his attention entirely fixed on your core. On the mess between your legs.
He’s almost in a trance, as he drags two fingers through your pussy lips. You flutter, overly sensitive from before, and Bucky shoves his fingers right into your pussy.
You go limp, at the sudden stretch. Bucky’s fingers are everything you’d imagined they’d be, and more. Rough in all the right place, deft and thick, crooking right at the edges as he finds your g-spot faster than even you can sometimes. He hums like he’s figured out something interesting and kisses the curve of your ass. He starts to rub the tips of his fingers, massaging that happy, spongey place inside you, and you moan into the sheets.
“Bu- Bucky-“
“You’re tight.” He mutters, kissing between your ass and pussy, the tiny patch of skin that sends a shiver up your spine. “And wet. Gonna feel real good around my cock, babydoll. Got a perfect pussy for me to fill up.”
You make another desperate sound, and Bucky presses further in.
“Oh, that sounds good to you, doesn’t it. Getting stuffed full of my cum, being my pretty cockslut. I’d make you walk around with it after, wear a skirt so I can fuck you again whenever you run out. Fuck you until it’s stained on your legs, until everyone can fuckin’ smell it. ‘Till they know you’re mine.”
Your pussy clenches at the possessive promise, and Bucky groans.
“You wanna be mine, don’t you sweet girl.”
“Ye- Yes-“
Bucky yanks his fingers out of you unexpectedly, and you almost scream in frustration. You try to twist around again to chew him out, but he grabs the back of your neck and shoves you into the sheets. You go limp, trembling as tears prick at your eyes. Bucky arms snakes around your stomach, his thumb resting under your clit. Never touch it, or where your pussy is fluttering, desperate to be filled.
“Say it.” He grunts, and you shake your head. You’re not that easy.
Bucky doesn’t seem in any rush to give up though. He spanks your pussy, and you cry out in a mix of pain and delight.
“Say it.” He orders, and your hands fist in the sheets as he spanks your pussy again. You grind against him, chasing more, and he pinches your clit hard.
You almost fly out of your skin, a lewd, garbled plea escaping your lips as another orgasms rushes through you. This one is shorter, but no less consuming. You clench around nothing, mouth hanging stupidly open, and Bucky sucks near your throat, his teeth brushing and making the pleasure all the more intense.
“Fuckin’ brat.” He mutters, awe almost coating his voice. “I’m a damn saint, making you cum again when you’re so greedy. When you got this hungry little pussy, begging to be stuffed with cock, and I’m letting you go first.”
“Please,” you try to flip over, but Bucky’s hold on you is too strong. “Bucky, please- Please just fuck me.”
“Oh, I will.” He kisses under your ear, voice silken and taunting. “But not now, babydoll. Then we would’ve brought this out for nothing.”
“What’s-“
A buzzing sound fills the air, and your eyes widen.
“Bucky, wait-“
“You know, you get more sensitive after you cum.” Bucky drawls, dragging the thick tip of the rabbit up and down your pussy. You try to focus on your breathing, squeezing your eyes shut as your body starts to get swept away in a wildfire.
“God, fuck-“
“Quiet.” He grunts. “I’m trying to talk, sweetheart. Be good.”
You nod, biting on your lower lip, desperate to listen well. To be good.”
“Like I was saying.” Bucky drawls, shoving the vibrating dildo up against your clit, then yanking it away. “You get more sensitive. And I was thinking all night about your little confession. That you can cum just from listening to me talk.” Bucky hums, dragging the head down to rest right over your entrance. “I like a challenge, but I’m got enough on my hands with you today. And since I’m so nice.” He pushes the thick length a little inside you, and your pussy clenches around it. “I’m gonna give you some extra hands. Extra sensitive,” he gives your clit a series of tiny hits, shoving the rabbit in deeper. “Some fake fuckin’ cock to get you ready for the real thing, and me.”
Bucky drags you back into his lap, right as he shoves the dildo home. You almost scream as the smaller bit presses over your clit, the thicker part driven right against where Bucky already knew your g-spot was.
“Bucky- Holy shit-“
He pulls your face to the side, silencing you with a deep kiss as you shake. You’ve already cum twice. That’s more than usual, and you’re not sure if you’ve got another.
You don’t get to tell him that, though. You don’t think he’d care to hear it right now, and fuck, do you want to see him try.
“I said quiet.” He growls when he pulls away, and before you know what’s happening he’s shoving the same fingers that had been in your pussy into your mouth.
You melt immediately, sucking on them as your eyes flutter. Bucky groans in your ear, moving his free hand to hold the rabbit inside your gushing, oversensitive pussy.
“Good girl.” He drawls in your ear. “Didn’t even have to ask, you just knew didn’t you. Fuck, you suck my cock half this good I’m not gonna be able to last ten minutes.”
You moan, and Bucky kisses the corner of your jaw before continuing.
“I know you’d like that. What was it you said? That you wanted to touch me? When this is done we can get you on your knees. If you behave.” He nips at your sweaty skin. “I’ll let you suck my dick. I’ll even fuck your face if you ask real nice. I hope you’re nice, baby, cause I can imagine it. You crying, lips around me, fucking your fingers while you choke on my cock. My pretty baby, my sweet fuckin’ doll loving me so much.”
You slump back against him fully, hips rolling uselessly, and it’s more subtle this time. The heat building at the bottom of your tummy, winding tight and made of a strange pressure.
“You’re gonna say it.” He coos in your ear, and your pussy starts to fight against the rabbit. Like it knows you can barely take it.
But you can’t lend it much energy. You like this position well enough.
“After you cum for me again, I’ll fuck you. Fuck you properly like the brat that you are.” Bucky groans, pressing his nose into your hair. “Walking around, making me feel like I’m the asshole for wanting you, for loving you when you’re snapping off at me,you’re a mouthy fuckin’ thing, aren’t you babydoll. Lotta bark but,” he pushes his fingers further into your mouth. “Not even a little bit of bite.”
Your eyes roll back, head pressing into his shoulder, and you give him a silent look of pleading that’s only met with a mocking grin.
“So pretty like this, sweetheart. Stupid and quiet, I ain’t even fucked you yet. Won’t clean you up after you’re done, just let you walk around with it dripping. Maybe I’ll fuck you until it sticks. Until you’re mine.”
Your back arches, and you’re so close. You can feel Bucky’s dick twitch against your ass, and somewhere in the distance your thoughts manage to collect enough to tell you that he removed his bottoms at some point.
“Fuck, ‘course you’re into that. Shouldn’t have expected more from you, with how much you love this. You’re close, baby.” His lips tease the shell of your ear. “So close.”
You whimper, grinding down onto him as the dildo vibrates, and Bucky groans. He pins you down to his lap with a hiss, fingers flexing on your stomach.
“Shit- You can’t just-“
He presses his mouth where your neck meets your shoulder, kissing and sucking as his dick throbs against you, and his dirty talk becomes mumbled and deep.
“My pretty fuckin’ girl, can’t even wait for it, cum for me, babydoll, come on, fuckin’ show me how much your greedy pussy wants my dick-“
The pressure breaks like a flood. Your pussy gushes so hard it pushes out the rabbit, and your head flies back as you grind into the air. Bucky moans, fully moans, and starts to rub your clit back and forth with the palm of his hand. You grab his wrist, spasming and trying to chase it and escape all at once. You whine as it becomes all too much, batting at Bucky’s hand.
He stops, collecting your release on his fingers.
When he presses them against your lips, you open. Hum as he feeds your own juices to you. All you can do is lap at his fingers and look at him under fluttering lashes, and he smiles.
“Good girl.” He coos, and your body seizes up again. You moan around his fingers, and Bucky laughs.
He pulls them out, turning your head for a gentle, deep kiss. You’re boneless and cockdrunk, only able to let him give and give whatever he’s willing. You can’t even try to drag him close.
Bucky rolls you over, making sure your back is pressed into the mattress as he kisses you lazily. He rises up after a few moments, his gaze raking down your body, and you flush. If you had more strength, you’d cover yourself. You’ve never been good at being looked at.
But there’s nothing expect awe and affection in Bucky’s eyes. He traces a hand over your every curve and softer spot, rising slowly on his knees to part your legs.
“You’re a miracle, baby.” He murmurs, pumping his cock in his hands and for once, you feel like one. “Look at what you do to me.”
You do, and you might be about to burst into flames.
Bucky’s thick. Long, but not enough to worry you, and thick. He’s going to drag, be able to get balls deep and make you feel him everywhere.
You’re drooling, and he sees it. He smirks knowingly, and you wrinkle your nose.
“Come on.” He teases. “Say it, and it’s all yours.”
You shake your head, and Bucky hums. Crawls back over your body, notching his cock right at your entrance. His hovers his lips over yours, not quite fully kissing.
“Say it.”
When you find your voice, it’s raspy and broken.
“No.”
“But you know you want to.” He presses the first inch inside, and if you’d had any worries about not being able to take more, they’re knocked away with how good he feels.
You were right. He’s an even bigger stretch than his two fingers, and it perfect. There’s a slight ache, but it’s overwhelmed by the closeness. By how well he fits, how much you need more of this brimming, explosive pleasure already threating to take you over.
“Just say it, pretty girl. Say it for me.”
You shake your head, and Bucky pushes further in, and your hands fly into his hair like they were pulled there.
He groans, rutting into you, and bottoms out. You didn’t know you could feel this good. Be this full. Bucky moans in your ear, and you breath slowly, trying to adjust.
“You feel so good.” He smashes his lips over yours, the kiss demanding and long. “Knew you’d feel this good, always knew you’d feel this good, Christ-“
You roll your hips up, and it makes Bucky jerk. He slams into you, knocking the air from your lungs, and your toes curl in delight.
He barks your name, grabbing your jaw, and you beam at him.
“More.” You breathe, and Bucky’s eyes widen in slight surprise.
He recovers fast.
“Yeah?” He pulls out slowly, then slams back in, his tip kissing your cervix. “You like that? Like being fucked like a toy?”
You moan happily, and Bucky laughs.
“Thought you might surprise me, babydoll, but no.” He taps your cheek, and you open without a thought. “You’re just the pretty cockslut I thought you were.”
He drags all the way out again, but this time pushes in slower. You whine, but he doesn’t even acknowledge you, setting a slow pace that feels good, but is far too much. The roughness made you numb with a good, fuzzy sensation, but this makes you feel it. Bucky’s cock dragging against your gummy walls, the press of him over your g-spot and heat of him, right over your clit.
You can barely take it. You’re already so fucked out from the other orgasms, you’re barely able to hold onto Bucky properly. You think you might be about to black out from pleasure, but no part of you wants him to stop altogether, and how you’re trapped somewhere between paradise and hell.
“Look at you.” He grabs one of your breasts, palming it as he thrusts smooth and deep. “Nobody else does this to you, do they. Makes you feel so good, gets you so stupid on their cock.”
You shake your head, and Bucky taps your mouth again.
“Words.”
“Bucky…”
“Want to hear you, sweet girl.” He kisses your cheek, words pure filth in your ears. “Here you scream for me while I fuck you, hear how much you love it.”
“Can’t-“
“Yes, you can.” He slams a little firmer, giving you a pointed look. “Good girls listen. And when they listen,” he repeats the motion, holding your gaze. “They get filled up.”
You whimper, but nod. Bucky smiles in satisfaction, returning to his torturous speed from before.
“Anyone else do this to you?” He grunts, and you shake your head.
“No- No. Never, Bucky, only you-“
He groans, picking up his pace. “That’s fuckin’ right. No one fucks you like this, I’m gonna ruin you. If you wanna cum you’ll have to find me, I’m the only one who plays this perfect fuckin’ pussy- Shit-“ He groans, jaw clenching as he hits a little deeper than before. “Nobody takes care of you like me-“
“No one.” You echo, and you’re rewarded with another rough slam. “No one, Bucky, only- Only wanted you, needed you- Fuck-“ You cry out, pressing your cheek into his jaw. “You and your thick cock, needed you so bad-“
“I know. I know, babydoll, but I’m here now.” He kisses you quickly, speeding up again.
It’s enough to make you start to feel it again. Not slowly building, but being dragged out. The tip of Bucky’s cock drags through you, and that hot feeling in your core starts to fill up again.
“Wanted to do this for so long.” He groans in your ear, and a loud moan escapes your lips. “You really got no idea, I thought I was gonna lose it every time I saw you, thought you’d never let me- God-“
You clench around him, and Bucky angles your hips up, allowing him to hit deeper. You moan, and he kisses the back of your neck, sucking a dark mark.
“My girl.” He mutters possessive, and you babble an agreement. “My smart, mean fucking baby, drunk on my cock. Prettiest girl in the world, mine-“
You moan, and Bucky cuts himself off with a groan. He kisses you again, then rises over you. Bracing his arms on either side of your head as he looks to where he’s fucking into you. Your gaze follows, and the warmth in your gut flares at the sight.
It’s the most vulgar, pornographic thing you’ve ever seen. Bucky’s thick cock, sliding in and out of you with ease. Precum and your own need for him shining on the thickness of him, his chest flexing with restraint as he forces himself to keep the same pace. You watch his cock vanish into your body, and feel him deep inside you, and God-
You look up, checking if Bucky’s as strangely moved by that as you are, and find him staring at you. The moment your eyes meet, he grabs your jaw, pressing you back down into the pillows with a rough kiss. You’re unable to do anything but take it all. Bucky’s tongue pressing down your throat, his lips moving expertly over yours, his cock fucking every word but his name out of your head.
“Look at me.” He rasps when he pulls away, and you nod.
His eyes are almost wholly black, and shining. Tears prick at yours, but Bucky leans down, kissing them away before going faster again.
His balls start to slap on your ass, his cock pumping in and out of you until it’s all you can think about. Bucky deep inside you, lighting you up, how you can feel a rush up your spine with his every thrust. A lewd, wet sound is filling the room as he pounds into you. Your pussy burns and spasms every time, but it’s too good to fight.
Bucky’s too good to fight. You don’t know why you tried for so long.
“Bucky-“ You breathe, and he grunts.
“You’re close, sweetheart.” He mutters, and you don’t know how he knows, but he’s right.
You’re about to snap again. To lose it from how he’s fucking you like you’re a doll and the love of his life, all at once. You grab his wrist, squeezing tight.
“Pretty girl,” he teases. “Gonna soak this cock like a good girl, aren’t you. Give it to me, baby, show me how much you love it-“
“Love you.” You breathe out, and Bucky freezes.
Balls deep, he stills. His cock throbs in protest, but he doesn’t seem to care.
You blink at him, praying you didn’t ruin it. Bucky swallows, and rasps out your name.
“What?”
“I- I love you- Oh.”
He jerks into you when you say it, and you almost fly out of your skin.
“Fuck, Bucky- I- I love you-“
It happens again, but you don’t think he’s doing it to mess with you. He can barely seem to control himself, his attention almost feral as his cock jumps inside you.
“I- I love you- Oh my god-“
Bucky dives over you, kissing you like he’s trying to steal the words from your mouth. Like he can taste them.
“Damn right you do.” He grunts, cock dragging inside you as he starts to fuck you, shallow and brutal. “Love you, love you so much, you’re-“
He kisses you, and somewhere through the floating, hazy dreamworld his cock is fucking you into, you think he’s run out of words.
Bucky’s fucking you like an animal, because there’s nothing left for either of you to say. He pulls your hips back up to that angle from before, returning to that pace from before that pulled the confession out of you. You’re in incoherent, babbling mess, tugging at the sheets and watching Bucky above you like he’s God.
“Good girl.” Is all he’s grunting out, but it’s deep and every word of a noise than anything else. “Mine, my good fucking girl, gonna fill you up, you’re-“ He moans, doubling over your body as his thrusts become short and harsh. “You’re perfect-“
From nowhere, you find the strength to reach up and grab Bucky’s face. You pull it down, kissing him with every word you’re too ruined to say, and he moans.
Bucky slams home, muttering your name against your lips like a prayer. You can feel him everywhere. Hot and sticky, pumping deep into your own heat, coating your walls, dripping out and running down your ass. When Bucky starts to move again, slow and lazy, he presses it deeper, spreads it everywhere.
It’s hot on your clit, and Bucky’s still jerking and spraying inside of you. You’ve never been this full, it’s addicting. Your brain is empty, body alight with the feeling, Bucky’s cum so thick and demanding that you could swear you feel it washing through your whole body.
He reaches between your legs to rub your clit.
You get there all on your own.
Your vision goes white, as you cum. You’re so out of it you feel it the same way you feel a cool breeze. Light and relieving, washing over the heat inside you and pulling a happy sigh from your lips.
Bucky kisses you, and this time it’s only sweet. All his mean words and taunts so easily dissolve as you reach up, running your fingers through his hair. He smiles against your lips, and you smile back.
“Told you I’d do it.” He mutters, and you shove his chest with a weak laugh.
“Shut up.”
He grins, moving up to kiss your brow, then the side of your face. He’s still buried inside you. Neither of you are in a rush to move any time soon.
“You mean it, though.” He pauses, moving back over your body.
There are those worry lines again. You reach up with a tiny smile, and soothe your fingers over them. Bucky hums, leaning into your touch, and you smile.
“Yeah.” You whisper, and his shoulders sag.
“Thank god.” He presses his face between your breasts. “That would’ve been bad.”
You laugh, running your fingers through his hair, and he wraps his arms around your body. He’s slid out a little, but you’re still connected to him, and you never want to move again.
“How long?” He mutters against you, tilting his head to meet your gaze. “Cause mine was when I saw you.”
You flush stupidly—he’s inside you—and mumble, “Me too.”
Bucky frowns. “But you were always- “
“And were you any better?”
He snorts, leaning up to peck your cheek. “Fair shot.”
“I know.” You snip, then, “You- You meant yours, right? I mean- What you said while…”
You trail off, because you didn’t imagine it. I love you and mine, too sincere to just be dirty talk.
Bucky rises back over you, gently guiding your gaze back to his. He smiles when your eyes meet, and kisses the tip of your nose.
“With everything I fuckin’ got.” He mutters, and you smile.
“Good.”
“I know. I mean, I did really well for myself- I’m complimenting you, woman!”
You’d shoved him, and Bucky grabs your wrists, wrestling them down into the mattress. He looks at you with a rough, fond exasperation.
“You’re a gremlin.”
“You like it.” You beam up at him, and he lower back down, kissing you lightly.
“Tough curse.” He mutters. “But I’m enjoying it.”
You roll your eyes at him, and he grins. Beautiful and all yours.
“Can we stay here for a while?” You ask, just because you want to have this, and sit in it. “Please.”
Bucky nods, and you feel your heart shine like it’s been given new batteries. Beating out of your chest and comfortably all at once, as Bucky rolls you both onto your sides, wrapping tight around you.
“We can do whatever you want.” He mutters, rubbing your hips and kissing the marks on your neck.
You relax, because you believe him. About all of it.
And now, you have him with you for all the time in the world.
✦End note: big fan of that horny old man in every universe.✦
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Note I can't help myself. I don't want him in pain but also, what's Bucky Barnes without a little bit of angst in his life?
Bucky doesn’t usually dream in full sentences.
Sleep, for him, is a fractured thing—static, snow, red lights blinking in endless corridors, the weight of metal where skin used to be. When he does see something clear, it’s rarely kind. It’s trains and falling and hands that don’t feel like his. It’s memory without context, pain without narrative.
So the first time he dreams of you, he almost misses the significance.
He’s standing on a Brooklyn sidewalk, 1943. The air is thick with coal smoke and early summer heat, the kind that sticks to the back of your neck. There’s music spilling from a bar down the block—something brassy and fast, full of life in defiance of the war humming in the background of everything. He knows this street. Knows the cracks in the pavement, the bakery that sells bread too sweet to be ration-approved, the apartment windows that glow soft gold at dusk.
It feels less like a dream and more like stepping backward into a room he once left unlocked.
And then he sees you.
You’re across the street, arguing animatedly with a newspaper vendor about the headline he’s shouting. Your hands move when you talk—quick, expressive—and your hair is pinned back in a way that looks practical but imperfect, like you did it in a rush and didn’t care if a few strands escaped. You look real. Entirely real. Not blurred at the edges the way dreams usually are.
He doesn’t know you.
But his chest tightens like he does.
He feels it—that strange, deep recognition that doesn’t belong to strangers.
You laugh suddenly at something the vendor says, and the sound carries across the street to him, warm and bright and impossible to ignore.
That’s when he wakes up.
He sits upright in his Wakandan bed, heart pounding so hard it feels like it might bruise his ribs. The room is dark, quiet, modern. No street music. No coal smoke. Just filtered air and the faint hum of electricity. His metal hand flexes against the sheets, grounding him in the present.
It lingers, though. The way you tilted your head when you laughed. The sunlight catching on your cheek. The feeling — unmistakable and disorienting — that he had lost something he didn’t remember having.
Feels your name at the tip of his tongue but at the same time, doesn't remember that lovely name.
He tells himself trauma does strange things to the brain. Memory misfires. Faces blend. The past leaks into the present.
He pushes it away.
But the dreams come back.
The second one is sharper.
He’s in uniform this time—the old one. Olive drab. Clean lines. His hair shorter, his posture easy in a way it hasn’t been in decades. He’s leaning against a brick wall outside a hospital, a cigarette balanced between his fingers, pretending to look casual. He can feel the weight of the coming deployment in the air, but he’s hiding it the way he used to—with charm, with bravado.
The hospital doors swing open.
You walk out.
You’re wearing a nurse’s uniform, white cap perched slightly crooked like you’ve been adjusting it all day. There’s a faint smudge on your cheek you haven’t noticed. You look tired but steady. Capable.
You see him and your expression shifts immediately into exasperation.
“You’re going to get yourself killed before you even make it overseas.” you say, nodding toward the cigarette.
He flicks it away almost instantly, like a boy caught doing something stupid.
“I just like the way it makes me look,” he replies, and his voice sounds lighter than he’s heard it in years.
“Worried, honey?” He smiles. That one he only reserved for you.
You step closer, close enough that he can smell antiseptic and soap and something warmer underneath. Something that feels like home.
“You already look like trouble.” you murmur.
“And you like trouble.” he counters.
There’s a pause. A softening.
“Yeah,” you admit. “I do.”
The intimacy in that moment is so thick it’s almost tangible. Not rushed. Not dramatic. Just two people standing too close in the shadow of something much larger than them.
He wakes with his heart in his throat.
And this time, it hurts.
Because it doesn’t feel invented. It feels remembered.
After that, the dreams refuse to leave him alone. They unfold like chapters he never knew he’d lived. A dance hall crowded with soldiers on leave and girls in dresses that spin when they laugh. You refusing his first offer to dance because "everyone says you’re charming, I’m not impressed." Him grinning and saying, "Give me five minutes." You sitting on the hood of his car, legs crossed, teasing him about how he spends more time fixing his hair than the others. You kissing him many times. Him making love to you once—just once—before he ships out, your hands fisted in the fabric of his jacket like you’re trying to memorize the feel of him.
Each dream ends before the war does.
Before the fall.
Before the snow.
He wakes up every time with the same unbearable question clawing at him... Did he come back to you? Of course he didn't. Idiot.
He starts looking. Old archives. Brooklyn hospital staff lists. War-era photographs. Names. Records. Anything that might anchor you in reality.
There’s nothing.
It’s as if you existed only in the private space of his subconscious.
And then, one afternoon, he sees you in real life.
Modern Brooklyn. A coffee shop with too-bright lighting and overpriced espresso. He’s standing near the counter when he notices you by the window—aptop open, sunlight catching in your face just the way it used to in his dreams. You’re dressed in jeans and a jacket, completely contemporary, completely grounded in the present.
But it’s you.
The same eyes. The same expressive hands when you talk to the barista. The same presence that makes his chest feel like it’s being pulled tight.
He stares.
You notice.
Your smile is polite, cautious. The kind women reserve for men who might be harmless but are definitely staring too long.
He looks away immediately, pulse racing like he’s about to jump from a moving train.
He doesn’t approach you that day. Or the next. But he comes back. Tells himself it’s coincidence. Tells himself he’s being ridiculous.
It’s not coincidence.
You’re there often. Working. Reading. Laughing with friends. Entirely, beautifully real.
The first time you speak to him, it’s because he’s standing too close in line.
“You know,” you say lightly, turning your head just enough to look at him, “if you’re trying to memorize my coffee order, you could just ask.”
Your voice hits him like a shockwave. Modern, yes. But the rhythm—the teasing undercurrent—is the same.
“I wasn’t—” He stops, recalibrates. “Sorry.”
You study him for a second longer than necessary. There’s something in the way he looks at you—not hunger, not simple attraction. Recognition.
“Have we met?” you ask.
His throat tightens.
“I don’t think so.”
It feels like a lie and a truth all at once.
You start talking after that. Small things at first. The weather. Books. The fact that he looks perpetually confused by touchscreens. You tease him one afternoon, saying, “You act like you’re secretly ninety.”
He almost chokes on his coffee.
If you only knew.
Sometimes when you laugh, he feels like timelines overlap—like he’s watching two versions of you exist in the same space. Modern you, pursuing your lips as you scroll through your phone. 1943 you, leaning against a hospital wall, telling him not to die stupidly overseas.
He almost asks you about it once. About whether your grandmother ever lived in Brooklyn during the war. You blink at him, confused. “No. Why?”
He retreats immediately.
But the distance doesn’t last.
Because one night, when rain traps you both under the café’s narrow awning after closing, something finally breaks open.
The streetlights reflect off the wet pavement, turning everything gold and blurry. You’re close—closer than usual. The air smells like rain and electricity.
“You look at me like I’m a memory.” you say softly.
He doesn’t deny it.
“I dream about you.” he admits, voice low.
You let out a nervous laugh. “Okay. That’s either romantic or concerning.”
“Brooklyn. 1943. You’re a nurse. You hate when I smoke.”
The color drains from your face.
“I’ve had that dream.” you whisper.
Everything in him stills.
“What?”
“For years,” you say, almost to yourself. “A man in uniform. A brick wall. A promise that doesn’t feel finished.”
The world feels impossibly small in that moment.
“What happens in your dreams?” you ask, stepping closer despite the disbelief in your eyes.
“I leave,” he says quietly. “And I don’t come back.”
Your expression crumples in a way that looks too practiced to be imagined.
“In mine,” you whisper, “you promise you will.”
The rain falls harder around you, sealing the space between you off from the rest of the world.
He reaches for you slowly, giving you every opportunity to step away.
You don’t.
His hands—warm flesh and cool metal—cup your face with a reverence that doesn’t belong to first kisses.
“I feel crazy but whatever this is,” he murmurs, “I don’t want to lose you again.”
Again.
You don’t question the word.
You just lean into him.
“Then don’t.” you breathe.
He kisses you like a man who has already grieved you once. Like he’s closing a loop that’s been open for eight decades. It isn’t rushed. It isn’t desperate. It’s steady. Intentional. A promise made twice.
Later, in his apartment, modern city lights replacing old streetlamps, you rest your head against his chest and trace the seam where metal meets skin.
“Do you think we were real?” you ask quietly.
“Like, that really happened?”
He doesn’t answer immediately. His fingers move through your hair, careful and grounding.
“I don’t know,” he says at last. “But I know I’m not wasting this time.”
You smile against his skin.
“Good,” you murmur. “Because I still don’t like the smell of smoke.”
You wink at him.
He laughs—soft, surprised, alive in a way he hasn’t felt in years.
And somewhere, in a version of Brooklyn that exists only in memory and possibility, a nurse standing outside a hospital finally sees her soldier come home.
SUMMARY: Dean always thought the end of the world would come with exploding suns and the walking dead—not in the shape of his best friend suddenly flirting with him. 9.7k
WARNINGS: best friend!reader. friends to lovers. suggestive language. pining. fluff. humor. dean's self-deprecating shenanigans. masturbation. implied smut. dry humping. breeding kink if you squint really hard. this was very random but i ended up loving it. set somewhere mid s2.
Dean is scared. Like really, really fucking terrified.
He’s faced everything a person can be afraid of. Vampires, ghosts, weird one-of-a-kind monsters. He’s fought enough demons—both physical and metaphorical—to drive the strongest man crazy. He fucking had to build the pyre where his father’s body would eventually turn to ashes by himself, for God’s sake.
But nothing, nothing has scared the shit out of him more than you flirting with him.
The first time it happened, he didn’t even notice you were flirting. His mind was just so closed off to the possibility, the idea so far-fetched and insane that even now—weeks later, as he stares at the peeling painting on the wall, ruminating—it still blows his fucking mind.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
You and Sam had been talking non-stop the whole ride from Tennessee to a dingy motel in rural Virginia, completely engrossed in your brainy shit. Dean caught bits and pieces of it every so often, when the thin but comforting fog that a long drive provides to his brain dissipates enough for him to actually register your words.
But it’s not like it mattered if he paid attention, it’s all Greek to him anyway.
It was only once he stopped at a gas station, leaning against Baby’s side while he waited for the tank to fill, that he actually tried to follow your conversation.
He opened the driver’s door and rested his arms on Baby’s roof, pressing his forehead against the crook of his elbow and peaking down at his baby brother and his best friend, the cold leather of his jacket a relief in the southern summer heat.
Sammy was leaning against the front seat’s backrest so he could meet your eyes, long limbs all twisted and his face still exhausted with everything that’s happened in the past year. His eyes were glittery as he nodded along to whatever you were saying, shaggy hair flopping around his head, and once again Dean has to wonder just how the fuck Dad pretended for Dean to kill the kid.
The memory of John’s words always leave him wilted and venomous, Dean tries so hard not to think about them. He turned his eyes to you instead. You were draped across the backseat—long legs bare thanks to your tiny shorts, socked feet pressed against the left door, your back resting against the right one.
You always make sure to take off your shoes before propping them up on the bench, without Dean even having to ask. You just seem to instinctively sense how much he cares for Baby, working as hard as he does to keep her clean and pretty. Dean doesn’t dwell on it.
He also didn’t dwell on how good you looked then, with the afternoon sun flaring behind you and making your hair glow, all sprawled out in his car. He’d gotten over the fantasies of climbing on top of you and kissing you until the two of you melted into the Impala long ago, around the time he’d gotten over any hope of you ever wanting him back.
Still, seeing your smooth skin against the black, shiny vinyl sent a shudder down his spine. If only.
His life lately has become nothing but just a long, boring list of cobweb-covered If-Only’s.
He quickly drew his attention to the words leaving Sammy’s mouth and away from your chest in that thin, translucent tank top.
“Blue eyes are genetic mutations to adapt to the sun.” The kid sounded the exact same as he had in middle school. Dean wondered if the reason why he didn’t get bullied more often was because two rogue teenage boys staying in the town’s cheapest motel was always a scary enough tale that kept most ruffians away. “Just like dark skin.”
“Yes! That’s also why people who live near deserts have longer, thicker eyelashes. It’s a mutation to protect their eyes,” you chimed in with an eager little smile. Dean almost saw you pushing phantom reading glasses up the bridge of your nose. “And, actually, lighter skin would be the mutation, since humanity originated in Africa.”
Sammy nodded enthusiastically, just like he did whenever he was presented with new information. Dean remembered then why, when you were younger, he used to memorize random fun facts in the library and then report them back to you two after a bad hunt or a nightmarish evening.
That pair of bright, dorky, always-too-wide eyes staring at him with that exact same awe always did wonders to keep the venom in his blood from spilling.
“How did you even get there?” he asked, voice dripping with laughter. “The last thing I heard from you was Halle Berry.”
“Of course it was, horndog.” You rolled your eyes, a wide smile tugging at your lips. The teenage instinct to puff up with pride at the sight stirred, he stomped on it until it stopped moving. “We were talking X-Men. Genetic mutations just kind of fell into place.”
“Right, obviously.” He scoffed. “You’re gonna infest my car with your nerd-virus, geeks.”
“May I remind you of all the Marvel Comics hidden in the trunk, under all your porn ones?”
“No, you may not.”
You snorted, crossing your arms and turning back to Sammy, widening your eyes as if saying: Can you believe this guy?
“I thought you’d be interested in the topic, Dean. Since you seem to try and prove Darwinism in every motel mini-fridge you find.”
Dean glared at his brother, one hand leaving Baby’s roof so he could flip him off. It only made you laugh harder. If Dean preened then, it’s between him and the voices in his head.
“I’d think you Winchesters have a genetic mutation that calls for trouble. The Winchester gene.” You pulled your knees closer to your chest, leaving him with a perfect view of your ever-bruised knees. He wanted to kiss them away, he wanted to leave more. The heat was getting to him. “Call Professor X, I’ve found a new mutation. Gene-W, which stands for Worst Fucking Luck in the Whole World.”
You’re such a fucking idiot.
How was Dean supposed to spend almost every waking moment with you, and not love you? It was impossible. Dad had to know he couldn’t do it, even when he yelled at Dean to get his head out of “some random chick’s cunt and man up. Focus on what’s important.”
God had to know as well, even when He made Dean fundamentally unlovable. It has to be divine punishment, sending him the perfect girl and making her so holy that she was untouchable, especially when Dean’s hands are coated with sacrilege.
“That’s three W’s.” It was the only thing his brain could spit out that wasn’t pleasepleaseplease.
Just once, just one time.
I need you so bad, it’s killing me.
Please.
“I’ll call it the 3W-gene, then.” You shrugged, wiggling in your place until you were sitting with your feet on the car floor. You stared at him then, eyes scanning his face with a nebulosity that he’d never seen before. They burned on his skin, hotter than the sun and more intoxicating than the scent of gasoline. Finally, your lips twisted upwards. “Which I’d have to guess makes up ninety percent of your DNA. Though it looks like you were made for the desert as well.”
Dean frowned, blinked down at you, wondered if you were having a heat stroke.
“But I’m… white? I mean, I know I don’t really get sunburnt, and I tan easily, but—”
“No, I mean—” You gaped at him, like you were trying to figure out if he was intentionally playing dumb. Dean didn’t realize what he was missing, the truth so far removed from every stone-set belief in his head that it seemed ridiculous to even go there. You had to sense his genuine confusion, because the disbelief vanished and left behind only giggling. “I was talking about your eyelashes, dummy.”
Ouch. Dean tried to hide the pang that traveled down his ribs, his lips pressed together in what he will never admit was a pout. “What’s wrong with my eyelashes?”
“Jesus Christ.” You sounded exasperated as you huffed, but also fond. Dean felt adrift. “Forget it, Dean.”
“No, no. Wait!” But you were already sliding out of the car, walking across scalding concrete and spilled oil toward the restrooms, too far away for him to stop you. He bent down and tried to read some answers out of Sammy's face, but all he got was a mocking smile.
He searched for you again, but by then you were already walking into the gas station’s Dunkin Donuts. Still, he yelled after you.
“What’s wrong with my lashes?!”
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
He didn’t get it the second time either.
Actually, it took him until the third time you shamelessly flirted with him for Dean to catch up with the situation. But it was just so… unimaginable.
Dean spent every waking moment of his younger years trying to charm you. Well-trained grins and lingering hands, compliments spilling like honey from his lips and pick-up lines flying your way like perfectly-aimed bullets.
But Dean missed every time.
You used to laugh, hiding your smile behind your hand and shoving him back like he was just being silly. At first, he was. You were gorgeous, and Dean was nineteen and horny. He could tell there was something different about you, with the quick hammering of his heart and the fuzz that tingled his brain when you walked in the room, but he paid it no mind.
Being a hunter meant that knocking on love’s door would always be risky. Being a Winchester meant that door was closed and locked forever. Being Dean meant that there was no door at all.
Love wasn’t an option, but he could have sex. He took that small grace and ran with it.
He never expected more than a night with you, maybe a fortnight if he was lucky enough. Then you could leave, or stick around for a while and ditch them when you got tired of him, and Dean wouldn’t mop over it. He’d gotten what he wanted—or all he could afford to want—and you’d just be another speck of dust on his rearview mirror.
But then you’d turned every single one of his advances down, always with a teasing but sweet smile on your face, and you’d stayed.
Through his twenty-first birthday, through Sam’s escape to college, through Dad’s death. Dean has been rattled with grief a million times since then, breaking down into pieces and glueing himself back together with scotch tape and stale beer, and still you stay by his side.
Dean doesn’t get it, but once again, he takes the grace—miracle, he would call it—and does everything he can to keep it.
No more flirting, no more secret touches under tables, no more trying to sleep with you.
It soon became evident that having you in his life meant more than casual sex could ever mean, and so Dean buried all of his desire so deep down that he thinks it might’ve backfired and infused with his soul instead of disappearing. He pretends it did, though, never letting his sickness get in the way of your friendship.
He’s good at pretending. It’s all he’s ever done.
At some point in time, that desire began to transform, bubbling up and becoming syrupy—like tar. Dean keeps throwing dirt over it like a dog trying to hide the bones of his last meal, fangs still bloody. It’s barely enough.
All of this to say, you’ve had a million opportunities to make a move on him.
Back in that shack in Oregon when you were twenty, or ten months ago when Sam had just entered your lives again and Dean was getting sloppy, giving you sultry looks over diner menus, his bantering quickly taking on a seductive undertone whenever you went back and forth. He’d pulled himself together soon enough, but you had still brushed him off just as easily as you had back in ‘98.
Because that’s just how the universe works—Dean swallows it all down until something escapes him and then you turn it down. You don’t flirt, and you sure as fuck don’t call his eyelashes long and thick or his face pretty.
That time… yeah, Dean should’ve probably gotten it then.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
You were sitting in the bed of a rusty-red pickup truck, parked in the middle of nowhere Virginia, just a week after the first incident.
You were already a quarter down your way to North Carolina when Sam remembered the witch’s shadow book he’d forgotten back in the motel. You’d all considered just leaving it, but the risk of some poor maid coming across it and wandering down a dark and dangerous path was too big. So Sam had left you in some ghost town in the middle of the woods, taking off with Baby before Dean could regret offering her to him.
Dean had stolen a truck, driving you out of the road and between the trees until you’d found a small clearing near a lake, far away enough from town that no locals would give you trouble.
It was still hot as fuck, the air thick and humid, leaving your hair frizzy and Dean’s throat dry. The sky was clear, a million stars winking down at you, and so you settled on the bed of the truck, desperate for as much fresh air as you could get.
Sam at least had the decency to let you pull a few things out of the trunk before he sped away, including a big blanket that you spread over the dirty metal before climbing inside, Dean following close by.
You laid on your back with a flashlight in one hand and a book propped up over your face in the other, bathing in the moonlight as your eyes hungrily absorbed every word in those pages. Dean lit up a cigarette and watched the smoke travel with the breeze, listening to the familiar buzz of the forest and fidgeting with his M1911.
His back was pressed against the bedside, leaving him with the perfect view of the tree line. And you.
You looked like an angel. Definitely divine punishment.
At some point your legs ended up tangled, blissfully-bare skin against stubborn denim. You knocked your knee with his but kept your eyes on the book, Dean watched you. The way you held the flashlight between your teeth when you needed to flip the page, the light that reflected on the paper and highlighted the curve of your throat, the scar on your cheek from when you jumped between Dean and a knife the witch had thrown at him.
“Watcha reading?” He couldn’t keep the words down, they swirl in the air along with the smoke. This time you spare him a glance.
“Gothic horror. Very Americana, fits the vibe perfectly.” With your hand still holding your book open, you gestured to your surroundings. Dean chuckled. “You’d like it, if you could read.”
“Hey!” He kicked you softly in the shin. “I know how to read, thank you very much!”
“You do? Woah, news to me.”
“I’d be the worst hunting partner if I didn’t. Research would take us ages.” Your eyes went back to the book. It was unbearable. “At least have the decency to look at me when you insult me, you little dweeb.”
You dropped the novel next to your head, getting up on one elbow so you could finally meet Dean’s gaze. The flashlight kept pointing up, enveloping everything in faint yellow light. Dean’s hair stuck to the back of his neck with sweat, his white ratty t-shirt suddenly too tight.
“Sam and I always do the research anyway.” You flexed your leg, your knee now hooked over his as you laid on your side. Dean was an adult, he could handle this.
“So what’s my job then, attack dog?”
A small frown crossed your face, it was quickly replaced by a teasing smirk. “Nah. Your job is to sit there and look pretty.”
The overwhelming quiet of the wilderness and the haziness of the tacky night made it all feel like a dream. Dean had to be hallucinating the slight tilt of your face, the warm glint in your irises, your teeth grazing your lip.
“What?”
“Every team needs The Pretty One. Makes it easier to be approachable, you know how a shining smile can do wonders.” Dean almost wanted to clear his ears with his fingers. What the fuck was happening? “Though you just had to be pretty and good at fighting, you could fill all the team’s positions if you wanted. I blame it on the 3W-gene.”
A lot was going on, Dean’s brain would start leaking out of his nose if you didn’t stop.
“You think I’m pretty?”
Not his smoothest moment. He’s not proud.
You scoffed, and if Dean was a little more certain of anything at this point, he’d thought you blushed. “Please, Dean, everyone thinks you’re pretty.”
No they don’t. They think he’s hot, or handsome, or badass. He’s heard beautiful a few times. Pretty… he doesn’t hear that one often. For some reason, it sent lightning down his spine.
“You have never said it, though,” he whispered, mellower than intended. He took one last drag of his cig and stubbed it out against the bedside. He quickly grabbed another one, if anything, just to keep his hands busy.
There was a slow, terrifying moment of silence before you spoke again, and Dean held his breath until the smoke burned in his lungs.
“Doesn’t mean I don’t see it.” Something haunted flashed on your eyes, Dean felt the need to float closer until he charred within it. “That I don’t know it.”
His world started to crumble, the ground under him shaking. You finding Dean attractive—pretty, even… it was life-ruining.
All of his defenses started to crack.
“You’ve seen me covered in enough fluids to make the toughest surgeon vomit.”
You giggled, the sound breaking through the still air like a bullet. Dean’s grip on his gun loosened, his whole body melting.
“It’s that freakin’ Winchester gene, I’m telling you. Good looks, bad luck, weird ass charm.”
“So you think Sammy’s pretty too?”
He wished his voice hadn’t been that bitter. You rolled your eyes before picking up your book, flopping back down on your back as your eyes left him. Dean shivered even though the air was stuffy, musk and salty heat filling his nose.
“You’re the prettiest, De. You should know that.”
Well, he knows now.
He smoked half his pack of reds and you got through another third of your novel before you decided to get some shut-eye. Dean agreed to lie down next to you after you plead with him, even if he knew he would stay up all night regardless. Your pouty expression was too much for him to resist, he’s only human.
You didn’t have any pillows, but Dean was stubborn and he took his jacket everywhere, even when it was a thousand degrees. He bundled it up and offered it for you to use. “It’s not the comfiest, but it’s something.”
This time, Dean was sure he saw your cheeks reddening.
He kept on watching the clouds and listening in for any dangers as you got ready to sleep, throwing a thin sheet over the two of you and curling into yourself at his side. He put out his last cigarette against the sole of his biker boots, refusing to take them off even after you nagged at him for it.
He’d learned long ago to always be ready to escape. Old habits die hard.
“I wish you’d put them out on me.”
The words barely reached him, getting lost in the whistling of the wind. He quickly turned his head toward you, eyes wide and breath ragged, but you had already fallen asleep by then.
Your face was hidden against his jacket. It stayed there all the way until morning.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
The few days after that had been torture. Even now, Dean still isn’t sure that last part was even real, the words too good to be true.
If only you could be as sick as him, if only under your skin lived a beast as rabid as his, if only the immensity of his desire and obsession could be reciprocated instead of abhorred. If only.
But by the third incident, Dean had enough evidence to believe he heard right and he didn't need to get hooked on antipsychotics. And oh, what a thought that is.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Dean was working on Baby, two weeks or so after Virginia.
You’d driven to South Dakota a few days ago after ganking a vampire nest in northern Iowa, still waiting for Ash to get back to you with any demonic omens. Bobby had welcomed you with open arms and a cooler full of beer, and God knows Dean needed the break.
He didn’t know how long he could keep handling being locked in the Impala with you, your clothes getting skimpier and the days getting longer. Your head stuck out the window, your hair floating in the wind, your voice echoing in his head.
“You’re the prettiest, De.”
Even motel rooms didn’t serve as a relief. You’d still walk out of the shower with your skin flushed and bare, filling the boy-stinking room with your sugary smell and girlish sweat. It was hell, it was paradise. Dean had to rush into a cold shower every time.
He thought that being at Bobby’s would stop the avalanche of prohibited thoughts. That once there was a bit more space between you—other people around and open windows and air conditioner—he could go back to pretending that your strange confessions in the past few days hadn’t shattered all of his careful guards.
But it only took you flashing a smile across the dining table or your shape lounging by the bay window for all his pent-up frustration to claw at his throat. He was restless, fingers twitchy and temper irritable, his whiskey glass almost cracking under his hand when you strode down the stairs in a tiny skirt and a tight top, clearly not wearing a bra.
Before his head could explode, he grabbed a cold beer and dashed out the door and into the salvage yard, Baby’s keys in one hand and his crumbling sanity in the other.
He’d been at it for hours, tinkering here and there with the Impala’s undercarriage, the old car creeper he’d stolen from Bobby’s garage stiff and bumpy under him. He welcomed the distraction.
There was nothing to fix, really. Baby wasn’t up for an inspection for quite a while, and Dean knew exactly when she needed work done. She was golden.
Still, he fidgeted with the exhaust and turned a few screws uselessly, stalling. The sun beat down on him, his shirt was stained with oil and sweat, his vision was getting splotchy. The smell of metal and dirt was comforting, familiar, manly. No soft vanilla or flowery shampoo. Just Dean and his life on the road, no space for anything else.
But being trapped under an engine only made the heat even worse, his throat closing up and his eyes stinging. He finally decided to slide out and into the fresh air, sitting up with a gasp as he reached for his beer, the condensation dripping from the bottle a small heaven.
He chugged the drink down and threw the bottle on the ground, wiping his forehead with the hem of his dirty shirt before dropping back down on the creeper, his eyes scanning his arid surroundings. Big mistake.
Because there, stepping out of the house to his right, were you. The stupid skirt left him as breathless as it did the first time, the little perk of your nipples under the soft fabric of your top still filling his mouth with saliva. There were two beers in your hands, your skin glistening as you stepped in the sunlight, Dean’s grip on the wrench tightened.
“Brought you some libation, so you don’t pass out under that thing.”
“Hey! Put some respect on her name.” Dean petted the underside of Baby, your laugh washing over him like a waterfall.
You reached his side and handed him one of the beers, the caps already off. He took a long swig of it, mostly to keep that syrupy tar from spilling. He was still lying on his back, with you towering over him. Dean focused on the sharp dig of metal against his spine and not the way he could almost, almost peep under your flowy skirt.
“What are you working on, anyway?”
He didn’t have a real answer, so he spit out some bullshit excuse full of technical words that he knew you wouldn’t really understand, hoping it was enough to keep you from asking more questions.
“Uhm—right…” You nodded, like you’d understood anything Dean had just said. It made him smile, how you always tried to pay attention even when the topic couldn’t bore you any more.
The two of you stayed there for a few more moments, sipping on your beers and letting the seconds trickle by. You swayed to a phantom tune in your head, Dean could nearly hear it. It was nice to know you could still have moments like this, when your minds swirled into one and you didn’t need words to communicate, like tuning into the same radio station.
If Dean was a little cheesier, he’d say you’re soulmates.
Because he’s Dean, he says you’re just trauma-bonded.
A small but glorious breeze glided between you, making your skirt and hair twirl and lifting Dean’s shirt halfway up his chest, his torn-up jeans laying low on his hips like a good mechanic.
Dean watched as your eyes caught the movement, drinking in the sight of golden skin and scar tissue. You ogled shamelessly, from the ridges of his ribs down to the V of his hipbones, licking your lips as you followed the trail of faint hair that disappeared down the waistband of his boxers, the elastic peaking out of his jeans slightly.
Too much, it was too much. Your teasing had made him reckless, this was his last straw.
“Take a picture, darlin’. It’ll last you longer.”
Instead of snapping back into yourself and running back into the house, you just hummed mindlessly, gaze slowly moving up to Dean’s face. Your cheeks were pink, it could be just the incandescence. The darkness of your eyes differed.
“Left my phone inside. Such a shame.” He wasn’t expecting that. He laughed hoarsely, trying to pass it off as a weird joke. Friends could joke like that, it wasn't that crazy. Your expression remained consuming. “You shouldn’t stay out here for too long, De. You’re gonna roast under all that metal.”
Dean thought you sounded hungry, he finished his beer in one go.
“Hey, it’s a good way to go.” He gave you one of those relaxed, I’m-not-freaking-out-you-are smirks. “I’ve always wanted to die under a hot girl or a cool car.”
Okay, he walked right into that one. He was trying, okay?
This time, you laughed. It was velvety, stickier than summer and more addictive than any adrenaline rush. Dean became a junkie after just one hit.
“Great philosophy, really.” You chugged half of your beer, stepped a little closer, stood with your legs parted. Dean kept his eyes firmly on your face. “Well, you can choose now. Which one will it be?”
For a second, Dean wondered if he’d drink more than he remembered. Only when he was really, really hammered did he daydreamed this vividly. But he’d barely had three beers today and half a glass of whiskey, he was nowhere near wasted.
His breath hitched, he gaped up at you. His brain racked for excuses, for another explanation to this that wasn’t your best friend who you’re inescapably in love with is making a move on you.
There wasn’t any. There’s only so much you can lie to yourself before the truth becomes imminent.
“I’m just a hardworking mechanic, ma’am. I’m trying to do my job here.” It was so easy, to just fall back into the playfulness that’s been dying to crawl out of his mouth and wrap all over you for years.
“Mhm.” You grinned foxily—which was new—and then stepped even closer, a foot on each side of his extended leg—which was even newer. You were still too far away for him to actually see anything, but the scene was still too familiar, from grainy videos in Sam’s laptop and raunchy magazines. Oh god. “I think I have a problem for you to check out, Mister Mechanic. Don’t worry, I can pay you well.”
You winked at him, and Dean’s breath grew ragged. The line of just-friends had started to blur long ago, but this was definitely stepping over it. He wanted it so badly, that was always a sign that it shouldn’t happen.
He tried to convince himself you were just joking around, making fun of his cliche porn indulgences, calling him out for being a little freak.
“You can’t just come into my workshop and demand to be served, ma’am. That’s no way to treat a humble, blue-collar man.”
Another one of those laughs, Dean relished in the ecstasy of it. “I think I know how this blue-collar man likes to be treated after all these years.”
His mouth was full of spit and tar, he swallowed it all down. It still spilled.
"You’re gonna let me take a look, then?”
Surely, this is where you drew the line. It was all fun and games up to here, just a little healthy flirting between best friends with a broken silent understandment—nothing unfixable.
This, this is where everything could go up in flames. Dean was delirious, frothing at the mouth and begging to be put down. To be woken up from this dream, to go back to when everything ached but was familiar, to have you snap his neck in mercy.
Instead, you drenched everything in kerosene.
With a wicked smirk that screamed danger, you crept higher up his body. Your foot resting between his legs moved and installed itself next to his shoulder, until you were completely straddling his frame, right over his head.
Shadows covered his face, the ruffles of your skirt fluttered, that musky smell of vanilla and salty skin enveloped him. Dean panicked.
There was no coming back from this. He wasn’t ready to ruin the best thing that had ever happened to him. He wasn’t sure this was even happening in the first place.
He shoved himself back under Baby, a yelp logged in the back of his throat, his eyes still shut closed even when all he could sense around him was rusty metal and motor oil.
That laugh again, vivid and electric, now muffled by the car shielding Dean from the demon that's taken the shape of his best friend.
“I thought I—I heard a rattle.” He’s not sure his words even reached you with how scattered they were. You sighed in delight.
“Of course, Mister Mechanic. I’ll stop bothering you.” You softly kicked his boot in goodbye, even that made Dean’s breath stutter. “Don’t stay here too long, or you’re actually going to faint.”
“Sure.” He sounded wrecked. Goddamnit he can be pathetic.
You giggled, this time tender and almost… enamored. Dean seriously needed to go see a shrink.
He listened closely as you walked away, waiting until the back door of Bobby’s house clicked shut before rushing out from under Baby. He got on his feet so fast that his head spinned, his vision blurring as he made his way between the maze of broken-down cars and hills of old tires.
He found a sun-bleached school bus that looked like it had been there for ages, big enough to conceal his form as he leaned against its side, fumbling at his belt with shaky hands.
He came a few minutes later, with his back against scalding, yellow-painted steel and his dick fisted furiously in his hand. He kicked dirt over his cum on the ground, still trying to catch his breath and process what the hell just happened.
His cock twitched at the memory of you climbing over him, he pulled his jeans back up and darted into the house, locking himself in his room until he was able to function again.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Dean had been able to bury the cum well-enough that day, but you’ve done irreparable damage to his desire’s grave. No matter how hard he scratches at the earth and tries to cover the bones, you’ve resuscitated something invincible.
He’s doomed, even more than before.
Because it’s not just desire anymore. Now it’s also a sunrise on the beach, quiet mornings in a suburban kitchen, soft kisses that promise more than just a good time. Now Dean wants more, he wants everything.
Oh, what have you done?
It was hard, moving on from that day. After a lot of self-reflection and many, many jerk-off sessions, he’d gotten to the conclusion that you were, indeed, flirting.
He knows, he knows. Give him a Nobel prize.
The knowledge is almost impossible to live with. He wants to put his head through the wall, he wants to scream until his lungs give in, he wants to kneel at your feet and ask you why.
Why now, why not before, why not never. Why when he was finally getting the hang of it, why when he had just gotten used to the ache of longing, why when he’d ultimately made his peace with never having you.
He didn’t know how to act after that, not when he was holding his guts inside his body with trembling hands and he didn’t know exactly what you needed. Because that’s the scariest part of all.
Just to what extent do you want him?
At first, he assumed you wanted the same he did at nineteen—to fool around.
Maybe you’re lonely. Dean hasn’t seen you leave the bar with anyone in months, hasn’t caught you sneaking out of your motel rooms, hasn’t heard you talking about that college boy you became friends with during your Hook Man case in Iowa.
Maybe you’re wired, and needy, and Dean is a safe choice. No awkward introductions or dangerous meetings. Just the pleasure of skin against skin and the haven of being with someone you know like the back of your hand.
Dean isn’t sure if he could handle casual, after all these years, after you’ve wiped away his dumbest tears and patched up his ugliest wounds. For once, Dean might not be able to muzzle the beast under his skin.
So he panicked, and tried to put some distance between the two of you. But his line of work doesn’t accept mental health leaves, and you were back in the Impala just a few days after. You didn’t mention Mister Mechanic again and Dean didn’t quite look you in the eye, but everything went virtually swimmingly, aside from Sammy’s occasional side-eyes.
Still, the taste of worry lingered on his tongue and the beast wailed with every glimpse of you in the rearview mirror. More if-only’s made it to the list.
If only he was a better man, maybe you’d want all of him.
If only the yellow-eyed demon had never existed—that one wasn’t new, but it always stung like it was.
If only you could love him, the way he loves you.
That one was the most terrifying of them all. It made Dean want to throw up all of his innards and flush them down the toilet. He wondered if he’d even be able to focus on the case with your face hovering over him flashing behind his eyelids every time he blinked.
But then, incident four happened.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Dean was struggling with his necktie.
He fucking hated dressing up as FBI. Even the priest costume had been more comfortable than this cheap rental suit and too-small dress shoes. It was still way too hot for a suit jacket, and the white shirt buttoned all the way up made him feel like he was choking. The stupid tie wasn’t helping.
He stood in front of the mirror, clammy fingers tugging at the fabric fruitlessly. Dean had known how to tie a necktie since he was six, when Dad was too drunk or hungover to do it himself. By the time he’d gotten old enough to start wearing the disguises himself, he’d been pretty fucking good at it.
But his hands hadn’t stopped shaking since that day in the salvage yard, and he really, really didn’t want to go deal with useless small town sheriffs and sobbing widows. Especially not when you’d be staying behind, deciding to take over research while Sam and Dean collected as much information as they could on the five married men who’d shot themselves within the past week.
Sammy was out getting all of you some coffee, everyone exhausted after the drive all the way down to Berthoud, Colorado. So when the door creaked open, Dean scoffed without turning away from the closet mirror.
“I can’t tie this stupid thing, Sammy. C’mere and help me.”
He was expecting the ribbing chuckle that followed his words, but he didn’t expect it to be so high-pitched and lovely.
He spun around on his heels as the door closed, messy knot making the collar of his shirt pop around his neck, eyes wide as he took you in.
“Hello there, Agent Dracula.” You were leaning back on the wooden door, hands behind your back and a little smile on your face. You hadn’t been alone in the same room since Sioux Falls, Dean secretly started to pray to any deity that would listen.
“Hey.” He hoped he didn’t sound as sulky as he thought he did. “How did you get in?”
You stared at him for a few seconds, long lashes fluttering—and Dean wished he could turn back time and tell you that no, you were made for the desert. But once again, he was too late.
You chuckled, seemingly incredibly amused by a silent joke that Dean missed, and knocked your knuckles twice on the door behind you before walking toward him.
“Sammy gave me the second key, just in case.” Dean stayed frozen in place as you approached him, wondering if this is how deer felt when they heard the snap of the trigger. Your fingers latched onto his collar, and you grinned at him as you started to fix his tie.
“The little fucker told me nothin’.” Your fingers were swift and delicate as you twisted the navy blue fabric around them. Dean swallowed harshly, your thumb brushed against his Adam’s apple. “You should knock, y’know. I could’ve been changing.”
You hummed, your smile widening. Dean wanted to lick behind your teeth, he wanted to rip all of his out. “And we wouldn’t want me seeing that, would we?”
He didn’t dignify that with an answer. Whatever game you were playing, Dean knew he’d lose. He might as well give up now.
Of course, you couldn’t even give him that.
You finished with his necktie, adjusting it against the base of his throat before fixing his collar. You tugged on the fabric, hard, until his chest was almost pressed to yours and your faces were just inches apart.
“There you go, agent. Handsome and ready to go dazzle all those poor mourning widows.” You ran your hands across his shoulders and down his biceps, smoothing out the wrinkles of his button-up. Dean bit the inside of his cheek until he tasted blood.
“What better pillow talk than all the gory details of your past husband’s suicide, am I right?” At least he could still joke. That was a relief. “You might wanna give that key back, so you don’t walk into one of my private investigation sessions.”
He wasn’t sure what he was looking for with that. He hadn’t brought back a girl in years, always keeping his encounters in dark alleyways or the chick’s home. Encounters which, he’d never admit, were starting to happen less and less.
It was hard, keeping your name off his tongue when all he could think about was you, even when he was balls-deep inside someone else. It had gotten him kicked out a few times, he never took it personal. It was all a distraction, one that was barely working now.
You frowned, your fingers around his arms twitching. Your eyes stayed fixated on his tie for a long moment before they flickered up to his, swirling with something that made the tar start to boil.
“You don’t need to do all that. You’re smart, you’ll find another way to make them talk.”
Your voice was too solemn for the comment to be brushed off as a joke. Sweat started to bead up on his hairline, he’d have to turn on the ceiling fan as soon as you left.
If you left. Dean wasn’t sure if he wanted you to.
“I thought I didn’t know how to read?”
You giggled, leaning closer until your bodies were flattened against each other and Dean could feel the warmth of your skin through your clothes.
“You can be an idiot sometimes. You can also be a genius when you want to.” Your breath brushed against his lips with every word, his lips parted on instinct. Another beat passed by, your hands slid up to cup the back of his neck. “Don’t fuck any widows, Winchester.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t want you to.”
The words were barely audible, Dean tried to close the distance between you, hands wrapping around your waist. His lips just grazed yours before you tilted your head back, shaking it almost imperceptibly. He had to bite down the urge to whine.
He whispered your name, pained.
“Not now,” you whispered back. Outside the room, Baby’s engine roared before shutting down. You pulled him closer again, turning your face until your lips were pressed against his cheek, leaving a feathery kiss against his just-shaven skin. It was still sensitive, Dean exhaled harshly. “Just—come back to me tonight, mh?”
Before he could say anything, the door opened and you took a step back. His arms awkwardly stayed in the air long after you’d made your way to the door, still holding the shape of you. Sammy walked in after you beelined out of the room, giving him a suspicious look.
Dean was just as lost.
But one thing was for sure, whatever this was, it wasn’t casual. You were right, Dean could be smart when he wanted to, and he knew damn well you couldn’t fake that look in your eyes.
He came back that night, alone, as soon as interviews were over. Sammy was left behind getting copies of the mortuary reports and at least two ladies ended up alone and kindly rejected in their homes—all for you.
He knocked on your motel door, your pretty head popped up after a second. You quietly gave him an up and down look, eyes glistening under the streetlights as a satisfied beam made its way into your mouth.
“Good.” You nodded before winking at him, already retreating back inside your room. “Good night, De.”
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
And so that leaves him here, the morning after, lying shirtless on scratchy motel sheets and staring at the water-stained ceiling in search for answers. Sammy is deep asleep in the bed next to him, the kid’s soft, familiar snores doing nothing to keep Dean anchored in time.
He feels like a teenager, he feels a million years old. He wants to barge into your room and childishly demand an explanation, he wants to retire to a monk monastery and find divine wisdom. He wants to tear his own heart out and for you to keep it in a glass vial forever.
If-only’s start to spiral into maybe’s. Fears turn to hopes and hopes to fears. He tosses against the pillows and the cheap mattress springs dig into his back.
With an agonizing groan, he leaps out of bed.
His boots are still on his feet, of course, so it’s easy to pull on his dirty jeans and dart out of the motel room. The early morning sun welcomes him with a wave of warm air and a brief second of blindness, his skin already growing damp as he sits on the curb of the lonely parking lot.
He’s already reaching for a smoke before his vision even gets used to the sunlight, the torrid pavement burning his skin through thick denim. He blinks back white spots as he takes a long drag, letting the taste of tobacco erase the traces of angst clinging to the corners of his mouth.
The parking lot is almost empty, barely any cars waiting for their owners to be done with whatever they were doing on a Wednesday at eight in the morning inside a pay-by-the-hour motel. So when footsteps start to slowly get closer, light and measured, he knows exactly who it is. His eyes stay glued to a far away billboard with a generic anti-smoking slogan printed in the center.
The first thing he sees is your boots, stepping down the curb right next to him. Then your bare calves, miles of smooth skin, the muffled sound of fabric dropping. Purple-peppered knees bend as you lower yourself on his right side, that soft smell of sugar and sun-kissed skin mixing with marlboro and mildew. And then, when his eyes flicker just a little closer but not quite land on your shape, he sees white cotton and lacy edges.
He chokes on the smoke gliding up his throat.
“Jesus Christ.” He coughs, finally turning his head to take you in completely. A tiny cup of coffee held in your hands, thin white tank top hugging your bare chest, soft cotton panties, boots. Nothing else. “What the hell?”
“It’s hot as fuck.” You shrug, gazing toward the same billboard. You’d dropped one of the motel towels over the spot you’re sitting on, the fabric frayed but thick enough to keep your skin from burning in the concrete. “You’re naked too, you know?”
“I’m more modest than you, that’s for sure.”
With languid movements, you set the porcelain cup down between the two of you and reach for his cigarette, your fingers stroking over his as you steal it and press it against your mouth. Your eyes meet his as your lips wrap around the filter, just where Dean’s were a second ago.
“I was using that, you know?” Maybe one day he’ll be able to talk to you again without his voice failing him. You chuckle. “I could’ve just handed you a new one.”
“But where’s the fun in that?”
“Give it back.” You smile lazily, tilting your head and taking a long drag, goading. “Fucking—whatever.”
His hand fishes into his front pocket for the pack smokes. You lean closer, again, just enough for Dean to feel your skin reflecting the warmth of the sun. Your hand wraps around his thigh, making him halt. Delicate fingers pull the cig away from your perfect mouth, and suddenly your parted lips are brushing his.
“Stop being a baby. Open up if you want it so badly.”
“Why are you doing this to me?”
His answer comes in smoke being blown into his mouth. He breathes it in, starving for the slightest taste of you between all the earthy bitterness.
“Why do you think?”
He’s way too dizzy to process the words, and it isn’t until you’ve pulled away enough for Dean to see your whole face that his brain starts to work again.
“Because you want me dead?”
You laugh, so fucking sweet and heavenly. Dean allows himself to revel in it this time.
“I love you, Dean. But you already knew that, didn’t you?” The way you’re looking at him makes him feel even more naked than he is. Dean stutters.
In concept, yes, he knows you love him. As a friend, as a partner, as family. In the lives you lead, there’s only so many people you can trust, and when you finally find them—yes, it’s easy to love them. Especially when the rest of the world is either too ignorant to feel real or too cruel to keep close.
“I know.” He gulps, the words stinging on his tongue. “I—I love you too.”
He’s said so very few times in his lifetime. Kneeling by your hospital bed after a rugaru left you bloody and with a raging concussion, on the phone the night Sammy left for Stanford and he got hammered by the seaside, the day Dad died. It was always secretive—with the shadow of sorrow hiding the severity of the words, protecting him from their consequences.
But here, when he’s shirtless under the brightest, hottest sun of the year, there’s nowhere to hide.
You drop the cigarette to the ground, cupping his cheek in your palm instead. Dean leans into the touch like a stray puppy, heart pounding against his ribcage.
“How do you love me?”
He murmurs your name dejectedly. “Don’t make me say it.”
“Please, Dean. I—” You take in a trembling breath, and for the first time, the confident mask you’ve been wearing since this whole thing started falters. “I need you to say it.”
“I love you more than anything. I love you like a best friend, I love you like family, I love you like a piece of myself. You’re part of me, darling. The better, lovelier part of me, the part I would go insane without. I love you like I dream of spending my last days on earth with you. I love you like I have never loved anyone before, and it scares the crap out of me. But fuck, I don’t care, because I fucking love you.”
Tears glint in the corner of your eyes. Before Dean can blow his brains out for making you cry, you lunge yourself into his lap, knees hitting the pavement on each side of his hips hard enough to scrape skin.
“Fuck, fuck.” You sound crazed as you cradle his face in your hands. Dean can barely follow what’s happening. “I love you too. I love you so fucking much, Dean. Goddamnit.”
Dean’s hands have barely landed on your thighs when you’re already engulfing his mouth with yours. It’s desperate, feral, long-awaited. Teeth clashing and hands groping, years and years of longing spilling from the seams and sealing the two of you together.
“What the fuck—” His words are licked away, he bites down on your tongue in retaliation. It only makes your hips grind down onto his. Instant karma. “—is happening?”
Your laughter this time is low and fevered. Dean’s hands can’t stop mapping all the exposed skin offered to him—calloused fingers wrapping around barely-clothed hipbones and slipping under flimsy fabric and drawing shapes against silky forearms. Your flesh dips under his fingertips, he finds scars he didn’t know of before, his mouth waters.
“I’m in love with you, Winchester. So in love I’m fucking dumb with it. That’s what’s happening.”
Dean drags you closer and drapes himself around you, arms encircling your middle and face buried in your hair, taking the moment in. Just a second to breathe, and make sure he isn’t dreaming.
“What changed your mind?”
You chew on his question, your hands doing some exploring of their own. His back pricks with the scorch of the sun and your adoring touch, your bodies stick together with sweat and Dean’s tar, now flowing freely from his chest and coating all of him.
“I’ve always loved you. I think I was born loving you.” Your nails trace every dip of his muscles. Dean flexes for you, you smack his shoulder with a giggle. He nuzzles his nose against the line of your jaw. “But when you used to flirt with me—well, you know your reputation, De.”
He does, he spent decades crafting it. He leaves a kiss on your cheek before pulling away enough to look into your eyes.
“It wasn’t like that, not with you. Maybe at first, but now… I wouldn’t know what to do without you.”
“I know,” you whisper, your lips pressing against his in a chaste peck. “I know now.”
“How?”
It’s hard to focus on talking when you’re sitting on his lap in nothing but sheer undergarments, but his curiosity is slightly stronger than his craving.
“Do you remember that time Sam got cursed? The truth spell you tried to convince me was a contagious diarrhea curse?”
Dean remembers, unfortunately. Sammy couldn’t stop spitting out every thought that crossed his head, and Dean knew that if the kid was in the same room as you for even a second, his meticulously-concealed love would be bared before you quicker than Dean could knock his brother out.
So he’d made up a lame excuse as to why you shouldn’t go back to the motel until Dean had a cure, and prayed that taking Sam’s phone and locking him in their room would be enough to keep everything from falling apart.
Until a second ago, he was sure it had been.
“You’re a good liar, Winchester, but you can’t lie to me. I knew something was up.” Your hands find their way to his hair, Dean represses a grunt when you tug on it softly. “So I picked the lock to your motel door and had a very… insightful conversation with your brother.”
“You really took advantage of the poor kid, baby?”
The endearment brings a beautiful flush to your cheeks, he’s rewarded with another smoky kiss.
“He looked quite eager to share, actually. Told me all about you keeping a picture of me in your wallet and calling other girls my name.”
Dean plops his forehead down on your shoulder, groaning. “I’m gonna gut him.”
“No, you’re not.” You thumb at his sideburn. Dean grumbles unintelligibly against your skin, teeth grazing the spot right beside the strap of your top. “Because without him, we wouldn’t be here.”
He hums in the back of his throat, getting lost in the enchanting sensation of having you all around him. “What was all the torture about, then?”
“Well, I had to test you first. Make sure you actually feel the same way.” You drag him back by the hair, until your noses are brushing and Dean can count every mole in your face. “Because I love you so much it kills me, Dean. Does it kill you, too?”
Dean takes a slow breath, his arms tightening around you. “Not anymore.”
You kiss him again, this time slow and deep. No more rushing, no more fear. There’s nowhere to be, nothing to escape. For as long as you’re with him, sitting on his lap and holding his bleeding heart in your hands, never letting go—you’ll be okay.
“You know,” He sucks your lower lip into his mouth, you whine lowly. Dean should really get you off the dirty curb and into your room. “I demand a redo in the whole Mister Mechanic thing. That wasn’t fair.”
You giggle breathlessly, your clothed crotch rubbing against his lower stomach. Dean grips the back of your thighs hard enough to bruise. “I still can’t believe you freaked out so bad.”
“I can.” He leaves featherlike kisses down your neck, already obsessed with the way you squirm in his arms. “Look at you, of course I freaked out. Still, I’m ready for it now.”
“Calm down, cowboy. Patience is a virtue, and we have plenty of time for that.”
“Do we?” He reaches the hollow of your throat, lips sliding lower over your tanktop, the fabric now translucent and sticking to your skin with perspiration. “Because I might have a list of things I want to try.”
“Of course you do, horndog.” Your mouth hovers over his ear, making his eyes flutter shut. “We can try whatever you want. I’m yours, De. I’ve been yours for a while.”
“That’s a dangerous offer, baby girl.” His hands find your ass, fondling the tender flesh before he squeezes, making your pretty cunt grind against his torso again. “You’d really let me do anything I want to you?”
“It’s—A-ahh. It’s that 3W-gene. You could charm me into anything.”
Dean chuckles, low and husky, still guiding your hips down on his.
“You’re really obsessed with that.”
Your lips brush the shell of his ear, gnawing on his lobe before you whisper. “What can I say, I want my kids to have it. Though it’d be good to dial back on the bad luck.”
Dean’s brain stopped working after kids. Your kids, with his genes, because they’d be both your kids. You, carrying his baby. Him, putting a baby in you.
“That’s it.”
With a guttural growl, Dean jumps to his feet, taking you with him. You shriek when he throws you over his shoulder, nails clawing at his sides and feet flailing in the air. He smacks your ass once, a warning to stay still. You bite down on his lower back in revenge.
Thankfully, you’d left your room’s door open. Dean kicks it shut behind him and makes sure to lock it before he throws you onto the bed, crawling over your giggling form and shutting you up with his tongue.
Baby’s keys get thrown somewhere on the floor when he kicks off his jeans, Dean doesn’t bother picking them up. He doesn’t plan on leaving this room any time soon.
Suicidal husbands can wait, Dean’s been waiting for too damn long.
Now, when you whisper filthy words in his ear that make his cock weep, he doesn’t feel scared anymore.
The door he thought didn’t exist at all swings wide open, and Dean will never be terrified again for as long as you hold the key to it.
NOTES: this literally originated from me and my cousin talking about genetic mutations to adapt to different environments. you can tell why i'm a virgin loser. I MISS THIS FICTIONAL MAN SO BAD.
my classes have been cancelled because we're snowed in, so I had time to finish and edit this quicker than I expected. YAY!
anyway, thank you sm for reading, and I love you all!!! mwah<3
Summary: You return to your grandmother’s seaside cottage and revisit the magical cave where you spent your summers exploring and collecting treasures. Little did you know, the cave belonged to something ancient—a merman hidden in its shadows. Little did you know that you had been engaging in the ancient courting ritual of his kind.
Word Count: 5,748
Content Warning: 18+ Explicit, mermaid sex, weird mermaid penis? Oral(Fem!Rec), anal(briefly), DubCon if you squint? This isn't a light read, I want it to feel strange and dreamy. If that's not you're thing and you don't want to be turned on and a little unsettled you should scroll, lol.
From the Author: This has been brewing in my brain and in my wips ever since I read The Lighthouse by @epiphanyrogers. I am tagging this as a Bucky post because I just picture Bucky (CATFA) style, young and pretty and just...
Look at him! 😍
You can kind of picture anyone though because I don't use names here. I hope this is decent 😭 I've kind talked myself out of loving it but I'm still going to post because I worked hard on it. I hope you enjoy!
I listened to this soundtrack while writing this <3 You're in for such a treat if you play this while reading
The ocean in mid-July was your favorite scent. The air hung warm and salty, thick enough to cling to your skin and sink into your clothes. The moment you stepped out of your car, it wrapped around you, achingly familiar.
For a moment, the years seemed to fold in on themselves—you were a child again, climbing out of your grandmother’s old car into a summer that felt endless, the sea waiting just beyond the cliff edge and tall grass. Then the moment passed, and you were left standing in the same salt-washed air, your chest tight with the bittersweet weight of how much had changed.
Grandma was gone now. And after her passing, you hadn’t been able to make yourself return. You pulled your suitcase from the back of the car, swallowing against the ache in your throat and willing your feet to move up the familiar driveway.
The cottage was exactly the same as it had been then. The same furniture rested in the same places, and the windows still welcomed in that warm, honeyed afternoon light. Everything was as it had always been, and yet it felt different now—like a lovely shell left behind, still full of beauty, but emptied of the soul that had once made it feel alive.
Old wooden floors creaked beneath your feet with warm familiarity as you made your way up to your childhood bedroom. Nothing was different here either. Your bed was still made with the quilt your grandmother had sewn for you when you were only a little girl. The window overlooking the ocean still opened with that same gentle creak, and a cool, salty breeze swept through at once, billowing the curtains around you like sails. From there, the beach unfurled below in a long ribbon of gold, cradled by the grassy cliffs that lined the coast.
The shore called to you with an almost aching sweetness, luring you with memories of sun-warmed sand, cool waves, and the fine mist of sea spray against your skin. For now you only let out a quiet sigh, unpacked your things, and later drove into town to gather the small essentials you’d need for the week.
Far down the coastline, something else from your past was stirring, drawn from the dark depths of his domain. For six long years, he had kept the cottage at the farthest edge of his vision, watching and waiting for even the faintest sign. Then, at last, it came—the sudden, unmistakable glimmer of light from your window when you opened it to the sea, flickering like a beacon across the water.
It sent his heart racing. At once, he surged toward the shoreline, swift and silent through the dark depths, slowing only when he reached the turbulent surf. He lifted himself carefully from the water and blinked into the light, clearing his vision as he searched for the slightest movement.
Was it really you, after all this time?
Evening crept up on you fast after you returned from town. Even with how quickly you unpacked and put everything away, night had already settled deep by the time you stepped onto the back porch. You leaned back against the door frame and looked down the winding path to the shore, your thoughts lingering on the risk of it.
Grandma had always warned you about going to the beach after dark—about the strange, things that drifted in from the water, the stories of children disappearing. It was the kind of story told to wayward children, meant to keep them safe in their beds once night had fallen. You caught your bottom lip between your teeth, unable to resist the soft, aching pull of the shore despite her gentle warnings playing in your mind.
Slowly, you padded barefoot across the wooden patio, its white paint worn thin beneath your feet—descended the narrow path down the cliff, moving carefully, savoring the familiar hum of anticipation that rose with every step. The trail glowed beneath the pale wash of the full moon, silvering the grass. The entire outside world was swallowed up by the roar of the surf as you neared the shoreline.
Every now and then, the wind shifted, carrying the faintest trace of your scent over the water, and each breath of it left him reeling. Sweet enough to stir something old and hungry inside him—something that had slept uneasily for far too long. You were here. Truly here. After all these years, you had really come back to him.
He had waited for so long…
The longing that seized him was nearly unbearable. He needed to see you. To hear your voice spill out over the waves again. To know the shape of your face had not changed so much that he would not know it. His song hummed restlessly in his throat, aching to rise.
There was only one way to bring you closer. One way he knew would reach into you, curl through you, and draw you helplessly toward the sea.
As much as he hated the thought, the desire to see you was overwhelming him.
The rising tide had swallowed the shoreline completely, waves gnawing at the worn, rocky path until the beach was lost beneath dark, restless water. You sighed softly, disappointed that you would have to wait until morning. But this was lovely too. After the punishing July heat, the cold air and salt spray felt almost luxurious against your skin.
You lingered there for a moment, bathed in silver moonlight, while the ocean tossed and spat below, churning only a few feet from where you stood. The tide stretched toward you again and again, reaching up the rocks. But no matter how it swelled and pulled it couldn’t touch you
Then, just as you were about to head back, you caught a faint glimmer beyond the surf. You went still, narrowing your eyes against the dark as you tried to make out the shape. There—another brief flash of movement on the rocks.
Your breath caught in your throat. In an instant, the soft moonlit trance of the shore was broken by the sudden, prickling certainty that something out there was looking back at you. You retreated slowly from the water’s edge, one careful step at a time, as if moving too quickly might draw its attention fully onto you.
It’s nothing, you tried to reason with yourself. Probably just a bird perched on the rocks… during high tide… at night…
You turned and hurried back up the trail, that strange, prickling sensation, following close at your heels all the way to the cottage. Only after you slipped inside and latched the door behind you did you breathe out a small, shaky sigh of relief.
He watched your bedroom light spill out across the dark from his place on the rocks. It was you.
Your face had changed, though not by much. Time had touched you gently. You were taller now, older, your features no longer those of the girl he remembered, and yet still so unmistakably you. And your scent—your sweet, familiar scent—was unchanged, still carrying that maddening warmth that made his cold, slippery body clench.
He could lure you back to the shore. He could sing, and you would come to him. He could pull you into his arms at last and feel your body where he had imagined it for years. The thought woke his ancient hunger with a flare. He winced, straining against the instinct even as it coiled tighter through him.
With a sudden dive, he disappeared beneath the dark, swirling water, as if the cold depths might break the spell you had cast over him. The sea rushed around him, hissing against his skin, but it did nothing to quiet the hunger.
It was already warm when your feet touched the floor, the breeze drifting through the open windows doing little to ease the heat from your skin. Grandma had never bothered with air conditioning, and truthfully, it was only ever unbearable for a month or two each summer. With a quiet sigh, you carried your iced coffee out to the deck and watched the sunrise bleed slowly over the water.
The only real relief this time of year was down by the shore, tucked into the cool shade where the cliffs broke open into the sea. A couple miles down the beach, reachable only at low tide, a cave waited along the coastline. You had spent whole summers there as a girl, wandering through tide pools, filling your pockets with shells, and whatever else the ocean was willing to give up.
Smiling faintly, you reached beneath your shirt and drew your necklace into the light, turning it between your fingers.
A large pearl rested in its gold setting, luminous in the early morning glow.
There had been other things before it.
Small, strange treasures that always seemed to appear as though the ocean had set them out for you—an ancient compass, ruined by seawater and time, a large conch shell placed carefully in plain sight. You had never thought to question it back then. The pearl had been the last gift, found the summer you were nineteen.
After that, life had pulled sharply away from this place. Grandma was suddenly gone, and whatever magic had once lingered here seemed to draw inward, dormant and unanswered.
For a moment, you cradled the pearl in your palm and looked out at the glittering line of the sea, feeling that old, nameless curiosity wake softly inside you.
The wind came hard against the cliffside, lifting your dress and teasing your hair into tangles. You laughed under your breath and caught your hat before it could slip away. Your bag swung empty at your side, ready for whatever the shore might offer, and that old, familiar excitement quickened your steps until the cave appeared at last.
It felt smaller when you stepped inside. As a child, this place had seemed vast as a castle, alive with hidden corners and secrets waiting just for you. Now it was only a cave again—still beautiful, but achingly ordinary beneath the weight of memory. You trailed your fingers along the slick stone at the entrance and glanced up at the holes in the high ceiling, where pale sunlight streamed through and poured itself over the sand and scattered tide pools.
The ocean’s waves echoed through the cave, washing over you in soft, living sound as you slipped off your shoes and dipped your toes into a shallow pool, green-slick with algae and home to a single, lonely starfish.
You remembered singing to the tiny sea creatures trapped there, offering them what comfort you could until the tide came back for them. Nothing ever remained in this place for long. By the next day, it would all be swept clean, the old lives carried off and new little souls left behind in their place.
You leaned closer to the shallow pool where a single starfish clung stubbornly to the stone and, almost without thinking, let a tune drift from your lips—a wandering little melody, soft and sweet and half-remembered, the kind of thing you might have sung when you were younger.
The cave carried it strangely.
Your voice brushed along the walls and came back to you transformed, thinner in some places, fuller in others, tangled with the breathing pull of the sea.
You laughed under your breath at yourself and rose, moving farther in.
The deeper parts of the cave had always felt different. Far from sunlight, some passages short and narrow. The air cooled the farther you went, and the pools grew darker, deeper, their surfaces black in places where the narrow beams of sunlight couldn’t reach. The tide hissed somewhere beyond the bend ahead, water slipping through some narrow channel in the rock.
Your fingers trailed along the cave wall, singing softly as you went, following the smooth curves cut there by years and years of saltwater. There were still little pockets in the stone where you used to tuck away treasures—shells with perfect pink mouths, bits of blue glass, smooth stones you had believed were lucky.
A faint splash sounded ahead.
You stopped mid-note.
For a moment, the cave went very still around you. Only the soft drip of water. The hush of the sea. The quickened sound of your own breathing.
“Hello?” you called softly, straightening.
No answer came.
You told yourself it was probably nothing. Water shifting. A gull that had somehow found its way in. A seal, maybe. Though the thought of a seal this deep inside the cave made a strange little shiver travel across your skin.
You stepped carefully around the bend anyway.
The pool there was larger than the others, a basin carved into the stone, wide and deep enough that the dark water within it looked almost ink-black. Sunlight from a crack high above spilled weakly across the surface.
At first, you thought the shape half-submerged against the far wall was just another rock.
Then it moved.
You gasped and stumbled back a step so quickly your heel skidded on the wet stone.
A man—or something shaped like one—was hunched over the edge of the basin.
One arm braced against the rocky lip, he kept his head bowed as though catching his breath. Wet hair, darkened by seawater, clung to his skin in dripping strands. The rest of him disappeared into the dark water, his shape broken apart by ripples and shifting light.
Your heart kicked hard against your ribs.
For one wild, dizzy second, you thought he must be hurt. Shipwrecked somehow. Dragged in by the tide and stranded when the water fell away.
“Oh my God—”
The words slipped out before you could stop them.
His head snapped up, and your breath left you all at once.
He was unnervingly beautiful, in a way that reminded you of the deep sea—strange, and made for the dark. His face was too still, his gaze too bright as it fixed on you with a quiet, terrible certainty. Your heart pounded against your ribs, every instinct warning you to turn away. But you couldn’t. His eyes held yours, glowing faintly in the dimness, and some soft, perilous pull within them coaxed you one step closer.
When he finally spoke, his voice reached you strangely—warbled by the water and the cave, smoothed into something unearthly as it echoed off the stone.
“It’s been a long time since I’ve heard your voice.” He sighed contentedly, basking in the sound of you so close to him.
You halted, your breath snagging in your throat.
“M-my voice?” you stammered.
He only hummed, folding his arms atop the rocky edge of the basin and resting his chin on them as though he had all the patience in the world. His eyes gleamed. A small, almost affectionate smile curved his mouth.
“I’ve missed your songs.”
Cold swept through you so suddenly it left you motionless, your body locked around it, too frozen even to blink.
He knew you?
The realization hit like a plunge into icy water. How long? How long had he known you—watched you? Horror rose sharp and dizzying in your chest, braided helplessly with disbelief. Had he seen you here when you were a girl?
“This is my home, you know?”
His eyes gleamed as they traced every flicker of feeling across your face—your shock, your fear, your terrible awe.
“You used to decorate the walls so prettily,” he said, almost to himself, the words touched with fondness. A quiet sigh left him after, weighted by the old memory.
The silence stretched between you, and he let it, patient as the tide.
“Come closer,” he murmured. “Let me see your pretty face.”
His fingers reached toward you across the distance—long and elegant, the delicate webbing between them catching the light as he beckoned. You stared despite yourself, transfixed by his inhuman grace.
“I—”
The word broke apart on your breath. Your thoughts would not hold still long enough to shape into anything useful. Somewhere inside you, instinct screamed to stop, to run, to turn back now—but your feet betrayed you, carrying you one step closer all the same.
He hummed, low and pleased, as you approached. His voice drifted over you like mist rolling in from the sea, softening every sharp edge of thought, leaving your mind hazy and your body pliant.
Above, pale shafts of sunlight spilled over you, turning you almost luminous where you knelt before him. Your scent engulfed him, suffocating his senses until he felt half-drunk on it. His cold heart swelled as your breath touched his skin, warming him like sunlight.
“I’ve missed you terribly, beloved.” His voice trembled with reverence.
Another little gasp tore from your throat.
“B-beloved?” You tried to recoil, but your body would not obey. Your spine refused to stiffen, your limbs stayed soft and heavy as his finger rose to trace the curve of your cheek just beneath your eye. The path of his touch fluttered and pulsed, as though some echo of him had been left behind beneath your skin.
“Who are you?” you whispered through trembling lips.
He did not answer at once. Instead, he lingered there, watching you as if he meant to commit every detail of this moment to memory. Then, slowly, he sank back into the water. The inky dark curled around him until he vanished from sight, only to rise again a few seconds later.
Carefully, almost reverently, he laid a handful of little treasures along the lip of the pool before you.
You knew them at once.
The perfect shells you used to decorate your castle with. Smooth pebbles, pale and familiar. A few glittering pieces of sea glass.
“I am your chosen,” he said at last, after giving you a long moment to stare at the offerings in stunned silence.
His bright gaze lifted to yours.
“And you,” he murmured softly, “are mine.”
He smiled again and lifted a hand to the pearl at your throat, cradling it with a touch so cool and careful it made you shiver. He turned it lightly between his fingers, watching the pale surface catch the light.
“You accepted my offering. You wear it warm against your skin,” he said, in the patient tone of someone explaining something simple to a child. “And I keep your gifts in my chambers, close to me. I do not even let the ocean touch them. We are promised to one another.”
“What?” you breathed, your gaze dropping helplessly to the pearl in his hand.
He did not answer at once. Instead, he seemed to drift somewhere inward, his attention caught on the shimmer of the pearl as though it held years of memory inside it.
“I thought to kill you at first, you know.”
He let the pearl slip gently from his grasp, then folded his arms again and settled there with lazy ease, as though he had not just sent your heart plummeting into your stomach.
“But then you sang to the little creatures caught here. You were gentle with them.” His voice softened, his gaze drifting with memory. “You left my home so much prettier than you found it...”
He sounded almost wistful.
“Surely you meant no harm,” he said, looking back at you with that terrible calm. “Why should I have killed you?”
All you could do was stare, helpless and breathless, as his glowing blue eyes dipped to the frantic beat of your pulse at your throat.
“I don’t understand…” you managed at last, your voice thin and unsteady. “What are you?”
Something mischievous flickered in his expression.
“You are a silly human,” he murmured, almost to himself, a soft, amused chuckle curling from him. Then his bright gaze lifted fully to yours. “Most people along this coast know better.”
His eyes held yours, shimmering like sea-glass in sunlight.
“You call us sirens.”
Your heart lurched so violently it nearly choked you, and in an instant the haze he’d woven around your thoughts snapped clean through. He lifted his tail from the dark water.
It gleamed like the pearl he had given you—large and writhing, a soft milky sheen that shifted with every movement. The fins were almost translucent, delicate as veils until the light struck them and turned them opalescent. He grinned when you stumbled back, sharp teeth catching the light. Your fear spilled into the space between you, cold and unmistakable as it bled through your scent.
His hand lashed out and caught your ankle, cold fingers locking around it with crushing strength. He dragged you back with a sudden, terrifying force, until your feet slid into the freezing water. But he did not pull you under. He stopped there instead, shuddering with effort as he grazed his teeth along the slope of your leg.
“Please,” you choked out, struggling against his grip. “You have to let me go. Here—”
Your hands shook so badly you nearly fumbled the chain as you tore it from your neck and thrust it toward him.
“I’m sorry,” you whispered, breathless with fear. “I didn’t know this was your home. I didn’t know this belonged to you. Please… take it back.”
The plea broke softly against your lips.
He didn’t move to accept it.
Instead, he stared at the necklace trembling in your hand. Something inside his face seemed to crack under the weight of your rejection. His sculpted brows pulled together, shadowing his eyes and the hurt that swam in them. His lashes lowered slightly, as though he could not bear the sight of you offering it back to him.
“This cannot be undone,” he said at last, so quietly you almost missed it over the roar in your ears.
His free hand folded gently over yours, cold enough to chill your skin, and guided the pearl back against your chest with quiet insistence, as though it belonged there more surely than it had ever belonged anywhere else.
“I have waited six long years.” His voice wavered then, agony spilling softly through the words. “I searched these shores for miles and miles. I never left... I stayed. Waiting for you to come back to me.”
While he spoke, his mouth hovered over your trapped leg, his breath cool against your skin. Then, with a tenderness that only unsettled you more, he nuzzled the warmth of your flesh and pressed his lips to your knee.
“You couldn't cast me away so easily, could you?”
His eyes had gone pale and glassy, blurred with something that looked horribly like grief. Tears slipped over his lashes and fell from his chin in silvery streams, each droplet hardening into a tiny pearl before hitting the stone with a delicate little ‘tink’ sound.
For one fragile second, guilt pierced you, but fear broke through it just as quickly.
You twisted against his hold again, trying desperately to tear yourself free, but his grip remained unyielding. He pulled you closer, cradling your trapped leg with that same terrible gentleness.
“If I could only make you understand…” he lamented, undeterred by your struggling.
Then he began to hum again, low and soothing, it was the only comfort he knew how to offer. The sound poured into your mind like warm water, dulling the sharp, frantic edges of your fear. Your breath snagged as it moved through you, slowing the wild hammer of your heart and turning your limbs heavy in his arms.
“Are you going to kill me?” you whispered at last, going still as the question left your lips, as though some quiet part of you had already surrendered itself to whatever answer he chose to give.
The question seemed to wound him.
He slowly drew his face from your leg and looked up at you through his lashes. Hurt moved across his features—his delicate brows pulling together, his luminous eyes widening with something that looked almost like betrayal.
“Beloved…” he said softly,
“You think me capable of that?” His hand tightened just slightly where he held on to your ankle, face drawn tight with a kind of aching disbelief.
“I would never dream of hurting you,” he whispered.
The words should have comforted you. Instead, they only deepened the chill already coiled around your spine.
He let the silence breathe for a moment before speaking again, choosing his words carefully.
“I could have killed you easily back then,” he murmured. “I could have let you drown the day the waves caught you off guard.”
You gasped.
The memory rose all at once—the summer you were seventeen, the way a sudden wave had crashed over you before you could brace for it, how the water had seized you and dragged you helplessly out to sea. You remembered the blind panic, the violent, endless tumble, the sharp certainty that you were going to die.
But you hadn’t.
You had woken on the beach instead, coughing seawater into the sand, dazed and shaking, never understanding how you had escaped the sea.
Now he looked at you as though the answer had always been obvious.
“How can you ask me such a question? You are everything precious to me,” he said softly. “Everything beautiful. And I won't lose you again.”
A shuddering sigh left him as his mouth grazed the tender flesh of your thigh-the decision now settled in his mind. He seemed half-drunk on the living warmth rising from your skin. Slowly, he drew his lips back, exposing the sharp rows of his teeth, and pulled your scent through them as though savoring something sweet, letting it rest heavy on his tongue and curl along his palate.
You could only watch as his eyes rolled back for a moment, a soft hum of pleasure vibrating out of him before his gaze found yours again, blurred now by a searing hunger. Then, with terrible gentleness, he reached up and cupped your jaw in his frigid hand, guiding your face slowly toward him.
And still, you did not move away.
You could only stare as it happened, held fast in his gaze like something already caught in a trap. His breath brushed across your face like a cool ocean breeze, fresh and salt-laced, his lips hovering just above yours, drawing you in with the steady pull of a current.
Your eyes widened as his mouth opened. His jaw unhinged, baring those sharp, gleaming teeth, and something deep and instinctive inside you answered. Your own lips parted, your delicate pink tongue dipping out as though to taste the charged air between you. You felt it gathering there at once—a pressure without shape, something vast and formless filling your mouth as he offered it to you.
His cold, rushing heartbeat. The glowing warmth of his affection. The terrible ache of loss. His fear. His loneliness and longing.
You swallowed it all without understanding how, taking in the full, aching force of what he pressed into you. His devotion moved through your body like lava moving slowly into the ocean, slipping into your core—searing you, heating your skin like a fever.
Your eyes snapped open as he let out a broken moan, his head bowing beneath his restraint. Hot tears spilled over your lashes as his love poured through you. It filled your chest, your throat, sunk deep into your bones, until you couldn’t tell what was his and what was yours.
You reached for him helplessly, fingers slipping into his hair, soft and wet beneath your touch. For one suspended moment the ocean seemed to hold its breath with you. Then you drew his mouth up to yours.
You gasped against him as bright, searing currents of his want rushed through you, white-hot and pulsing until your whole body trembled with it.
You felt him rise from the water like some great sea-creature from an old story, guiding you back in the cradle of his powerful arms. He lowered you gently onto the rocky floor, and though the stone should have felt cold beneath you, you could barely register it through the feverish heat burning under your skin.
You blinked up into the light spilling through the cracks in the ceiling, pale shafts of noon sun pouring down in molten gold. For a moment, the whole cave seemed to sway around you—salt air, rushing water, the distant cry of gulls beyond the cliffs. Then his mouth found you again, soft and reverent, trailing slow kisses along your skin as if he meant to worship every inch of you he had been denied for all those years.
A wanton moan flitted from your lips as his pleasure crashed against yours. His frigid mouth kissed lower and lower, pulled by the intoxicating aroma of your arousal and the intense heat thrumming between your legs. You felt the hard tug of your dress being yanked, the fabric shredding apart in his grasp.
A cold, slimy muscle pressed wetly against your clothed sex, followed by a rumbling groan. His tongue, you realized. It wriggled in a frenzy against your dripping core, straining against the drenched barrier of your panties, desperate to breach the heat behind them.
You reached down to help, showing him that they could come off. He seemed awed by this, hypnotized as you sat up to pull them off your legs. You then scooted forward, perching your bottom on the lip of the basin, dipping your legs into the chilly water beside him.
The sight laid before his eyes was delicious—warm and succulent and glistening like a jewel. His eyes met yours for a moment, afraid that this might be another dream, that you might still crumble into glittering gold and fade off into the breeze.
You pressed your hand to his face and he turned into it, nuzzling further into your warmth. He felt your burning need for him to touch you, felt your pulse thrumming through your core sitting just above his lips.
Your mouth fell open as his tongue split into you, a little surprised by its strength, its size. It completely filled your walls as he plunged it into you again, chilling you to bone with each punching thrust. His eyes rolled back at the taste, the sensation of your pleasure building with his. Your hands tangled in his hair, pulling tight as you gasped for air, already cresting over the edge.
He sank his tongue to the hilt, squirming wildly inside your heat as you clamped down around him and gushed. He moaned pitifully, his hips bucking into nothing as your juices warmed his throat.
He drank you down dutifully, cleaning every last drop with that agile tongue of his. And once there was nothing left to clean off, he would enter you again, his throat vibrating as he whimpered. You could feel his euphoria, absolutely drunk on your shimmering essence. The weight of your scent suffocating him as he forced his tongue deeper, wishing you could swallow him whole. Wishing he was the one drowning while pressed into your warm, wet sex.
You lost count of your orgasms, lost count of time as you fell into the trance of your mixed pleasure. Finally—finally, he released you, his tongue sliding out of you with a with a warm, wet slurp. His chest was heaving, his skin heated beneath your hands,
“I can’t wait any longer. Please, let me take you as mine. Let me have you for all this life and the next.” Then he drew you from the stone’s edge and into his arms, pulling you down into the cold embrace of the water. It rose up around your neck and you gasped at the shock of it, at the feel of his erect length pressing up against your thigh, cold and slimy and spongy as he squeezed you to him.
Every line of his body was pulled tight with need, trembling with restraint, but beneath it, you felt the aching sincerity of him. The fierce devotion swelling in his chest. The terrible, tender certainty with which he held you, as though you were something lost to him once and never meant to be lost again.
You kissed him once, then again, pouring all your strange and tangled certainty into him. In the fading light, he turned with you slowly in the water, guiding you through soft, endless circles while the sea rocked around you and the last of the sun slipped gold across the cracks in the ceiling.
And then he was everywhere, wrapping around around you—his tail winding tight around your legs as he turned you gently toward the stone, steadying you against its slick edge. His arms bracketed you on either side, sealing your hips to the wall.
He wasted no time, rutting his length into the backs of your thighs, desperately up into your ass, throbbing with need as it searched for your tight pulsing heat.
You whined, shoving your hips back in an attempt to help him. His soft narrow tip caught the tight hole of your ass instead and slipped easily inside you, lighting you up in a way that was completely new. You gasped at the sensation, and then gasped again as you realized something else was poking at the entrance to your aching pussy.
Something much larger, with a bulbous head squeezing through your lips, prodding the tight entrance gently—over and over and over—until finally your warm heat parted enough to suck him in. He yelped, bucking forward wildly before stilling, catching his breath with you for a second. He was huge and slick and bulging through your stomach, the painfully thick head of him stretching you deeply, squelching up into your cervix. He hissed through his teeth, pulling back.
“I’m sorry my love, I don’t mean to hurt you.” You were lost to him already, head lolling back as you drowned in his pleasure.
“Don’t stop.” You hummed, rocking back against him, chasing that searing, white hot pressure in your belly, flooding and engorging you. You felt close to bursting, the pressure rising, building like a glowing flame, a burning star rising up through your chest. Your limbs seemed to float away, the light building behind your eyes as you tipped over the edge.
The water gathered you in, cool and silken, pressing gently against your chest as the fever of the moment softened into something sweeter, something stranger. You drifted upward through the dark, rippling water, rising slowly toward the pale orange light filtering through the cracks above.
Somewhere below, his voice reached for you through the trembling hush of the sea.
“Don’t be afraid, my love. We’ll be together soon.”
The words came to you blurred by water, the grief in his voice lost under the tide.
Below the surface, the ocean began to claim you with a terrible gentleness. Your skin loosened into foam beneath its touch, dissolving as softly as sea mist beneath the morning sun. The bond between you was complete.
And when the next full moon rose over the tide pools, the sea would return you to him here, remade in the moonlight, birthed into devotion. He would wait for you, patient as the tide, until you rose once more into his arms.
And after that, there would be no more parting—only the sea, and him, and forever.
✦Read on a03! - Masterlist - Dean Masterlist✦
✦summary: a late night game with Dean turns into something more.✦
✦warnings/tags: Dean Winchester x female!reader, no use of y/n, no description of reader. light angst, pining, ovulation level smut (praise kink, soft!dom Dean, teasing, dirty talk, he's a meance and i need him, fingering, overstimulation, finger sucking, oral f!receiving, body worship, squriting, dumbification, pussy spanking, dean winchester canonical munch), they're a little tipsy but very lucid, love confessions, fluff✦
✦wc: 4.7k✦
✦author's note: request from anon! oh to have Dean Winchester yearn for you.✦
You’ve forgotten what it’s like, to have someone close to you.
It’s gotten to the point where you savor every brush of skin, every bump of shoulders. You’re mostly fiddling with your own hands in your lap, hugging your own stomach, glancing at the bar when you go out and wondering how fast you could get someone to take you home. You don’t even need to be loved. You just need to be touched, to have hands on your skin that remind you you’re still something tangible. Still someone here.
You blame Dean.
He doesn’t know, and he didn’t even technically do anything, but it’s his fault.
You’re not good at pretending to want. Not good at looking at a blank face in the dark without projecting someone else onto it. And if you do stumble into a bathroom or smile at someone across a low lit room, there’s always that itching thought in the back of your head.
Why aren’t they Dean?
It’s not fair to him. Not fair to the few people you tried to find comfort in, only to end up calling Dean’s name. One of those guys had pretended he didn’t hear it, let you scream it as much as you wanted. The other two kicked you out, and you’d dragged your feet home with a burning embarrassment coiled in your stomach.
“You’re home.” Dean had said the last time it happened, and you’d almost screamed in surprise.
“Jesus- Why are you up, it’s three in the morning-“
“You ditched.” He’d grunted, not looking up from the laptop. “Wanted to make sure it was just that, and not something I gotta worry about.”
You’d sighed, kicking off your shoes. “I told Sam where I was going.”
“I know. Better safe, right?”
Then he’d looked up. Met your gaze with raised brows. You’d just swallowed, and shrugged. You didn’t want to talk to him. Not when you’d just screamed his name into a mattress, and your skin still felt so cold.
“You have fun?” He’d asked, and you’d looked down at your feet.
“Yeah. Tons of it. You?”
“Time of my fuckin’ life.” He’d grunted.
“Good.”
“Good.”
You’d glanced up to find him glaring back at his computer, his grip white-knuckled on a beer bottle.
There had been bags under his eyes. He’d been rubbing his knee restlessly, and you’d known. He’d really been waiting for you all night.
You’d stopped trying to chase something. It was like scavenging through a dumpster, when you had a five-star meal just walking around the fucking house and making stupid jokes all the time. It’s a meal you’re not allowed to eat, but you find enough to sustain you. His knuckles brushed yours yesterday, when he passed you a book. Your knees bumped on the couch, and for a split second it had seemed like Dean was going to press your thighs together. He hadn’t. He’d scooted away with a cough.
But then he’d rested his arm on the back of the couch. His fingers had grazed your shoulder every few seconds, and just that brief contact had made you dizzy. You’d bitten on your lower lip to stop the sharp inhale. When he stood up and walked away to get another beer, his big hand had landed on the top of your head for a split second. Almost petting you, making you freeze for a long second, before he was gone.
Tonight Sam wants to go out again. You pass. You’ve been passing. It’s easier to just wallow in the dark, where nobody can see the gloss of tears, you can try to satisfy yourself.
Then Dean says he’s going to stay home as well. And you and Sam gape at him, but he just shrugs like you’re the crazy ones.
“What? It’s my place too. I’m stayin’ home.”
“You know hookups won’t like- Come to you, right?” Sam says. “You have to go and look for them-“
“Yeah, Sammy, I got that.” Dean scowls, crossing his arms. “Just don’t want a hookup right now, alright?”
Sam shoots you a worried look, and you just shrug.
“Dean, are you feeling okay-“
“I’m feelin’ fine. God forbid a man want to live in his own damn house-“
“It’s not a house.” You mumble, and his lips twitch.
“Well, his own place. We’re gonna watch movies and eat the whole kitchen, sweetheart. It’ll be fun.”
Sam frowns. “You’re… staying in to watch movies.”
“And eat the kitchen.” You add, and Dean grins.
“See? She gets it.”
You give him a flat look, and he just winks.
“Fun. You and me. No arguing.”
Dean grabs your shoulder. It’s only for a split second, as he walks down the hall, but it leaves an electric burn on your skin. You reach up to touch the spot, when he’s gone. Sam gives you an unimpressed, pointed stare, and you flip him off.
“I didn’t ask him to-“
“I know. But-“ He runs a hand over his face. “Never mind. Have fun.”
Sam leaves, with a grumble about how even if he strikes out, he’ll be back in the morning. It’s not that unusual. He’s cooped up with you all the time, and sometimes wandering feels like breathing fresh air for the first time in months.
You think about changing your mind and wandering with him. You don’t want to have fun with Dean tonight. It’s going to make the world feel bigger and further away, when he turns in for the night and you’re left, untouched and alone.
But he’s smiling at you. The wide, boyish smile that’s so rare to see on his face, it feels deeply important to preserve. A precious, rare gem that you’ve spent so much time begging to unearth a little further. So much time had been put into getting him to smile at you like that. You’d be selfish and cruel, to waste it now.
So Dean says watch a movie, and you watch a movie, tracking his body on the couch the whole time. He makes dinner, and when he passes you the plate your fingers tingle like you’d been zapped. He says you should get some of the fancier drinks from the Men of Letter’s old stash, and you just nod. He’s magnetic all the time, but there’s a gravitational pull to him when he’s smiling. Like the world could give out from under your feet but you’d just float, because Dean’s smiling and that would keep your head above water.
When he suggests truth or dare, you agree. It’s a bad idea, but doing anything alone with him is a bad idea. You might as well get a little tipsy and have fun about it.
“Truth.” You stare at the ceiling, lying flat on your back. Your legs are resting up on the couch, Dean leaning back against the cushions, and sometimes his fingers graze over your calves when he wants your attention.
You’re being pretty normal about it.
“That’s your third truth in a row, y’know.” Dean nudges your knee with his thigh. You swallow a moan. “Live a little, pick a dare-“
“I don’t like dares, I told you that-“
“I can only come up with so many freakin’ truths-“
“Yeah, but your dare is gonna be something stupid.” You crane your neck, giving him a pointed look as you drop your voice to a mocking, deep tone. “Dare, sweetheart. Go steal Sammy’s underwear and wear it ‘till he notices.”
Dean snorts, rolling his eyes. “I don’t sound like that.”
“Yes, you do-“
“And I wouldn’t dare you to wear Sam’s underwear.”
There’s something darker, running under his tone. It makes you pause, lips turning down, and Dean just raises his brows. There’s a challenge in his gaze that you don’t understand. You settle on just flopping back down and rolling your eyes.
“I’m not doing a dare.” You wrap an arm around your stomach, trying to physically trap the desire blooming in your gut. “Give me the truth.”
Dean groans. “C’mon, one dare-“
“No-“
“I’ll let you off the hook for this truth.” He says quickly. “Take it on myself. And I’ll go easy on the dare. Nothing crazy, swear it.”
You look up, and he’s got his hand on his heart like he’s taking an oath. “Dean…”
“Please?”
“I- Fine.” You flop back down, biting your smile as you catch him pumping his fist in the corner of your vision. “You’re such a loser.”
“You love me.” He pats your knee, and you grunt, taking a very long drink. “Alright, hit me.”
“Um…” You wrinkle your nose at the ceiling. “What’s your favorite animal?”
Dean snorts. “No, try again.”
“It’s a truth!”
“It’s a lame truth. You gotta ask me something interesting-“
“That’s interesting!” You protest, glaring at him under your eyelashes. “I like knowing things about you, that’s interesting to me!”
Dean stares at you for a second, then sighs. Takes a long drink, staring at you the whole time. It’s not doing anything to help the growing ache between your thighs, burning for just a little bit of that attention.
“I like wolves.” He grumbles. “Think the pack shit is cool. Like lions, too. And-“ He sighs like you’re prying something out of him. “Baby ducks.”
You beam. “You like ducklings-“
“It’s fuckin’ adorable when they walk in a line, alright?” He snaps, and you giggle.
“You’re so cute.” You nudge his leg with your foot, and his scowl deepens.
“Shut up.”
“No, you like ducklings-“
“I’m not a damn monster.” He grabs your foot, stopping it from bumping him again. “Ask me another. Somethin’ real, this time.”
You scoff, leaning back down again. It’s hard to think, when he’s touching you. When his thumb is rubbing circles on your ankle, and you don’t think he even knows he’s doing it, and it’s chasing too many thoughts from your head to think anything but his name.
“C’mon, sweetheart. You can do it.” He’s mocking you, and you squeeze your eyes shut. He needs to stop. “I can help if you need me.”
You try to kick him, but he just squeezes your foot tighter.
“How about my favorite sex thing?” He suggests, and your mouth falls open.
“Dean-“
“Good question, me.” He drawls, rubbing your foot as he speaks. “Hm. Gotta think about it. There are so many.”
“You-“ You sit up, trying to glare at him, but he’s just grinning at you like an idiot. “Come on, that’s- Dean…”
“I like eatin’ a girl out.” He says, the moment your eyes are locked onto his. “Love seein’ her under me, watching her squirm.”
His hand is dragging slowly up your leg, getting closer to teasing near your knee. He’s giving you plenty of time to pull away, to just laugh and hit him, moving you both on. But you catch. You’re just blinking at him hopelessly, your legs slowly falling open, the world starting to get hazy because no one’s touched you like that in so long.
And it’s Dean touching, and that makes it better, or worse. It makes you putty. All you can do is blink at him hopelessly, begging for him to just take you, or stop know before it gets too far and you’re left a teary eyed, whining mess on the floor.
“Always tastes good, too.” He drawls, watching you so carefully. “Real fuckin’ pussy tastes like heaven, sweetheart? You ever tried it?”
You can’t even answer, and he chuckles.
“Look at you, pretty girl.” He picks up your leg, kissing the inside of your ankle, and you’re not sure what’s happening. You’re half convinced it’s a dream. “Can’t even mouth me back? That worked up, just from some dirty talk?”
His fingers graze the soft skin under your knee, and you squeak. He leans forward, dragging his hand a little lower. Along the back of your thigh. You press your legs together, sure that you’re leaking through your panties.
“Dreamt about how you’d taste.” He mutters, and suddenly you’re being dragged forward. Dean grabs your ankles and pulled them into his lap, leaning down to haul the rest of your body up.
You stare at him, your faces suddenly only a breath apart. He’s so close. So warm and close, and you’re slumping over him like a ragdoll, your lips parted and breathing shallow. Dean splays a hand on your back, and you arch into it without thought.
“Jesus, you’re reactive.” He mutters, his attention dropping to your panting, swollen lips. “You really- Sweetheart, I need you to tell me you’re alright. If I…”
He trails off, his arm around your lower back wrapping a little tighter. The angle brings you closer, lets his fingers dip under the band of your shorts, tracing over the skin where your thighs and core meet. You shudder, leaning closer, and Dean stares at you like he’s watching a miracle.
“Dean…” You gasp, and his throat bobs.
“Breathe.” He reminds gently, flexing his hand on your back, and you nod.
The ragged, desperate breath you take only makes his eyes glint sharply. He’s leaning back on the couch, letting you settle in closer. You don’t think, after this much time, you can ever be close enough.
Dean’s hand drags up to cup the back of your head, then around to trace over your face. Your eyes flutter, your breath catching, and his eyes go darker. You’re only made of fire now. Melted so far into him that you can only feel him, only get drunk on his featherlight touch.
“Are- Are you serious?” You whisper, because you have to check.
Dean nods, not offering a split second for doubt. “Deadly. You want your dare, baby?”
Baby. That’s not something he calls girls at bars. That’s something that feels delicate. Something that makes your heart grow wings and start to flutter. You nod, and his mouth curls up.
“Tell me what you want.” He mutters.
You don’t have to think. You’re not sure you can anymore. “You.”
Dean’s throat bobs, his voice dropping lowers. “How.”
“Anything.” Your fingers grab at his shirt. “Please.”
For a moment, Dean stares at you. Looks at you the same way he looks at a case, like he’s trying to figure everything out before he moves with a cutthroat efficiency. But he’s taking more time on you. His thumb is caressing your cheekbone, his fingers near your core toying with your panties. You can’t take it. You shift slightly, making his knuckles graze over your heat.
Dean’s jaw tightens, and he stills completely. For a second, you’re worried you took it too far. That you already ruined it.
Then the tip of his forefinger drags up the wet spot on your panties, pressing between your pussy lips through the fabric. You moan, loud and shameless, bucking into his hand.
A low rumbling sound comes from Dean’s chest. It’s possessive, vibrating against your core, and you start to grind desperately against his hand.
“De- Dean-“
“You got no idea.” He mutters, repeating the motion with two fingers, the pressure just a little firmer. “How many times I’ve thought about this. No fuckin’ idea, baby, all the shit you do to me.”
He grabs your hand suddenly, planting it over his heart. You can feel the uneven rhythm, almost in perfect time with yours. Dean smirks at your slack expression, dragging your ruined underwear to the side. One thick finger teases your fluttering hole, and you bite your lips to stop the whine.
“Ah.” Dean stops, pulling slightly away. “Wanna hear it.”
He presses his finger back, pushing it slowly into your drenched heat, and you let yourself moan. Dean hums, crooking deep inside of you and tickling over that one spot deep inside of you, making your pussy contract around his finger.
“Fuck…” He groans, his head ducking to kiss along your jaw. “You’re so fuckin’ wet for me, aren’t you. You been soaked this whole damn time?”
He drags his finger slowly out before slamming it back up, adding a second with it and splitting you open. You squeal, nails scratching at his shoulders, and he groans against your throat.
“Only get like this for me. Bet you been waitin’ this whole time, hoping I’d touch your greedy fuckin’ pussy like this-“
“Yes.” You moan, turning your head against his, holding on for dear life as his fingers start to scissor. “Just- Just for you, Dean- Yes-“
That same deep sound rumbles from Dean’s chest again, and he grabs your neck, dragging your mouth over his in a harsh, claiming kiss. Your mouth is slack against his, taking him in with loud whimpers and broken pleas, his fingers drilling into your cunt at a skin slapping, brutal pace.
Dean moans against your lips, sucking one the lower one as he twists his fingers deep in your pussy, bullying your g-spot until you’re squirming hopelessly in his arms. His hand on your throat slides up into your hair, pulling you deeper into the kiss. You’re grinding on him so that your clit rubs over the hard budgle in his jeans, and in the split second where you pull away for air, you catch a glimpse of Dean’s wrecked, drunken face.
It’s not the beer. You can barely even taste it on his lips.
It’s just you. He wants you.
Dean slams his hand into your so hard stars dance at the edges of you vison, and you seize up around him. Your whole body shakes with the orgasm he’s dragging from your pussy, and when his hand glides back to your cheek, you turn to try and kiss at his wrist.
His throat bobs, and he tests his thumb on your kiss-swollen lips. You flick your tongue over the pad his finger, and he groans. He’s pulling you through the orgasm with beckoning fingers on your g-spot, and you’re almost drooling on his hand. He slowly pushing his thumb a little further, and you start to suck on it without hesitation, just fucking desperate to have a little more. Dean ruts up with a grunt, hitting your clit, and moan lewdly, eyes rolling back as you swirl your tongue around his thumb.
“Son of a bitch.” He growls, and you pull on his shirt, desperate to feel the heat of his skin against yours. “Look at you, sweetheart.“ He pulls his hand out, slapping your pussy once, and you moan around him. “Fuck yeah, you like it, don’t you. Like lettin’ me play with this pussy ‘till you’re screaming.”
You whine, eyes fluttering, and Dean groans.
“So damn desperate.” He mutters, scanning over your flushed, dazed expression as he starts to rub tight circles around your clit. “When was the last time someone took care of you, baby? What motherfucker was touchin’ you so bad that you can work up this damn fast.”
He pulls his thumb out of your mouth, spanking your clit before going back to dragging those taunting circles, and the confession pours thoughtlessly out of your mushy brain.
“No one.” You whimper. “No- No one does it for me, Dean- No one, I- I need-“
You cry out as he hits your oversensitive pussy again, this time going faster and faster, making your whole body tremble in his arms. You keen in his hand, your fingers dragging down his chest to scrape against his abdomen. Dean grunts, his free hand ducking under your shirt to wrap around you back, holding you just how he wants in his lap. When you try to do the same, his muscles seize up under your touch, and he makes a deep, feral sound that only makes you come undone all on it’s own. He starts to kiss and lick at your shoulders, your collar, your chest.
“Say it.” He grunts against your skin, nipping at soft skin. “Tell me, sweetheart, who do you need-“
He starts to rub back and forth on your clit with every slap, and there’s something hot like lava winding in your lower stomach. It’s strange, but not bad, almost like you have to pee. You almost grab his wrist to stop it, but it’s also driving you so close to an edge you want to tumble over, so you just moan.
“C’mon-“ Dean’s rock hard against your inner thigh, fucking up against the full flesh as he keeps working your pulsing clit. “Words, baby, use ‘em for me, who do you need-“
“You.” dropping your brow against his. Your gaze falls to where your bodies are pressed together, and it’s the most sinful, amazing thing you’ve ever seen. “Need you, Dean, needed you, couldn’t- Couldn’t with anyone else- Oh my god-“
Dean yanks your head back up, his lips slamming passively over yours. You almost scream as you orgasm tears through you, and the lava gushes down with your release. You can feel your whole body rolling, your head trying to tip back but trapped in Dean’s hold, his lips working restlessly over yours as he works you through the orgasm.
He makes the hottest sound you’ve ever heard, when your slick hits his hand, and suddenly three fingers are being slammed into your cunt. You’re gaping, the pleasure overwhelming, and Dean’s working you open like he’s trying to take more still. You didn’t know this, squirt like a fucking porn star, but the shame that’s burning on your cheeks is nothing to the way Dean seems to have gone feral.
You’re being almost thrown off his lap and into the couch cushions, your pussy spasming with overstimulation, but Dean doesn’t seem to care. He rips off your shorts, his eyes black with desire, and bites at your inner thigh as the after-shocks of the orgasm spray on his face. He moans on your skin, his tongue dragging over the little hurt, and you moan desperately, somehow not wrung so far out that you want him to stop.
He checks, though. Even as you roll up against his jaw, Dean pins you to the couch with one hand and looks up at you with raised brows. Your fingers slide into his hair, the sight almost enough to make you cum again. His pussydrunk expression, his sheer attention, the weight of him between your legs. You take a ragged breath, and nod.
“How many-“
“Anything.” You breathe, trying to spread your legs wider. “Please.”
Dean’s throat bobs, and he nods. He watches you, as he parts your puffed lips with two fingers, dragging his thumb over your fluttering hole. When you squirm under him he chuckles, grabbing your shaking thighs and pulling them over his shoulders. He spits, right on your clit, and you make a high, breathy noise you didn’t know you could make.
“Dean…”
“I know.” He mutters. “I’ve got you, baby, but- Fuck-“ He looks down to what you’re sure is a pathetically glistening, fluttering pussy.
There’s nothing but admiration in his eyes, though. And he leans forward, pressing one soft kiss over your clit, then another. His tongue darts out, flicking back and forth, and your legs tighten around him. He groans, his hands gliding down over your ass, and he squeezes once as he flattens his tongue on your cunts and groans.
You pull at his hair, the sensation overwhelming, and he leans back, kneading at your ass.
“Beautiful.” He mutters, kissing over your entrance. Dipping his tongue slightly in, and chuckling when you squeal. “So. Fuckin’. Beautiful.”
He kisses up your pussy with every word, and you’d protest if you could think, but it’s only Dean. Only his tongue, licking slow, lazy stripes up your pussy. Swirling around your clit before changing to tight, quick kitten licks that make you writhe. He’s not playing with you anymore. Not like a toy, just having fun with your willing body. He’s eating you like a man starved, playing you like an instrument.
It’s relentless, his mouth covering your pussy wholly, his tongue tracing around your clit before sucking on it, his tongue flicking in a rhythm with his hands kneading your ass, before dragging down to your fluttering hole and tongue fucking you shallowly as his nose bumps your clit. His stubble tickles your thighs, the open mouth kisses he leaves all over your core making you roll into his face, even as the sensations become dizzying. You’re stupid beneath him, barely able to breath as he move back to licking your clit like ice cream, his tongue twisting and pressing, his hands pulling your ass off the cushions be can bury his face deeper into your sensitive pussy.
You can feel it coming again. It’s too much, and still not enough, burning in your cunt as he eats you alive.
“Can’t-“ You squeak. “Can’t- Dean, I- God, I can’t-“
“Yes, you can.” He grunts against you, slapping your ass as he starting to shake his tongue back and forth over your clit.
You scream, pulling at your hair and locking your thighs tight enough to suffocate him, but that only drives him on. Dean nips and tongue fucks your whole pussy, his whole face molded into your core, and you can feel it again. It’s building faster than last time, but stronger. Your whole body is a live wire about to snap, and Dean’s lighting, striking you in all the right places.
It happens again. Pleasure washes through you, your vison going white as you almost drown in your own orgasm. Dean moans against your pussy as it squirts into his face, and when you blink through blurry, dazed eyes he’s fucking his hips into the couch. He’s getting off on it, on you squirting into his open mouth, and the thought drags your orgasm out even longer.
Dean grunts, pinning you to the cushions as you start to come down, still not finished with you. His tongue his softer now, lapping you up as you tremble below him. When you try to wiggle away he pulls your right back, humming a soft praise on your skin and kissing right over your mess of a pussy.
He rises back over your slowly, kissing up your whole body with no rush. When he reaches your neck you grab his face between your hands, dragging him right back up to your mouth. You need it. The gentle tenderness of this kiss, the kind of one that might trick you into thinking you’re lovers rather than just a quick fuck.
Like he can read you mind, Dean rises back up. There’s a soft awe in his face, as he brushers away the hair stuck to your brow.
“Ask me another truth.” He mutters, and you laugh weakly.
“Dean-“
“C’mon.” He drags his hand slowly up your side, like he’s memorizing it. “Please.”
You blink at him, and you can see it written over his face. He needs it like this. He’s given you everything he has, and the slight shield is all he needs for the that last, shrouded and raw part of his heart. The part you think he moved into you with his tongue. That you can feel, unsteady under your hand.
“Truth.” You whisper, and he lets out a heavy breath. “What are you thinking?”
Dean’s lips twitch, and he grabs your hand on his chest. Pulls it up to his lips, kissing it gently. Like a gentleman, like you’re not still stupid and high on him.
“I’m thinkin’ I love you.” He rasps. “And that I’m real bad at this stuff, but- I can’t do that once. You’re…”
He shakes his head, words visibly failing him, and you smile.
“Ask me now.”
He swallows. “You don’t gotta-“
“Ask me.” You whisper, squeezing his hand in yours. “You know I love truths.”
Dean chuckles under his breath. “Yeah alright. Do you…”
“Yeah. I love you.”
“Baby, you really-“
“It’s truth, Dean.” You say softly. “I do.”
He smiles, and it’s wide and boyish again. He’s draped and stained all over you, and when he leans down to kiss you again, even the sweetness of it is filling. You’re developing a taste for it. Being touched all the time. It’s like being dropped into an oasis, after years of being stranded in a desert.
Dean clings to you in the same way, when he finally just settles fully over your body. You hold him there, brushing your fingers through his hair as he buries his face in your breasts.
You think he’s going to stay there for a while. You might suggest he never leave.
And with how he smiles at you, you don’t think he’s going to protest that idea at all.
✦End note: guys can you black out from writing about sex?✦
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bucky seeing p0rn for the first time after the dating apps don’t work out👀
I'm deadddd, this was so vague so I just ran with it
The Education Of James Buchanan Barnes
pairing | post!tfatws!bucky x fem!reader
word count | 6.3k words
summary | when dating apps fail him and thirst traps become his downfall, bucky barnes finds himself spiraling down the internet’s most unholy rabbit hole—pornhub.
what starts as horrified research turns into full-blown obsession... especially when you, his sharp-tongued best friend, catch him red-handed and make very sure he lives out every filthy fantasy he’s been hiding.
tags | (18+) MDNI, smut, unprotected sex, rough sex, face sitting, breeding kink dirty talk, roleplay mentions, overstimulation, sexual humor, porn discovery, reader catches bucky watching porn, friends to very horny lovers, reader is a menace, teasing, flustered bucky, dom!bucky, subtle power play, consent is sexy, reader rides his face, doggy style, missionary? i hardly know her, mutual pining (solved by porn), no use of y/n, reader is a problem and bucky loves it, aftercare.
a/n | yeah, I definitely went overboard with this. I hope you freaks enjoy this
taglist | if you wanna be added to my bucky barnes masterlist just add your username to my taglist
likes comments and reblogs are much appreciated ✨✨
sᴇʀɪᴇs ᴍᴀsᴛᴇʀʟɪsᴛ
ɴᴇxᴛ ᴘᴀʀᴛ
divider by @cafekitsune
You sipped your drink slowly, already biting the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing as Bucky glared into his beer like it had personally betrayed him.
“So,” Sam started, barely hiding his smirk. “How was the date with... what was her name again? Velvet? Vixen?”
“Vesper,” Bucky muttered, dragging a hand down his face. “And she asked if I’d be into choking her with my vibranium arm before we even finished our drinks.”
You snorted into your glass.
Sam leaned forward, grinning. “I mean... was she wrong?”
“Sam.” Bucky’s glare was instant, but mostly performative. “I just met her.”
You glanced at him over your glass, amused. “What app did you find this one on?”
He groaned. “The same one you said was ‘normal.’”
“No one said it was normal,” you said, raising a brow. “I said it was better than Tinder. That’s not a high bar.”
Bucky leaned back with a sigh, looking thoroughly done with the entire 21st century. “I miss when people met at soda shops and asked each other about their families instead of sending... pictures of their genitals.”
Sam barked a laugh. “Aw, poor Grandpa’s overwhelmed by the sex-positive future.”
“You know what’s not positive?” Bucky muttered. “The fact that I Googled ‘how to get back out of the dating app’ and it sent me to a subreddit with people just as confused as I am.”
You exchanged a look with Sam, both of you clearly enjoying this way too much.
“Have you... considered other ways to meet people?” you asked, trying not to grin. “Like not being a digital hermit?”
Bucky looked between the two of you, deadpan. “I’m this close to living in the jungle again.”
Sam raised his glass. “To Bucky Barnes, the only man who can bench-press a car but can’t survive Hinge.”
Bucky slammed his glass down—not hard, but with enough force to earn a side-eye from the bartender.
“I just don’t get it,” he muttered. “I’m trying to talk to these women like a normal person. I say, ‘Hi, how was your day?’ and one of them responds with—” he fumbled with his phone, squinting at the screen, “‘Send me a pic of the arm, baby, I wanna see what’s gonna rearrange my insides.’”
You choked.
Sam full-on cackled, grabbing his chest. “Wait—rearrange her insides? Yo, that’s poetry.”
“She sent a GIF after that,” Bucky went on, staring at the phone like it might explode. “A GIF. Of a hydraulic press crushing a watermelon. What does that mean?”
“I’m gonna die,” you wheezed, nearly spilling your drink. “She wants you to hydraulically press her coochie, Barnes. Come on.”
“I thought she was making a smoothie metaphor!” Bucky snapped. “And then another one asked if I was into CNC. I said I didn’t know what that meant, and she said ‘perfect.’”
Sam wiped a tear from his eye. “Oh my god—Bucky, you’re gonna end up in someone’s kink diary.”
“She sent me a TikTok about edging,” Bucky added, horror slowly overtaking his face. “I thought it was about gardening.”
You completely lost it, head in your arms on the table. “Please stop, I can’t breathe.”
Bucky scowled. “I’m serious! She said she wanted to edge me for hours, and I said that sounded peaceful, like a nice walk—and she sent back forty-seven emojis.”
Sam gasped between wheezes. “You’re getting sexted in hieroglyphics and you think it’s a hike, I’m begging you to never leave the house again.”
Bucky looked between you both, betrayal written across his face. “I survived Hydra. I survived seventy years of brainwashing. But I will not survive being called ‘daddy’ by a woman who lists her job as ‘freelance foot model and energy witch.’”
“Wait—did she have the crystals?” you asked, barely able to form the words.
He nodded grimly. “She said my aura was ‘screaming trauma kink.’”
Sam actually slid off the stool, wheezing on the floor.
He shut the door behind him with a dull thunk, then stood there for a moment in the silence. The kind that pressed in around the edges when no one else was around. Just him, the creak of the old radiator, and the words “rearrange my insides” still echoing in his head like a ghost.
Bucky sighed, tossed his jacket onto the back of a chair, and walked into the kitchen, opening the fridge as if disappointment wouldn’t be waiting there too. One beer left. Great.
He grabbed it, popped the cap off with his metal hand, and made his way over to his laptop.
It sat there on the table like a challenge.
He opened it. The familiar whir kicked on. A sigh slipped through his teeth.
“I fought in two wars,” he muttered to himself. “Survived Hydra. Took down a helicarrier. But this? This is the real enemy.”
He hesitated, fingers hovering over the keyboard.
Then he typed:
"What does CNC mean?"
Enter.
He leaned forward slowly, reading the top search result. Then the second.
His eyebrows pulled together. His mouth fell open just slightly.
"...Consensual non-consent?"
He clicked the link. Read further.
He leaned back in his chair like he’d just been shot.
“Why—why would anyone want that?” he muttered, scandalized. “That’s just... that’s just assault with permission.”
Still, he didn’t close the tab.
He opened a new one instead.
"Edging meaning (not gardening)"
More links. More acronyms. More trauma.
His face contorted in quiet horror as he scanned descriptions, diagrams, tips and techniques.
His beer sat forgotten on the table.
Eventually, he clicked a link that just said “beginner’s guide to porn kinks.” It was a blog. Fairly clinical. Until it wasn’t.
Then he clicked another.
And another.
Until eventually he wound up on a site with thumbnails—little videos with previews. Titles he didn’t fully understand.
He stared at one.
A girl, on her knees, mouth open, eyes wide.
Title: “Training My Pretty Submissive Brat”
He blinked. Then hovered. Clicked.
The video loaded.
He sat still, very still, as it started playing.
And then...
“What the hell—” he whispered.
The guy was talking. Dirty. Commanding.
The girl was moaning like someone had just whispered state secrets in her ear. She was calling him sir. Begging. Crying out when he—
Bucky slammed the spacebar to pause the video, hand clenched on the table.
He stood. Paced.
‘I shouldn’t be watching this,’ he thought, running his hand through his hair. ‘This is wrong. This is not—that’s not—’
He looked back at the screen.
Unpaused.
A few seconds passed.
He sat again.
Watched. Silent. Rigid.
His jaw clenched. His eyes darted across the screen like he was scanning enemy movement.
Then his hand—his metal hand—tapped the edge of the keyboard.
Paused again.
His chest rose and fell.
“I mean… he’s not hurting her,” he thought. “She’s asking for it. She likes it.”
Beat.
“And she’s loud.”
He sat back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest, glaring at the paused screen like it had insulted him personally.
Then he muttered, “Is that what people want now?”
He reopened the search bar.
"How to talk dirty in bed"
The search results hit him like a grenade.
By the third article, his ears were red. His fingers hovered over the trackpad like they didn’t know whether to scroll or just snap the whole laptop in half.
He clicked another video.
This one was slower. More intimate.
The woman straddled the guy’s lap, whispering in his ear. He growled something back, then pushed her down on the bed—
Bucky’s breath caught.
He didn’t even notice his hand moving under the table at first.
Didn’t notice the low groan that slipped from his throat when the man on screen said, “Good girl—just like that.”
He froze. Eyes wide. Mouth dry.
He swallowed hard.
“…I need another beer.”
But he didn’t move.
Didn’t stop watching.
Because something in him had been starved for this. For contact. For control. For someone wanting him, even in fantasy.
The next video autoplayed before he could stop it.
Another couple. This time, softer lighting. Moaning, whispered praise. Her back arched under his touch as he moved slow, deliberate, like every second was sacred.
Bucky swallowed hard.
He sat motionless for a full minute.
Then his hand drifted down.
Hesitant. Awkward.
He undid the button of his jeans, fingers brushing over the bulge in his briefs. The contact was enough to make his breath stutter.
“Jesus,” he whispered.
He shifted in his seat, pushed his jeans down just enough, and curled his hand around himself. Warm skin against cool air. His metal hand clenched uselessly on the table as the other moved slowly, uncertain.
The sounds from the video—soft, rhythmic, intimate—filled the room.
And Bucky gave in.
His eyes didn’t close. He watched—studied—the way the man touched her, held her, spoke to her like she was something precious and filthy all at once.
“Such a good girl,” the man murmured. “Taking all of me. Just like that.”
Bucky bit down on a groan, his hand moving faster now, hips twitching in his seat.
He imagined saying those words.
And then—
He imagined you.
Your voice, sharp and sarcastic, going breathy and soft when he touched you. Your legs around his waist. Your fingers in his hair. Your mouth whispering his name like it meant something.
And that thought—you, under him, with him—wrecked him.
He jerked harder, gritting his teeth, chest rising fast.
A low moan slipped out. Sharp. Uncontrolled.
His head fell back, eyes clenched shut as heat coiled in his gut. His body trembled.
One more stroke—
And he came.
Hard.
He let out a strangled noise, hips lifting off the couch, body seizing as white-hot pleasure shot through him. His hand slowed, milked every last pulse, until the aftershocks faded and all that was left was—
Silence. Reality. Shame.
His breath was harsh in his ears.
The screen was still playing.
The woman moaned, laughing, pulling the man closer.
Bucky stared. Then looked down.
At himself. At the mess.
At the way his hand was still wrapped around his cock, softening now, shame creeping in like a slow burn.
He let go like he’d been scalded.
The aftershocks hadn’t even faded before the guilt hit—cold and immediate.
Not from what he’d watched.
Not even from what he’d done.
But from who he’d seen in his mind while he did it.
You.
You, laughing beside him at the bar. You, rolling your eyes at his brooding. You, calling him “grandpa” and meaning it with affection.
You—beneath him, moaning, touching, giving yourself to him in the fantasy that had just ripped through his body.
His stomach twisted.
He yanked his pants back up, hands clumsy, face burning not with arousal now—but with shame.
“Fuck,” he muttered, pacing, one hand raking through his hair, the other clenching into a fist. “Fuck—what the hell’s wrong with me?”
You were his friend.
You were real.
And he’d just used the idea of you like… like some porn star on a screen.
His jaw tightened. He couldn’t look at the laptop. Couldn’t look at himself. He felt dirty—not because he’d touched himself, but because it felt like a betrayal. A violation of something pure.
He sat down heavily on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, head in his hands.
That hadn’t been just need.
That had been you.
And now he didn’t know how the hell he was supposed to look you in the eye again.
A Few Weeks Later
There was a knock at the door.
Three knocks, then a pause.
Then two more.
“Come on, Barnes,” your voice called through the door. “I brought sacrificial offerings.”
Bucky hesitated.
He sat in the dark, boots still on, bruised knuckles resting against his knees. His hoodie clung to him, sweat-damp and rumpled, his mind still halfway in the mission, halfway in the same loop it had been stuck in for weeks.
But it was you.
He got up slowly and opened the door.
You stood there with a paper bag in one hand, a six-pack in the other, grinning like you had zero intention of leaving whether he wanted you to or not.
“You gonna let me in or should I start monologuing like a Bond villain?”
He stepped aside without a word.
You strolled in like you owned the place, already heading to the kitchen with practiced ease.
“Brought dumplings, noodles, and enough alcohol to bleach the taste of both from your soul,” you said, setting things down. “You looked like someone clubbed you with your own metal arm last mission, so—figured I’d play nurse. A sexy, underqualified nurse with boundary issues.”
Bucky closed the door quietly behind you.
“You’re not a nurse,” he muttered.
“Not with that attitude.”
You popped the beers open, handed him one, then flopped onto his couch like you lived there. Legs kicked up, food containers opened without ceremony, your usual grin in place.
He stood a few feet away, beer untouched in his hand.
He hadn’t seen you in weeks—not really. He’d ducked every casual run-in, bailed on team movie nights, even ghosted your texts under the excuse of "needing space." He figured you noticed.
You just hadn’t said anything.
Until now.
You eyed him, casually, between bites. “You gonna sit down or do I need to pull you onto the couch like a Victorian housewife?”
He sat. Slowly. Farther away than usual.
You noticed. Of course you did. But you didn’t call him on it.
Not yet.
Instead, you nudged a container toward him and said, “Eat, soldier. You look like a sad, haunted lumberjack.”
And still—he didn’t say a word.
Because all he could think about, sitting beside you again after a month of silence, was the way your mouth had looked in that fantasy.
The way your voice had sounded moaning his name.
The way he’d used the memory of your real, friendly, teasing self to—
He swallowed thickly.
You kept eating, casual, sharp, familiar.
Exactly how he remembered. Exactly what made it so much worse.
You wiped your fingers on a napkin, leaned back, and gave him a look.
“Alright. You look like you’re two seconds from overthinking yourself into an early grave. Movie time. Something with violence or explosions—your love language.”
Before he could protest, you were already standing and heading toward his desk.
“Wait—” he said, starting to rise, but too slow.
You flipped open his laptop. “Let’s see what Grandpa Barnes has in his—”
“Ah—ahh—yes, please—!”
The moaning hit like a tactical nuke.
You froze.
So did he.
Both of you staring wide-eyed at the screen as the speakers screamed filth into the otherwise silent apartment.
Bucky moved fast.
Too fast.
He lunged over the couch, hand outstretched like he was taking enemy fire.
You dodged.
Smooth, practiced. Years of training paying off.
“No—” he barked, face already crimson, “Please—don’t—!”
“Oh my god—” you laughed, holding the laptop just out of reach. “Is this—is this Pornhub? Are you seriously—you are! You’ve been watching porn, you absolute degenerate.”
He groaned, dragging his hand down his face, mortified.
“Please give me the laptop,” he said, voice low, wounded, like you were holding a hostage.
But you were already clicking the spacebar, pausing the video mid-thrust.
“Oooh,” you said, squinting at the tab title. “‘Brat tamer destroys needy sub’? This is what you’re into?” You looked at him, eyebrows raised. “Bucky.”
“Stop,” he muttered, pacing now, hands on his hips. “I was—researching.”
“Researching what? The anatomy of a throatfuck?” you said, howling with laughter. “Brat tamer—are you even on Tumblr, old man?”
He looked like he wanted the floor to open and consume him.
“Do you know how much I regret every decision that led to this moment?”
You hugged the laptop to your chest dramatically. “I can’t believe you’ve been hiding this. The secrets. The shame. The kinks.”
“Give. It. Back.”
“Nope. Not until we find out if you’ve got a whole ‘rough dom Bucky’ fantasy folder stashed somewhere. You into praise? Degradation? Impact play? Knife play?”
He growled.
Actually growled.
And for half a second, it stopped being funny.
Because the way his eyes locked on you?
That wasn’t embarrassment anymore.
That was heat. Low. Dangerous.
You grinned, too drunk on the chaos to stop.
“Come on, Barnes,” you said, laptop still clutched like a prize. “Own it. You like a little bratty backtalk? You want someone to whimper please while you tell her she’s being a bad girl?”
He was still pacing, but slower now. Controlled. Coiled.
You didn’t notice.
You were too busy poking the bear.
“Is that what you’re into?” you teased, stepping back. “All that repressed soldier shit finally coming out in dirty little commands and throat grips?”
His eyes met yours. Still embarrassed, sure. But behind it? Something sharper. Something hungry.
“Y’know,” you added, tone light, teasing, “I always pegged you as more of a soft dom. Gentle hands. Lots of praise. But this? This is dark. Kinda filthy. Kinda hot.”
That did it. He moved.
Fast.
Faster than he should’ve.
One second, you were smirking with the laptop; the next, it was out of your hands, clattering to the couch. You were against the wall, chest rising, his body a breath away from yours.
His hand planted next to your head.
His voice low. Controlled.
“Enough.”
You stared at him. The air was suddenly thick. Your heart thudded once, hard.
“You think this is a joke?” he asked, eyes burning into you.
Your mouth parted, but no sound came out.
“You think I don’t know you’ve been toying with me since the moment you walked in?”
That teasing smile faltered—just a little.
“You keep pushing,” he murmured, leaning in, breath brushing your jaw. “You laugh, you flirt, you play. But you don’t realize... I’ve thought about you. In ways I shouldn’t.”
You swallowed.
Hard.
“I know what I watched,” he went on, voice rough, low, dangerous. “I know who I imagined.”
Your breath caught.
His eyes dropped to your lips.
Then back up.
And when he spoke again, it wasn’t a threat.
It was a promise.
“You want to see what I’m into?”
You blinked up at him—cornered, caged—but not afraid.
Not even close. Your smile crept back, slower this time. Calculated.
“Oh,” you murmured, tone shifting. “You imagined me?”
Bucky’s jaw tightened.
His silence said everything.
You pushed your palms slowly against his chest, feeling the way his body tensed under your touch. Solid. Barely held together.
You leaned in, lips brushing just beneath his ear.
“So tell me,” you whispered, voice low and coaxing. “If you’ve already pictured it, Barnes... what did I look like?”
He exhaled harshly through his nose.
You didn’t stop.
“What was I doing?” you went on, dragging your fingers down the curve of his chest. “Was I on my knees? Bent over? Did I ride you while you begged for it?”
A choked sound left him—more breath than voice.
You smiled against his neck. “Or do you want to tell me what you were doing to me?”
His hands twitched at his sides.
You could feel it—the war inside him. Guilt, hunger, restraint. And under all of it, the ache.
“Go on, James,” you whispered, using his real name like a secret. “Tell me. What do you like?”
His head dropped forward, forehead nearly touching yours.
A beat passed.
Then another.
And then—
“I want you on top,” he breathed, voice ragged. “I want you to sit on my face and ride it until your legs give out.”
Your eyes fluttered closed for half a second.
That was not the answer you expected first.
His voice deepened, like now that he’d started, he couldn’t stop.
“I want you on your knees, begging. I want to fuck you from behind so deep you forget your own name. I want to feel you come around me and not stop. I want to stay inside you.”
His breath hitched. His hands were fisting at his sides.
“And when I’m done, when you can’t even move anymore—I want to come in you and keep coming until you’re full of me. Until it’s dripping out of you.”
Your thighs clenched instinctively.
Your nails curled tighter into his chest.
And your voice, still low, still teasing—but now breathy, just slightly—said:
“Damn, Barnes. That’s a whole lot of filth for someone who didn’t even know what edging was last month.”
Your last teasing whisper hadn’t even left your lips before Bucky moved.
One second you were pinned between him and the wall, and the next, his hands were on your hips, gripping tight. Then the ground disappeared beneath your feet.
You gasped as he lifted you—easily, effortlessly—hauling you against his chest like you weighed nothing.
“Jesus, Barnes—” you started, but his mouth was already on yours.
It wasn’t a kiss. It was a claim.
Hot, rough, needy—his lips crashed into yours with the force of every filthy thought, every sleepless night, every moment he’d spent imagining your mouth, your body, your sound. His teeth scraped your bottom lip. His tongue pushed past yours. There was no hesitation. Just heat.
You moaned into it, hands threading into his hair, pulling him closer even as he carried you down the hall.
Your back hit the wall once, then the doorframe, and then—
The bed.
He dropped you onto it like a man starved for touch. The mattress creaked beneath you, sheets rumpled and cool against your skin as you propped yourself up on your elbows, breathless and grinning.
Bucky stood at the edge of the bed, looking at you like you were his undoing.
You tilted your head, voice low and mocking.
“Is this the part where you get all commanding, Sergeant? Or are you gonna make me do the work?”
His jaw clenched. He stepped forward. Then dropped his weight onto the bed, climbing over you, hands already at your thighs, dragging you down the sheets toward him.
“I told you not to push,” he growled.
You smiled, voice syrup-sweet.
“And I told you I liked pushing.”
His hands slipped under your shirt, yanking it over your head in one smooth motion. Your bra was next, tossed aside without ceremony. He ducked down immediately, mouth hot against your collarbone, then lower—kissing, biting, devouring.
You gasped, head falling back as his mouth found your breast, tongue circling your nipple before he sucked it between his lips, hard.
And still—you teased.
“Careful, Barnes. Gonna make a mess before you even get inside me.”
He looked up at you.
Eyes wild, hungry, dark.
And then he dragged your jeans down—fast, rough, like he didn’t have the patience for anything else—and crawled up between your legs, pressing his body to yours until there was nothing between you anymore.
“Then shut up,” he growled, grinding against you, his cock thick and hard through his jeans.
“Make me,” you whispered, pulling him down by the collar.
And he did.
His mouth was everywhere—jaw, neck, breasts, stomach—kissing, biting, groaning like he couldn’t get enough, like he didn’t know where to start because he wanted all of you.
Then he pulled back, breathing hard, eyes raking over your body like a man finally allowed to look.
“Get up,” he rasped, voice dark and thick with want.
You blinked up at him, dazed and grinning. “What?”
He sat back on his heels, hands gripping your thighs.
“I said get up,” he repeated. “I want you on my face.”
Your breath caught.
Dead serious.
You didn’t question it. Didn’t tease.
Instead, your lips curved into a slow smile as you shifted, sitting up, climbing over him with fluid, easy confidence.
“As you wish, Sergeant.”
That name hit him like a punch to the chest.
His hands guided you—firm, reverent, needy—until your knees were braced on either side of his head, your body hovering just above his lips.
He looked up at you like a man who’d prayed for this moment.
And then?
He pulled you down.
No hesitation.
Just mouth.
Hot, wet, desperate—he groaned the second he tasted you, tongue already lapping through your folds, lips sealing around your clit like he was starving.
Your head tipped back with a sharp gasp, fingers flying into his hair as your hips bucked against his mouth.
“Fuck—Bucky—”
He growled in response, hands gripping your ass, holding you down, keeping you there.
You rocked against him instinctively, gasping as his tongue flicked and circled, licked and sucked. He was moaning into you, mumbling things you couldn’t even make out—except for one word that hit clear, over and over:
“Mine.”
You looked down at him, eyes wild, mouth open.
His eyes met yours.
Dark. Glazed. Possessed.
You could see the man he used to be—the soldier, the weapon—but right now?
Right now he was just yours.
And you were his.
You couldn’t stop moving.
Couldn’t stop grinding against his mouth, against his tongue, the pleasure slamming through you in waves, harder and sharper with every flick, every suck.
Bucky moaned beneath you, the sound filthy, shameless, needy—like your taste was saving him from something dark and deep and buried.
His hands held you tighter, guiding your hips as you rocked against his mouth, your thighs trembling around his head.
“Fuck—fuck—” you gasped, one hand gripping the headboard, the other buried in his thick, messy hair. “Don’t stop—don’t you dare stop—”
He didn’t.
If anything, he doubled down—lips sealing tighter, tongue working you harder, sloppier, his groans vibrating against your clit like a live wire.
He wanted this.
He wanted to suffocate on you, drown in you.
And you gave it to him.
Because when you looked down, saw those glassy, desperate blue eyes staring up at you, pleading for more, there was no holding back.
The coil snapped.
Your whole body locked as the orgasm ripped through you, sharp and searing, your hips jerking uncontrollably against his mouth.
“Bucky—” you cried, voice cracking, thighs clamping around his head as you came—hard.
He didn’t let go.
He held you there, arms wrapped around your thighs, mouth still working you through it, licking and sucking every shudder, every twitch, like it was a gift.
You collapsed forward, one hand braced on the headboard behind his head, the other still clutching his hair, your body wrecked, shaking, soaked.
And when you finally opened your eyes—chest heaving, heart pounding—you looked down at him.
His lips were wet, chin glistening, eyes blown wide with hunger.
He looked like he could live there. Like he’d happily die there.
And all he said, voice hoarse and full of worship:
“You taste like heaven.”
You were still trembling when he sat up behind you, hands stroking your thighs, your hips, slow and reverent like he needed to remember the feel of you.
“You good?” he rasped, voice wrecked from moaning into you.
You nodded, barely catching your breath, lips curving into a slow smile.
“Still waiting for that doggystyle fantasy to come true, Sergeant.”
That was all it took.
He growled low in his throat, grabbing your hips, flipping you effortlessly onto your stomach. Before you could even laugh, his hands slid under your body and lifted your hips high, chest pressed down into the mattress.
You moaned, the stretch in your spine perfect, delicious.
He leaned over you, his breath hot at your ear.
“This how you want it?”
You arched your back, ass pushing against him. “This is how you want it.”
He growled again—low, deep, possessive.
“Exactly how I want it.”
Then you felt him—his cock, thick and hot, dragging through your soaked folds, the head catching on your entrance.
He didn’t push in yet.
Just rubbed, slow, deliberate, teasing.
You whimpered, tried to push back.
He gripped your hips tighter.
“Not yet,” he murmured. “You’re gonna feel all of it.”
Then—he pushed in.
Slow at first, but deep, the stretch burning in the best way as he filled you, inch by thick, pulsing inch.
“Fuck—” you moaned, hands clutching the sheets as he bottomed out.
He held still once he was fully inside.
Like he was savoring it.
Like this—being buried in you, your body wrapped tight around his—was what he’d been starving for.
Then he moved.
Pulled out halfway.
And slammed back in.
You cried out, the sound muffled by the sheets as he started thrusting, each snap of his hips harder, deeper, rougher than the last.
His hands gripped your waist like you were his anchor.
His rhythm brutal, relentless.
He fucked you like he meant it—like he’d dreamed of this for weeks, like every fantasy had led to this.
You were gasping, moaning, clawing at the bed.
“Look at you,” he panted behind you. “So fucking tight—taking me so good.”
You couldn’t speak.
Could barely breathe.
And when his hand snaked around to rub your clit, you screamed his name.
He didn’t let up.
Just pounded into you harder, faster, until the sound of skin meeting skin filled the room, filthy and loud and perfect.
He was so deep in you.
Deeper than anyone had ever been—physically, yes, but also fully. Like this was where he belonged. Like this was where you belonged.
His hips rolled, the angle perfect, his cock dragging against that sweet spot inside you with every rough, claiming thrust.
And his voice—low, wrecked, filthy—poured right into your ear.
“You like that, sweetheart?” he growled. “You like being on your knees for me?”
You whimpered, nodding, voice breathless.
“Yes, Bucky—fuck—so much.”
He leaned over you, chest flush to your back, still moving inside you—slow now, torturously deep, like he wanted to feel every pulse of you clenching around him.
“Yeah, you do,” he whispered, lips brushing your ear. “My good girl. So fuckin’ wet for me. You were dripping on my face—you know that?”
You moaned, your body shaking, ass pushing back into him.
“I saw you,” he said, his rhythm stuttering just to drag the next thrust out longer. “When I told you to sit on my face? You didn’t even hesitate. You just gave it to me.”
You gasped as his hand slid down your back, curving over your ass, squeezing.
“And now you’re letting me fuck you like this,” he went on. “Taking every inch like a good little cocksleeve. You want me to fill you up, don’t you?”
You shuddered, squeezing around him so tight he groaned.
“Yes,” you panted, shameless. “Fuck, Bucky—fill me up—please—I want it.”
He slammed into you harder, rhythm picking up again, fast and unforgiving.
“That’s it,” he growled. “That’s what I like. You begging. You dripping. You mine.”
You cried out, bracing yourself against the mattress as he drove into you faster now, hand slipping beneath to rub your clit again.
“Say it,” he hissed. “Tell me who you belong to.”
“You,” you choked. “You, Bucky—I’m yours.”
He groaned deep in his throat, thrusts faltering for a beat like the words knocked something loose in him.
Then he grabbed your hair, gently but firm, pulling you up just enough to kiss your neck—bite it—then whisper:
“When I come, I’m gonna stay inside you. Gonna keep you full for hours. Walk around dripping with me.”
You whined, thighs shaking, the pressure building again—faster, sharper.
“Bucky—please—”
His voice was a growl, low and thick with promise.
“Come for me.”
And you did.
Hard.
Your whole body clenched around him, your scream muffled by the sheets as the orgasm ripped through you, sharp and messy, your walls fluttering around his cock.
Your moan was still echoing when he grabbed your waist, pulling you back—up, off the bed, into his lap.
You barely had time to gasp before you were straddling him, his chest pressed flush to your back, his mouth at your neck, and his cock still inside you.
“Not done,” he growled, arms locking around your waist. “Not until I come in you.”
Then he thrust up into you—hard, deep, devastating.
You cried out, your body already overstimulated, every thrust hitting that perfect spot inside you all over again. His hands were everywhere—gripping your hips, spreading your thighs wider, keeping you open for him as he pounded up from beneath you with bruising rhythm.
“Fuck—Bucky—” you whimpered, hands flying back to clutch at his hair, his shoulder, anything.
He was relentless.
Grunting with each thrust, hips snapping up into you, his breath ragged against your ear.
“Feel that?” he rasped. “How deep I am? How you’re still so fuckin’ tight?”
You nodded, moaning, body jerking with every thrust.
“You’re gonna take it,” he hissed. “Every drop. I’m not pullin’ out—you hear me? I’m comin’ inside you.”
“Yes,” you gasped, barely able to speak. “Please—Bucky—fill me up—”
He groaned, deeper than before, thrusts losing rhythm, his grip bruising on your hips as his body started to shake.
“Fuckfuckfuck—gonna come—”
One last thrust—brutal, final—and he buried himself in you, arms tightening, head thrown back as he came hard, deep inside you.
You felt it.
Hot.
Thick.
Flooding you as he groaned your name, holding you tight in his lap, still pulsing inside you.
And he didn’t let go.
Didn’t move.
Just stayed there—buried—chest rising against your back, his breath warm at your neck, whispering,
“You’re mine.”
You collapsed forward onto the bed, body still twitching with aftershocks, breath ragged and uneven. Bucky followed, slow and heavy, staying close, still inside you for a moment longer like he couldn’t stand to let you go just yet.
Eventually, he pulled out with a soft groan.
You whimpered at the loss, hips squirming on instinct.
He stayed behind you for a second, hovering—eyes locked on the way his release slowly dripped out of you, sliding between your thighs and onto the sheets.
You could feel him watching.
You tilted your head back with a lazy grin. “If you’re gonna stare like that, at least have the decency to offer a towel.”
He huffed a rough laugh—half-exhausted, half-stunned. “Sorry. Just... didn’t wanna forget what that looks like.”
You stretched like a cat, all smug satisfaction and afterglow. “Yeah, well. Take a picture next time, Barnes.”
He leaned down, kissed your shoulder—soft, slow, grateful—then flopped beside you, dragging the sheet up over your tangled bodies.
His arm wrapped around your waist, warm and heavy.
Neither of you spoke for a minute.
Just the sound of your breathing slowing. Your bodies cooling.
Then he murmured, voice quiet against your skin, “You’re in my head now.”
You smiled, eyes drifting shut.
“Good,” you whispered. “Took you long enough.”
You lay there, tangled together in the warm quiet, your body still thrumming, skin slick and flushed. Bucky’s arm was wrapped around your waist, his breath slow against the back of your neck, lips occasionally brushing your shoulder like he wasn’t even conscious of doing it.
You grinned.
Couldn’t help it.
“So…” you said, voice casual. “How long you been jerking off to me, Barnes?”
He froze.
You felt the heat bloom off him before he even said a word.
“Don’t.”
Your grin widened. “What? It’s a fair question. Based on how fast you devoured me, I’m guessing… at least a month?”
He groaned into your shoulder. “You’re the worst.”
“I’m right,” you countered. “Don’t think I didn’t catch the way you almost cried when I said ‘as you wish, Sergeant.’ You’ve been unwell.”
He muttered something unintelligible and buried his face in your neck.
You rolled to face him, propped on one elbow, smirking as you traced a line down his chest.
“So, tell me,” you purred. “Now that you’ve got a taste... what do you want to do to me next time?”
His throat bobbed.
You waited.
“I dunno,” he mumbled.
“Oh, you know.” Your nails lightly scratched his ribs. “Come on, be brave. Tell me.”
He grumbled. “You’re gonna use it against me.”
“Correct,” you said sweetly. “Now spill.”
He exhaled slowly, then muttered:
“...Sixty-nine.”
You grinned. “Classic. What else?”
He covered his eyes with one hand. “Breeding.”
Your eyebrows lifted, delight flashing in your eyes. “Oh? Really leaned into the ‘stuff me full, Sarge’ angle, huh?”
“Shut up.”
“I won’t, actually,” you laughed, leaning closer, lips brushing his ear. “Anything else you wanna act out, Barnes? Any other dirty little fantasies you been keeping locked up?”
He hesitated.
Longer this time.
Then—reluctantly, quietly:
“...Roleplay.”
You blinked.
Then broke into a slow, wicked grin. “Okay, now this I need to hear.”
“Nope,” he said immediately, trying to roll away. “That’s enough honesty for one night—”
You climbed on top of him, straddling his hips, pinning him down with a devilish smile. “Tell me if I need to show up next time in a pencil skirt and glasses, or if I should wear that SHIELD catsuit and call you ‘Sir.’”
His eyes snapped open.
And you knew.
You gasped. “Oh my god. You have a thing for the whole ‘secret agent mission gone sideways’ scenario, don’t you?”
He groaned, dragging a hand over his face. “Please stop.”
“You want me to cuff you to a chair and interrogate you,” you went on gleefully. “Or, wait—no—you want to interrogate me.”
“I’m begging.”
You leaned in, lips brushing his ear. “You want me in red lipstick and a wiretap, don’t you?”
“I’m never telling you anything again.”
You leaned down, lips brushing his.
“I’m gonna make all your little roleplay dreams come true,” you whispered.
“Kill me now,” he muttered.
“Nope. Gotta save your energy. You’re not done with me yet.”
You grinned, smug and sated, curling down against his chest, eyes closing as his arm wrapped around you again.
✦Read on a03! - Bucky Masterlist - Main Masterlist✦
✦pairing: Bucky Barnes x female!reader✦
✦summary: You know Bucky hates you. He's not secret about it. He hates you so much, he can't seem to stand you even getting along with an agent on a mission, and can't help but rush to your side when you need him. That's what hate is, right?✦
✦warnings/tags: thunderbolt!reader, (not) enemies to lovers, pushy and creepy men, emotionally constipated Bucky Barnes, protective Bucky Barnes, light angst, fluff, pining, shameless smut, love confessions, (fingering, p in v sex, feral!bucky, possessive sex, softdom!bucky), no use of y/n✦
✦author's note: Slight warning for creepy men being creepy. Not Bucky tho. My king would never. Also shoutout to @deanwinchestersunhappythoughts for convincing me to finish this one!✦
Everyone knows that Bucky hates you.
It’s not something he hides, and if he’s trying to, he’s not doing it well. He leaves every room you enter, slipping out with a scowl and not a single word. If there’s a meeting, he sits so far across the table that it’s like he thinks you’re carrying the plague. Once he had to stand next to you in the back of a transport truck, and he spent the whole trip making a face like he was about to vomit.
You try to ignore it. There’s not much else you can do. It’s not like you haven’t spent countless nights staring at the ceiling, trying to figure out what you did to him. If it’s just your general face that he can’t stand, or your personality, of if you did something to deeply offend him the first time you met, and now you have no shot at even a friendship.
You don’t think you did. There hadn’t been a bump in the elevator, or a misunderstanding in the lobby, or some time a while ago where you’d been in the same Subway car, and sneezed on him. You’d know by now, because you’ve replayed every single subway ride you’ve ever taken over and over in your head, looking for a flash of Bucky’s face. There, on the street, in a coffee shop or some random building where you might have told him to go fuck himself, and forgotten entirely.
It seems unlikely. You don’t have a habit of telling people to go fuck themselves.
That’s the whole reason you have this job in the first place.
You’re the nice one. The diversity hire, who’s only there because she knows how to smile and not look like someone holding a gun to her head. You don’t run into conflict, and you always stick to the plan, and you don’t even like to leave a dirty dish in the sink for later, because you don’t want to force someone else to clean up after you. Let alone your grumpy, brooding roommates.
It’s painfully stark, the difference between them and you. It’s only grown more apparent, as time has passed. You run training with Yelena, and she has to give you time outs every time you apologize for punching her in the face. You’ll eat dinner on the night that Ava cooks, tell her that it’s good—it’s not amazing, but it’s food, and you know she worked hard on it—and she’ll look at you like you just announced you were blowing your brains out after dessert. John has taken to covering your mouth with a hand during meetings, because you always try to offer motivation or sympathy with the targets, and none of them care about that.
“You are weird little bird,” Alexei once told you, frowning at you from across the room.
You’d laughed softly, folding the corner of your book between your fingers. “Yeah?”
“Yes. You smile.”
“You smile.”
“I am complex man. I live full of happiness and anger. You are only happiness.” He’d narrowed his eyes. “Is there silent anger, brimming below songbird’s surface?”
“Don’t call her that.” Bucky had muttered, and you’d blinked. You hadn’t even realized he’d entered the room.
He’d walked over to the bookshelf, hands in his jacket pockets, not sparing you a single glance. Alexei had scoffed.
“Bucky Barnes, I am doing investigation. This is serious business, do not mock-“
“I’ll mock, Alexei, when you’re doing something pointless. There’s nothing to investigate.” He’d grabbed a book, and turned to Alexei, his back firmly to you. “She’s clean. We’ve checked.”
He’d walked out without another word, and you’d bitten on your lower lip until you tasted blood. Of course it hadn’t been a real defense. Bucky doesn’t care enough about you to defend you. He just didn’t want Alexei to waste his time on something as pointless as you.
So you know, that Bucky hates you. And he has no secret reason, because it’s just you. The rest of them got used to you after a few months, and even like you know. Yelena doesn’t bitch about the breaks, and lets you hold her guinea pig as long as you let her hold your crows. Ava sits with you while she reads, and doesn’t roll her eyes at every single thing you say. John once called you not entirely useless, which is John for incredibly important and useful.
Alexei made you a—rather poorly constructed, but very sweet—cake for your last birthday, and insisted everyone buy you at least one gift. They all put a shocking amount of effort into it as well, and it had been clear that you weren’t just Valentina’s happy, pretty invader anymore.
Even Bucky had gotten you something, and you’d pretended it meant something. That it hadn’t just been because Alexei threatened to rip out his spine if he didn’t.
It had just been a jacket. Thick and warm, shoved into your hands like he couldn’t let go of it fast enough.
“You get cold.” He’d grunted. “On missions.”
“I- I don’t-“
“Yes, you do. Your fingers shake, and your heart picks up. It’s dangerous.” He’d nodded to the jacket. “Wear that.”
You’d swallowed, as he’d walked away.
And you do. Wear it. You’re the exact kind of over-emotional and pathetic fool he thinks you are, so you wear it on every mission, and look at Bucky to see if he’s noticed.
He never has.
The rest of them love you, but Bucky doesn’t. There doesn’t seem to be much you can do about it, but you don’t give up. You’re still nice to him, and it’s only a little in the pathetic hope that he might look at you one day and realize that he was wrong. Until then, you cling to the fact that the rest of them like you. That it was a long, natural curve to get there—given how you got here, and what you are—but they all genuinely like you.
Of the team, Bob gets on with you the best. None of them question why—they likely assume you both just don’t like fighting—but you eat breakfast together every day, do the crossword puzzle, and go out for walks at least twice a week.
You’ve seen Bucky glaring at you, when you get back. He might think you’re wasting time, or putting you both in danger by just going outside as superheroes. As if he doesn’t know that if anyone is least likely to be in danger of an attack, it’s you and Bob. Like you didn’t have your fucking GPS’ on the whole time, and he’s not your boss anyway.
“You’re going to catch a cold, if you keep goin’ out there.” He’d grunted once, as you’d made tea in the kitchen after.
“That’s- Not actually how colds world.” You’d mumbled. “And I don’t get sick anyway.”
“Hm.” He might have been looking at you. You weren’t going to dignify it with a glance, because you’d see the loathing in his eyes, and your heart might split down your chest.
He’d just walked away. You’d stood in the kitchen for about five minutes after, head bowed, taking deep breaths through your nose.
Everyone loved you.
It was the in your nature, quite literally, to have everyone love you. That’s why you’re here. Not to whine about your own problems, not to burden people with your pain, but to be the lighthouse. Your powers and sweetness smooth over the violence and anger of the team. Your presence calms down press events, because none of them are ever mean to you. If there’s hand to hand combat you’re entirely, hopelessly useless, but no one even throws a punch at you, so it’s not a problem.
You’ve wondered if that’s why Bucky hates you. Because he thinks you’re messing with his brain, and he’s had enough of that for a lifetime.
But you’ve told them. You turn it on and off, and you never use it on people you’re close to.
Maybe Bucky didn’t believe you.
It doesn’t matter. He still hates you.
And it hurts more, than if anyone else did.
Because you’re an idiot, and you’ve had a crush on him since you were in fucking middle school. You watched all the Howling Commandos documentaries in history, and stared dreamily at him in the grainy footage. You’d liked his smile, and his loyalty, and his general, pretty face. When the news about Hydra, then Sokovia had broken, you’d had some friends mock you about your old man crush was a war criminal. When he’d been pardoned and ended up on the news with Captain America, you’d watch the footage maybe a little longer than you needed to.
You’d never wanted to meet him.
You’d never wanted to be a superhero in the first place. But college was fucking expensive, and the job market was shit, and you’d needed money fast. Valentina had offered it, as long as you used your powers.
That was something you hadn’t wanted to do either. You didn’t want to do most things. Didn’t want to go places people could hurt you. Places you could mess up, or disappoint someone, or be seen.
And this has been your greatest dream and worst nightmare.
Everyone can see you. You’re in the public eye every day, and held up like a shiny diamond to be admired.
They all love you. Last month a magazine ran a s hit piece about the New Avengers, and still called you The Princess, because you were all smiles and sweet words, lovely to look at and talk to, but not worth much in a fight. Compared to what they said about everyone else—calling John the Prince, because no one took him seriously, and he was a foolish ass for thinking they did, and Bucky The King, because he used fear from his past to enforce the New Avengers and their status now—they might as well have sent you flowers.
People had even been mad online, that they’d ever say something mean about you.
Bucky had heard that in the damage control meeting, and snorted.
Your heart had turned to fractured, tiny piece of glass that cut at your stomach and hands. You’d felt sick, and hadn’t been able to do much for the rest of the day, as his cruel little snort played over and over in your head.
He’d been your foolish dream, since you were a kid. You’d never wanted to meet him.
Because exactly what you thought would happen, did.
He hates you.
Bucky Barnes hates you.
And he doesn’t even care enough about you to do it behind your back.
“I don’t want anyone arguing with me about this one.” He says in the jet, and you don’t bother to look up from your feet.
You know he’s looking at you. You can feel it. And you don’t argue with him, not like the rest of them do. You just offer some ideas for how to improve the plan, or point out holes in his idea with polite words. He always looks at you like you spat up vomit on his suit.
So you don’t say anything.
That’s your goal for this mission. Be as nothing to Bucky as possible. Don’t let his glowers and cold words loop in your head for hours after, making you feel like you’re even less than you already know you are. Don’t think about if he’s looking at you, don’t try to be his friend, don’t indulge the fantasy of his attention.
Any attention. Even if he’s sneering that you’re an insufferable brat who needs to be coddled, it would be attention. Even if he touched you with anger in his hands and hatred in his eyes, at least he’d be touching you.
You’ve realized, that him hating you isn’t doing anything to make your crush on his go away. If anything, it’s making the whole situation worse, because apathy is harder to indulge than the idea of him slamming you against the wall and fucking you until all his frustration feels eased.
Which is the exact type of thought you’re not supposed to be having.
So you just keep staring at your hands. Bucky clears his throat, like he’s waiting for something, and you don’t give him the satisfaction.
He moves on.
“I got us a connection with a mercenary in the area, who’s been hunting these people down for years. We’re working together, so everyone is going to be civil with him. Right?”
Ava raises her hand next to you. “What are we calling civil?”
“I don’t know. Use your judgement. Or- Actually-" Bucky sighs. “No name callin’, no yellin’, and- Try to act like you’re a damn adult for two days. Can we do that?”
“You name call all the time, Bucky-“
“I’m the oldest, Walker. I’ve earned it.”
John rolls his eyes, and Yelena jumps in.
“Can we pheromone him?” She looks to you. “Can you pheromone him?”
“Um-“ You flush, your eyes instinctively shooting to Bucky.
His jaw is clenched, hands braced on his hips, and glaring at you with the usual silent disgust. You swallow, heat crawling over your skin. You can’t tell if it’s shame, or just the usual hunger for him. It doesn’t really matter anyway.
“I technically can.” You mumble, ripping your gaze away from Bucky. “If we need it. But- Bucky says he’s on our side. I don’t think I need to, right?”
You look to Bucky again. His nostrils flare, the fury on his face almost leaking into the air.
“Right.” He grunts, glare moving to Yelena. He launches into a longer brief, about the drug ring you’re going after, the agents details, but you don’t hear most of it. You’re too busy staring at the floor, hiding the tears brimming in your eyes.
Useless.
You can’t even make a choice by yourself. Fucking useless.
When you land, you’re first out of the jet. Your arms wrap tight around your stomach, head down, not glancing back to check if Bucky’s venomous glare is still trained on you. If it is, that’s fine. It’s fine. You’re fine, because it’s nothing new, nothing you didn’t expect, nothing you’re not just going to have to grow the fuck up about and get over-
You’re too lost in your own self-pity to see where you’re going.
You slam right into someone’s chest.
“Woah!” A deep voice laughs, big hands grabbing your shoulders and steadying you against a firm body. You squeak, trying to back up, but the hands just tighten. “Hey, are you-“
“She’s fine.” Bucky’s snaps from behind you, and whoever’s grabbing you stills.
“Barnes, you look like shit-“
“Six hour flight. We all look like shit. Let her go.”
The man releases you, and you stumble back a few paces. Into Bucky’s chest.
He grabs your upper arm, and your breath hitches pathetically. It’s the metal hand, and it’s solid and firm through your jacket, and your head starts to race with images of it running down your thighs with that same tight grip, sending shivers up your spine and molding you exactly how he’d want you-
He doesn’t want you.
Bucky’s hand flexes like he can’t bear to touch you, and he moves you off to the side. You swallow down the shame. He doesn’t get the satisfaction, doesn’t get to see how he’s slowly fucking killing you.
“What’s wrong with her?” The new man asks, and Bucky grunts.
“Told you. Long flight.”
You bite your lower lip, fingers curling on your side. If he didn’t just hate you, this might be considered cruel. It might be cruel anyway. But your skin is still burning where he touched it. And your heart still skips a beat when he says your name.
“This is Mulder. Mulder, this is-“
“I know who this is.” Mulder cuts Bucky off with your name, and you blink up at him in surprise.
He’s not bad to look at. Same dark hair as Bucky, just beardless and a little more of a haircut. His eyes are blue as well, if not a little more gray. He’s got a strong jaw. Thick build, and a friendly smile.
That’s directed at you. You return it tenitivly, and he laughs.
“Wow. You’re even prettier in person, sweetheart.”
You flush, standing a little taller. “Oh, um- Thank you?”
“No problem. You’re my favorite, you know.” He winks, still grinning. “I like these assholes just fine, but you? Very excited to work together.”
“I’m- Me too.” You offer, and Mulder opens his mouth—maybe to compliment you again, which you’re not sure you can emotionally handle right now—but Bucky cuts him off.
“We have time for talking later, Mulder. You bring the car?”
Mulder rolls his eyes. “Course I brought the car, Barnes. You think I’m a damn idiot.”
Bucky doesn’t answer. When you risk a glance over, he’s looking at Mulder with a coldness in his eyes you’ve never seen before. Even when he glares at you, there’s some heat in the hatred. Like he’s trying to figure out what kind of fire will smoke you out, like he hates you so much it’s making him recoil and physically tense at your mere existence.
He’s tensed as he glares at Mulder, too.
But rigid. Not a live wire set to snap. Something deeper, and less forgiving, that seems to be making his tongue sharper and words clipped.
“You live in these… Woods?” Yelena asks as Mulder piles you into his truck, and he shrugs.
“No, just been here for years, trying to catch these bastards. They’re slick, keep figuring out how to avoid me, I’ve chased them half across the world. Who knew they’d be holed up in the backyard of my damn operation.” He chuckles, glancing over to Bucky. “But that’s how Hydra stayed underground, wasn’t it? Plain sight?”
Bucky grunts. “Don’t know. Wasn’t exactly invited to all the strategy meetings.”
Mulder laughs again, and you frown. Bucky doesn’t like to talk about his time in Hydra with anyone. And laughing about it makes your gut prickle wrong, your tongue aching to jump in and say something about how it’s not really anyone’s business anyway, let alone Mulder’s to comment about. But Mudler continues before you can.
Probably for the best.
The last time you defended Bucky at a press event, he didn’t look at you for a week.
“We’re going to have to head into the city for a few days. Trace these asshole to their exact base, play it careful. I’ll send some of you in first, they know I’m looking for them. ‘Course, they’ll be thrilled to see me, but I’m trying to play it humble. Makes the attention I do give all the more exciting.” Mulder winks at you, and you flush.
Bucky didn’t mention if this man had powers. If that comment was just a coincidence, of if he’d known what you’ve been thinking about Bucky. If he’s a mind-reader, that’s going to be a real problem. You don’t know how to guard against a mind reader, and all your thoughts are pathetic, and what if he tells Bucky about them-
“How you know Bucky Barnes?” Alexei jumps in, staring at Mulder with almost open affection. “You go to pretty assassin school together? You take super solider serum?”
“Nope.” Mulder laughs again. He does that a lot. “I worked with Wilson, a while ago. Back when he was just a normal guy like me. Trained in Shield, left to figure out where my life is going after the fall. I admire the enhanced, though. You’ve gotta be a good person, to go through that change and come out the other side a good person.”
Bucky, Ava, and John all tense across the Van, Alexei puffs out his chest, and you just shrink into yourself.
Mulder says your name, still wearing that charming smile. “You especially, with what you can do? A worse person would abuse that.”
“I- I don’t-“
“She barely uses it.” Bucky grunts, and your nails dig into your side.
“Wow, Barnes. Didn’t know you spoke for her.”
Bucky works his jaw, and you really don’t understand what’s going on with him. He’s the one who said to play nice.
The least you can do is try and play nice for him.
“He’s right, Mulder.” You mumble. “It’s kind of- For emergencies only.”
“Again. Admirable.” Mulder grins at you in the mirror. “And you can call me Jack.”
You nod, still smiling, and glance back to Bucky. His face has settled into an almost unreadable stone mask.
Almost. You’ve spent so much time silently staring at him that you can read.
He’s furious.
You haven’t even started the job yet, and Bucky looks like he’s about to rip someone’s spine out. You don’t understand why—no one’s messed up, Mulder seems like a bit of an ass, but no more than the rest of you, and you haven’t done anything to piss him off yet—but you’re not foolish enough to ask.
You just let out a slow breath, and tip your head back against the rattling wall of the truck.
The mission is going to be long.
And you’re going to be caught in the center of it, just trying to keep your head above water around Bucky, and be a little fucking useful to the team.
To Mulder.
Because even if he’s an ass, you’re his favorite. And that makes the hair on your arms stand up, because what if you disappoint him. What if, when this is done, he decides that you’re not at all worth what you seem to be on paper.
That, at least, is something you can try to prevent. You’ve already lost Bucky—though you know you never had him in the first place—so you don’t need to waste the mission worrying about if he’s seeing you. It’s going to be all about Mudler.
“Jack,” he reminds you again, as you unload equipment in his makeshift base of a motel room. “You can call me Jack, sweetheart.”
You won’t mess this up.
“Okay.” You smile at him. “Jack.”
He grins right back, and across the room, there’s a loud crack as something breaks.
“Fuck, Bucky!” John shouts, and you look up to see him gaping at the mess of a computer on the floor. “What the hell, why did you-“
“It was weak.” Bucky grunts, and you can feel his glare on you again. “Just fuckin’ snapped when I picked it up. Not my fault.”
Mulder laughs, giving Bucky another lazy grin. “Well, don’t go breaking any of my other shit. I might start to take offense.”
“Noted.” Bucky grunts.
He doesn’t even crack a smile.
And you’ve seen him be grumpy on missions before. It’s almost his default setting, to act like a dad with a pack of unruly children who refuse to be house trained. But this is different. He looks like he’s seconds away from either breaking his own jaw, or slamming his fist into the wall.
The next few days are spent gathering intel about the operation, taking what Jack already has and blending it with anything the rest of you can find. Alexei translates some Russian documents, because every time he’s thrown into a field like this he just ends up getting drunk with the gang members. Yelena and John track down a few of the inner circle members. Bucky and Ava grab them and drag some information out with questionable methods, before dumping them in the snow. You and Jack track down a few of the known bases, as well as some of Jack’s informants, and get whatever you can.
“You should do your thing.” Jack mutters in your ear. He’s taken to standing rather close behind you. Close enough that you can feel the heat of his body.
You don’t mind it. It’s just a little strange.
“I don’t do my thing unless it’s an emergency.” You remind him softly, and he shrugs.
“If you don’t do it, I’ll never get to see it, and we might have to be on this case for weeks.”
“Jack…” You sigh—this isn’t the first time he’s tried to make you do it, and it probably won’t be the last—but he shakes his head, cutting you off smoothly.
“Actually,” his lips brush your ear, and you swallow. “Don’t do it. I want to stay on this case together.”
You weren’t going to do it in the first place. But there’s not really any good response to that, so you just hum and laugh weakly. The man you were waiting for walks through the door, and you’re saved from the conversation.
When you get back to the motel room, Jack runs the team through what the man told you. And for once, Bucky isn’t glaring at you. He’s glaring at Jack.
He’s been glaring at Jack a lot.
“We should reshuffle teams.” He grunts after a week, and Ava mock pouts.
“Aw, you’re sick of me already, Barnes?”
“No.” He snaps. “I just think it’s bad to stick to the same pattern on a mission like this. They’ll pick up on it.”
“Good point.” Jack nods, and Bucky shoots him such a withering glare you’re shocked it doesn’t actually kill him. “But it might be even better if we move into teams of three and four.”
Bucky opens his mouth, still glowering, but John cuts in first.
“Can I be with you two? If Yelena keeps shit-talking me in Russian, I’m actually going to punch her.”
Yelena snorts. “Walker, you could not lay a single little finger on me-“
“You wanna fuckin’ bet-“
“Hey.” Bucky snaps, and they both fall silent. “The hell did I say on the jet?”
“Not to insult him.” Yelena nods to Jack. “There was nothing about each other.”
“Yeah, Yelena’s right, we can fight, that’s our right as teammates-“
“John. Shut up.” Bucky rubs a hand over his face, letting out a low, long groan.
His eyes flick to you, then away just as fast. He lets out a heavy breath like someone’s physically hurting him.
“Fine. Whatever. John, you’re with them. Yelena, me and Ava.”
John grins, marching over to your side and raising his hand for a high five. You give it awkwardly, Jack a little more enthusiastically, and John flips off Bucky’s scowl.
“Suck it, Team Loser. We’re going to grab those dipshits first.”
You sigh, placing a hand lightly on his shoulder. “Not a competition, John.”
He rolls his eyes, grumbling something about how it could be, but drops it fast.
Bucky keeps glaring at you. You bite down the pain of it, same as always.
There’s still a job to do. Jack still likes you enough to want you on his team. You won’t mess that up.
The next few days pass in a blur. You’re closing in on the gang, Bucky’s still acting like everyone is insulting his mother to his face, and Jack hasn’t stopped trying to get you to use your powers.
He just wants to see it, is what he says, over and over. Even John jumped to your defense at one point, but Jack just laughed again, and said that John’s luck enough to be around you all the time. He just gets this moment.
“Unless you want more.” He smirks at you, and you flush.
John groans. “Jesus, no wonder Bucky hasn’t been sleeping.”
“Bucky hasn’t been what?” Your eyes shoot away from Jack, and John just shrugs.
“We’ve been bunking together. And Alexei, but I’ve tuned him out, he snores like a fucking monster truck-“
“No, I- I know that. Why isn’t Bucky sleeping?”
“Oh. ‘Cause.” John waves a hand, then moves on down the hallway. You open your mouth to call after him, but Jack stops you with a hand splayed on your lower back.
“Don’t worry about Barnes, sweetheart. I know how he can be.”
You frown at him. Bucky can be a dick, but you can all be a dick. And he’s got a lot on his shoulders, and a lot of shadows behind him. It’s amazing he’s standing at all, let alone still fighting. He’s earned being a little bit of an ass, even if it rips your heart out of your chest every single time.
“Bucky-“
“Come on.” Jack cuts you off, rubbing his hand up and down your spine. “Let’s go find this ass. So you can do the thing.”
You smile at him weakly. You won’t do the thing. But Jack, also, doesn’t seem willing to give up on asking you.
It’s almost three weeks, when you finally have a solid lead. Three weeks of Bucky looking like he wants to shoot someone and Jack being stuck to your side, before you finally have an ending in sight. There’s a bunker in the mountains, that should have all the evidence you need to bring the gang down.
You have one day, before a snowstorm blows in, and it becomes inaccessible for months. So you’ll move out in the morning, and spend the night doing what you do before every big move on a mission.
Drinking.
It’s a tradition they started before you joined. It’s time honored and well-kept, to the point that you’re pretty sure Alexei would throw actual tantrum if anyone forgot. You find somewhere with a pool table, a jukebox, and liquor. Everyone drinks until the room is spinning, and you’re all giggling and forgetting about your problems. The morning seems a million miles away, and the pain seems even further. It’s not drinking to celebrate. It’s drinking so that if tomorrow goes wrong, at least you were alive tonight.
Then you’re up at the crack of dawn, and you finish the job.
Usually, you spend the evening next to Yelena, having whatever she puts in front of you, giggling at stupid jokes, and pretending you’re not staring at Bucky’s handsome profile down the bar. He usually sits with Alexei or Walker, silent and annoyed by the whole thing, but slowly loosening up over the night. He’ll go play darts or chat with the bartender. If she’s lucky, he’ll be in a good enough mood to give some random girl a little attention, and you’ll go to the bathroom with your mouth tasting like bile.
You’ll splash your face, remind yourself that he hates you and you have no right to be bitter about this, and try not to look at him for the rest of the night. Which usually means dancing, trying to learn how to play pool—it’s been two years, you’re nowhere close, no matter how much John yells at you—and turning in the moment you spot Bucky’s random girl sitting on his lap.
But tonight, there’s no girl. A few of them have walked up to him, and he’s flat out ignored them. You feel a little bad for them, as they storm back to their friends. You understand, more than they could ever imagine, what it feels like. The sour sting of Bucky’s rejection, that feels like an open, infected wound. At least their’s will heal. You just keep poking at yours, until your guts are spilled all over the floor, and you can’t be bothered to pick them up.
You really are trying, not to look at him. To pay attention to what’s in front of you, because there’s no point. Bucky hates pity, even more than he hates you, and combining the two isn’t going to do anyone any favors. But he looks so sad. Still angry and hostile, but with a slump to his shoulders that tugs on your heart. Maybe now, if you just extended a slim, delicate olive branch—just an offer to listen, that will snap in half and take you with it—he’d accept it.
That’s all you can think about. Yelena’s sliding drinks in front of you, and Jack is cooing in your ear, but you can’t see or hear anything but Bucky. His gloved hand is turning the glass, his gaze trained on the movement of the water inside. His chest heaves, jaw ticking and mouth setting in a thin line. Jack says your name, but it sounds far away, so you just hum in acknowledgment.
“You’re gorgeous.” He murmurs in your ear, and you tilt your head at Bucky.
He’s oddly tense. Like he’s bracing for a fight.
“And you smell like sugar.” Jack is still talking. Bucky’s stopped turning his glass, his head bowing lower than before. “Look like an angel. Do we know if God is real, yet? Did he send you?”
“I dunno.” You mumble. Bucky’s spine just stiffened. Maybe there’s danger, and he just doesn’t want to worry anyone.
Jack plays with a strand of your hair. “If you’re not an angel, you’re a siren. I mean,” he laughs. “Cheap joke. That’s your code-name. But shit, you really nailed it. So smart, too.”
“She didn’t come up with her name.” Yelena says, some distance away. “Valentina did. She doesn’t like being called it, either.”
“Hm. She doesn’t like using her powers, doesn’t like her codename.” Jack laughs. “Maybe she should retire. Come live with me, sweetheart, you’ll never have to worry about anything again.”
You can hear Yelena respond something sharp, but you don’t really hear it.
A new, brave girl approached Bucky. He’d looked her up and down slowly, expression almost unreadable. The same stone mask from before, but just a little heavier.
He’s tired.
And he looks to you. For a split second, Bucky’s eyes lock with yours. You stare at him, leaning a little further forward. Jack is still playing with your hair, and you can feel his hand slide up your spine.
That pure coldness flashes through Bucky’s gaze, and he looks back to the girl.
Smiles at her.
He never smiles at you.
“I’m going to bed.” You tell no one particular. You don’t want to keep drinking. You’ll just start crying.
Jack volunteers to go with you. He keeps his hand on your back, as he walks you out of the bar. You can feel Bucky staring daggers at your back as you leave.
You’re able to hide your tears, in the sting of the cold wind. If Jack suspects they’re anything else, he doesn’t say anything. He’s mostly just babbling about how long he’s been working on this, and what he wants to do after, and what he likes doing with his free time.
“Do you like Vegas? You must be fun in Vegas.”
“I’ve never been to Vegas.” You mumble, wiping your nose on your jacket. It’s the jacket Bucky gave you.
Your throat hurts. He’s a good man. He’s a strong, good man who sits with Bob when he doesn’t feel well, and mocks John relentlessly but has his back in fights. He helps Ava with her suit upgrades, gives Yelena advice, and indulges all of Alexei’s stories about the Good Old Days, even throwing in a few extra facts if he’s in a good mood.
It’s just you.
You’re the only one who he treats like this.
So, somehow, it must be your fault.
“What the hell is up with Barnes anyway?” Jack says, and suddenly your brain decides to pay attention.
“He’s under a lot of stress.” You mumble, and Jack rolls his eyes.
“We all are. You know, last time I met him he wasn’t like this, he must not have gotten laid in a year.”
You make a face, but don’t say anything. Jack rubs your back, sighing dramatically.
“He’s such a damn ass to you, sweetheart. Can’t stand it. You deserve better than that.”
You might. You probably do. You’ve told your heart that over and over, but it doesn’t seem to be willing to hear it. The rhythm of its beat falls in line with Bucky’s name.
You’re starting to hate yourself for it.
Jack doesn’t need to know that, so you only hum.
“Have you tried your thing on him?” He asks, and your body recoils.
You stumble away, eyes wide in disgust as a foul, sickening taste creeps up your throat.
“No- I- No.” You shake your head frantically. “I would never- I don’t use it for anything like that, I’ve never used it for that, and I- Bucky isn’t- How could you say that?”
“He’s just such a dick to you,” Jack says your name, taking a large step forward. Pressing you back against the wall. “Come on, you’ve at least thought of it-“
“No, I- I would never-“
“You don’t have to lie, it’s just me-“
“I’m not lying-“
“Sweetheart.” Jack coos, taking another step forward, leaving your back pressed against wall. “It’s not wrong, to have thought about it. I would have thought it. But I also,” he reaches up, tracing a hand over your cheek, and you shrink back into your body. “Would never be so mean to something as pretty as you.”
You swallow, tears still burning at your eyes. Jack’s breath smells like liquor, fanning over your face, and it’s making the room feel like it’s flipping and spinning. Not in the pleasant, dizzying way that Bucky’s body near yours does.
This feels wrong.
“Can you please back up?” You whisper, and Jack chuckles.
“Why would I do that, sweetheart.”
The tears slide down your cheeks. “Please?”
Jack shakes his head, his lips brushing over yours. You try to lean back, but there’s only the wall.
You close your eyes. He did want to see it. He begged to.
“Jack.” Your voice slips into the other one. The sweet, musical one that’s almost floats through the air. Less of a voice. More of a call. “Can you please back up?”
He’s frozen for a moment. You don’t dare to breathe, in case it breaks the spell.
Then he vanishes. His hands near your head, his smell, his lips and the sticky, suffocating heat of his body. You pull your eyes open, and let out a shaking breath.
He’s just standing. Face entirely void of himself. Nothing more than a puppet.
You hug yourself tight, voice almost cracking as you speak again. “Walk away. And- Please don’t speak to me or look for me, until the morning.”
Jack nods slowly, and turns away. His eyes stare at the floor, and he almost glides down the hallway, away from your room.
You swallow, and slip into your room without another word. It feels like there’s a thin layer of grime over your skin, but no matter how you rub at it in the shower, it doesn’t go away. You sink to the floor, pressing your face into your knees, and cry in the safety of the burning water. If the veil it offers, to mask the sound of your sobs, to hide you in the steam.
You don’t know how long you just sit there.
You know when you go to bed, you’re still sniffling.
And when you fall asleep, it’s like the tide dragging you under.
Impossibly pain in your chest. A feeling like you can’t breathe, as you fold yourself into the cushion.
Then just black. And a long, heavy sleep.
Bucky didn’t count himself a good man.
It wasn’t just that he’d done bad things, and he’d done… A lot of bad things. The kind of bad things that people, apparently, made documentaries about. The kind of bad things he shouldn’t be forgiven for, no matter what Sam used to say about it not really being him who did it.
It had been his hands. His body.
His mind, that had caved to the programming. That hadn’t fought back against Hydra, and let them use him as a weapon.
He might not have chosen to do the things, but he still did them. And it didn’t matter anyway.
He still wasn’t a good man.
It wasn’t about only his actions. It wasn’t about everything he did to repent, and how people now looked at him like he was a hero, when he knew the truth. That he was tricking them, and if they saw the ugly beast under the surface—the part of him that was barely better than an animal—they’d shoot him in the goddamn skull.
Because he thought things. Craved things. Was hungry for things he had no right to desire.
One thing.
Really, it was just one thing, that drove him out of his mind every fucking night. That made him glare at himself in the bathroom mirror, trying to drill it into his stupid head that he was barely more than a mutt, and had no right to ask for something so priceless.
Her.
Bucky wanted Her.
He had to right to even want anything at all. Wanting Her felt like a crime.
She was made of soft things he’d long lost to the bottom of the ocean, swept smooth and empty with the water of time. She had the kind of shine Bucky had only ever been able to dull, and the kind of gentleness that did go well with biting guard dogs. Bucky was a weapon. She was stained glass, casting the light soft and gentle through his life. He’d been gone the moment Valentina had showed them the picture of the new hire.
Then She’d walked into the room, smiling and bright eyed, and Bucky had known.
He wanted Her on his arm during events, smiling mostly at him instead of the cameras—Her real smile, not the well-polished, overdone one she gave the photographers—then hanging off his body as they drank and whispered in the corner. She’d sit next to him on missions, his hand on Her thigh and her foot bumping his under the table. They’d hold hands and… Do whatever modern couples did. Go for walks and eat food. Not dancing, because he’d seen where people danced now and it was pretty damn loud, but maybe just sitting in the living room together. His legs over Her’s, Her head on his chest, talking about nothing at all.
And he’d have Her in his bed. Fantasies of Her lips on his, bodies pressed tight together and whispers soft and teasing, it was what he thought of in the shower. In his own big, lonelier bed as he groaned Her name to the dark.
Bucky wanted Her like he wanted to touch the sky, when he was a boy.
So much he dreamed about it.
Impossibly, and desperately, and knowing fully well that if he ever did, he’d never want to go back down to Earth.
Bucky was never going to want anything as bad.
And under no fucking circumstances should he be allowed to have Her.
He set distances. Made boundaries, less to keep Her away and more to keep himself at bay. Whenever he accidentally touched Her, she’d mold into him, and he’d have to rip his hand away like it was burning. If he didn’t, it might mold into Her, and he’d never let go. Or worse, She’d rip herself away, and he’d have to remember what it was like to touch Her, then lose Her.
It was a fate he could tolerate, to watch from afar. But holding Her, having all that sweetness in his hands then letting it slip through his fingers, he’d never forgive himself. He saw how soft She got, how deeply she took everything, how much She glowed under praise. He wouldn’t be able to live with breaking Her heart, because she’d shatter. Hell, She pouted to herself when Yelena so much as told her she misinterpreted some intel. Her actually crying, and Bucky being the cause of it, that might destroy him.
And he wasn’t being arrogant. He wasn’t blind. He saw how desperately she smiled at him, heard the extra light in Her voice when she spoke to him, basked in the extra attention she gave him, because it was a sliver of Heaven he got to steal, and keep all to himself.
But She didn’t know what she was doing. She was young, She’d develop feelings, and they’d pass once She found someone better.
Then Bucky would just sit here. Alone in the dark, torturing himself with what could have been.
At least they’d be friends. Bucky could live with friends. He tried to be nice to Her—even if he hadn’t been sure how to do that, in at least a decade—and made sure to give Her respectable friend distance and words. He bit down every inappropriate or slightly wanting comment on his tongue.
It was most of them.
Almost all his thoughts around Her had slowly become that he wanted and needed Her, that she was beautiful and kind and maybe the best person he’d ever met, and they were lucky to have Her on the team, powers or not.
He didn’t want to send mixed signals. Didn’t want to get Her confused about what he could give Her, because it wasn’t much.
One day, She’d find someone who could give her everything, and Bucky would just be Her friend.
He’d been ready for that.
He hadn’t thought it would happen this fast.
Jack’s eyes had glinted, when they’d stepped off the jet. Bucky had known that look. He saw it in the mirror, every damn morning. And She’d smiled at Jack. Stuck with him the whole fucking mission. Bucky had felt like he was going to drive himself out of his goddamn mind.
She wasn’t his. He had no fucking claim to Her. It was his own damn fault, that She hadn’t been talking to him at the bar. The he hadn’t been the one touching Her, wasn’t the one who walked Her out.
Knowing that hadn’t stopped the creeping rage and disgust with himself. The ice-like, almost painful hated of Jack, festering into a vileness that curled his fists.
At one point, it had gotten so intolerable that he’d suggested they switch up the teams. He could put himself with Her. Steal just a little bit more of Her attention.
She’d been drawing away from him a little big before the mission as well. Bucky wasn’t sure what he’d done, but She hadn’t even been looking at him. He’d wanted to ask, to fix it, to do anything that would make things go back to normal. He might’ve asked the night they landed, if it wasn’t for fucking Jack.
And now they might be in Her room.
Which Bucky was fine with. They were adults. She was smart, and could make Her own choices, and he didn’t deserve Her anyway.
He still lingered outside Her room for hours, thinking about going in. Shouting his love to Her shocked face, then watching Her turn away from Jack and run into his arms.
The last part was just in his head. There was no way She’d do anything but throw him out of his ass, after he waited so long to tell Her.
If Jack was what She wanted, she deserved to be happy.
Bucky still didn’t sleep that night, his mind racing with the idea of someone else touching Her. Having Her, how he wanted.
Jack wouldn’t treat Her as well as Bucky would. He’d treat Her like a Queen.
Then lose Her. That kind of closeness was always something he lost.
He had to haul himself out of bed in the morning. He didn’t want to see Her and Jack standing next to each other. Didn’t to live in the world that was coming, where Her pretty eyes glazed right over him, like he was nothing more than a potted plant.
It was only to desire to get the hell out of this job, that got him moving.
But when he got to the group, She wasn’t there.
Not just late.
Missing.
Jack was there. When asked, he just shrugged. Bucky narrowed his eyes—the man had been fawning over Her last night, he’d had Her on his arm, and she was pretty damn hard to lose sight of—but Yelena just sighed and stomped off to go grab Her.
They waited awkwardly, shifting on their feet.
“Storm’s coming.” Walker muttered, and Bucky shot him a glare. “What? I’m just saying, we should be heading out-“
“No.” Bucky grunted. “Team first, John.”
Walker sighed, and gave him a flat look. Somehow he was the only person who knew. About a month into Her being on the team, Walker had cornered him and asked what the hell his problem was with Her. He didn’t let up, until Bucky shouted that he might have some feelings for Her.
He’d, shockingly, kept the secret.
That didn’t stop the silent mocking and pointed looks. Bucky had learned to ignore them.
“She does not feeling well.” Yelena announced, storming back into the room. “She wants to stay here.”
Bucky frowned. “She looked fine last night.”
“You were across the bar, Bucky Barnes. You could not tell.” Yelena grabbed her baton, moving on before Bucky could protest. “We have to beat the storm. She will wait, but I left her gun. In case someone tries to mess with her, she can-“
Yelena made a mock gun sound, and Bucky’s frown only deepened. She never missed a mission. Once he’d been forced to bench Her, because she had a fever and was trying to join the field work. Even then, She’d talked him into surveillance and intel.
It was probably a good thing Yelena had checked on Her. Bucky would’ve caved to damn near anything She told him, long as it didn’t put her in danger.
But She’d volunteered to stay.
It didn’t sit right. Bucky didn’t have a choice but to let it happen—the wind was picking up, the sky turning gray—but it kept turning, in his skull.
He knew almost everything about Her, because he listened and watched and memorized Her like a song he wanted stuck in his head forever. He knew that She loved animals, and got cold fast, and enjoyed those romance movies but always liked books better. She didn’t like to feel useless, so he tried to remind Her of things she did after missions, and she liked learning so he’d throw in suggestions for how she could improve.
She never used Her powers, even if they could let Her take over the world in an afternoon.
And She never just sat out a mission. Especially not one that would be really damn useful to have Her for.
“Would be useful, for songbird to be here.” Alexei echoed Bucky’s thoughts, dragged the guard they’d knocked out over to the thumbprint pad. “Her song, soothe angriest man.”
Bucky grunted an agreement, but Jack-
Jack scoffed. And rolled his eyes.
Bucky wasn’t the only one who caught it. Yelena’s eyes narrowed as well.
“What was that?”
Jack waved her off. “What was what?”
“That face. The one that you just made.” Yelena mimicked it. “What was this?”
“Oh. Nothing.”
“No, it was something. Say what.”
Yelena wasn’t suggesting. She was ordering. And it was hard, to be stupid enough to defy her.
“It’s not a big deal. Just,” Jack said Her name, and Bucky’s jaw clenched. He didn’t like the tone, like She wasn’t something holy, gracing their tongues.
“What about her?” His voice was lower than he wanted it to be. The fury felt like it was boiling over inside of him.
“Nothing. She’s- I don’t know, why all make such a big deal about her, when she’s such a bitch.”
Bucky saw red. Jack was still talking.
“I mean, she used her powers on me last night.” Jack looked around between them, lips curled in disgust. “Isn’t that fucked up?”
He expected sympathy. Bucky could read that, all over his ugly, about to be flattened face.
But Bucky knew Her. They all did.
She didn’t use her powers on people.
Not unless she was forced to.
For a moment, Bucky wasn’t thinking. His body was reacting, without needing his mind to command it. His fist flew up, and collided with Jack’s jaw. There was a sickening crack sound, as the man fell to the ground, but no one lunged to help him.
Bucky turned. The red behind his eyes was turning white, turning from wrath into worry. She was just alone, after what Jack had done. No one there to take care of Her, no one she trusted to talk to.
He’d would be there. Damn the mission, the rest of the time could work it out themselves, then leave Jack to be buried in the fast-falling snow.
Bucky was going to be there for Her.
It had gotten so cold, so fast.
You’d been lying in bed, when Yelena came to check on you. You’d mumbled that you didn’t feel like doing much today, and she’d let it go. She knew you wouldn’t ask if you didn’t really feel horrible. You’d gotten an awkward pat on the head, a feel better, and she’d left you to wallow alone.
You’d twisted. Turned. Stared at the ceiling, then been unable to keep your eyes open to see your own body and flipped over. Your tears stained the pillow, so you flipped that over too, and the blankets on your body were suffocating but still couldn’t be heavy enough to make you feel safe and warm.
Slowly, as the day stretches on, everything gets darker. Not just in your head, spinning around the hallway last night—Jack, Bucky’s apathy and cold stares, everything that had been bending all week set to snap any fucking second—but literally. It was 9am, when you had to turn a lamp on to see. There wasn’t any sunlight leaking through the curtains, and when you forced yourself up to shuffle over and check the windows, the world was gray.
It was snowing. Snowing so heavily, you couldn’t see anything but the flurry an inch outside the glass. There was a chill on your face, just from being near the glass, and your fingers shook as you closed the curtains again.
The team had left hours ago. The bunker was only an hour away, and if they did their jobs well, they’d be fine.
There might be fifty percent chance they’re already dead.
You drag out your personal computer, and turn on the local news to keep an eye for avalanches. You even keep your phone face up as you huddle in your blankets, in case they need to message you.
The tears are still falling randomly and heavily, freezing on your cheeks like snowflakes and coming from a hollow in your chest.
A part of you had expected that, from Jack. You hadn’t wanted to, when he’d been so nice to you, but people fascinated by your powers rarely seemed to care for you. For the weight of it on your shoulders, never able to understand that you weren’t just making people to do something.
You were stripping them down to puppet.
You watched the person fade from their eyes, and become just a doll for you to move around. You could never bare it. The first time it happened, completely on accident, you hadn’t spoken for a week out of fear you’d do it again.
So you hate him for it. Hate Jack, for forcing you to use it, and hate yourself for not being able to find another way out. You could’ve said please again, could’ve shoved him, could’ve screamed. There’s no promise it would have worked—it probably wouldn’t have—but at least you would’ve tried harder.
He wasn’t doing something good.
There’s an itch and crawl over your bones, because you did something worse.
This is why Bucky doesn’t want you. What you are. Deep in your core below the smiles and lies, you’re just a something Bucky would never want to touch, and you’re going to turn into a forgotten, hollow shell trapped in the cold, frozen in your own body and alone.
You gather the sheets closer, pulling them up to cover your face. The news is nothing but a muffled mumble in the background, and your fingers are still shaking.
Your phone buzzes, but it’s not Yelena. It’s a notification from the motel, informing you that the power has gone out and the heater is broken. They’re lighting a fire in the lobby. You can’t bring your legs to pick up and carry you out of bed.
The sun is gone behind the storm, and time passes like snow melting. Slow and fast all at once, building up and up and up until you’re unable to move or dig yourself out. The skin under your nails is the wrong shade, and when you flip your camera on, so are your lips. You’re shaking under the layers, but it’s nothing to warm you up, and when you dig your fingers into your own sides, they’re like icicles. Maybe you’re still crying. Maybe your eyes froze, and you’re never going to be able to cry again. It doesn’t really matter because you can’t feel anything but that hollowness.
You don’t think you’ve ever been more alone in your life.
And your eyes are hooded and fluttering, when there’s bang on your door.
Bucky’s voice calls your name, and a whine leaves your throat that’s too small to be heard. Maybe he wouldn’t even hear it if you screamed. You’re sure your voice would crack like ice, and he doesn’t even like you anyway. You’re not sure what he’s doing here at all.
He calls your name again. He sounds urgent.
Maybe you’re just dreaming. You’ve certainly had dreams like this before, where he swoops in and declares that he secretly loved you the whole time, and you laugh and kiss on a giant, floating pink cloud.
It’s more likely a nightmare. He’s going to storm in and turn to a monster, snarling and sneering about how useless and cancerous and wrong you are.
He’s shouting now, and any second his voice with turn to a growl. You burrow further under the covers, another weak whine leaving your throat.
Bucky slams against the door, and you cower. You’re too cold to even brace yourself, but at least you know you can still cry.
It breaks open, and you’ve never heard Bucky use that tone before. It’s broken and desperate, strange for a man who can’t bear to look at you. He may think you’re dead, and is just upset nature got to you first.
He says your name again, and you feel strong arms wrap around you. He could just be trying to choke you out anyway or going to dump you out in the snow to preserve your body, because there’s no other reason for him to be lifting you up-
“You’re- Why the hell are you so cold-“ He swears under his breath, and you feel the mattress dip down.
He’s sitting.
That can’t be right.
“Can you say something, doll? Anything so I know you’re hearin’ me, ‘cause-“ A warm hand brushes over your brown, then lingers near your mouth. “You’re breathing. Shit, you’re breathing, but- Say something. Please.”
He asks so nicely. You pull a deep, ragged groan from your chest, and you feel him tense around you.
“Alright, that’s- Good. Can work with that.” He seems to mostly be talking to himself. “Basic hypothermia, nothin’ that’ll kill you. Not if I’m here, and- Gonna kill that ass, I swear- There are some tall building that don’t have very good safety nets, and- ‘m sorry about this, sweetheart.”
You want to frown and ask what—what could possibly be making Bucky sound frantic—but you can’t feel your tongue enough to move it. There are shuffling noises, and he disappears from your side. You curl further into yourself, trying both to dredge up a plea for his return, and shove it down so you don’t make a fool of yourself.
Then suddenly, you’re cold, so so cold, so cold you think it’s going to drag you under something you can’t get out of-
And you’re warm.
The warm comes slower. You can hear muttered apologies, and shocks of warmth on your skin. You feel bare, and even colder, then there’s nothing but heat.
It’s pure heat wrapping around you, tangling between your legs and dragging over your arms and spine.
“Arm’s got a heater in it.” Bucky mutters, his voice somewhere near your head. “Wakanda, huh?”
There’s a dry chuckle, and your brain is slow to understand what’s happening. It’s dragging through the draft of the wind, the cold pushing back against you, and sometimes you’ll almost connect something, then the strings will fly out of your hands.
But you get warmer and warmer, and there’s a pleasant sound that’s deep and vibrates near your chest, and-
Bucky.
Bucky’s in your bed. Stripped down, and holding you. You’re stripped, to nothing but your underwear, and in Bucky’s arms.
He’s heating you up.
And this is a different kind of heat. It’s uneasy, staining shame for him having to do this for you. Shame and twisting guilt, for how you like it. You really have dreamed about this, and you’ve held sheets at night to pretend they’re the shape of his body, but it’s nothing compared to the real this. To the dips and curves of his chest near your cheek, the strength of his thighs and rippling arms around you.
There’s shame for how the heat is pooling, slowly but steadily, near your stomach. It feeds the shame, and something in you likes the embarrassment—at least it means you have Bucky’s attention—and that just makes you more shameful, and it feeds into itself like a raging wildfire.
You can speak again. You’re afraid to.
You might moan.
At last, breaking the silence, you pull the soft words from the hollow in your chest.
“You came back.”
Bucky stops humming, then sighs heavily. “Yeah.”
“Why?”
“Jack. Knew he made you use your powers. Wanted to check on you.”
You frown against his skin. That doesn’t make sense. “Check… On me?”
Bucky grunts. “Make sure he didn’t hurt you.”
“He couldn’t-“
He says your name sternly, and your words die fast. “We both know you don’t just use your powers. Whatever he did to make you-“ Bucky cuts himself off, his voice straining oddly. “Are you alright.”
“Yeah.” You breathe out, voice still hung with confusion. “I- I’m okay.”
Bucky makes a low sound, and it rolls through your whole body. Between your legs.
You shift against him, trying to relieve some friction. He holds you tighter. He smells good, like pine trees and something warm that’s just Bucky, and it’s intoxicating. You manage to twist so that you’re facing away from him, because being this close to him and keeping yourself from moaning—whenever his hand dips too low on your back, or his thigh flexes too close to your core—is almost impossible.
“I punched him.” Bucky breaks the long silence.
“Who?”
“Jack.”
You swallow on a lump in your throat. That wants that to mean something, when you know it doesn’t. “You didn’t have to do that-“
“I did.” He grunts, and your lips press in a tight line.
“And then you… came back?”
He sighs, breath warm near your ear. Nods.
“Why?”
“I told you.” Bucky sounds heavy. It’s nothing compared to the weight of him on your ribs, over your heart.
“No, I-” Your voice wavers. “Why for me? You- You don’t even like me.”
Bucky stills completely. His hands splay against you, branding your skin, and you can hear him lick his lips near your ear.
“What are you talkin’ about?” His voice is oddly rough, and you frown at the air.
“You- You don’t like me. Which is- It’s fine, you don’t have to, but-“
“I like you.”
You blink, at the harshness of his words. “No, you don’t.”
“Yes. I do, we’re-“ His voice is getting lower, like he’s trying to convince himself. “We’re friends.”
“No, we’re not?”
“Do you… Not like me?”
It’s so painful, the way the end of his sentence drops off. Hesitant. Unsure.
You really don’t understand what’s happening.
“I- I don’t-“ You’re stammering, heat flooding your cheeks. “That’s not- You don’t like me, so I-“
“Doll, I-“
“You don’t like me,” your voice is rising. It’s not helpful, to have his bare body so close to yours for him. “You don’t, you- You’re always glaring at me, and we don’t hang out-“
“We sit in the kitchen together-“
“Yeah, but- You never talk to me!”
Bucky’s fingers are digging into your sides. “Yes.” He grunts. “I do.”
“Only when you tell me how I fucked up a mission-“
“I’m givin’ you tips, and- Fuck-“ His voice caves a little again, until it’s only a rasp. “Do you really not think I like you?”
He sounds hurt. As if you did something wrong, you always do something wrong to him, and-
You’re crying again. The tears stream silently down your cheeks, and you can’t stop yourself from turning your face into Bucky’s shoulder to hide it. Everything is still so cold, and there’s confusion and dread building in your stomach that you’ve twisted something all wrong, and he’s so warm and safe.
His hand flies to the back of your head, and he rolls over you, shielding you from the worlds. A metal thumb comes to your cheek, wiping the tears then trying to angle your chin up.
“This isn’t- Shit- Can you look at me?” Bucky says your name, and you try to twist away. “No, don’t- I don’t hate you. I don’t. I- Fuck, I’m not good at this, but- Look at me-“
Something hotter enters his voice, and your eyes snap up to his. Bucky looks at you with such open relief, you’re not sure you didn’t die.
“Bucky…” You breathe out, grabbing his wrist. “I- I’m sorry, you-“
“Don’t.” He grunts. “Don’t, I’m not- You never gotta apologize. Not to me.”
You shake your head, because that doesn’t make any sense, and Bucky’s throat bobs.
“I like you, doll.” He murmurs, dropping his brow against yours. Like something impossible to hold is on his shoulders. “I like you. Always liked you, I- Fuck, I used to be good at this-“
He stares at you like you’re something priceless. You feel exposed, completely Bucky’s with nothing to show for it, and he’s looking at you like you’re priceless. His thumb brushes over your lower lip. His voice is so deep, you can almost feel it in your chest.
“I like you.” He mutters, thumb tracing the corner of your mouth. “I like you, please.”
Something in you snaps, at the pure, open vulnerability in his voice. At how fragile you feel, and how if his heat doesn’t melt you, it will mend you together. You surge up without thinking.
Press your lips against his, harsh and fast. The timing is all wrong, and it’s nothing but a bumping of nose and smashing of lips. He doesn’t kiss you back, until the very last second, when you’re already pulling away.
He dives down after you, then recoils.
Glaring down at you, an expression identical to what you’ve seen so many times on his face.
The only difference is his mouth hanging open. And his heartbeat, under your hand.
Fast.
He stares at you. You stare back, tears pricking back at your eyes, and-
Bucky almost falls over you. And this kiss is just as sloppy as the first, but it’s anything but awkward. Bucky kisses you like he’s trying to tell you something, that nothing but his body can say. His hands wander, as his lips move relentlessly against yours. He angles his head, deepening the kiss, and all the built-up heat floods you like a wildfire.
Your arms fly around his neck, as you kiss him back. Bucky groans, doubling his force, and you’re pinned between him and mattress. Your legs glide apart to accommodate his space, and you shiver as his metal hand finds the base of your spine, pushing you up into the muscle of his torso.
“Bu- Bucky-“ You gasp, and he growls against your mouth. “Oh- Oh my-“
Your hips roll, because it’s too much to bear. How much you need him, how consuming he is, how happy you’d be to drown if it’s under him. Your legs drag wider, and Bucky starts a warpath down your throat, lips burning every bit of skin he can find.
Your back arches into him, your fingers flying to his hair. It’s wet and messy, a painful pleasure when you try to chase him but find nothing. His teeth graze your neck, and it sends a shiver down your spine.
“Please, fuck-“ You writhe below him, unable to keep still as he works you like an instrument. “More- I, I need you, so bad, Bucky, please-“
He crashes back up, kissing you until your toes curl and your head spins.
“You are…” He pulls your head back, deepening the kiss. “Fuckin’ beautiful. You really didn’t know, did you doll. Just what you were doin’ to me, how much I wanted-“ He pulls your lip between his teeth, and you moan openly. “This.”
There’s a force, behind his kiss and his touch. It’s demanding, and you’re more than willing to give.
Your legs are spread as wide as they can go, your hips humping up into Bucky’s body. His warmer hand slams down, right over your barely clothed core, pressing it back down into the bed.
“Don’t do that. I’ve been tryin’ to keep it together, but if you-“ He groans, as he feels the damp spot on your panties. “Fuck, you- You’re-“
“Bucky,” you sound downright pathetic, lashes fluttering as you try to plea with him. “Need you-“
“No, you don’t-“
“Yes, I do.” Your voice breaks in a sob. He can’t just do this, then not give you more. He must really hate you, for him to torture you like that-
Bucky cuts your thoughts off with another, softer kiss. It’s impossibly sweet, making your heart flutter and a sigh escape your lips.
“Don’t cry, babydoll.” Bucky murmurs. “Nothin’ here to cry about.”
You disagree. “Please.” You whisper, holding his hooded gaze, and his tongue flicks over his lips.
His hand presses harder, and a ruined moan escapes your lips.
“James…”
You don’t know what makes you say it. But Bucky’s reaction is immediate. His breath catches, his eyes flashing, there’s almost a predatory focus on his face. He drags two fingers, slowly over the wet spot.
You shudder below him, moaning again, and his nostrils flare.
“Say it again.” His words are firm, and you obey freely.
“James, please-“
Bucky kisses you again, cutting off your words into a moan. But this time, he builds up. His fingers apply a little more pressure, his palm rubbing back and forth against your clit. His tongue slides against yours, as he drags your underwear to the side, and teases his fingers over your pussy lips.
You squirm below him, and he doesn’t break the kiss.
“Be patient, pretty girl. Waited years.” He dips into your wetness, gathering it up before smearing it on your clit. “Gonna take my time.”
All you can do is scratch at his back and shoulders, trying to urge him on. Bucky just chuckles, rolling around your clit before moving back down, and notching his fingers right at your entrance. You aren’t strong enough, to move against him and pull him inside. Just blunt nails graze you, and your eyes roll back in your head.
Then suddenly, he’s gone.
It’s a split second, where your eyes fly open and you almost choke him, in an attempt to stop him from leaving.
But he’s not even trying to.
He’s just switching hands.
The metal, now cool and biting against your skin, spanks your pussy lightly, and you go limp below him.
“I’ve got you, doll.” He mutters against your lips, his eyes trained between your bodies. On where his hand is resting against your cunt. “So wet, for me. ’S for me?”
He glances up, and smirks when you nod.
“I know.” He plants a mockingly sweet kiss on your lips. “Always knew, just thought you saw it. How much I dreamed about this, you and your pretty fuckin’ pussy-“
He slides a finger into you, and you clench tight around him, still managing to stare up at him and cling to his every word. He groans, as he pushes further in. Presses his cheek against yours, his breath hot on your ear.
“Relax.”
You try to. You close your eyes, and let his body ease you down. Eventually you get it, and your body goes limp. You breathe heavy through your nose, as Bucky pushes his finger fully into you. Starts to pump it slowly, letting you feel him work open your walls, hitting that deep spot inside of you every time with ease.
Bucky groans. “Knew you’d take me so good. Fuckin’- could smell when you got wet, smelled like candy, made me feel like a dog. I would’ve gotten on my knees for you, doll, but I like you like this, too.” He pushes up over you, finger picking up pace. Grins at your open, wanting expression, your arms wrapping around your stomach. “Wrecked on my fingers. Soakin’ the sheets,” he reaches up, brushing a stray tear from your cheek. “So damn needy, and mine.”
You moan, and Bucky smirks. His fingers pick up pace, and it makes you feel like you’re going to burst into starlight.
“Say it,” he grunts, and the glare is back.
Not a glare of hate, you realize in your lustful haze.
A glare of hunger. Desire.
And something dangerously close to adoration.
“I- Bucky, fuck-“
“Say you’re mine,” he lowers himself back down, his lips brushing yours. “Please.”
He asked so nicely again. “I- I’m yours-“ You whimper, his thumb flicking against your clit. “I’m yours, Bucky, I’m-“
You moan into his mouth, as he kisses you open and desperate.
“I can’t believe you think I could hate you.” He mutters against your lips, and you swallow.
“James-“
“Who the hell could hate something so beautiful?”
That does it.
Heat rushes through you, and your vision swims as you cum hard enough to light you on fire. When you float back down, Bucky is still over you. His metal hand is stroking your thigh, and it’s so quickly clear.
That’s not enough.
He must see it on your face, because his brows raise. There’s the glare again.
And a tension in his body, like he’s trying to hold himself back.
“You need more, babydoll?” He mutters, searching your face. “You want-“
“Yes.” You moan, and you’ve never seen Bucky move so fast in your life.
He sheds his underwear like they were burning him, and in the split second you see him, your mouth falls open. He’s beautiful, but thick, and you don’t know if you can take it.
Bucky makes it easy. He mutters a quick check about birth control, tapping his head on your clit. You nod, and he kisses your forehead, breathing raggedly as he slides into your dripping cunt.
“Fuck…” He moans, fingers finding your clit to stop you from fluttering around him. “’S… So good-“
Whatever suave words he had before are gone. Bucky bottoms out, and sits inside of you, chest heaving as he gives you a second to adjust.
And when he starts moving, it’s controlled. Careful, pulling far out of you before slamming back in, his eyes fixed on the way your body reacts. He rolls his hips, grabs your legs and hikes it up, hitting a sweet, deeper angle that makes you see stars.
A broken James falls out of your lips.
And he snaps.
Bucky grabs your hands, from around your body, and pins them over your head. His hips start to drill into you, his cock slamming against every deep and sensitive part inside of you. You can only blink up at him, too cock-drunk to speak, sparks seeming to fly up your spine as he fucks you into a wrecked, blissed-out oblivion.
He’s trying to talk to you, broken praise falling from his lips, but it all comes out in feral sounds. You’ve never seen him like this, his brow pinched and lips parted, body flushed and movements sharp and wild. Almost nothing he says makes much sense, and every single grunt seems to mean the same exact thing that’s lost in the friction of your bodies.
Then his mouth lands over yours, his thrusts turning short and desperate. You’re so close, seconds from tipping over the edge, and-
“Love you,” he chokes out your name, taking a deep breath as he ruts into your g-spot. “Love you so much.”
You cum around him, arching off the bed from the full force of it. Bucky groans, swallowing your every cry of his name with his mouth, and pulls out with a groan.
He fists himself, the head of him still tapping against your clit, and he moans your name as he paints your thighs and abdomen white.
Bucky leans down, the kisses sweet again. Soft.
Taking time.
You’re too boneless to do much but return them, one hand moving up to cup his face. He grabs it, and kisses the inside of your wrist. Stands and grabs a towel from your bathroom, cleaning between your thighs in a comfortable silence. You feel like you’re floating, somewhere higher than heaven. Your head is empty, except for his touch.
You only really know two things.
It’s so cold, while he’s gone.
But warm again, when he slides into bed at your side.
Safe, and warm, and loved.
“I don’t,” he mutters in your ear, voice still rough. “Hate you.”
You smile at the air, rolling over to press your face into his chest.
“Okay.” You hum, wrapping your arms around his chest. “I believe you.”
And as he kisses your hairline, lips soft and delicate, you really do.
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summary. he picks a bar fight for you. bloody knuckles, whiskey breath, and all to show you're his
pairing. dean winchester x reader ( gn )
wordcount. 457 genre. H O T !
warnings. explicit bar fight (blood, punches, broken glass), possessive but so freaking hot behavior, rough kissing, grinding, alcohol
The jukebox is playing Skynyrd when the guy leans too close. He’s all cheap cologne and beer breath, slurring something about your skirt riding high on the stool. You roll your eyes, start to tell him to fuck off—but Dean’s already moving.
He’s across the room in three strides, flannel sleeves shoved to the elbow, knuckles white around his whiskey glass. The guy doesn’t even see the first punch coming.
Dean’s fist cracks across the man’s jaw—crunch—blood spraying in a perfect arc over the scarred bartop. The glass shatters in Dean’s other hand, shards slicing his palm, but he doesn’t flinch.
“Touch her again,” he snarls, voice low and lethal, “and I’ll feed you your teeth.”
The bar erupts.
A second guy lunges—pool cue swinging. Dean ducks, drives his elbow into the guy’s gut, then spins and slams him face-first into the jukebox. Glass explodes; Lynyrd Skynyrd skips, wares out.
You’re on your feet, heart hammering, but Dean’s already got the third one by the collar, lifting him clean off the floor before hurling him into a table. Wood splinters. Bottles roll. Blood drips from Dean’s split knuckles, mixing with whiskey on the floor.
The bartender’s yelling, someone’s pulling out a phone, but Dean doesn’t care. He’s a storm in flannel—shoulders heaving, eyes wild, lip busted and bleeding.
He turns to you.
The room quiets like someone hit mute.
Dean stalks over, boots crunching glass, grabs your wrist—gentle despite the violence still humming in his veins—and drags you out the side door into the alley.
The night air is cool, sharp with rain and cigarette smoke. He pins you to the brick wall, one bloody hand beside your head, the other sliding to your hip.
“You’re mine,” he growls, whiskey breath hot against your lips. “Got it?”
You nod, breathless. “Got it.”
His mouth crashes into yours—rough, desperate, tasting of copper and bourbon. You fist his shirt, pull him closer, feel the hard line of his cock against your thigh. He grinds into you, slow and deliberate, the friction making you gasp into his mouth.
“Should’ve broken his fuckin’ nose,” he mutters between kisses, teeth scraping your jaw. “Nobody looks at you like that.”
You bite his lower lip, hard enough to sting. “Then show me who I belong to.”
He groans, hips rolling harder, pinning you with his weight. His bloody knuckles smear red across your waist where he shoves your shirt up, thumb brushing the edge of your bra.
“Gonna mark you up,” he promises, voice wrecked. “So everyone knows.”
You’re both panting, grinding, the alley spinning. Sirens wail in the distance, but Dean doesn’t move—just kisses you deeper, possessive and filthy, until the only thing that exists is his mouth, his hands, his claim.
ꔛ. all works ; writing guidelines ; support my work .ᐟ
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
✦Dean Masterlist - Main Masterlist - Read on a03!✦
✦pairing: Dean Winchester x female!reader✦
✦Author's Note: request from @aconfusedhumanbeing-blog. the other jealousy os was me grossly misreading this prompt, realizing too late, and running with it. Here’s the jealous reader version <3✦
You try not to get jealous. You really do. It’s a tainted, ugly feeling that’s made of odd-shaped things. Things that don’t fit with reality.
Dean loves you. He’s said it. Aloud. Only once, but also in a million other small ways.
Bringing you coffee and food. Buying you things without asking. Making the bed every morning and doing your laundry.
Standing closer than he needs to, every single moment.
You never doubt him. Not for a second.
But the blonde in the bar was all legs. All pretty, lacey things you know Dean used to love.
Still loves.
Now only with you.
But it’s a little hard to get years of his proclamations out of your head. The ones made of I don’t form attachments. Relationships don’t work out for me, sweetheart. I ride alone.
He doesn’t. Not anymore. You’re sitting shotgun on the way back from the bar, and his hand is resting casually on your thigh. Keeping some small contact, every second. Almost pinning you to the seat, like he wants you to leave a mark. Wants to make sure you don’t flee into the blurred tree line, where he can’t catch you.
So he loves you. But the jealousy is eating, like a parasite. Asking what if.
What if he finds someone to love more. What if his love slowly dies, and the fire of the girl at the bar reignites it, the flames no longer for you. What if he wakes up tomorrow morning, looks at you, and decides you just aren’t enough anymore.
You don’t speak. Dean tries to talk to you—small things, how was your day and this song is one of my favorites, makes me think of you, and so, uh- this is some weather—but you just smile at him, and mumble something he probably can’t even hear.
It makes the jealousy worse, because now it’s paired with a sore, twisting guilt. He doesn’t deserve this. He’s perfect. He opens the door for you, and holds your hand on the way inside. He doesn’t ask any questions when you stay silent, even as you trail around after him like a puppy. In his shadow as he eats, and showers, and changes. Never straying, because you can’t. He might slip away.
Dean’s patient. So patient. But you’re sulking and pouting and not saying a word—you don’t trust your mouth—and even Saints will snap for something.
That’s usually what makes them saints.
He walks you back against the dresser with a firm glare, crowding your space and grabbing your chin. Forcing you to take his attention.
“What’s wrong.” He grunts, and you avoid his gaze. “Baby, if you don’t tell me what your problem is, I can’t fix it-“
“There’s no problem, Dean.”
The lie is paper-thin. Flimsy. You can’t lie and say you’re surprised, when his jaw ticks, and he doesn’t move.
Dean stares at you. You fix your gaze on his chest. The steady rise and fall of it, because you’re upset about something so stupid, and nothing is really wrong. Dean’s tense, but his heart isn’t racing. You’re just fucking needy and stupid and crazy-
“Blondie.” He mutters suddenly, and you can hear it dawning on him. “She got handsy, at the bar. Had the shame of a stripper in Vegas.”
You shake your head, but he’s figured it out. He won’t let it go.
“You’re getting jealous, baby, that’s cute-“
“No, it’s not.” You snap, glare darting to his needlessly handsome face. He shouldn’t get to look like that. It’s not fair.
“It is.” He drawls, thumb swiping your lower lip. “‘Cause it’s just a damn joke. You don’t need to get territorial, sweetheart, I’m yours.”
You make a sour face, and don’t respond.
Dean stills over you.
“Look at me.”
You shake your head, and he lets out a long breath.
Dean mutters your name, frustration building. “Look at me.”
There’s a low command in his voice. You can’t stop your eyes from moving. Dean gives you a small, satisfied smile of approval.
“Good girl.”
You scowl, and try to look away again.
“Ah.” Dean moves to stay in your line of view. “No hiding, pretty girl. You’re all I want. All I need. Tell me you get that.”
“Dean-“
“No. There’s nobody better for me. Nobody. And,” he taps your chin with his thumb. “Say it."
You’re stubborn. You don’t.
Dean seems to take it as a challenge.
He moves your chin higher, eyes narrowing, and dives down. Kisses you like he’s trying to eat you alive. Open-mouthed and claiming.
Rough with his lips moving against yours and his tongue down your throat, but tender with his hands.
With how he grabs at your clothing and tosses it away, letting fingers wander and set fires in their wake.
You’re a molten, burning mess by the time he’s undoing his own belt. He drags you with him down onto the bed, landing flat on his back and caging you in his arms. Dean grabbing at your ass and wrapping his mouth over your perked nipples. Guides your thighs apart with a firm but careful hand. Runs his fingers through your pussy lips, groaning at the wetness that gathers on his fingers.
“There you go.” He mutters against your lips. “Nothin’ better, baby. Gonna make you see that.”
You don’t get to respond, before he’s surging up and flipping you over. You end up pinned flat on your back below him, your head tipping a little off the mattress, and your legs still spread with.
You really can’t tell if that’s what makes you dizzy, or just Dean’s mouth. Peppering kisses over your neck and face, nipping and sucking all while teasing his fingers against your cunt. You whine, trying to press up and touch him back. He grabs one wrist and pins it to the mattress, rising up with a stern look.
“Want you to watch yourself.” He mutters, and you flush.
“Just- wanna touch you-“
“No, sweet girl.” Dean grabs your jaw carefully, pausing for a moment. Watching for any distress.
When you just blink up at him with lustful eyes, he smiles. Tips your head slowly back, and kisses a soft spot behind your ear.
“Watch yourself.”
His breath ghosts over your ear, and you understand what he means now.
He’s positioned you in front of the mirror.
And his hold on your neck isn’t letting up. Dean kisses anywhere his lips can reach, and murmurs soft praise as his fingers slide inside you. Your eyes flutter, and you try to close them fully. You’d rather not look at yourself, rather not see the disparity between what Dean is, and what you are.
But Dean doesn’t take that.
His fingers inside of you crook and rub, and your eyes fly open. He chuckles against your skin, and meets your eyes in the mirror.
"Watch.” He grunts. “See what you do to me.”
You flush, but nod. There’s nothing else for you to do.
Nothing but watch you and Dean in the mirror, as he takes you. His eyes glaze over with something feral, something possessed. His full lips become searing pleasure on already sensitive skin, and your mouth falls open as they travel back down to your breasts. You gasp, hands shooting into his short hair as he starts to flick his tongue against a nipple, fingers scissoring you open. It’s a sinful sight, Dean over you. Consuming you, in all his glory.
It’s nothing, compared to when he starts to fuck you.
You’re already limp from his fingers, when he takes out his fat, weeping cock. Slaps it against your pussy once, before slowly driving it inside. Your mouth falls open in a plea of his name, and he captures it in a bruising kiss. Your eyes close for that. For the sensation of him splitting you into a million, glowing pieces. For how he’s hitting every nerve, as he starts to pick up pace, and all you can do is take it.
Then Dean rises up, focusing on worshiping your marked up throat and collarbone, on the drive of his hips into spots no one else has ever been able to hit. And your eyes open.
It puts you in a trace. How Dean’s looking at you. With such pure ardor and devotion. Like he’s stumbled into Heaven, like he’s found paradise, or a god finally worth believing in. Like he’s committing a righteous act, fucking you until you’re a moaning, soaked mess.
A little more than a mess. You look wild. Bright, glossy eyes and swollen lips. You look made, look like something worthy of the alter Dean’s pulling you upon.
You can see it. How perfectly you tangle together. How this isn’t something anyone would trade, for anything. Something that’s yours. Something that’s Dean’s, and he never lets harm come to the things he loves.
You can really fucking see, that he’s yours.
You can’t look away. Not for a second. And Dean builds you up so well, before meeting your gaze again.
His lips twitch, at the sight of how utterly wrecked you are.
He holds your gaze, as two rough fingers find your clit. And your vision goes white, as your orgasm slams through your body.
You float back down easily, with Dean’s hips slowly rolling into you, his own body loose from satisfaction.
“Nothin’ this good.” He mutters in your ear.
And for once, you really, full believe him.
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personal assistant rules: don’t crush on bucky barnes. definitely don’t misinterpret a flower purchase and spiral into silent heartbreak, and absolutely never ever get stuck alone with him in an elevator.
Warnings: 18+ content minors dni, smut, oral (f receiving), public (ish) sex?, wall sex (?), okay they fuck in an elevator guys, kissing, angst, miscommunication (not badly), hurt/comfort, there's some plot if you squint, insecure/self-conscious reader undertones, reader is an overthinker, reader is horny lol, no use of y/n, lmk if i've missed anything
Word Count: 9.1k
A/N: hi, hopefully this will keep you all fed while i work on part five to lessons in lovemaking. finally getting around to some of these requests in my inbox. this one is based off this request, but i changed it up so the reader is a PA instead of an avenger. lmk your thoughts thanx for reading <3 sorry for any typos - not proof read.
main masterlist
You’d never pegged Natasha as the type who enjoyed flowers.
No, she struck you more as the encrypted-flash-drive-on-a-park-bench type, the kind of woman who appreciated mysteries with teeth. A custom leather jacket, stitched with the same precision she used to dismantle a glock. One of those sleek, low motorcycles. Not daisies. Not peonies. And definitely not whatever soft, pastel nonsense Bucky was currently handing over cash for.
You stood a few feet away, halfway hidden behind a sidewalk sign advertising oat milk lattes and gluten-free muffins, clutching a cardboard drink tray and a bag full of vegan pastries in a death grip. The barista had spelt ‘Bruce’ as ‘Broose’ again, and under any other circumstance, that would've made you laugh, but now it felt like the most irrelevant thing in the world.
You liked Natasha. You respected her. You just didn’t think she had it in her to giggle over roses like the girls in those sappy rom-coms Clint insisted he hated (right before he would watch three in a row, a beer in each hand). But there Bucky was, brushing pollen off a bouquet of pale pink ranunculus, face soft in a way you’d never seen during mission briefings or sparring sessions.
And suddenly, you were building a list in your head of all the things you were sure Natasha Romanoff would rather receive as a romantic gesture: a knife, balanced perfectly for throwing, an expensive bottle of vodka, a vintage chess set with hand-carved pieces, a bottle of expensive ink and a fountain pen with a sharp nib, cookies—messy ones—overloaded with chocolate chips, or simply just black coffee, straight from the pot, no sugar, no cream. Yet, as Bucky handed it over to the redhead, she smiled. Smiled. And suddenly you felt like you were witnessing a scene you were not welcome to.
Truthfully, it stung. Maybe it stung a little more than what was appropriate. You’d been harbouring a quiet crush on the dark-haired, sullen supersoldier from the moment he joined the team. Fresh out of Wakanda, new vibranium arm in tow, and god, he was handsome. Not in the polished, television commercial way Steve was, but in a way that made your pulse skip and your thoughts stall mid-sentence. He had the kind of face you didn’t know how to look at for too long, sharpened jaw, stormy-blue eyes, and a mouth that always looked on the verge of saying something he’d regret.
There was something electric about his stillness. Like if you leaned in close enough, you’d hear the hum of danger beneath his skin. He walked like a man who never quite trusted, drifting through the tower like he expected a fight around every corner. He barely spoke, but when he did, his voice was low and gravel-worn, something that settled right in your gut and made its home there.
He never smiled. Not really. But sometimes—sometimes—you’d catch a flicker of it when Sam teased him, or when Steve nudged him just right, and it was devastating.
And yeah, maybe you had a soft spot for broken things trying to heal.
As the Avengers’ personal assistant, it was your job to keep everyone comfortable, informed, and running like clockwork. You were a one-person organisational machine, constantly juggling the chaos that came with managing a tower full of enhanced individuals with the emotional range of a brick wall to a nuclear reactor. Your days were a blur of colour-coded schedules, back-to-back briefings, and the never-ending group chats.
You coordinated mission debriefs, booked international flights with military clearance, and handled press requests that would make most people cry. You endured complaints when Thor overloaded the power grid again, trying to make toast, and even replaced the mugs he shattered before anyone noticed. You wrangled Clint’s kids when they came to visit, sourced obscure snacks from remote parts of the world because Sam liked those protein bars, not the other ones, and Steve wouldn’t touch anything processed. You replaced a record number of coffee machines, hunted down whatever special detergent could get oil out of Tony’s designer shirts. You knew which brand of muscle balm Banner preferred and how to order it without triggering a random Homeland Security check.
And then there was Bucky.
With him, it was always a little extra, whether he noticed or not. His schedule came first in your Monday morning rounds. You made sure the pantry was stocked with the Eastern European tea he liked but never asked for, and remembered the exact setting he preferred on the tower’s training room temperature controls. You adjusted group plans so he’d be paired with Steve or Sam, just in case the crowds and questions became overwhelming. When he disappeared for a few hours, you didn’t ask questions, but you made sure no one came looking. You even swapped out the scratchy tags in his mission gear with soft ones, because he never complained, but you noticed the way he fidgeted with them.
Every day, you’d beam at him like some hopelessly love-struck idiot when you handed over his usual coffee—black, two brown sugars, just the way he liked it—and in return, he’d offer little more than a grunt. A low, barely-there sound that most people wouldn’t even register as a greeting. But you did. Somehow, that grunt became the highlight of your day.
So yeah, maybe seeing him hand over flowers to Natasha broke something in you. Not just a hairline fracture, but a quiet, splintering break that left your chest aching in places you didn’t know could hurt. Still, you understood. Natasha belonged to his world, effortlessly cool, all smoke, shadows and secrets. Yet she was kind. Not cold or unapproachable, just… carved from something rarer than you. The kind of woman who didn’t need to try to be extraordinary, she just was.
And you? You were the sweet, well-meaning assistant who made people laugh in the kitchen, who fetched dry cleaning and remembered everyone’s birthdays. You were the one who labelled tupperware and chased down Clint’s kids with bandaids. You were an afterthought, the background noise in the buzzing hive which was the Avengers Tower.
So maybe you could justify feeling jealous, but angry? No. Not really. They didn’t know. They couldn’t know. And it wasn’t their fault that you’d let yourself hope.
—
Two weeks later, and you timed it perfectly, like you always did.
Just as the door to Bucky’s apartment clicked open, you rounded the corner—folder in hand, clipboard tucked tight to your side. The hallway was quiet, save for the low hum of ventilation and the soft thud of your heels against the carpet. Bucky stepped out, his gym bag slung over his shoulder, hair tied back, and his hoodie sleeves shoved up just enough to show the gleam of vibranium. Predictable. It was routine, every morning just before six he would meet with Steve in the gym. On Mondays, you’d catch him just as he exited his apartment, unload the details for the week, a freshly printed schedule and all.
“Morning,” you said lightly, handing him the week’s itinerary. His reply was his usual, a grunt. Not annoyed. Not grateful. Just Bucky. That gruff, barely-there sound that once felt like a small victory. The kind of grunt that used to warm your chest when he followed it with a question, even if you knew the answer was printed in the folder you’d triple-checked. You always answered anyway. You liked having his attention, even just for a few seconds.
You used to dress the folders up with care, multicoloured sticky notes marking key tasks (blue for meetings, yellow for reminders, red for anything urgent and green for personal events). You’d highlight sections like traffic lights, add stickers you thought might make him smile, sometimes even scribble little crooked cartoons in the margins with cheesy encouragements—seize the day!
The folder looked rather sad today, just a plain manila folder packed with stapled papers. No colours. No stickers. No effort. Just the essentials. You didn’t let your fingers dawdle when he took it. Didn’t smile like you used to. Just handed it over and kept your gaze somewhere past his shoulder.
Bucky took it slowly, eyes flicking down at the cover like he was trying to spot something that wasn’t there. His brow pinched, barely, but enough for you to notice. His fingers lingered on the edge of the folder, like he thought maybe he’d missed a note tucked inside.
You nodded and turned to leave, forcing yourself to shift your mind to your next chore mentally, restocking med supplies in the Quinjet, cross-checking Clint’s revised travel forms, hunting down the coffee machine Tony had threatened to ‘repurpose as target practice’. You’d have to order a replacement before the morning debrief. Double-check everyone’s dietary preferences. Update Steve on the tech room schedule. Get maintenance to repaint the lines in the training room because someone (probably Thor) had scuffed them again.
You stayed busy. It helped. Kind of.
But the guilt still trailed you like a shadow.
It was probably obvious how abruptly you changed. The way your voice had lost its warmth. The way your gaze dodged his like it might burn you. You wondered if he noticed, if he thought you'd simply grown tired of him. Maybe he had. That was better than the truth that you couldn’t stand to be near him, not when every glance felt like pressing fingers to a bruise you’d caused yourself.
You had made your choice, professionalism. The kind of cool, curated detachment you admired in Natasha, only it felt all wrong on you, like an ill-fitting coat. You knew it was for the better, not mixing up work and matters of the heart. You’d already let your little crush spiral too far, thinking maybe—just maybe—if you tried hard enough, you’d earn more than a grunt. That he might see you as something more than the charming assistant with her clipboard and her stupid stickers. But he didn’t. And he wouldn’t. And that was fine. It had to be.
You couldn’t afford to fall apart over a man who had no idea he’d broken your heart.
But it was Bucky’s voice, soft and unsure, that startled you from your thoughts. “Hey.”
You paused mid-step and turned, forcing a tight smile that didn’t quite meet your eyes as your fingers curled against the clipboard. “What’s up?”
He shifted his weight, clearly caught off guard by the fact that you stopped walking at all. He was rather devastating to look at when he grew all shy and unsure, fingers fidgeting against the edge of the folder like he didn’t know what to do with them. He didn’t quite meet your eye as his weight shifted nervously, like he hadn’t thought before he called out.
“Uh. Nothin’. Just—” He raised the folder slightly, an awkward gesture. “You usually give me the rundown. Y’know… what everyone’s doing. Who’s where. Who I’m stuck with.”
You swallowed. Of course, he’d noticed. Of course, he’d grown used to your chatter about meetings and mission rosters, about who was off-world and who was due back, like it was the weather. The casual, effortless way you used to tell him what movie was playing, who cheated at Monopoly the night before, or which team member had stolen the last protein bar. You’d always done it to help, keep him grounded, and make him feel like part of the team, like he belonged.
But after what you’d seen two weeks ago, you were sure he didn’t need that from you anymore. Natasha would look out for him now. She’d keep him balanced, keep him fed, keep him from slipping through the cracks.
“Nothing interesting’s happening,” you shrugged. “Just the usual.”
He didn’t move. “Well… there’s that dinner. On Friday.”
You gave a curt nod, tone clipped. “Yes.”
“Wanda’s dinner,” he added, as if you hadn’t already acknowledged it.
“Correct.”
He hesitated again, brows drawing together in a faint crease of worry. You could see him floundering, stuck in some internal scramble. It made your chest ache because you knew that look. You’d helped talk him down from that look more times than anyone else in the tower probably realised.
You sighed quietly through your nose, against your better judgment, against every wall you’d tried to build in the past week, you caved. He looked five seconds away from spiralling.
“It’s in there,” you offered gently, nodding toward the folder. “On your schedule.”
“Right. It’s just… for me, you usually…” His voice trailed off, frustration and uncertainty knotting in his brow. “Sorry. You’re probably busy—”
That felt like a punch to the gut.
You shook your head and, before your pride could stop you, your feet were already moving back toward him. His eyes dropped as you reached into your pocket for a pen, scribbling ‘Wanda’s Dinner – Friday’ on a green sticky note. Green for personal events, always. You hesitated, then added a smiley face underneath. You peeled it off and stuck it neatly onto the folder in Bucky’s hands.
His eyes dropped to it, finger brushing over the paper like he didn’t quite understand why it mattered so much. “Thanks.”
You just nodded, already stepping back, spine straight, pretending your heart wasn’t hammering in your throat.
“She said…” Bucky cleared his throat, clearly not done with the conversation. “Wanda said she’s going to do curry.”
You paused, unsure what to do with the information. Why was he telling you that? Why was he still talking?
“That’s nice,” you said carefully, not sure what to do with this strange, lingering version of him.
“Are you going?” he asked suddenly, and you frowned.
“I wasn’t invited—” You began, already covering from the invasive thoughts, already working to mask the sting. You didn’t want to imagine them next to each other over curry, leaning close, whispering in the way people did when they thought no one else was watching. It would only make the crack in your chest worse.
“You should go,” Bucky said quickly, cutting across your thoughts. “I’ll tell Wanda you’re coming.”
“That’s not necessary. I’ll be busy that night anyway…” You lied through your teeth, heart thumping hard against your breastbone as Bucky’s face crumpled a bit. You cut in before he could argue any further. “You’re going to be late. For the gym. It’s nearly six.”
“Right, shit, yeah. Sorry, I just…” He trailed off again, rubbing the back of his neck. “Thanks. I’ll… I’ll see you around.”
You raised an eyebrow at him, unsure if you were more confused or stunned by his sudden jitters.
—
Before the whole flowers incident, you made it your unofficial mission to ‘accidentally’ bump into Bucky as many times as humanly possible in a day. Now? It was the opposite. Every hallway was a trap to avoid, every room a potential ambush. Navigating the Tower had turned into something between a tactical stealth op and a personal game of hide-and-seek.
Unfortunately, your strategy for quiet withdrawal hadn’t gone unnoticed.
In fact, Bucky had picked up on your sudden cold shoulder almost immediately. The folder debacle had only been the first of many increasingly awkward run-ins.
There was the time you’d practically sprinted away from the elevator when the doors slid open to reveal him standing inside, a brow raised and coffee in hand. Or when you turned a corner too fast and walked straight into him, muttering a rushed apology before disappearing again like you were being hunted. Then there was the silent, painful breakfast you’d shared at the communal kitchen counter, where you busied yourself with peeling an orange for ten minutes straight while he sat beside you, occasionally glancing over like he wanted to say something but didn’t know how to begin.
You’d even pretended to be asleep on the common room couch when he walked in one evening, piles of paperwork scattered, laptop still open, only for him to drape a throw blanket over you before quietly leaving again.
And yet, instead of giving you space like you’d expected and hoped for, he seemed to find any excuse to be around you. He trailed after you like some misplaced puppy whenever he wasn’t buried in a mission or holed up in a meeting.
You’d assumed that the moment you stepped back, he’d naturally gravitate toward spending more time with Natasha. It made sense. Why wouldn’t he want to be around her? They were obviously dating, even if they hadn’t made it official yet. Maybe it was one of those quiet, close things kept just between friends, like Steve and Sam. Who were you to come barreling in and expose their secret entanglement? You expected Bucky to be relieved to no longer be on the receiving end of your babbling, your perfectly-timed coffee deliveries, or the not-so-subtle gifts you littered around.
But if anything, Bucky seemed determined to figure you out. Like your sudden shift had become his new pet project, and he was personally committed to cracking the case.
You’d taken the back hallway, the long, winding route that steered well clear of the gym on your way to the shared office. High-traffic areas were too risky now—too many chances to run into him. But clearly, Bucky had caught onto your little detours, because as you turned the corner, there he was, headed straight toward you.
You froze for half a second, pulse quickening. Turning around would be too obvious. Suspicious. He’d know exactly what you were doing, and then your carefully-constructed avoidance strategy would unravel entirely. If he suspected anything now, you were one panicked backpedal away from confirming it.
It was a nightmare. And a daydream.
A part of you, some soft, hopelessly romantic piece, ached at the sight of him, at the quiet way he seemed to look for you, worry always etched into his brow like you were some puzzle he couldn’t quite solve. But the rational part of your mind, the part that had dragged you into this self-imposed emotional lockdown, screamed that letting him get closer again would only undo all the fragile healing you’d managed to piece together.
So you steeled yourself.
Shoulders squared. Laptop and paperwork clutched like a lifeline. Eyes locked on an imaginary point just past his shoulder. If you kept walking and moved quickly, calmly, maybe he’d let you go. Perhaps he’d pretend not to notice how your pace picked up and your gaze carefully avoided his.
You nearly made it.
But of course, he noticed.
“Hey, wait—”
His voice was hesitant, just enough pressure to pull you to a stop. Your footsteps faded into the hush of the corridor, your spine straightening instinctively as you turned. Bucky stood a few paces behind, one hand lifted halfway between reaching and retreating, like he’d almost grabbed your arm but lost the nerve.
He looked sheepish. Timid, even. It killed you.
You swallowed. “Yeah?”
He scratched the back of his neck, boots scuffing lightly against the floor. “Did I… forget to grab my coffee this morning? Or… did you not bring it?”
A pause. Too long. You could feel the beat of your pulse behind your sternum as you forced a casual shake of your head.
“No, sorry. That’s on me. Slipped my mind.”
The lie didn’t sit well in your mouth.
It hadn’t slipped your mind, in fact, it was still sitting on the corner of your desk, cooling beside a stack of unfinished paperwork. You’d brewed it, as always. Even used the brown sugar he liked. But then you’d walked away from it, deliberately, like some idiotic breadcrumb trail you hoped he might follow.
God, you were pathetic.
Your stupid fucking brain couldn’t even decide what it wanted anymore. One half of you was charting escape routes through the tower to avoid him, the other was fantasising about him pinning you to the nearest wall. From the way your thighs pressed together now, breath catching as his voice brushed over you, maybe the answer wasn’t distance at all. Perhaps you just wanted to taste him—
He didn’t move. Just stood there, one brow lifted, faint worry creasing the edge of his expression.
“You’re usually down by the gym by nine,” he said, his voice low. “It’s eleven.”
“I’m running a bit behind today.”
“You usually text me if you’re running behind.”
“Well,” you said, shrugging like it didn’t matter, “I didn’t this time.”
He paused, the silence between you laced with something dangerously close to concern. “Is everything alright?”
You forced a small laugh, trying to shake off how his low, worried voice made heat pool in your gut. “Yeah. Why?”
“You seem off.”
There it was. Soft, plain and far too knowing. He said it in that maddeningly sincere way that only he could manage. Like he actually gave a damn. Like this wasn’t unravelling you by the day.
Your shoulders tensed. “Off?”
“Yeah,” he said gently. “Just… I dunno. You’ve been quiet lately.”
He didn’t know. He couldn’t know about the hours you spent spinning in your head like a lunatic, trying to compartmentalise this crush until it shrank into something survivable. About the way you’d stared blankly at Tinder profiles, your phone clutched in your hand, wondering why no one else ever came close, why none of them were him.
Why you couldn’t stop thinking that if you’d just told him—confessed that stupid crush before Natasha did—maybe you wouldn’t be standing here now like some stray mutt, sniffing around for scraps of attention.
Maybe then he’d be yours.
Maybe then you wouldn’t be fantasising about quitting just to put yourself out of your own misery like some lame racehorse.
“I’ve just got a lot on my plate,” you finally mustered, tone strained. “Tony’s soirée. The fittings. Admin crap. Didn’t even have breakfast today.”
His brows furrowed further. “That’s not good.”
“I’ll survive.”
Would you, though?
Would you survive the heat that flared low in your stomach every time he got too close? Would you survive the ache that gnawed behind your ribs every time he glanced over at Natasha like you didn’t exist? Would you survive the constant, desperate craving to be touched by him? To be looked at like she was looked at?
He didn’t speak for a second, and for a moment, you were sure he could smell the reek of desperation on you.
“The oranges in the fridge are gone.”
You blinked. “What?”
“And the tea. The fancy one,” he added. “The one with the dried raspberries in it. You’re the one who always restocks them, aren’t you?”
You looked down, fingers clenching around your folder. “I’ll add it to the list.”
“I didn’t mean it like that,” he said quickly, stepping forward a half-inch, enough to make your breath hitch. “I just… I didn’t realise it was you. Doing all of that.”
Of course, he hadn’t because you’d made it invisible. Seamless. That was the kind of care you practised—silent, anticipatory, never asked for, never returned. You had cared for him with a thousand tiny efforts, but he never noticed until you stopped.
You looked up, and the hallway felt suddenly too narrow. His face was open in a way you hadn’t seen in a long time. Gentle, confused, like he was trying to work you out and couldn’t quite bear not knowing.
You dropped your gaze. “I said I’ll do it.”
He paused. You could feel him thinking again.
Then, to your disappointment, he slowly nodded. “Okay.”
But he didn’t move. Not right away. He lingered like someone who hadn’t yet decided if leaving was the right call, like he was caught between concern and curiosity.
“I’ll leave you to it, I guess.”
You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. You just nodded and turned, walking away quickly before he could see your face fall, before he could catch the naked want in your expression, the way your heart was clawing against your ribs, screaming for you to turn around and ruin everything.
—
If time travel were an option, you'd gladly launch yourself into a wormhole and strangle your past self for being stupid—no, lovesick—enough to organise this little errand. You deserve it, really. A swift kick to the gut from future-you for being this hopeless.
It had all started a month ago, when you, like a fool, volunteered to collect the tailored suits and dresses for some little soirée Tony Stark had decided to throw. Of course, in true Tony fashion, what was pitched as a ‘casual get-together’ had evolved into a full-blown, black-tie spectacle. The first warning sign? Tony footing the bill for everyone to have custom outfits made to their specifications. Translation…this was going to be a thing.
You’d spent weeks wrangling Avengers into fitting appointments, helping them choose fabrics and cuts, managing last-minute alterations and tracking shipments. It was exhausting but under control…until the catch. The aggravating, absurdly attractive, brooding catch currently sitting across from you in the tailor’s waiting room, his knee bounced like it was transmitting a detailed morse code manifesto on every possible way he planned to ruin your day.
The plan had been simple: grab an Uber, pick up the garments, pressed, stitched, and boxed to perfection and head back to the tower. But then you got the call. The one that told you Bucky Barnes had missed his final fitting, and that his suit needed some last-minute adjustments...
Of course he did.
Of all your perfectly laid plans, it only took one missed appointment to bring it all crashing down. Now here you were, stuck waiting beside the man who occupied far too much of your brain lately, silently praying the tailor would finish quickly so you could escape before your sanity, or your dignity, completely unravelled.
“I really am sorry,” Bucky said for what felt like the fiftieth time.
Between the brooding and the nervous leg tapping, he’d spent the last five minutes watching the side of your face with an expression so guilty it was practically carved into him.
“Like I said, it’s fine.” You replied, though it came out a little too tight, a little too forced, like you were speaking through clenched teeth. Which, maybe you were. Not that it mattered. Not when you could smell his cologne from how damn close he was sitting. God, you wanted to lean over and bury your face in his chest and just inhale—
You straightened abruptly, shoulders stiffening as the tailor entered the room, and mentally reacquainted yourself with the concept of boundaries.
It had been an hour—sixty minutes of waiting while Bucky’s suit got its final adjustments. An hour of you trying to distract yourself with work emails and unanswered texts, pretending the man beside you wasn’t single-handedly causing your emotional stability to nosedive. At least when he’d stepped away to get re-measured, you could breathe without risking spontaneous emotional combustion.
This wasn’t like you. You weren’t usually this wound up. Maybe it was the exhaustion, days of juggling your regular duties with Tony’s ever-growing list of soirée demands. Perhaps it was the heartbreak. Or the missed meals. Or the fact that you genuinely had no idea what day it was anymore.
“Would you like to try it on before we package it up for travel?” the tailor asked, her voice gentle. A measuring tape hung loosely around her neck, her pinned bun fraying slightly at the edges.
Bucky looked at you again, eyes flicking toward yours like he needed permission. You swallowed what was left of your pride and gave him a slight, strained nod.
“It’s okay,” you said quietly. “Go on.”
“I’m sorry—again—this is probably eating into your whole afternoon, I know how busy you are—”
“It’s fine. Really. Just go.”
He offered a sheepish smile before disappearing behind the velvet curtain, tugging it closed with a rustle. You pressed your fingers to your temples, let your head drop into your hands, and exhaled through your nose like it might stop your heart from trying to break out of your chest.
Across the counter, the tailor glanced up at you with a sympathetic look as she readied the boxes for the other garments. “Long day?” she asked gently.
You lifted your head, managing a tight smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes.
“Only going to get longer.”
You were still nursing the tail end of your sigh when the velvet curtain swished open again.
And then your brain stopped working.
Bucky stepped out in full formal attire, sharp navy suit, tailored within an inch of its life. The cut of it hugged his frame perfectly. Broad shoulders, tapered waist, long legs. A deep navy waistcoat peeked out beneath the jacket, the subtle sheen of the fabric catching the light just enough to look expensive without being flashy. His tie was already perfectly knotted, like he’d done this a hundred times, and the sleeves of his shirt revealed just enough of the polished metal edge of his vibranium arm to make your mouth dry.
He cleared his throat softly, tugging at one cuff. “How’s it look?”
You blinked. Opened your mouth. Closed it again.
Words? No. Words were gone. Your vocabulary had packed up and left the building.
Bucky shifted his weight, clearly mistaking your slack-jawed silence for disapproval. “It’s weird, right? The waistcoat maybe doesn’t work, I told her I wasn’t sure about it—”
“No,” you said quickly—too quickly. “No, it’s… It’s perfect. You look… great. Seriously.”
His brows lifted slightly, a flicker of something you couldn’t quite place crossing his face. Relief, maybe?
“Yeah?” he said, glancing down at himself, tugging slightly at the jacket hem. “I feel better about it now. The sleeves fit properly this time. Thanks for waiting.”
The tailor beamed from behind the counter, clearly proud of her work. “Wonderful. I’ll box it up immediately once you’re out of it.”
Bucky nodded, but the tailor turned to you with a friendly smile before he could disappear again.
“And for you, would you like to try your gown on as well before I pack it away?”
You blinked, suddenly snapped out of your holy-shit-Bucky-hot-hot-hot haze. “My what?”
She gestured toward the row of garment bags. “Mr. Stark sent over your measurements earlier this month. There’s a gown here for you.”
You frowned. “That must be a mistake. I’m just the assistant. None of those are for me.”
The tailor hesitated. “I don’t think so… He was very clear. Your name was attached to the order.”
Before you could argue, Bucky cut in smoothly, like he’d seen this train coming and stepped in to redirect it.
“Tony probably just wanted you to look the part, too,” he said, voice low and casual. “You’ve done all the work, he probably figured you deserved to enjoy the night a little. Might as well try it on, just in case.”
You glanced at him, but he didn’t look smug or teasing. Just… earnest. Calm. Like he meant it. Which made it all the harder to protest.
“Fine.” You sighed, scrubbing a hand down your face. “Just to check it fits.”
The tailor clapped her hands together. “Wonderful. It’s a beautiful gown, I promise.”
You gave Bucky one last side-eye before following her toward the changing rooms, the fabric bag already in her hands.
From behind, you could hear him chuckle under his breath.
“Just wait 'til you see her,” the tailor murmured to herself, and you weren’t sure whether to be flattered or deeply, deeply nervous.
The gown was heavier than you expected. Luxurious fabric slipped off the hanger like water, pooling in your arms as she handed it over with the kind of reverence usually reserved for wedding dresses.
“I’ll give you a minute,” she smiled, disappearing to finish boxing up the suits.
Left alone in the changing room, you peeled out of your clothes, letting the gown slide on over your hips, your waist, up past your ribs. It clung like it had been sewn directly onto your body, the bodice snug, the neckline just daring enough to make you blush.
You twisted to try to reach the zipper at the back, fingers fumbling and straining, but the angle was impossible. You spent the better part of five minutes twisting in the mirror like a lunatic, trying to reach the zipper that refused to budge. Your arms ached. The corset bodice was half-fastened. You were flushed, annoyed, and far too aware of the sliver of bare spine still exposed.
You were about to peek your head out and ask the tailor for help when a low voice cut in behind the curtain.
“Need a hand?”
You flinched, fabric clutched to your chest. “Jesus, Bucky! Don’t sneak up on me like that!”
“Didn’t mean to scare you.” His voice was rougher than usual, like he’d just cleared his throat. “Heard you cursing. Tailor said she’d be a minute out back.”
You hesitated, and your voice came out thin. “Yeah. I—I can’t get it up.”
“Okay,” he replied, oddly determined. “Turn around.”
You cracked the curtain open a pinch. He ducked inside, too broad for the narrow space, his frame practically filling it. He was careful not to look at you directly, at least at first.
You turned slowly, presenting your back. “Just the zipper,” you murmured, barely trusting your own voice.
“Sure,”
A single fingertip, cold metal, dragged up from the base of your spine to the dip between your shoulder blades. It barely touched the skin, but you shuddered from the sensation. Bucky wasn’t even fastening yet, just tracing the line the zipper would follow. The sound you made was too soft to catch.
The zipper came up slowly. Agonisingly. His knuckles brushed your skin every inch of the way, not by accident. No, this was too slow, too precise, to be innocent.
He was savouring it.
His other hand steadied you, palm ghosting just over your hip. His breath fanned warm against your shoulder.
“You’re trembling,” he commented.
You swallowed hard, unable to muster a response.
When he reached the top, his hand didn’t fall away. Instead, he swept your hair off your shoulder completely, fingertips grazing the line of your throat as he let it fall over one side.
He leaned in. Not touching, but close. Mouth just behind your ear. The heat of his breath against your neck.
“Should’ve let me help sooner,” he whispered, voice like a purr. “Would’ve had you dressed in seconds.”
You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. Your lips parted slightly, breath caught somewhere halfway as your lungs deflated in shock. And maybe it was the gown. Or the silence. Or the way your thighs pressed together of their own accord, but you didn’t move. You didn’t step away.
You leaned in.
Only a fraction. Just enough.
He noticed.
You could feel it in the slight shift of his stance. The faint sound of him exhaling a chuckle through his nose. The way his hand brushed ever-so-slightly along the small of your back before falling away.
And then he was gone.
He stepped back like nothing had happened. Like the tension wasn’t choking the air between you. You turned toward the mirror in a daze.
The dress shimmered in the soft light. Deep, elegant, form-fitting. The neckline exposed the curve of your breasts, the slit at your thigh scandalous enough to make you self-conscious.
You caught his reflection in the mirror. He was watching you, but not with the restrained professionalism you were used to. It was only the sudden reentrance of the tailor that made him hesitate in whatever words were forming on his tongue. He stepped aside, finally giving you space to exit. And you did—legs shaky, palms sweating—like a deer walking straight back into the forest fire, pretending it wasn’t about to burn.
—
Your plan to avoid Bucky after the tailor incident had gone off without a hitch, maybe a little too well. You'd buried yourself in helping Tony pull together the final touches for his ‘soirée’ (which, if you were honest, was less soirée and more ‘black tie circus in a penthouse’).
You'd been so laser-focused on your tasks that you'd almost managed not to think about Bucky in that goddamn changing room. His fingers ghosting up your bare spine like a spark setting fire to dry kindling. You’d folded instantly. Your body betrayed you instantly while your brain screamed to keep it together. Pathetic.
The moral implications of whatever that moment had been were filed away for another day. Were you the other woman? Was Natasha going to slit your throat in your sleep? What was Bucky doing, touching you like that—in a public changing room, no less—when he had a bombshell redhead waiting for him back at the Tower?
No time for that now. Not when Tony’s precious ‘soirée’ was already in full swing upstairs and the caterers had somehow forgotten an entire section of the food. You’d scrambled together an emergency order from some overpriced restaurant Tony swore he was ‘basically family’ with, and by some miracle, they came through in the nick of time.
Now you were in damage control mode, hauling three boxes of overpriced canapés up to the penthouse. Your heels bit into your feet with every step, your dress clung too tightly to bend properly without your tits spilling out, and your patience was hanging on by a single goddamn thread.
You pressed the elevator button with your elbow and exhaled as the doors slid open.
Drop off the food. Grab a free drink. Drown your Bucky-related sorrows. Maybe, just maybe, keep the beast between your legs from waking at the mere sight of him.
The doors began to close. You shifted your weight, careful with the boxes balanced in your arms—
Then someone slipped through at the last second.
Him.
Bucky fucking Barnes.
Tall and devastating as usual in his dark navy suit, his tie loosened just enough to suggest mischief, or maybe carelessness. You weren’t sure which one made you feel worse.
Your breath hitched. Instinctively, your gaze dropped to the floor, feigning sudden, all-consuming interest in the stability of your precarious tower of hors d'oeuvres. But teetering stacks of overpriced finger food or not, Bucky didn’t seem inclined to play along with your avoidance act. Not now. Not when the elevator doors had sealed you in together, finally, and you were without escape.
You winced at the sound of his sharp inhale, the question already pressing past his lips before the elevator even jolted into motion.
“Did I do something to piss you off?”
You didn’t look up. Eyes fixed firmly on the floor, you muttered, “What?”
“I just…” His voice was rough. Tired. “It feels like you’ve been avoiding me.”
Shit.
He stepped forward slightly. Not enough to be invasive. Just enough to make your stomach flip.
“You hardly talk to me anymore,” he continued. “Won’t even look at me unless it’s about work. And even then, it’s like you’re somewhere else. Did I do something to offend you? Hurt you? Just tell me what I did so I can fix it.”
The elevator hummed to life beneath your feet, gliding upward smoothly. You shifted your weight, bracing against the cool metal rail, eyes stubbornly fixed on the buttons, anywhere but his maddeningly perfect face.
“You haven’t done anything,” you said quietly, the words tasting sour the second they left your mouth.
“Then why are you doing it now?” he asked, eyes searching yours. “Why won’t you even look at me?”
“Bucky…”
“Please. Just tell me.”
You hesitated. His hand twitched like he meant to reach for your arm, then faltered, falling back to his side. Your grip tightened on the containers, your fingers slick with sweat. “It’s not you,” you murmured. “It’s me… I just…”
He didn’t move. Didn’t even blink.
“Please,” he said again, quieter now. “Tell me the truth.”
And that was what did it. The tremor in his voice. The way his brow creased like he couldn’t stand not knowing. Something broke open inside your chest, raw and unhealed. The dam cracked, split, then gave way completely, and the truth came spilling out before you had the chance to swallow it back down. You were exhausted. Wound tight. Running on fumes and nerves and far too many feelings. You’d tell him, you decided. Then drop off the canapés, quit on the spot, and flee the country if necessary. Stark would write you a killer reference. You’d survive.
“Okay,” you said, breath hitching as a nervous laugh bubbled out, half-bitter, half-resigned. “You want the truth? Fine. You’re going to think I’ve completely lost it.”
He stayed quiet, letting you spiral.
“This is so stupid,” you muttered. “I like you, Bucky. There. I said it. I like you. And it was fine—manageable—until it wasn’t. Until I started imagining things. Thinking maybe… maybe you liked me too.”
His eyebrows lifted, surprised but unreadable.
“I’ve had this massive, embarrassing crush on you since the moment I met you. And I know it’s weird, and probably unprofessional because you’re kinda my boss, but not. Technically, Tony’s my boss, but I basically manage everything around here, and—ugh, I’m rambling.” You squeezed your eyes shut. “I like you. And I’ve been avoiding you because it was getting out of hand. I couldn’t stop thinking about you. And it felt wrong. Especially since you’re dating Natasha, which just made everything worse—”
“What?” he interrupted, voice sharp. “I’m not dating Natasha.”
Your eyes snapped open. “That’s what you took from all of that?”
“No, I—wait. You think I’m dating Natasha?”
“Yes!” you burst out, cheeks flaming. “I saw you! At the Sunday market about a month ago with the flowers—”
His brow furrowed. “What flowers?”
“The bouquet you gave her.”
“I didn’t give Natasha flowers.”
You let out a dry, disbelieving laugh. “I saw you. It was that dumb little market Tony makes me go to for those overpriced vegan pastries Pepper loves—”
Bucky stared at you, confused. And then, slowly, understanding clicked into place. His face contorted like he’d just remembered he’d left his stove on.
“Oh my god,” he muttered, dragging a hand down his face. “The flowers. Those weren’t for Natasha. They were for Wanda.”
Your heart stuttered. “What?”
“Vision,” Bucky groaned. “It was their anniversary. He was stuck on the phone trying to get a fancy reservation and begged me to pick them up. Natasha tagged along because she was hunting for jewellery for Maria’s birthday. That’s all it was.”
You blinked at him. “You’re joking.”
“I’m not,” Bucky replied earnestly. “I didn’t know you thought that. I swear, I’m not with Natasha. I never was.”
Your stomach dropped. “Oh god.”
“Hey—”
“No. No-no-no.” You squeezed your eyes shut, wanting to sink straight through the floor. “This is mortifying. I literally thought you were in a secret relationship. I’ve been avoiding you like the plague. I’ve been thinking about moving cities. I googled how hard it is to change your name legally.”
He snorted. “You’re not serious.”
You opened your eyes, and the horror must have been plain on your face because Bucky’s expression melted into something far too amused. “Oh, you are.”
“I might never recover from this,” you mumbled.
“Hey, c’mon. It’s not that bad.”
“I confessed my undying crush and accused you of being in love with someone else in the span of like, sixty seconds.”
His mouth twitched, lips threatening a smile. “You’re kind of adorable when you’re spiralling.”
“I’m going to chuck these hors d'oeuvres at your head.”
As if mocking your attempt at dignity, the elevator gave a slight mechanical whirr, nearly at the top floor. The distant hum of the party pulsed just beyond those sleek doors.
You straightened suddenly, panic creeping into your chest. “Okay, I’m going to deliver these and then I’m leaving. Possibly forever. Please never speak to me again.”
But Bucky, ever faster than you, stepped in.
And before you could react, he pressed the emergency stop button.
The elevator jolted to a halt. The tower of overpriced hors d'oeuvres wobbled dangerously in your arms. “Oh my god,” you gasped, teetering.
Bucky was already moving, steady hands catching the top box before it could topple, plucking the rest from your shaking grasp. He crouched to stack them on the floor carefully, then rose slowly, smirking as you stood frozen, mouth agape in pure horrified disbelief.
“Bucky, what the hell are you doing?”
“No more running,” he said simply, as if that explained everything.
You could barely breathe. “You stopped the elevator?”
“Didn’t want to risk the doors opening and you disappearing into the night,” he said, a little too pleased with himself.
“I hate you,” you whispered, eyes wide.
He leaned in, just close enough for you to feel his breath. “No, you don’t.”
You were going to die right here in a metal box. With your dignity in ruins and the man of your dumb, desperate daydreams giving you that look.
And somehow, somehow, you didn’t even want to stop him.
“I’m serious,” he said, stepping closer. “Don’t shut down. Please.”
You glanced up at him, finally meeting his eyes and immediately wished you hadn’t. They were dark. Hungry. That gaze alone could melt you to the floor.
He stepped closer again. And again. Until his frame caged in you, his arms braced on either side of your head, the heat of his body swallowing you whole.
“I like you too,” he said, low, rough, like it was pulled from deep inside. “Christ, I was so blind. I didn’t see it. It didn’t click until that day at the tailor, until I saw you in this damn dress.”
Your breath hitched.
“I can’t stop thinking about you,” he murmured. “I’ve been looking for excuses just to be near you. I keep the notes you leave me with the stupid little drawings. I like looking at them. Thinking about you.”
Your heart felt like it might crack your ribs.
“I smelled every shampoo at the store one day,” he confessed, almost sheepish, almost proud. “Hoped I’d find the one you use. Because you smell so fucking good. It’s been driving me crazy.”
“Bucky…”
“I don’t know. You make me feel special. Seen. Like I’m not some monster, like I’m normal. And then one day you were just… gone. I didn’t realise all the little things you did for me that I never noticed.” He groaned, somehow pressing closer. “I missed the sound of your voice… and it made it hurt even more… I lie awake at night, every night, thinking about you and how much I want to kiss you—”
“Bucky.” You interrupted, and he looked back at you with a barely contained hunger. “Are you going to kiss me or not?”
And then his mouth was on yours.
Hot. Messy. Desperate.
You gasped into it, and he swallowed it whole, groaning as he pressed harder, deeper, hands sliding down to your thighs as he grabbed one and hitched it up around his waist. You clung to his shoulders, lips parted as he slotted himself between your legs, guiding you up until your ass was perched on the elevator’s handrail bar.
“Fuck,” he breathed against your mouth. “Tell me that you want this, tell me that you want me.”
Your head fell back against the wall, lips swollen, breath shaking. His mouth travelled to your jaw, your throat, hands digging into your hips.
It was dizzying. Chaotic. Perfect.
“I want you, Bucky.” You panted.
“Fuck,” Bucky muttered again, but this time it was different, lower. Hungrier.
His hand slid along your thigh, fingertips brushing beneath the hem of your dress. You panted as he kissed across your collarbone, his breath hot against your skin. His hands settled on your knees, then slowly, deliberately, he spread them apart.
“Bucky—” your voice was barely more than a whisper, a tremble of anticipation and disbelief.
But he didn’t answer. He dropped to his knees.
Right there. In the goddamn elevator.
You almost came on the spot at the sight, lips swollen and slick with saliva, pupils blown, the slight smudge of your lipstick on his chin. His hands slid up the back of your calves, kneading into the flesh like he was savouring the shape of you. Your dress inched upwards, his mouth suddenly pressing a kiss to the inside of your knee.
Your breath hitched. Your hands shot to the railing behind you, clutching tight.
“You have no idea,” he said, voice wrecked with want, “how long I’ve thought about this.”
His eyes flicked up to yours, dark with something dangerous. Devotion, desire, something molten and drowning. Then his mouth moved higher.
Another kiss. Inner thigh this time. Then another, and another, slow, lingering, like he was memorising you. He disappeared until the fabric of your skirt, only the back of his head, dark locks messy peaking out from between the slit.
You moaned, soft and involuntary, your hips twitching at the heat of his breath through the thin fabric of your panties. He nuzzled in close, his nose brushing against you, and his hands pressed firmly to your thighs to keep you spread.
“I’ve thought about how you’d taste,” he muttered, lips grazing the soaked lace. “How you’d sound.”
You whimpered.
And then, he peeled your panties to the side.
The groan that tore from him was obscene.
“Jesus,” he hissed, voice muffled. “You’re fucking perfect.”
And then, his mouth was on you.
Hot. Wet. Relentless. You cried out, one hand flying to his hair, tangling in it as his tongue licked into you with precision, with hunger, with something close to worship. He devoured you like he was starving. Slow circles, then quick flicks, his mouth dragging across your clit with maddening rhythm. You writhed against the rail, your leg still wrapped around his shoulder, the other trembling against the elevator wall.
“Oh my god—Bucky—fuck—”
Your words slurred together, breath coming in ragged gasps as he groaned into you, the vibration shooting straight through your core. One of his arms snaked around your thigh, pinning you in place, as if he thought you might try to escape. As if he’d let you.
His tongue slid down, dipping into you, then back up, his mouth latching onto your clit with a filthy, wet sound that made your spine arch. You were unravelling, fast, dizzy, overwhelmed.
He pulled back just enough to pant. “I could stay here all night.”
His mouth was merciless. His grip was unrelenting on your thighs, mouth working you over like a man possessed—
Bzzzzt.
A shrill, sudden buzz sounded from the elevator’s emergency panel, followed by a crackling voice.
“Hello? This is Tower Maintenance. We’re registering an emergency stop on lift three. Is there an issue?”
You froze. Every muscle in your body went rigid, as if someone had cracked open your spine and poured ice water down it. Dread spread like frost through your veins. Your heart thudded painfully in your throat, threatening to climb up and out entirely.
You could barely breathe. Could barely think.
This was it. This was how you died—legs spread, Bucky between them, and Tower Maintenance on the fucking line.
Bucky, in sharp contrast, did not freeze.
He groaned softly with wicked glee, his mouth still very much between your legs. The sound vibrated against the most sinful part of you, and then he doubled down. Mouth and hands working with infuriating, diabolical precision, like he’d just taken the intercom as a challenge.
You clamped a hand over your mouth, the other shaking as you reached blindly for the emergency call button, trying not to sound like you were seconds away from being ruined.
Your voice came out like a panicked squeak. “Hi! Uh—h-hi, yes, sorry! Must’ve been a—a small electrical fault. I’m fine! Everything’s… fine!”
Bucky nipped at your thigh in response.
There was a pause. You could feel the suspicion through the line.
“Ma’am, we’re not showing any electrical inconsistencies in that shaft. Did you press the stop button?”
You shot a wide-eyed glare down at the man currently devouring you.
Another wave of pleasure threatened to knock the air from your lungs. You were barely holding it together, every nerve ending aflame, skin flushed, thighs shaking. The cool metal of the elevator wall against your spine did little to ground you.
You cleared your throat, struggling to piece together something—anything—resembling human speech. “Oh. Oh, that—um, I must’ve bumped it. With my elbow. While holding a tray. It’s, uh—crowded. In here.”
Bucky chose that exact moment to suck hard, and you slapped your hand over your mouth to muffle the helpless sound that nearly escaped.
A longer pause. You could practically hear them frowning.
“…Right. Well, we’re releasing the stop now. Please remain calm.”
The line disconnected.
The elevator jolted slightly as it roared back to life.
Bucky gave a dark chuckle. “Crowded, huh?” Then—with zero mercy—he sped up.
“Bucky,” you gasped, head falling back against the wall, “I’m—I’m gonna—”
You shattered.
It hit hard, hot and blinding. You cried out, thighs clamping tight around his head as he groaned against you, mouth not stopping for a second, drawing it out, milking every twitch, every whimper. You barely had time to breathe, let alone moan, your hands flying to steady yourself just as the elevator dinged cheerily and the doors slid open.
Right into the penthouse. Packed full of people, who by some miracle, were utterly oblivious to your predicament.
You staggered slightly as Bucky stood smoothly, wiping his mouth with his sleeve, one arm slipping around your waist to steady you while the other casually reached down and grabbed the stack of forgotten canapés off the floor like he hadn’t just—
“Evening,” he greeted a passing staff member, utterly unbothered.
You were glowing crimson, pupils blown, lips parted, trying hard to fix your face. Bucky guided you forward, his hand warm on your back, keeping you between him and the crowd as your legs trembled. You barely managed to set the tray on the nearest table before someone whistled.
“Well, damn,” came Sam’s voice from the drinks bar. He gave you both a once-over, a wicked grin spreading. “Buck, next time you’re gonna eat face in the elevator, maybe wipe the lipstick off your chin first.”
Bucky only smirked and licked his bottom lip slow, on purpose, you were sure of it.
You nearly combusted on the spot.
“Bathroom?” he murmured into your ear, low and gravelly.
You nodded quickly and wordlessly.
He guided you with all the smugness of a man who had no regrets, his hand just a little too low on your back to be innocent.
---
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summary. castiel heard your sink needs fixing and he doesn't hesitate to grab some tools and fix yo--the sink.
pairing. castiel x reader ( f )
wordcount. 859 genre. smut
warnings. roleplay gone awry (castiel’s awkward attempt at “plumber” roleplay), oral sex (f!receiving), p in v, rough, desperate cas with a tender edge, kitchen counter sex, dirty talk (a little awkward but hot)
There’s a knock at your door. Sharp, purposeful, and not entirely patient.
You frown, wiping your hands on a dish towel before pulling it open.
Castiel stands there. Not in his usual trench coat and tie. Instead, he’s stripped down to a fitted shirt with the sleeves rolled, a leather tool belt cinched around his hips, hanging heavy with wrenches and screwdrivers. His expression is stoic, as if this makes perfect sense.
“…Cas?”
He doesn’t answer. He pushes past you into the kitchen with a muttered, “I heard your sink needs fixing.”
Your mouth opens. Then closes. “…What?”
Cas kneels by the cabinets, fiddling with the door like he’s about to crawl under. But his fingers hesitate, twitching at the buckle of his belt instead. His voice is low, gravelly. “I’ve watched the… videos. The ones where the repairman…” He trails off, meeting your wide eyes. “Is this… convincing?”
Heat spikes through you, your face burning. “Oh my God.”
He tilts his head. “Not God. Castiel.”
And before you can laugh or correct him, he’s closing the distance—grabbing your hips, pressing you back against the counter with sudden, hungry force. His mouth crashes onto yours, awkward at first, then deepening, devouring.
“Cas—” you gasp between kisses.
“I’ve wanted this,” he murmurs into your skin, lips trailing down your jaw. His breath is hot against your ear. “To… roleplay. To fuck you here.”
The bluntness makes your knees weak.
He hoists you up effortlessly, setting you on the counter. The cool surface shocks your thighs as his hands spread them wide, his belt digging into your skin as he steps between. He kisses you again, slower now, his tongue sliding into your mouth with deliberate intent.
Your hands fist in his hair. “You’re ridiculous,” you whisper, but your voice is already wrecked with want.
“Am I?” He drags a thumb over your bottom lip, his pupils blown. “Or do you want your… sink repaired?”
You shiver at the rough tease, at the way his voice dips into something dark and uncharacteristically filthy.
His mouth trails down your neck, nipping, sucking, leaving faint marks. When he reaches the neckline of your shirt, he tugs—impatient, desperate. “Off.”
You peel it over your head, tossing it aside, and his gaze darkens as he takes you in, bra clad and trembling. His hands cup your breasts through the fabric, thumbs brushing your nipples until they tighten. You arch into him with a moan.
“Cas—please.”
He doesn’t hesitate. He drops to his knees, pushing your skirt up and your panties aside. His lips are hot against your inner thigh, his scruff scratching deliciously. Then his tongue is on you, slow and deliberate at first, then faster, hungrier, as if the taste alone could undo him.
You clutch the edge of the counter, knuckles white, head falling back. “Fuck—”
His hands grip your hips, holding you down as he works you over, tongue circling your clit before plunging inside you, relentless. The noises echo obscenely in the kitchen, the kind of sounds that would make neighbors blush.
When you shatter, it’s sudden, sharp, your cry echoing off tile and steel. He groans against you, drinking it down like holy water.
Before you can catch your breath, he’s on his feet again, mouth slick, eyes burning. He unbuckles the tool belt and tosses it aside, then shoves his pants down just enough to free himself—hard, thick, leaking at the tip.
“Cas,” you gasp, dazed, legs still trembling.
“Shh.” He lines himself up, grinding the head against your slick entrance. His voice drops to a growl. “Let me fix you.”
And then he thrusts in, deep and hard, filling you to the hilt.
You cry out, clutching at his shoulders. He buries his face in your neck, panting as he sets a rough, punishing rhythm—hips slamming against the counter, every thrust rattling through your bones.
“Fuck—you feel—” He chokes on a moan, biting your shoulder. “So warm. So perfect.”
You dig your nails into his back, clinging as the counter digs into your skin, as he drives you higher with each sharp snap of his hips. His hand slides between you, finding your clit, rubbing tight circles until your breathless whimpers turn into broken cries.
“Cas—oh my God—”
His thrusts grow erratic, messy, his forehead pressed against yours, his voice strangled. “Say it. Say I’m fixing you.”
You’re sobbing with pleasure now, beyond caring how ridiculous it sounds. “You’re—you’re fixing me—”
That’s all it takes. He groans your name like a prayer and comes inside you, hips jerking as his release floods you. The feeling pushes you over the edge again, your body clenching around him, your cry muffled against his shoulder.
Silence falls, broken only by your ragged breaths.
Cas finally pulls back, still inside you, his hair damp with sweat, his expression soft, reverent. He brushes a kiss over your lips, tender now. “Did I… do it right?”
You laugh, shaky and dazed, tugging him closer. “Yeah, Cas. You did just fine.”
His smile is small but radiant as he kisses you again, and you realize: roleplay might be awkward as hell—but with him, it’s perfect.
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summary : Dean is sent to back up a rookie hunter in upstate New York.
a/n : I guess this wound up being a Dean Study in misogyny? With the promise of smut that I have written but...it's kinda meh? IDK, let me know if you'd read the rest and I might post it.
This is from a graveyard fic, not beta'd, with only a couple passes on content editing. I'm using these as an exercise to get back into sharing my writing, and a way to nail down my style (much of the graveyard's an exercise in stylistic whiplash...) -- more musings on the piece at the end.
2003
He was in Harrisburg when he got the text.
Malone Inn R104. Ghoul? Rookie needs backup.
Babysitting fresh hunters was something his Dad had started sending him out more and more for since Sam had left for college. Dean hated it. Butting heads with guys who had a few more years on him but way less experience wasn’t exactly the extra responsibility he wanted to prove his mettle, but John said it was good for him. That it would build character.
Bullshit. He thought. He had plenty of character already, but here he was anyway, following orders. By the time he pulled into the motel six hours later, he was singularly focused on two things: draining the lizard and getting the hell out of Malone.
“Lemme in, Rookie. I gotta piss like a mother.”
He barely registered her as he shoved into the room, dropping his duffel at her feet. The door didn’t latch on the bathroom and it hung ajar as his groan of relief drifted out. He wiped his hands on his pants and busied himself shedding layers, finally taking a moment to assess her.
She was sitting at the table, pen tucked in the corner of her mouth, newspaper in hand, bare feet up and tapping to a rhythm he couldn’t hear. She was cradling a can of Milwaukee in the crook of her elbow and another was sitting across from her, waiting for him. At least there’s beer.
“You’re Dean?” She knew he was, but it felt fair to confirm since the last text she’d received was: Sit tight. Sending Dean.
“Sure am, sweetheart.”
“Huh.” She looked at him over the paper, watching him for a moment before folding it in half and tossing it aside, plucking the pen from her mouth and starting to twirl it around her fingers absently. “Your Dad called me sweetheart. I think I like Rookie better, if I get to have a say.” That made Dean pause, mouth full of beer. He shrugged, nodded. It seemed fair enough to him. She dragged her chair around the table, invading the space beside him, palming the messy pile of clippings and notes beside her and shoving it across the table in front of him. “Show you what I've got, Coach?”
It was solid work. A little roundabout, definitely unrefined, inexperienced but competent. He let her walk through her process, offered a suggestion here or there, nodding his approval when she’d turn to him for it. When she’d lean in close, he could smell sweat and old beer on her, motel soap, and something earthier under that and Fuck. He wanted to press his face into the soft spot behind her ear and find out what else she smelled like.
“Dean?”
“Yeah.” He cleared his throat, definitely still paying attention to the case, grabbing his beer again. “Yeah, Rook, looks like you got yourself a ghoul all right. You know how to kill one?”
“Silver.” He felt like he was giving her a pop quiz.
“That’ll slow ‘em down, but to gank it you gotta take the head.” She nodded slowly, like she was memorizing the answer she got wrong on a test. “You ever done that, Rookie?”
“First time for everything, right?” She grinned and drummed her hands on the table, sweeping everything back into a messy pile. “When do we head out?”
He laughed, a low, tired rumble, covering one of her hands with his, big and warm and all encompassing. “I need sleep, at least six hours, and I wouldn’t argue with a hot meal in the morning.”
“Diner’s not bad, coffee’s hot. As for sleep,” She looked over her shoulder at the bed. “No need to stand on ceremony. If you want it, I can take the floor.”
“Looks big enough to share.” He ran his thumb across the back of her hand absently, the corner of his mouth ticking up at the way the hairs stood up as he did so.
“Nah.” She pulled her hand away gently, but not before twisting lightly beneath his and giving a soft squeeze. It almost made him shiver. He looked up, caught her eyes and she gave him a sly smile and a wink. “Might not get your full six if we did that, huh?”
“Jesus Christ.” He muttered behind his hand, dragging it across his face, as he raised his eyes to the ceiling. She was laughing at him, low, almost silent, and she dropped her hand to his shoulder and let it run down his back until her fingers followed her as she went to unfurl her bedroll.
In his experience, working with women pretty exclusively involved saving them, and it always wound up the same way afterwards: tangled up in sheets and supplication, his name a memento crafted from tender mouths that would never forget who protected them from the horrors of the night. Once, a few years back, he had his ass saved by one of his Dad's contacts, an older woman with threads of silver in her blonde hair, and the way that mommy fantasy still made his insides twist into magma, he's not sure he'll ever fully unpack it.
He listened to her restless sleep that night, haunted moans that were the birthright of so many hunters. She wasn't waiting to be saved, that chapter had closed for her. He was here to hunt with her, and in the morning she looked at him like she was ready for him to lead her deeper into the darkness, not show her a way out. It clawed at his insides.
The coffee was hot, and the food was fine, just like she'd said it would be. She sat across from him in a comfortable, slow silence, tilting her head toward the slatted sunbeam that poured through the blinds covering the window. She pulled her denim clad knee up to her chest, coffee cup rolling back and forth across her lower lip, and he wanted to reach across the table and replace it with his thumb, fingers curling around her jaw as he pressed the soft, plump flesh back and forth. He wondered what it would feel like to press into her mouth and hold it open.
“You do this a lot? The…coaching thing.”
“Sometimes.” He shrugged, sharing a smile with her, gnawing at a strip of bacon. She'd ordered extra without asking and slid it between them to share. “Dad's still getting used to letting me work my own cases. So…” He drummed his fingers on the table, flipped his hand over on the table, palm open in a gesture like a shrug.
“Huh.” She nodded, two fingers ticking in the air at the waitress for the cheque, half smile twitching at her lips. “Sounds fun.”
“Not really.” He said it before he could catch himself and immediately looked contrite, cleared his throat and busied himself looking for his wallet. She’d already dropped cash on the table and reached across to close the billfold into his hand.
“Let's wrap it up, then.” She patted his hand before sliding out of the booth and heading for the door.
The rest was easy, just like he thought, and they split up to cover ground faster. He’d found the ghoul easily, taking its head with minimal scuffle. Just a matter for a blade. He took his time, rolling the tension out of his shoulders, satisfaction settling into him when he heard her cry out.
Fuck. His body slid back into the shape of a predator, coiled tight and ready, trying not to think about the echo of his father’s voice telling him he should’ve paid more attention, shouldn’t’ve left the girl on her own, should’ve kept his head in the game and not…
That voice in his head roared when he saw the thing gnawing at her neck, almost loud enough that he didn’t notice how she was fisting her hands into the jacket stretched across its back, hauling forward with her whole body. It was when he heard the sound, so raw and primal it tugged at something hot and needy, that he fixed on her with singular focus. He frowned. The angle was bad, he could tell already she didn’t have the grip to flip the thing over her shoulder, but then…she was twisting out from under its arm, jerseying it like a hockey player, slamming its face into her knee with a sickening crunch before planting a boot in the centre of its chest and sending it reeling backward.
She glanced over her shoulder at him, waving him off. She stumbled a few steps, reaching for something in the corner of the room. The pry bar spun in her hand, a tidy twelve inches of carbon steel flashing as she let a couple lazy swings dance around her. It was so fluid, so fucking elegant when she finally arced the notched tip up and lodged it behind the corner of its jaw, that same soft place he wanted to bury his face in her neck last night, before ripping mandible free from cranium, black blood splattering onto the floor in long, thick sheets.
“This enough to do the job?”
“Not quite.”
The sound of it dying was thick, unctuous, slicking between her fingers and seeping into the leather of her boots. He could hear it gurgle. He flipped his machete, palming the blade carefully and handing her the hilt.
“You got this, Rookie. One clean swing to take it off.”
She gripped it like it belonged in her hand. Chest heaving, eyes alight, she winked at him and took her one clean swing.
“First time for everything.”
His mouth went dry and his jeans felt tight, the coil of readiness still primed In him now shifting to another purpose as he closed the space between them, just infringing on her, studying the spatter of blood across her cheek.
“How’d I do, Coach?”
She tilted her face up towards his so that her breath, still ragged from exertion, ghosted over him in hot little puffs. Exhilaration was radiating off her in waves.
“That was…Awesome.”
Thank you so much for reading & sharing space.
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More Notes/Self Critique : This is a bit of a learning exercise for me, so by all means skip this entirely. I haven't written in a long time, so self reflecting in this way feels like scouring off some rust. If you feel like adding to this I, I'm a goon for discourse.
I think I was intending this to be like a multi part think where She shows up at various times through the series (I love a god damn missing scene fic) but I felt like I lost the thread on it, which is why it wound up in the graveyard.
I feel like this overall was too wordy, and too big-wordy for something so Dean centric. I would have pared this down further but it woulda taken a couple more passes and I would have likely still scrapped it.
I feel like, to the wordiness, it lacked....interiority? Or maybe just flow. This is where I think I would have wound up fully rewriting the thing.
I felt like I had a decent handle on Dean's character but not necessarily his voice (see above re: wordiness). I think I would have tried to balance out his grumpiness with his playfulness, since this is a pre-series Dean and I would want more S1 energy out of him than I' feel I delivered here.
Legit, how TF do people write action. The movie in my head looks cool, but even when I rewrite something six ways from Sunday, it still feels chunky blocky. This may even be a formatting thing.
Tags: Dean Winchester/Female Reader, friends to lovers, humor, witch curses, smut (oral f!receiving, dirty talk, multiple orgasms, in v sex), light angst, love confessions
Summary/Warnings: When you and Dean are hit with a love spell that doesn't work, you have to confront some feelings.
Author's Note: This fic has been in the drafts since December 2024. Finished and revised it. Honestly maybe one of my favorites. Enjoy!
Word Count: 9.7k
This house is bigger than you’d thought it would be. This whole case is bigger than you’d thought it would be. Sam called it a salt and burn. Sam convinced you and Dean to do this because there would be rich, fancy food that you’d get to devour after you got the ghost, and you’d be out of town before the week was over.
Sam was a fucking idiot.
You’ve been here for two weeks. Two, long, exhausting weeks of the most mind-boggling hunt of your life. For one, it was not a salt and burn. Dean had figured that out on day two, stomping into the motel room with a scowl and pointing an accusing finger at Sam.
“You wanna know what the hell I just learned?” He’d half-shouted, not waiting for Sam’s response before he continued. “That house is brand new. Not built on any cemeteries or murder sites, or filled with any cursed furniture or paintings, it’s just a freakin’ house. Hell, the whole thing is younger than a freshly popped baby!”
You’d snorted, giving him an amused look. “A freshly popped baby?”
“Shut up,” he’d grumbled your name, still scowling at Sam. “This isn’t a salt and burn, Sammy, it’s something else. Something that we,” he’d gestured around the room with a dramatic wave on his hand. “Don’t got the fuckin’ time to figure out.”
Sam had sighed. “Calm down, Dean. Maybe it’s an antique they don’t know they have, or a dead family member-“
“No,” you’d cut him off with a shake of your head. “I talked to the daughter, she said these were the firsts deaths in her family during her lifetime.”
“Well, they’re rich, right? All rich people have enemies. Skeltons in their closets.” Sam had run a hand through his hair, giving you an almost pleading look to side with him and curb Dean’s wrath.
Sam should’ve known better by now.
“They were clean,” you’d shrugged. “I even called Jody to see if they had any records, and best she could find was a speeding ticket for the son.”
“The son is the one who-“
“Died second.” You’d nodded, Sam had paled slightly. “And it was just a ticket. No casualties, no one else in the car, everything published in all the local papers. No skeletons.”
“Shit.” Sam had muttered, and he’d been right.
This was shit.
There was a huge, rich family dropping like flies, and you’d had evidence of a ghost, but there were none to be found.
And you’d spent a whole week trying to figure out what the hell this thing was. No type of ghost, but also no type of monster. All the organs stayed in the body, all the victims stayed dead, and everyone was passing the silver and holy water test. Every death was the same, as well—sudden, self-inflicted, no note—and Dean had suggested just some psycho human, but there were no signs of a break-in, and Sam got his hands on security footage that proved it was just the victims, doing this to themselves. It wasn’t a crossroads demon come to collect, because the family’s rise to power had been slow and unremarkable, and everyone was dying without rhyme or reason.
It was infuriating.
“Maybe it’s angels?” You’d looked up at Dean—across the coffee table and on his fifth bottle of beer—rubbing your eyes in a desperate attempt to stay awake.
“Why would it be angels.” He’d grunted, and you’d shrugged.
“I dunno, I’m trying to create solutions, not problems.”
He’d snorted. “All you’re creating is a distraction. Read your stupid book.”
“You sound like Sam,” you’d mumbled, and he’d scoffed.
“Sam would tell you to leave if you’re not going to work. I’m happy keepin’ you here, as long as we can pretend,” Dean had slapped the back of his hand against his own book, and you’d flushed. “To do our homework.”
He was happy keeping you here. He was grinning at you, and looked a little golden in the low light of the hotel lamp, and the table was small enough that your knee was pressed against his. And you were a distraction, and you need to know why. It was probably just because you were talking, but maybe it was something more-
It wasn’t anything more. You needed to get a grip, because it was nothing more.
“I am doing my homework,” you’d glared at him, refusing to get lost in how handsome he was, how easy it would be to tackle him over the table and cause a real distraction. “I finished, Dean. Nothing.”
“Fuck,” he’d muttered, running a hand over his face. “That’s not good, cause I don’t got jack shit either.”
“Well, Sam’s finishing up with the wife again, so maybe-”
“The wife?”
“Yeah,” you’d frowned at Dean, who was staring at you like you were speaking a foreign language. “The wife. Tall blonde lady, long nails, young enough to be her husband’s granddaughter-“ You’d frowned into the air. “Maybe that’s why something’s after them. Cradle robbing.”
“That’s not his wife,” Dean had said your name slowly, shaking his head. “She’s the fiancé.”
“No, you said they were married-“
“I said they were gettin’ married.”
You gaped at him for a second, your brain turning and processing this new information, and Dean had jumped slightly when you’d shot up from your seat.
“Uh, are you-“
“Dean.” You’d started to pace, rubbing your temples as you spoke. “They’re not married?”
“Yeah, that’s what I said-“
“Is she rich?”
There had been silence, and when you’d whipped around Dean was staring at you with an open, dumb expression on his stupidly handsome face.
“Oh.” He’d mumbled. “Fuck.”
The answer had been a very obvious no. The fiancé was not rich. And, if what Sam found was right, she wouldn’t be first in line to the inheritance when her future husband kicked it. Another three days, and you knew exactly what you were looking at. A witch who manipulated emotions, sending each family into a sudden depression that ended in tragedy, and cleared her path to the money.
So now you and Sam were wandering through this pointlessly large mansion, trying to find an alter or evil lair or—even better—the witch herself.
“Anything from Dean?” You whisper, poking another door open with your gun, and Sam shakes his head.
“Nothing yet. You know, I would’ve been fine being the one to go alone. If you, uh, wanted to go with Dean-“
“Sam.” You spin on your heels, giving him a flat glare. “Not now.
Sam drops it, and you’re thankful for that. This isn’t the time for another Sam lecture about feelings. It’s never the time, but right now is particularly raw and pointless.
You love Dean. He doesn’t love you. And that’s fine, because you’re not going to pine over him like an idiot. Sam can try to play cupid all he wants, but it won’t change anything, and you’re fine being alone. Staying alone. Dying alone, because you’d made the huge mistake of falling irrevocably in love with an emotionally unavailable, inhumanely attractive, completely oblivious dumbass. A man who cared about you like no one had ever bothered to, and put up with all your bullshit because you put up with his. Who was really impossibly easy to love.
Dean seemed to think he was difficult to care about, and that made something in you whine. It was the only time you ever even considered sharing your feelings with him. When he look a little faraway, glassy-eyed look of lonely pain you knew all too well, or made a joke at his own expense. An edged snipe about how he was worthless, or a man slut or you’d all be fine without him. You only ever heard the underlying edge, that really made it not a joke at all.
If Dean died today, you and Sam would be better off.
But you wouldn’t be. You’d feel something empty in your chest for the rest of your life, something where you were supposed to keep Dean and had failed to.
And Sam knew that. It was why he always volunteered to do the solo parts of hunts, and left you and Dean alone at every opportunity. You don’t know why he does it, because Dean’s never shown any interest in you outside of a close friend. He’s only ever grinned and winked and teased at you with the charm he shows everyone, and never tried to offer you his bed.
And that’s fine. It’s really fine. You wake up in the middle of the night craving his touch and the deep sound of his voice, but it’s fine.
It’s fine.
But now you’re distracted.
You’re thinking about Dean, and worrying about why he’s not checking in with you and Sam, and wondering if he needs your help. And Sam would be fine on his own. He’d manage. Hell, he’d thrive. He could cover twice the distance if he didn’t have to accommodate for your shorter legs, and the way you keep stopping to look at your phone, just in case Dean texted and you didn’t see it.
He didn’t.
But you’re also in the middle of the woods. Reception isn’t good, and your phones are cheap blocks of shit. Dean could have dropped it. Or had it knocked out of his hand. Or-
“You want to go find him, don’t you.”
You shoot Sam a glare. “Shut up.”
“It’s okay if you do,” he shrugs. “I told you, I’d be fine.”
“I-“ you glance at the doorway, hoping the witch just appears so you can deal with this and leave. “I don’t want to leave you-“
“What if I told you to leave me?” Sam raises his brows, keeping his gun raised as his gaze flicks between you and the room. “Would that help?”
There’s a smugness to his voice. Like he’s solved a puzzle no one asked him to. A little, tense part of you—wound up from the long week—wants to make his stick with you just to prove a point.
But Dean.
“Yes.” You sigh. “It would.”
“Cool. Go.”
It really will make things easier. And you’re not going to find Dean because you’re feeling a little sick to the stomach that he might be alone with a hot witch who has huge tits, you’re going because Sam told you to. You’re walking downstairs because Sam said go, and it has absolutely nothing to do with how you really just want to see him. That there’s a part of your brain that had been scanning the empty hall to make sure he was there. How you’ve been apart from him for barely forty minutes, and you miss him like hell. Miss his dumb jokes and cocky grin and rugged walk and pretty face, how he says your name and laughs with you and shoots you secret looks that make you giggle-
You’re pathetic. You’re calling Dean because you’re pathetic, and miss him, and don’t really want to wander around this place alone.
He doesn’t pick up. Two rings, and he declines your call.
Dean doesn’t decline calls from you and Sam. Not on a case. Not when it could be something important, or dangerous, or worse.
You start running. Screaming his name down the halls, not caring if you wake up any of the remaining residents, silently praying Sam hears you and realizes something is wrong. Dean might be in danger. Dean might be in danger. You can’t stop running or shouting, because you need to find Dean, he might be in danger-
You skid to a stop as you hear your own name, echoing down the halls in a faint ghost of a deep voice you’d recognize in the vacuum of space.
“Dean!” You scream again, spinning around as you try to figure out where the hell his shout came from. “Dean!”
He shouts your name back, and he’s not far away. You take off again, ignoring the ache in your muscles as you sprint, the way your voice is starting to grow hoarse.
“Dean!” You kick down the door that had been muffling his last shout, your gun already raised, ready to fire at any second-
“Hey!” Dean’s hands are raised, palms up, and he’s looking at you like you’re crazy. “Just me! What the hell’s going on-“
“You’re,” you pause, scanning over him with a frown. “You’re not hurt.”
“I’m fine, you were the one who was screaming-“
“You screamed back!” You don’t lower your gun, still not trusting whatever’s happening. “And you didn’t pick up your phone-“
“I lost it.” He says, a little sheepishly, and you gape at him in disbelief, before shoving his chest. “Hey-“
“I knew you lost it, you fucking- You can’t just lose your phone, Dean, I was- Goddamnit-“
“Aw.” He catches your wrist when you try to shove him again, tugging you a little further forward. “You were worried about me.”“No, I wasn’t-“
“Yeah, you were, you thought I was dead and you were freakin’ out-“
“Dean.” You snap, yanking your arm away. He’s holding you too close. He smells like spices and leather. You’re going to do something stupid like try and shove your face into his chest. “Do you want to be a dead man?”
He shrugs, still half-smirking as he looks to his gun. “Only if you’re shooting the bullet, sweetheart.”
You scowl, and shove his arm again. “That’s not funny-“
“It’s kinda funny-“
“No, it’s not.”
“C’mon-“
“I don’t like jokes about you dying, Dean.” You snap, and his attention flicks up with wide eyes. “They’re- It’s- I really don’t think it’s funny.”
He stares at you for a moment, and you can’t read his expression. He wouldn’t be angry. He’s never angry when a joke doesn’t land, because most of them don’t. But you’re walking dangerous ground.”
Feelings. Caring about him. Something that’s always bene best reserved to getting him a beer before he asks, or ordering him the right food while he’s in the bathroom. Picking out the music he wants before he’s even in the car. Never arguing when he makes you take the bed further from the door, because you know he won’t sleep if he thinks you’re in danger.
But it’s never spoken aloud. He knows you’re his friends, if not the other thing that made you learn his habits and preferences like you were studying for a the most important test of your life. Impressing him. Making sure he’s never really mad at you—the way his furrowed brows and open mouth seem to show he is—and making him smiles as much as you can, because any pretty girl in a town can fall into his bed, but you make him smile.
He’s not smiling now.
He’s rubbing the back of his neck and clearing his throat. In the dim light of the hall, you can see that his ears are red. He’s not looking at you, either, his gaze firmly fixed right over your head.
“I- I’m sorry-“
“Don’t.” He mutters, frowning at the air. “I didn’t, uh- It’s just- Never thought about. No more death jokes. Yes, ma’am.”
You sigh, taking a small step forward. “Dean-“
“You wanna hear how I dropped my phone?” He raises his voice slightly, and you frown.
“I-“
“Dropped it down a laundry chute. What kinda fuckin’ rich pricks have laundry chutes, right?”
You bite on your lower lip, and let out a slow breath.
He’s not going to talk about it.
Dangerous ground.
“I don’t know, Dean. We can head to the basement. Get it after we take care of the witch.”
“Smart,” Dean nods, starting down the hall. “You think it’s gonna be in a bunch of dead people clothing?”
You hum, scanning around as you follow. “Probably. But they weren’t wearing it when they died.”
“Son of a bitch, I hope not. We should burn that shit after, make sure we don’t have to come back and deal with a real salt and burn-“
“If we kill the witch, no one will be vengeful.”
“Yeah, but maybe they got other issues.” Dean’s fallen a pace back, keeping you in front of him. “I mean, you got this much money, you’re gonna stir something up-“
There’s a creak, from down another dark hallway—why the hell do they all have to be dark—and a soft, musical laugh echoes through the hall. Dean catches the crook of your elbow, and pulls you a little further back, planting himself to block you and raising his gun. You roll your eyes, and poke his shoulder.
“Move-“
He shushes you, not looking away from the hall. “You got the witch bullets?”
“I don’t know, Dean, you loaded my gun-“
“Hunters.” The same, chilling, sing-song voice floats through the air, and Dean tenses. “Meddling little fools, big and strong and, oh-“ She giggles. “Pretty.”
You grab Dean’s bicep, leaning around to see her, and swallow. There’s no difference from when you’d spoke to Her in the interviews. Perfect hair, perfect teeth, perfect nails, twirling her hair as she smiles at you.
“So pretty. Hi!” She waves at you. “You!”
“Hey.” You raise your brows, stepping a little around Dean, and pretend you can’t see his glare. “Me?”
“You.” her voice is hushed and gleeful, like she’s telling you a horrible secret. “You sound like this one.”
She nods to Dean, and you blink at her. You do not sound like Dean. You can’t even get your voice that low. Dean looks just as confused as you are, looking between you and the witch with raised brows.
“I hate to break it to you lady, but you might need to get your ears checked-“
“Not my ears.” The witch snaps. “You screamed the same way. You longed the same way.” She smirks, and it makes your skin crawl. “You sound the same. And this,” she holds up Dean’s phone. “Calls for you.”
“Yeah.” Your voice is dry, your words flat. “That’s kind of how phones work in general.”
“No, no.” The witch shakes her head, taking a step forward, and Dean tugs you back. “The things of him call for the things of you. His clothing is stained in his hunger, pretty hunter. Even his gun wants to be in your hands.”
Your face feels like it’s on fire, and when you risk a glance back at Dean, he looks like he’s going to explode. His jaw clenched, his eyes narrowed, every word pushed through his teeth.
“Listen, you crazy bitch, I’d stop talking when you’re two to one-“
“Am I?” The witch hums, looking between you with a curious, delighted expression. “Oh, it doesn’t really seem that way.”
Dean’s scowl deepens. “Well, open your freakin’ eyes-“
“My eyes are wide open.” The witch takes another step forward, and you squeak as Dean yanks you back behind him.
“Dean-“
“Listen to how she sings your name,” the witch’s smile widens. “Dean. You’ve been so blind, you’ve spent so long trying not to look, trying not to bite, keeping your hands in your pants like a good boy. Don’t you want to eat, Dean.” Her voice returns to the mocking version of yours, but it’s too similar. Uncanny, how she almost seems to be echoing your own voice back to you.
Almost perfect, in the way it bounces around the halls.
Just like Dean had called you.
Shit.
“Dean,” you tug his arm, and he grunts. “Dean, it’s a trap-“
“Oh, give the little trophy a hand!” The witch crows, and Dean steps to block you from her gaze. “She calls for you too, hunter. She looks at you like you’re the cure to all her sad little problems, almost glows when you just look at her. Don’t you want that little shove? Don’t you want to give her what she wants, hold her like the prize she is?”
Your mouth is so dry it makes the air hotter. Your fingers are curled on Dean’s muscle, which is so tensed you’d think you were tugging at stone. His breathing is heavy through his nose, his chest rising and falling, and his voice.
It’s so deep you can almost feel it vibrate under your palm.
He’s got the low drawl, that tells you he’s pissed. And you don’t blame him.
But there’s still a dull ache, at the idea that being with you would really be that bad.
“Shit trap, you evil bitch.” He growls, and you hear the click of his gun. “I’m gonna waste you worse than you wasted all those poor kids.”
“Hm.” The witch giggles again. “I don’t think you will. I think you’ll be too busy buried between your little trophy’s legs to do anything at all.”
Too many things happen at once. Dean fires the gun, but the witch vanishes.
Reappears behind you.
Places one hand on your brow with a burning touch, and the other on Dean’s neck. You try to raise your own gun, but it feels like you’re being paralyzed and lit on fire.
She chants something in Latin, and through the haze of the pain, you can only catch two words.
Amor.
Libido.
Fuck.
“Don’t make a mess.” She winks at you as she remains frozen, then vanishes back into the darkness.
You can’t remember how to move, for a second. Your head is spinning, the air a little too light, and the heat has settled, but mostly into a warm, buzzing feeling under your skin. It’s impossible to ignore the heat from Dean’s body behind you, when he takes a deep, heavy breath.
You feel his hand on your shoulder, and he slowly turns you around. His mouth hangs open, breathing ragged and eyes dark as he scans over your face, and he smells so good.
But it’s the same good as normal. The spell he’s always cast on you, by being this close. It’s nothing new. Nothing special.
The curse didn’t work.
At least not on you.
But Dean’s leaning down, running his tongue over his lips, and you’re falling into his gravity. He reaches up to cup your face, his staring at you, he’s going to kiss you-
Your first kiss with him can’t be because he’s under a spell.
His nose bumps yours, and it’s like a tiny electrical current, pushing you into action.
You lean back, and do the only thing you can think of.
Punch Dean, square in the face.
“Son of a-“ Dean staggers backward, holding a hand over his nose. “What the hell was that for?”
You stare at him for a second, and he’s groaning, glaring at you over his hand.
Not under a spell.
But-
“You were going to try and kiss me!” You hiss, picking your gun up from the floor. “You thought I was fucking cursed, Dean, that’s-“
“You were going to kiss me!” He protests. “And you thought I was cursed-“
You flush, even as you roll your eyes. “I would’ve stopped you.”
“And what, I wouldn’t’ve stopped you-“
“No, because you’re supposed to be cursed-“ You cut yourself off with a frown. “Why aren’t you cursed? Why aren’t we cursed?”
“I dunno, maybe the bitch fucked up the spell?” Dean shrugs, touching his nose with light fingers, and flinching at the contact. “Shit, I think you broke my nose-“
“You’ll live.” You mutter, but you still rip off a part of your dress, offering him the fabric to stop the bleeding. “Sorry, though.”
“No, you’re not.” He says, but his tone is teasing, and he’s grinning when he reaches out to take the material, so he’s already forgiven you. “Don’t worry, you’re gonna be the one who has to set it when we’re done.”
Little sparks of electricity rush through your blood when Dean’s fingers brush yours, turning to lighting when his touch lingers like a phantom on your skin, and you feel a little dizzy when you mumble, “Can’t you make Sam do that-“
“Could.” He winks at you, voice a little nasally as he holds the fabric to his face. “Won’t, though. You made this mess, baby, now you gotta clean it up.”
He can’t call you Baby right now. It always makes you flush and squeeze your thighs together, because he says it so naturally and affectionately, with a smirk and drawl that haunts your dreams and makes your heart flutter in your chest. It’s not productive, or helpful, or useful, and your heart isn’t supposed to flutter. You’re not a schoolgirl with a crush, you’re a woman with a job that’s she was damn good at before this asshole came along and screwed everything up. Made you into a giggling, flushing, bubbly mess with a heart that fucking flutters-
Dean clears his throat, his brow drawn as he says your name. “Are you good-“
“Yeah.” You wave him off, and you’re not convinced by your soft, uneven tone and too quick words. “We should, um, we should go find Sam.”
Dean hums an agreement, but doesn’t stop frowning at you as he walks at your side. He doesn’t stop looking at you for the rest of the night. Not when you track down Sam, or gank the witch—who seems shocked you and Dean aren’t fucking in the bathroom—or make your way past the many, many police officers, back to the Impala. Even on the drive back to the motel he’s still glancing at you in the rearview mirror, a wrinkle in his brow that only appears when he’s in deep thought. If the flash of the road lights you can see his grip on the wheel is white-knuckled, and he doesn’t seem to be paying attention a single word Sam is saying.
To be fair, you aren’t either. It’s all musings about the witch’s magic, and how it functions, and how fascinating it is because none of you have ever seen anything like it, and Bobby says that emotion spells require a lot of power to pull off, but are impossible to get wrong-
“What?” You blurt, tearing your gaze away from Dean’s hands—big and strong on the wheel, broad fingers you’d like inside you drumming alone to whatever song he’s playing—and leaning forward to frown at Sam. “It can’t be impossible to get a spell wrong, you’ve just got to, like, say the wrong word-“
“Nope.” Sam shrugs, angling his phone screen for you to see. “Bobby says- Oh, okay, yeah, just take it I guess-“
You flip him off, Sam’s phone now in your hand as you scan over Bobby’s message.
Found something about it, seems like these witches are using an old magic that eats at their soul. Spells ain’t hard, but most covens forbid them. Seems like they drive the users batshit crazy, which ain’t good for us, because there doesn’t seem to be a way to counter them. Even saw some things say that they’re impossible to fuck up.
You read it once, twice, and frown up at Sam. “That doesn’t explain anything, Sam, he just said it’s impossible-“
Sam sighs. “Scroll down, dude.”
They could start singing in Russian and as long as they’re using their soul, the spells works. Like a real annoying override.
“Oh,” you mumble. “Okay.”
You pass the phone back to Sam, and you can’t look at Dean. Not as Sam reads him the texts, not as he only grunts in response, not as you pull into the lot and push open the door before the engine’s even off. Because you know Dean’s thinking the same thing you are.
The spell can’t fail.
It didn’t work on you and Dean.
And you have no idea what the hell that means.
You don’t look back, as you almost run across the sidewalk to your room. Sam might be calling after you, but you don’t look back. It needs to be quiet. It’s getting too loud in your own head, so you can’t deal with Sam’s let’s talk about the mission, guys right now. The door slams behind you, and you toss your bag on the bed before heading straight to the bathroom. Your clothing is peeled off and tossed to the side, as you run a cold, cold shower. You need it off. The whole house, the feeling of where Dean had been touching your arms in the hall, the imprinted vision behind your eyes, where you’re really about to kiss him.
You’d punched him in the face. You didn’t get a chance to set his nose. And Sam can take care of it, easy, but you want to be the one who takes care of it. Who traces their hands over the panes of Dean’s face after and smiles at him, then he smiles back. In the fantasy, he leans up and presses a soft kiss over your lips. Then everything snaps, and you climb on top of him as he grabs your waist. Kisses your neck and breasts, lets you tug at his hair and grind onto his thigh. Takes his hand and shoves it into your pants, makes you shake and whine before tossing you back on the bed, and-
Give her what she wants.
Hold her like the prize she is.
You’re not a prize. Not Dean’s prize. You’re pretty or whatever, but if Dean wanted to win you, he’d only have to take your hand. And he never has. You’ve spent enough nights, using glossy, pouted lips and batted lashes to get someone’s attention and dance, all to test if Dean will be watching.
He never is. He leaves the bar with some other girl, and you either go home alone or decide you’re just drunk enough to pretend the hands holding you in the dark are rough and gentle all at once.
He’d cupped your face.
His thumb has traced over your cheekbone.
Don’t you want to eat.
Dean always eats. He racks up bills at diners and tabs at bars, then goes home with the same beautiful women that make you want to scream.
Because you’re fine. It’s fine, that Dean’s never once tried to sleep with you. That he smiles at you but doesn’t even kiss the top of your head. That all those women can get exactly you want, when he doesn’t know them at all, but he knows you. And maybe it’s the fact that he knows you that ruins it. That they’re just something in the way you speak or say his name that he doesn’t want to hear it calling him.
Dean. Listen to how she sings your name
The cold shower isn’t helping. Isn’t clearing your head.
So you turn it up until there’s steam in the room, and you let out a heavy breath, trying to think about anything else.
When you close your eyes, all you can see is Dean again. About to kiss you. Licking his lips, the phantom feeling of his hand on your face. When you think, every thought is about the spell. The sex spell, that has to work, but didn’t on you and Dean. He can’t find you that repulsive. There’s nothing else libido and amor could mean.
You give up on a shower all together. Shut off the water, and dry off before shuffling out and flopping down on the bed.
Dean won’t want to talk about it. Dangerous territory.
Talking about it with Sam will just end in with him trying to make you confess.
You have to talk about it with someone, or you’ll lose your mind.
A quick glance at the time on your phone, and he should still be up. You dress quickly, drop on the couch, and call Bobby’s number.
“Thought you’d be callin’.” He says, before you can even speak, and you frown.
“You did? Why?”
“Got a fuckin’ tingle in my balls or whatever-“
“Gross, Bobby-“
“It’s late, kid. You can be grossed out, or just ask the damn question.”
You swallow, tipping your head back to frown at the ceiling. “You- Um, you know the magic shit, that Sam was asking you about earlier?”
“Yep.” Bobby grunts, and you sigh.
“Is there any way that a spell wouldn’t succeed? Like, say this witch definitely did a spell on you, but it didn’t work. Is that like- A user error? Or is the spell always a kind of fifty-fifty shot?”
Bobby hums. “What kinda spell?”
“Um-“ Shit. “I don’t-“
“Cause I’m bettin’ that it’s the same stupid hunger spell Dean just called me freakin’ out about.”
You freeze, your voice cracking slightly. “Dean called you?”
“Yep.” Bobby drawls. “Started shoutin’ about a spell where two people just enchanted to eat each other. That boy never has been good at bein’ subtle.”
“I-“
“Listen,” Bobby mutters your name, his voice firm. “I got a guess what kinda hunger Dean was talkin’ about. I don’t need to say it, ‘cause the thought of- You and him- That’s something I rather never think, or hear, or fuckin’ speak about. You got it?”
You look down to your hands, cheeks heated. “Yeah. I do.”
“Good.” He grunts. “Now that we got that, I’m gonna tell you exactly what I told that idjit. Magic like that, it pulls on other’s souls and emotions. If the emotions are already kicked up, high gear, it ain’t gonna do shit. If someone’s real sad, a spell won’t make ‘em sadder. Two people hate each other’s guts, wanna rip ‘em apart, spell can’t make them kill each other. Two people hungry…”
Bobby trails off, and there’s a high ringing in your ears.
“You got it?” He grunts, and you nod, before remembering he can’t see you.
“Yeah.” You whisper. “I got it.”
“Good.” Bobby lets out a long, labored sighed. “Go deal with it, and let an old man sleep.”
The line goes dead, and you just keep staring at nothing. If two people are hungry.
Two people.
Not just you.
Dean.
And almost as if you’d summoned him, there’s a knock on your door.
Standing to answer it is like gliding through a mist. It’s all a little blurry, everything feels like it’s slipping through your fingers, and there’s a strange chill up your spine. You don’t want to answer it. You don’t want him to look you in the eyes and tells you there’s been a mistake, and that he doesn’t want you like that.
But the spell can’t get anything wrong.
So he has to want you like that.
And when you open the door and see him—rubbing his jaw and giving you an almost nervous smile, his nose still crooked and a hair mussed in the wind of the night—the chill runs through your whole body, and turns into heat.
“Hi.” You whisper, and his smile widens slightly.
“Hey.”
“Is- Your nose-“
“It’s fine. I, uh-“ He clears his throat. “I think we gotta talk about something.”
You press your lips together, and nod. “Yeah. We do.”
He glances past you, into the room. “Can I-“
“Oh, yeah-“ You step to the side. “Sorry-“
“It’s fine, sweetheart.” He reaches out to touch your shoulder as he passes you, but then yanks it back at the last second. “I- Uh- I’ll sit down?”
You nod, and trail after him, letting him decide where he wants this to happen.
Dangerous ground.
He choses the bed. Sits right on the edge and watches you, until you drop at his side.
Dangerous fucking ground.
Even if you both know, you can’t just say it. Not with Dean. You’re going to have to find a way to tell him without telling him, some word that means I love you without actually saying it, or he’ll try to change the conversation laundry again-
“I thought you could live without me.”
You blink at his, and everything comes into focus so fast. Dean’s on your bed. You have to talk about the spell. His voice is hoarse and low, and he’s not turning this into a joke.
But his words bounce around your head. And you can’t really understand them at all.
“What?”
“Son of a- This is hard.” He mutters, shaking his head and staring at his hands. “You’re gonna be so freakin’ pissed at me.”
“Dean-“
“I kinda knew. About- The thing. This.” He coughs, gesturing between you. “Us.”
Your heart moves to your throat, your voice raising a little too high. “What?”
“I see you stare, baby.” He runs a hand over his face, giving you a weak grin. “And the guys at the bars, begging me to knock their smug faces right off, while they- They fuckin’ touch you, and you let ‘em-“
“I-“
“I let the other girls touch me. Guess I can’t be too pissed.” He chuckles humorlessly. “But then I call your name the whole time. That’s gotten me kicked out on my ass, a lot. Always think about goin’ to you. Telling you. Taking- Advantage.”
Your mouth falls slightly open. “Advantage? Of me?”
He nods, and your fists curl at your sides.
“Dean, you fucking- If you knew-“
“Thought it was just a crush or something.” He mutters, staring at the floor, and you snort.
“So you wouldn’t let me have sex with you? Are you- What the fuck-“
“It’s not just a crush for me.” He snaps your name, and your words die in your throat,
When Dean looks back up at you, he looks almost broken. Tired and desperate and—between every crack in that bored, amused mask he wears—hopeful. A light in his eyes that’s barely daring to shine through, but it’s there.
This is still dangerous ground.
He’s trying to get both of you out it, and to the other side.
“I didn’t think you’d want more, baby. I- I really thought you’d live just fine without me.”
You sigh, folding one knee under to other so you can face him.
His hand shoots out, onto your thigh, and you lean forward. Until you’re just as close as before. Until one shift would be all it takes to feel him.
“I can.” You whisper, and his face falls slightly, but you ghost your lips over his, and he doesn’t pull away.
Dean breathes out your name, but you shake your head.
“But I really, really don’t want to.” You press your brow against his, taking his hand and guiding it to your face. “Ever.”
His throat bobs, and he’s going to try and talk you out of it. When you finally know. When you’re high on nothing at all, because you can have him.
He’s really lucky you love him. Otherwise, you’d punch him in the face.
“I’m a piece of work, baby-“
“I know.” You give him a small smile. “I love it.”
Dean stares at you, the light starting to shine brighter in his eyes, and his thumb traces slowly over your lower lip. “Tell me not to kiss you.”
“No.”
“Sweetheart, the things I’ve wanted to do-“ His jaw ticks. “If that spell had worked- We’d still be in that creepy house.”
“Good.” You hold his gaze, crawling at little forward into his lap. He’s warm.
He catches you around your waist, when your hands plant on his knees, and your noses bump again. And there it was. All that blown out fucking hunger.
You need it. Now.
“Show me.”
Dean grins, the split second before he’s pulling you forward and falling backwards, starting to kiss you like he’ll drown if he doesn’t. One hand in your hair and the other squeezing your ass, your legs straddled over his torso and your fingers digging into his chest.
You’re a moaning, desperate mess within a second. The need between your legs builds sudden and fast, coming on with a comfortable heat over your skin and a deep pleasure that’s starting to build in your lower stomach. Dean touches you like he’s been practicing, as if he’s been watching every single way you move to map you out before you were ever in his arms. His hands grab at every bit of skin he can find, rubbing and squeezing and tracing, as his mouth keeps an even time. Pulling your tongue between his teeth and groaning when it makes you roll your hips, lightly hitting your ass then chuckling when you squeak into his mouth.
“There you go, baby.” He mutters, angling his mouth to get the kiss a little deeper, smirking against your lips. “Feel good?”
You nod, already a little lost to anything but the fact that Dean is kissing you. That it’s sloppy and desperate and hot, spit and tongue and teeth, his hands feeling possessive on your body and your breasts pressed against the muscles of his chest. You’re above him, but still caged against him. You’re grinding down onto him, but his grip on you is tight enough that it’s only as he allows. And when you start to kiss down his neck, he groans, and the sound vibrates in his chest. Down through your body and into your cunt, making you pick up the pace and start to grind over the bulge in his pants-
“Alright.” Dean grunts, and you yelp as he flips you over, the sound quickly swallowed into another hungry, dirty kiss. “Not gonna last if you do that, sweetheart, you’re- Fuck-“
Dean moans when you return your attention to his neck, and there’s a softer spot that makes him tense over you, his grip on your waist becoming tight and his hips dropping down over yours. You can feel where his erection is. Feel it pressing against your leg, and it feels big, and the fabric of you shorts isn’t offering enough friction anymore-
“Son of a bitch,” Dean grunts, grabbing your jaw and angling your face back into another kiss. You go limp below him, opening your mouth as wide as you can to maybe try and swallow him. He seems to be doing the same to you. Kissing you with such a fervor it’s like he’s trying to fuse your atoms together. Press you close enough to keep you there forever.
He already has you as long as he wants you. However he wants you. And you think he knows it, because when you feel his lips ghost over your ear, you gasp, and he shoves his knee right between your legs. Like a reward.
Dean doesn’t stop you, as you start to hump against him. He keeps his grip on your jaw tight and rises back up, watch you try to fuck his leg with that same awe from before.
You gape up at him, your breath already becoming shallow, your hands flying to grab his wrist in an attempt to stay grounded. He’s not helping. Just watching you like you’re made of stars, pushing his knee further so it’s pressed right over your clit, and giving you an approving hum when you start to whine his name.
“Dean.” You arch off the bed slightly, and there’s the heat about to snap in your core, but it’s not enough. “I- I need more-“
“I know.” He mutters your name, his thumb tracing back over your lips. “I’m gonna give you everything you want, baby, but I wanna- I gotta try somethin’, first.” He gives you a small grin, something heated glinting in his eyes. “Can I try something?”
You don’t know what the something is. You’re a little desperate to find out.
So you nod, trying to grab at his shirt to yank his mouth back over yours, and he obliges. Leans down to give you an almost mockingly chaste kiss, before leaving a trial of love bites and licks over your jaw to whisper in your ear.
“I told you, sweetheart.” He drawls, and just the deep roll of his voice through your body makes you move faster against him. “I’ve been thinkin’ about this for a damn long time. Look even prettier below me than I imagined, and I thought you’d look like freakin’ paradise. Wanna hear what I would’ve done to you, if that spell worked.”
“Yes.” You manage to whisper, your arms wrapping around his neck. “Dean, I- I need you-“
“You got me.” He grunts, lightly hitting your clit over your pants. “I thought about takin’ you everywhere, baby. In my car, back at the bunker, in a closet, in a goddamn alleyway, but goin’ against a wall was always my favorite. Kissing these pretty tits,” his hand slips under your shirt as he speaks, and you moan when he palms at your breast. “Then down to your pretty pussy, finding out just how good I can make you cum on my tongue. You wanna cum on my tongue, sweetheart?”
You nod weakly, your head already spinning from the pleasure. He can’t just talk like that, when all his weight is pressed over you and you can feel him everywhere. It’s going to make you fly right out of your body.
“I- I- More.” You tug at his short hair, and he makes out with a spot behind your ear, letting your hips keep moving over his knee. “Dean, a little more-“
“I think I would’ve made you cum ‘till you couldn’t stand.” He growls against you, and you’re so close. “Then I would’ve picked you up and fucked you against the wall under you couldn’t walk, until I needed to carry you back to the car, maybe lay you out on the backseats all pretty for me and have you cum on my cock again-“
Your mouth falls open in a silent scream as your orgasm shakes through your body, and Dean groans, crashing up to shove his tongue down your throat and kiss you heavily through the feeling.
You’re still floating down, when you realize that he’s kissing you a little softer. His hand is still under your shirt, softly rolling one nipple around with his thumb—sending tiny, pleasant shivers through your body—but when he leans up, his voice is a little gentler, a little more cautious.
“Keep going?” He asks, and you know if you say that was enough, he’ll roll over and not push it.
But you can still feel his boner against you. And you need to know what it’s like inside of you. How it feels for him to really do what he’s wanted.
You lean up, and press a light, sweet kiss over his lips. “Keep going.”
He grunts, chasing your kiss a little before he pulls away, and speaking against your lips. “Wanna fuck you, baby. Properly. But I don’t got- I didn’t think we’d be-“
“Are you clean?”
He nods, and you kiss the side of his mouth.
“I’m on the pill. And I-“ You swallow, leaning back and cupping his face with a hand. “I want to feel you. Give you- Whatever you want, Dean. I trust you.”
His throat bobs, and for a second you think he’s going to argue with you about it. But he doesn’t. He just kisses you again—more and more gentle every time—and leans back, pulling your hand with him to kiss your knuckles.
“Get naked, baby.” He gives you a small grin. “I’ve got you.”
You return his smile, and start to wiggle out of your clothing as fast as you can. It’s a short job, and more than worth it when you settle back into the pillows, and Dean’s staring at you with a blown out, starved expression, halfway between an animal and someone seeing a work of art. His hand is gently rubbing your calf as he takes you in, and you spread your legs with a shy smile, letting your fingers dip between your folds. You hold his gaze, as you slowly start to rub your own pussy, and his nostrils flare.
“Hey.” You press your palm flat against his chest, when he lurches forward. “Your turn, Winchester.”
He gives a short nod, clambering off the bed to make quick work of his own layers. Tossing his shirt and pants away, socks and underwear with them, giving you an adorably proud grin when your eyes dart between his legs.
“Liking what you see, sweetheart?”
“Yeah.” You breathe out, a little too needy to joke right now. “So much.”
Dean turns a little red, glancing down to where you’ve started to rub your clit a little faster. He mutters your name, climbing back onto the bed, and you reach for him with a whine.
“Dean, I- I want you- Wanna feel you-“
“You’re gonna, sweetheart.” He mutters, picking up your leg and slowly kissing up your calves, over your knees and thighs, then nipping at the soft skin right next to your pussy. “Need to get you ready.”
“I- I am ready-“
“Maybe.” He shrugs, slowly guiding the hand between your legs into his mouth, cleaning your fingers slowly with his tongue.
You moan, grabbing at his hair and humping the air, and Dean grins, moving to leave a quick, gentle kiss over your clit.
“Taste so good, baby.” He mutters, running two fingers through the mess of your cunt, and you keen below him. “Already so wet, don’t think I gotta do much.”
“So- So just- Fuck me, Dean-“
“I will.” He shrugs, flicking your clit then laughing at your squeak. “I also just really wanna fuckin’ do this.”
Without anymore warning, Dean yanks you forward, pulling your ass off the bed and hooking your legs over his shoulder, leaving your pussy on full display. He watches you with a light dancing behind his eyes, spitting on your clit and smirking when you try to wiggle out of his grip. You expect more teasing, more something.
Instead, all he does is dive between your legs, and eat you out the same way he kissed you. Like he’s been training for it.
His whole face is buried in your cunt, and it’s the most lewd, hot thing you’ve ever seen. There isn’t a place you can’t feel him. One of his hands as shot out to grope at your breasts, the other is holding a firm grip on your ass, and his tongue is plunging in and out of you. Twisting and licking before his lips and teeth find your clit, and it’s sucked on and teased into a frenzy. You grab the hand on your tit, squeezing it as you watch him, and it makes him groan against your pussy. Your whole body shakes with overwhelming pleasure, your arousal drips down your ass, and it feels like you’re being lit on fire.
“Dean-“ You whisper, your voice high and breathless. “Dean- Dean, I’m gonna cum, Dean-“
He doesn’t slow down. If anything, he just unhinges his jaw and starts to make out with your pussy fully, pinching your nipple as his hand on your ass rubs the flesh slowly.
You cum with a high noise, and this time, you don’t come down. You’re still floating and limp with pleasure as it rolls through you, and the feeling of Dean kissing your clit one last time, pulling away, and flipping you over onto your stomach all just makes it drag longer.
Then Dean kisses slowly up your spine, and you can only arch into the feeling of his lips. Suddenly so gentle, when your pussy is still sensitive and tingling from his work. He keeps your ass in the air, as he kiss back down your spine, and you spread your legs a little wider, because you’re throbbing for him.
“Shit,” he mutters, his palm rubbing over your cunt, and you whimper. “Are you sure you still wanna-“
“Yes.” You gasp, trying to turn and look at him. “I need it Dean, please, I-“
You moan as he pressed his fingers—the ones coated in your release—between your lips. You suck on them, your eyes rolling back in your head as he keeps rubbing your ass, and he groans.
“You’re so fuckin’ perfect, sweetheart.” He draws back his fingers, wiping your chin of a little drool. “Deep breath. Gonna take start it slow.”
You’re about to protest—you want to feel him—but the words fall into nothing as he starts to push into you. It’s a burn. An impossibly good, aching burn igniting between your legs as Dean slowly presses his dick into your pussy, and he hisses as you flutter around him.
“Relax, baby.” His thumb finds your clit, starting to rub small, firm circles. “C’mon, you can take it.”
You can hear the strain in his voice, but you try. Somehow—probably with Dean’s low, sweet praise of how good you’re taking his cock, and how pretty you look, combined with that goddamn thumb—you manage to let him slip deeper and deeper, until he bottoms out with a grunt.
He folds himself fully over your body, his breathing heavy in your ear as he kisses your neck and throat.
“Dean.” You mumble, turning your head against the mattress to try and look at him. “Move.”
He hums, but doesn’t immediately listen. Instead he kisses you again, just a little deeper, and chuckles at your little whine.
“You’re so tight,” he mutters your name, the grunts when you squeeze around him. “Shit, you really fuckin’ like that, huh.”
“Like-“ You gasp, eyes fluttering when he drags his cock slowly out, then slams back in. “Like what-“
“Me tellin’ you how perfect you feel. How damn hot you look, getting wrecked by my cock.” He snaps his hips again, slamming against the needy spot, deep inside of you, and you gasp.
“Dean-“
“Fuck, yeah, you like that.” He repeats the motion, and you claw at the sheet, desperate for a little more. “Keep sayin’ it, baby, keep saying my name-“
“Dean.” You moan, and his speed starts to pick up, his skin slapping against yours. “God, Dean, feels so fucking- Oh-“
His hand wraps around your stomach, his fingers finding your clit again, and you squeak, clenching around him.
“Jesus.” He grunts, driving harder into your cunt. “Knew you’d feel like this- Jesus-“ He moans your name as you wiggle your ass against him, his head dropping into your shoulder. “Don’t fuckin’- Can’t do that, shit-“
You do it again, and get rewarded with another rutting slam of his cock into you, and a slap of your ass. Your mouth falls open in a loud, incoherent moan, and Dean chuckles.
“Told you not to do it, baby.” He mutters, sucking a dark spot on the base of your throat. “You gonna listen? Let me fuck this pretty pussy how it deserves?”
You nod stupidly, curling a little further into the mattress, and Dean presses his lips right against your ear.
“Good girl.” He mutters, and he must know what that does to you. How it makes your toes curl and your body feel molten.
He must know.
Because he says it again.
“Such a good, pretty girl.” He’s starting to properly fuck you, as he tugs at your ear with his teeth. Your already abused pussy is fluttering around him, and he moans against your neck, his own voice sounding fucking wrecked. “Love you so much, gonna- God-“
That’s what does it. Sends your third orgasm rushing through you, explodes fireworks over your ribs and makes you see stars. Dean’s drilling into you, his balls slapping over your clit and his hand moved up to play with your tits. His lips are attached to that sensitive spot on your throat, and his body is flexing and sweating over yours, but it’s his voice that sends you over the edge. Deep and earnest and real. Saying that he loves you.
And you cum with a heat flooding between your legs, over your thighs and Dean’s cock, making you shake and whine in his arms as he just keeps fucking you. Pulls out only for a split second, to flip you back over and slam back into you. It’s impossible to do anything but stare at him with a cockdrunk expression, as he keeps fucking you through your orgasm. He’s beautiful. His brow furrowed but lips parted, chest heaving and eyes hooded with need. You’re still spasming and squirt on his cock, your mouth hanging open and barely able to return his kiss with he falls back over you, fucking into you like an animal.
He moans your name against your lips, and you only whine, scratching at his chest as it starts to get overwhelming. Dean leans back up on his knees, pulling out to stand over you, and grips your thigh as he fucks his cock into his hand, scanning over the wreck of you below him.
His release paints over your abdomen and stomach, coating your thighs and making an almost beautiful painting on your skin. Dean lowers himself back over you, when he’s done, and kisses the space between your eyes, the very tip of your nose, then your lips.
“Did so good, sweetheart.” He mutters, and you hum at the praise, pressing your palms against his chest. “Look real damn pretty, covered in me, but I gotta clean you up. C’mon.”
You whimper, as he tries to pull you up, so Dean settles on just carrying your into the bathroom. He sits you on the toilet while he runs the water, and only when it’s deemed acceptably warm does he guide you into the warm steam. You just stand there for a while. Clinging to him, while he makes a half-assed attempt to wash your hair, but mostly just sways you back and forth. Eventually he gives up, and just holds you back. Runs his finger through your hair and takes your chin, tipping it up to give you a full, deep, easy kiss.
“I was thinking.” He mutters, leaning back to meet your eyes. “About, uh- Doing something together that’s not just a hunt and fuck. I mean, I loved the fuck, baby, but- Uh-“
“You wanna go on a date with me, Dean Winchester?” You giggle, propping your chin against his chest. “You like me?”
He rolls his eyes and pretends to bite your nose, but there’s still a gentle amusement in his voice when he responds. “Yeah, I do. But you love me.”
“You love me.”
“Yeah.” He scans over your face carefully. “So are we gonna go on a date?”
You can’t fight your smile, and you give him a tiny, eager nod. “Yes, please.”
“Awesome.”
He grins at you, and it’s only for you.
Dean smiles, and it really is just for you.
But you’re only for him.
So it all seems to even out, in the end.
End Note: How many times do I have to write about this before it's my turn. What will it take.
If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3
Tags: Dean Winchester/Female Reader, friends to lovers, humor, forced proximity, fluff, smut (oral f and m receiving, p in v sex,), light angst, love confessions
Summary/Warnings: Dean is your best friend, and nothing more, no matter how much you want that to be different.
But he's trying to tell you something. And when you get trapped together for a week, he finally gets the chance.
Author's Note: Request from an anon! I lost my goddamn mind.
Word Count: 17.7k
“Are you smelling this, sweetheart?”
“Yeah,” you sigh, wrinkling your nose as another blob of something drifts past your feet. “We’re standing next to each other, Dean.”
Dean points his flashlight up, enough for you to see his grin in the dark. “You remember when Sammy farted last month, then pretended it was my Baby leaking something?”
You snort, kicking away something strangely hard that you don’t want to think about. “Yeah?”
“Least this still isn’t that bad.”
You look up to give him a flat, amused look, and freeze.
“Dean-“
“C’mon, he’s not here-“
“No, Dean, fuck-“
You grab out your gun, aim it right over his shoulder, and shoot.
The last swamp monster thuds into the water, and Dean stares at you with wide eyes.
“Uh, how close was I to bein’ a swap snack?”
You shrug, giving him a small smile. “Don’t undervalue yourself, dude. You would have been swamp dinner.”
Dean snorts, wading through the water to your side, and rests his hand on your back. There’s no real reason for him to do that. You’re standing up just fine. No serious injuries. No panic.
He’s just touching you. Casually. The way he always has, without thought, because he trusts you enough not to turn around and try to cut off his hand.
And it’s always driven you out of your mind.
Dean’s casually put his hand on your body since you met him. Since the first hunt, where he and Sam saved the helpless little vampire victim, and you tried to shoot them because you didn’t know that the people carrying machetes were the good guys. Dean had put his hand on your upper arm and lower back, helped you to your feet, and been the most beautiful thing you’d ever seen.
You can still feel where he touched you, all those years ago. It’s branded a level right under your skin, the lightening and fire sensation of a broad, rough hand being so gentle on your skin. And every time he’s touched you since, you’ve still been able to feel it. Sinking deeper and deeper, spreading and growing with every accidental brush of his hand and shoulder bump and time you’ve been pressed right against him on a hunt. It’s going to burn forever. You don’t want it to go out, even if it drives you out of your mind.
Days the bunker is empty, and you lock the door to your room with your legs spread. Whenever he makes you—and Sam, but that’s not important—breakfast. If you’re watching a movie, and he puts his arm over your shoulder because he’s comfortable. Every time he whispers a joke in your ear, grins so wide when you laugh. Every fucking night you have to spend in the same room with him, pretending you don’t feel like you’re burning alive with a light that won’t flicker out.
Most motels don’t offer three beds. So there are times where the couch fits Dean—never Sam, and you’re not allowed to sleep on the couch because they’re dumbasses who think they’re gentlemen—and times where you just have to suck it up and share.
Sharing with Sam is fine. You can’t grind into the sheets as the fire sweeps into your core—Dean likes to walk out of the shower without a shirt, and he might hate you—because fucking Sam is right on the other side of the bed.
When you share with Dean, it’s… different.
You can’t fuck yourself then, either. But it becomes unbearable. Your body seems to ache, just to touch him. Sometimes the light will be angled just right through the window, and you’ll be able to watch the passing headlights of the cars drift over his pretty face.
Because Dean’s face is still so fucking beautiful. It’s one of those few things you know will never change.
But you don’t want anything to change. Change is the thing that leaves you alone, dead in the water, trying to use the stars to guide yourself when the sky is pitch black. You’ve never been good at it. When you joined hunting, it took months for you to fully adjust just to living in the bunker.
Dean had gotten you through that. Made you comfortable. Taught you how to hold a gun, and throw a punch, and made you waffles when you’d finally managed to knock him on his ass.
“I know you went easy on me,” you’d told him, spraying the whip cream on your plate, and he’d chuckled.
“Don’t know what you’re talking about, sweetheart.”
“It’s okay,” you’d shrugged. “Next time you can go all out, and I’ll still win.”
Dean had grinned at you, and you’d felt that heat rising to your cheeks. It wasn’t fair how he could do that. How you’d gotten so good at being around him and not acting like just one word in your direction made you feel high. At this point it had just been a crush, on the big handsome man who saved your life.
Even then, it had still felt like a massive, consuming type of crush. The kind like a tree, that wouldn’t stop rooting into your heart and growing. The kind that you’d known would get you in trouble, if you weren’t careful.
“Sure you will.” Dean had reached for the whipped cream can, and you’d whacked his hand with it. “Hey, c’mon-“
“I’m not done.” You’d finished the pile with a little swirl, and passed him the can with a smile.
He’d stared at you, then the whipped cream mountain. “You trying to drown yourself?”
“Maybe.”
Dean had reached forward, taken some on his finger—ruining the artwork, but it had been Dean, so you were never mad—and dabbed it on your nose. He’d laughed at your glare, and you’d tried to bite his finger.
It had just made him laugh harder.
“You look cute.” He’d said, lookin back to his own waffle, and it had been like being shot up with fire.
He thought you were cute. Dean thought you were cute. And he’d touched you again. And maybe if you’d asked him to, he could have kissed you and you could run your hand through his hair and taste the salt of his sweat, and he could show you how to do a few other moves, right here at the table, and-
“You good?” He’d asked you, and he’d sounded concerned. Not starved for you, just worried. Like a friend would be.
And you didn’t want anything to change. This was already better than you could have dared to ask for.
So you’d smiled at him, and nodded.
And nothing ever had to be different.
Friends.
You were so fucking lucky just to be his friend. The one-night stands came and went, and you were still here, with Dean. You could take that.
Take it, and use it to kindle all that heat in your body. Burn it and burn it until it was ash.
Keep pretending that your hunger and fever for Dean would ever go out, when you know that this is forever.
You’ve known it was love since you were in a diner, almost a year ago, and he made the waitress get you the children’s coloring mat, because it had crossword puzzles and you didn’t want to ask.
“Don’t bother her, Dean
“I’m not bothering her, sweetheart, it’s asking her to carry freakin’ paper-“
“No, it’s stupid, I’ll get a newspaper-“
“We’ll get you a newspaper after.” He shrugged, giving you a shockingly serious look. “But it’s not stupid. You’re not stupid. We’re getting that kids mat.”
You’d flushed, and nodded. And you loved him.
Love him.
Now, even in the swamp monster mess, his touch and attention do the exact same thing to you. It’s going to drive you out of your mind, one day. But you don’t want to try and stop it.
That would mean moving yourself away from Dean, where he couldn’t touch you. And it might not even do anything, but make you miss him. Make things change.
So you’ll lean slightly into his touch—just in case—and smile at him in the dark.
When he smiles back, it’s like the whole world lights up.
And you never want that to change either.
“You think we need to clean this shit up?” He nods around you, making a face as a fresh wave of swamp-stench drifts through the air, and you shake your head.
“Can I suggest an alternate plan?”
Dean nods. “You know I love a backup, sweetheart.”
You flush again, bowing your head to make sure he won’t see. “I vote we just blow it up.”
“That’s a plan.” He bumps your shoulder, and you can hear the joy in his voice. “I’m team blow it up.” He pauses. “Can I-“
“Yeah.” You smile at your feet. “You can do the work.”
“Awesome.” He starts to walk towards the exit, and all you can do is follow him. “Then we’ll get all this shit off us.”
You hum an agreement, and try not to pick apart his happiness too much. It’s always good when Dean is happy, but you’ve developed a bad habit of trying to pinpoint why. If he gets excited when you buy him pie because you bought him pie, or it’s pie. If he grins at you when he sees you because he’s happy to see you, or just to see a friend.
If he just wants to use his grenade launcher, or if he’s happy you gave him a reason to.
It never gets you anywhere, to think of that. And no matter what conclusion you draw, it’s never going to change anything.
But it’s still a fun way to torture yourself. Watching him with a smile as he blasts the old cabin, and the whole thing goes crashing down. Returning his thumbs up with a smile, and giving him a high five when he walks back to the car.
“Another monster, ganked.” He puts the launcher back in the truck, and you hum.
“And it’s a swamp monster. Big day for you.”
He chuckles, shaking his head. “Yeah, guess it is. Didn’t really think about that.”
You blink at him. “Really?”
“Yeah.” He shrugs, giving you an odd smile you don’t really understand. “Guess I was worrying about other shit.”
“Other-“
“C’mon.” He raises his voice over yours, grabbing your arms and starting to herd you towards the passenger’s seat. “We gotta get you back to the motel. You’re gonna catch a cold.”
“Me?” You frown at him. “You’ll get one too, Winchester-“
“Nah. I don’t catch colds.”
You snort as he closes the door behind you. You wait for him to get behind the wheel before you’re leaning forward, raising your brows.
“Everyone gets colds, Dean.”
“Not me.” He winks at you, turning on the engine. “I run hot, baby.”
Jesus.
That’s like being doused in gasoline and struck with a match. It is freezing outside—swamp monsters somehow ended up in Montana—and you are drenched in something worse than water, but all you can feel is the wired heat under your skin, as you play that over and over in your head.
It’s just another moment, that means nothing to Dean and everything to you.
But there are so many of them. They make up the tapestry of Dean, that lines your ribs. Remind you over and over that you love him, and every bit of his happiness—whether you’re the direct cause or not—is a rare, priceless gift he gives to so few people.
Dean does love you.
As a best friend.
You really can pretend that’s enough, just as long as it never has to change.
Dean opens the door to the motel room for you, with a wide, smug grin. “You want first shower?”
“Sure, but-“ You flick a chuck of Swamp Monster off his shoulder with a pointed look. “I think you need it more.”
“I’ve been covered in worse.” He shrugs. “You go, I gotta call Sammy and give him the update.”
“Dean, he’s on vacation, don’t bother him-“
“He can pick up the damn phone at the beach.” Dean rolls his eyes. “Eileen won’t care. Go shower, sweetheart.”
You sigh, but give in. Once Dean decides something like that—you aren’t holding your pee for the rest of the drive, they will find a diner that serves Sam’s stupid rabbit food, this place does have a broken heater and Dean’s going to goddamn fix it—there’s no talking him out of it.
And the shower is nice. Warm. The motel shampoo actually smells like something for once—flowers, nice, sweet flowers—and they water is loud enough that, if you lean against the wall and let your hand wander between your legs, Dean won’t be able to hear it.
He never hears it. He doesn’t know that you’d get on your knees for him, if he ever asked. That you’d sleep in his bed and hold him through every nightmare, if he let you.
Dean doesn’t know that you have to bite your tongue to swallow moans, as you think of his hands so easily on your body, and the deep sound of his voice as he said baby, and his eyes, shining on yours. You’ve pictured them above you too many times. Glinting and blown out, as he unravels you below him. Or under you, fluttering and squeezing tight as you ride him. And he’d buck his hips up into you, driving deeper and deeper, and when you moan his name he’d drag you down into a kiss, and all this heat would finally burst into a firework-
You shake, tossing your head back as your release hits. It’s a small one. You’re too tired to do anything properly, and even angling your clit under the water didn’t do as much as you wanted it to. You don’t manage to swallow the squeak of Dean, but the water is still running. You barely heard it. ‘
And as you walk out of the bathroom, Dean’s still on the phone.
You’re in the clear.
He scans over you with a tight frown, and you raise your brows. He just shakes his head, pointing to the phone, and you nod, shuffling over to the bed.
“Listen, uh- Sammy. Sam.” Dean shoots you another look. “I gotta go, man, shower is open- No, I’m not gonna- Sam.” His voice lowers to a hiss, and you smile to yourself. That’s the shut your face voice. Sam’s probably trying to convince him to do something. “No, I ain’t calling you after, bitch, I don’t- Fucking Christ. Yeah. I know.”
He hangs up, and you glance at him, having settled on your bed with a book.
“Not saying bye?”
“He doesn’t deserve it.” Dean grumbles, moving to his feet.
“What did he do-“
“Don’t worry about it.”
“Well,” you wrinkle your nose, leaning forward. “Now I am worried.”
He sighs, running a hand over his face. “It’s not a big thing, sweetheart. I’ll tell you tomorrow.”
“Or, you could tell me now.”
“I, uh- gotta shower.” He makes for the bathroom, and you raise your voice after him.
“Dean-“
“Tomorrow!” He calls over his shoulder, and closes the door behind him.
You sigh, looking back to your book. It’s probably nothing. Dean doesn’t keep big secrets, not from you. If it was something for you to be worried about, he’d probably have told you already, to try and convince you to lay low at the bunker while he and Sam handled it. Your bet is on another hunt, that Sam’s trying to send you on.
Nothing big.
Just more time you get to spend, only you and Dean.
Dean mutters your name from the doorway, and when you look up, your breath hitches in your throat.
There’s steam, billowing out of the bathroom and casting in a halo-like light. His hair is damp and spikey and soft looking, his bare chest looking almost golden—you don’t know how he tans, when you all live in a fucking basement—and water running over his muscles. And you’ve dreamed about pressing your face into his pecs, or scratching at his abs while he kisses you, or kissing over that V before he grabs your hair and pulls you back and stuffs your mouth with-
You cough, and force your attention back to your book. You can’t look at him too long, or you’ll do something really stupid like beg him to fuck you stupid.
“Yeah, Dean?” Your voice isn’t steady, but he doesn’t seem to notice.
“I, uh-“ Dean coughs, and you risk a glance up to see him scratching the back of his neck. “You know we ganked those gross assholes real fast. Thought we’d be here longer. And Sam says there’s a story coming, tomorrow, so we’re gonna have to hit the road in the morning.”
“Storm? What storm?” You frown at him, and he gives you an oddly sheepish grin.
“Snow-storm. Supposed to be bordering on a blizzard or something. ‘Less we wanna be stuck here for least a week, we should haul ass soon.”
“Oh.” A week stuck in a motel with Dean doesn’t sound that bad. It would be torture, but the kind of torture that you’d get a thrill out of. The kind that could fuel a lot of dreams for months to come.
Or everything could get fucked up. He’d get sick of you. You’d moan his name in your sleep. Too many things could change, if you were stuck together.
It’s best if you go in the morning.
“I, um-“ You bite on your inner cheek, watching him carefully. “Is that was you were talking to Sam about?”
Dean blinks at you, then nods slowly. “Yeah. Sure.”
“Sure?”
“Sure.” He shrugs. “That’s what we talking about, sweetheart. The storm.”
You narrow your eyes at him—he’s being weird, and you don’t believe him—but Dean only clears his throat and gives you another grin.
“And since we gotta go in the morning, I was ho- Uh, wondering. If you’d wanna get a drink.”
You frown at him again. “We have beers in the fridge, Dean.”
“Yeah. We do.” He mutters, throat bobbing, and you’ve never seen him like this. Looking at the floor a lot. Not walking around with a puffed-out chest and mastered, cowboy swagger. Like he knows how pretty he is, and he’s using it as a shield. Trying to flash bright enough that people won’t see anything but that smooth voice and boyish, charming grin.
You’ve been allowed to see beneath it. Because he’s your friend. Because he’s not trying to impress or trick you. Not trying to sell himself to you, even though you’re kind of already his. He doesn’t care if he gets your love or affection. Some part of you always wonders if he knows he already has it, and that’s why you get to know Dean, the perfect, sweet, broken but strong man, instead of Dean, the sex-god and hunter legend.
And you don’t want to go out drinking with him. You love him. But if you have to watch him flirt with someone else the whole night, you’re going to go find another swamp monster and let it eat you.
You don’t get to open your mouth and tell him that, before he’s continuing on.
“There’s kinda this bar I’ve been dying to check out, since we pulled into down.” His gaze feels like it’s buzzing over your skin. “And we should celebrate. So. Drinks.”
“Drinks.” You repeat, tilting your head at him. He gives you a crooked half-grin and nod, and you pull your lip between your teeth.
He’s being so fucking weird.
“You can go yourself, Dean-“
“No.” He shakes his head, standing up a little taller. “You saved my life tonight. I’m getting you a drink.”
“You’ve saved my life more. And I never buy you a drink.”
“That’s different.” He dismisses you quickly, and you frown.
“How-“
“C’mon,” he drawls your name, his tone almost challenging. “One drink.”
Fuck.
He’s got you. He must know he’s got you, otherwise he wouldn’t have pushed it. All he has to do is poke you, and you cave. Give a mumbled nod and agreement, and trying not to burn from within at his happy grin.
And you don’t know if he’s happy because you said yes to getting drinks, or because he’s getting drinks.
It doesn’t matter.
He’s still happy.
It’s a quick drive, from the motel to the bar. And it’s nice, but not the kind of place you think Dean would be dying to see. It’s just like all other bars you’ve seen, in every corner and county of America. Posters on the walls, dartboards and pool tables, and jukebox that really should be out of commission by now, and dirty, chipping wood tables. The drinks are strong, but no stronger than any other drinks. They’ve got pretty good maraschino cherries, and the bartender doesn’t seem to judge you when you ask for them—which is a plus—but there’s also a gaggle of girls in cowboy hats at the other end of the bar, and you know how this night is going to end.
Or you thought you did.
But they’ve been giggling and shooting looks at Dean all night, and he hasn’t so much as turned around.
“What else do you have on your list?” You ask him, playing with the stem of a cherry, and he frowns at you.
“My list.”
“Your bucket list.”
“I don’t have a bucket-“
“Don’t lie to me, Winchester.” You kick his shin lightly, with a small grin. “It’s not befitting of a lady.”
He snorts. “That’s rich, coming from you.”
“I’m not the one being questioned.”
“Oh, I’m bein’ questioned?” He grins, leaning a little closer, and he smells like pine trees. You never should have gotten him that body wash, but you’d also found out he hadn’t been using body wash, and you couldn’t just let that slide. “What’re the charges, sweetheart?”
You shrug. “Lying about your bucket list.”
He opens his mouth, and you give him a flat look.
“I saw it, Dean. You keep it at the bottom of your bag.”
“You-“ He shakes his head. “Why the hell were you looking in my bag?”
You flush, staring down at the cherry stem. The knot won’t stick. “You said I could use your shirt. When mine got vamp blood on it.”
“Right.” He gives you an odd look. “Y’know, I never got that shirt back.”
“Sorry. Forgot.”
You didn’t forget. You keep it in your drawer and sleep in it when you haven’t seen him in a few days. He doesn’t need to know that.
Dean shrugs, taking a swig of his beer. “It’s whatever. I got other shirts.” He gives you a small grin. “You remember what else was on that list?”
“Um,” you wrinkle your nose at the air, biting on your lower lip. “Meet Burt Reynolds, save his life. Give Baby guns. Try an Oreo pizza.” You swallow, keeping your gaze fixed firmly on your hands. “Have the sex.” You can’t look at him. Not right now. “Dean, I’m pretty sure you’ve had sex before.”
“Yeah. But this is, uh-“ He coughs. “Special sex.”
That makes you look at him. He’s picking at the label of his beer, a deep frown on his face. He doesn’t want to talk about this. Not with you.
“Well,” you mumble, tugging on your cherry stem. “I think you’ve got three options, if you want to go for that one.”
He glances at you, brow drawn. “What?”
“The cowgirls behind you.” You’re going to rip the stem in half. “I think they’d be down to have the sex with you.”
It’s meant to come out as a joke, but you mostly sound bitter. It’s sour on your tongue, because you hate being jealous. It’s not Dean’s fault he doesn’t see you like that. And you can’t place any claim over him, or even blame the cowgirls for taking him away from you. If you saw Dean in a bar, you’d do the exact same thing. And maybe then he’d give you the lazy, hungry smirk he always gives everyone else. If you could just be a pretty face.
There’s a hollow, vile sneer in the back of your head that reminds you he might not even think you’re pretty, and that’s why you never stood a chance. You’ll drink it away, when he leaves you at the bar.
But he doesn’t. Dean doesn’t even look at them.
He just keeps watching you.
“Nah.” He shrugs, and you blink at him.
“Nah?”
“I got better things to do, sweetheart.”
You stare at him. “Like?”
Dean just grins at you, and that’s not fair. It’s making you feel molten and important, and he doesn’t even mean it like that.
“Alright.” You let out a soft laugh, and that sounds bitter too. “Who even are you?”
“I dunno, sweetheart.” He shrugs. “You tell me.”
“I- I’m-“ You take a sharp drink of your own, giving him a tight-lipped smile. “So you’re not going to flirt with them.”
He shakes his head. “You’re not going to flirt with the dudes watching you.”
You snort. “There are no dudes watching me-“
“Yeah.” His tone has changed. Gotten firmer. Deeper. “There always are.”
“Dean.”
“It’s true. You just never freakin’ see it.”
“What, and you do?”
His jaw tics. “Yeah. I do. Beard and flannel, 2 o’clock.”
You look before you can stop yourself, and he’s right. Over your shoulder is a broad, bearded man, wearing a green flannel and looking right at you. He winks, when you meet his gaze, and you swallow.
“I, um-“ You look back to Dean, who looks oddly annoyed for having pointed the guy out to you. “That’s different.”
Dean let out a dry laugh. “Yeah, okay. Sure.”
“It is. I don’t do… that.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah-“
“So what do I do, sweetheart?”
He’s staring at you, something behind his voice that sounds like it’s important. It’s written all over his face, as well. He still hasn’t looked at the cowgirls. You’re not sure what the fuck is happening.
“I don’t know, Dean.” You murmur, wrapping the stem around your finger like a ring. “What do you do?”
He doesn’t answer immediately. And when you look back up at him, that strange expression has returned. You wait. You’d wait forever.
And you don’t want to say the wrong thing and fuck this—whatever the hell this is, because he’s never looked at you like that before, but it feels like you’re being turned into starlight—up.
“We, uh-“ He cuts himself off with a frown. “You and me. We’ve known each other a while.”
You’ve felt like you’ve known him your whole fucking life. You felt like that almost the first time you saw him. Sort of like you’d looked at him, and known that this always ends with you falling in love.
Another thing he doesn’t need to know.
So you just nod.
“Right.” He glares at the bottle, like it’s personally responsible for something bad happening to him. “And we’ve been through some shit together. I mean, mostly me. Causing you problems-“
“You don’t cause me problems.” You say before you can stop yourself, and he chuckles.
“I know. You always say that. But, uh- I got news for you, sweetheart. I cause you a lot of problems. And,” he raises his voice before you can protest again. “You never give up on me. Shit, I might of given up on me, but you didn’t. You’re always- No matter how shit this gets, it feels alright long as I got you.”
He’s looking at you like you’re supposed to know what that means. When you stare at him back, he just clears his throat.
“You mean a lot to me.” He mutters. “You- Your trust means a lot. More than anyone.”
“Oh- okay.” You feel kind of dizzy. “Cool.”
He swallows. “Yeah. And I know I do go home with other chicks, uh, I- It’s not. It never means anything. They know that. And a lot of them have been in…” His ears go slightly red, his voice dropping lower. “Situations. And that ain’t for to them, or- Yeah. And I always go back in the morning.”
You’re lost. “What?”
He sighs. “I always head back to you, sweetheart.”
“I know, Dean, we live together-“
“No- I mean, yeah, but-“ He sighs, running a hand over his face. “You’re kinda the best friend I’ve ever had,” he grunts your name, and you sit a little taller. “I don’t tell you that enough. And I was- Uh, I’ve been thinking- A lot.”
You’re going to chew through your tongue. “About?”
He stares at you, mouth hanging slightly open, and you wait.
Dean takes a deep breath, his gaze darting over your shoulder, and he shakes his head.
“Nothing, sweetheart. Never mind.”
You frown. This doesn’t feel like a never mind. “Dean-“
“You want some help with that?” He nods to your cherry stem, giving you a bright grin. “I can do it with my tongue.”
His tongue. He can do things with his tongue. And it’s flicking out over his lips, and he’s grinning at you, and you’re the best friend he’s ever had.
Friend.
Best friend.
“I’m okay.” You mumble, fiddling with the stem and dropping it in your glass. “Thank you, though.”
His jaw twitches again, and he opens his mouth, then closes it. The cowgirls seen to have wandered off to another corner of the bar. The music is playing quietly in the background, and it’s not a bad song, but it feels like nail scratching your ears. You just don’t want to hear anything right now, other than what Dean decided not to tell you.
You know he wasn’t building up to the fucking cherry stem. But if you ask, that would be pushing it. And it might not be something you want to hear.
So you let it go, and give Dean a small smile as you stand up.
He frowns. “Where’re you-“
“Bathroom.” You shrug. “Be right back.”
Dean’s hand flexes, like he’s going to try and reach for you. But he doesn’t. So you walk away.
But you smile at him, because you’re pathetic. Smile and squeeze his bicep.
You’d like to run your hand through his hair.
That’s not a friend thing.
The bathroom of the bar is just what you’d expect. Flickering lights, cheap looking stalls, a toilet seat that you’re careful to wipe down, because you really don’t want to round all of this off with an infection.
It hasn’t been the most shit week. You got the monster. Hung out with Dean. Broke your own heart over it, almost every second, but that’s nothing you haven’t been doing for years. And maybe he’s not going to tell you whatever the hell he was building up to, but maybe it’s another thing that’s just not about you. Dean’s being weird because he and Sam are fighting about something stupid. Dean had sounded tense on the phone, earlier.
So it’s not about you. Tomorrow, Sam will probably call you bitching about Dean, and ask you to talk some sense into him. Sam seems to be under the impression that you’re the only person in the world that Dean listens to without question, but you’ve been in multiple situations where that proved not to be true. The time he wouldn’t let you hunt alone, when you asked him to borrow the car to go into the city—which is something he lets Sam do all the time—the kitchen indecent, when he wouldn’t let you help him figure out how to bake a cake for your birthday, the other time he wouldn’t let you hunt alone-
“You should totally go talk to him!” A girl’s voice cuts through the air, and you freeze.
You’d sort of forgotten other people could, hypothetically, use the bathroom.
“No, it’s okay. There are plenty of hot guys in the world, right?” Second voice. Different girl.
“Not hot like that.” The first girl says again. “I mean. He looks like he fell right out of the fucking sky. That’s once in a lifetime hotness.”
Dean. They’re talking about Dean.
Fuck.
You should make your presence known. You should just cough, or say yeah, he’s hot, but he’s got a weird penis. Which would just be possessive—which you’re not doing, you’re not—and a straight up lie. You’ve heard the reviews, from girls in the morning. You’ve heard the sounds, when he used to get separate rooms just to rail women in. Sam would put in headphones with a sigh, and you’d try to pretend it wasn’t happening until you’d heard screams of Dean, and you’d decided to find whatever bar was closest and had the highest cut off.
These girls could be the ones screaming, tonight.
Unless you embraced the jealousy thing, and told them he has a weird penis-
“Yeah, he’s hot, but the woman he was with,” the second girl sighs, and you freeze. Too late to make yourself known. “I think she’s like his girlfriend or something.”
You gape at nothing, and third girl pipes up.
“No, actually, I agree with that. Don’t talk to him, he’s got a girlfriend.”
“Are you kidding me?” The first girl scoffs. “That was not his girlfriend.”
You scowl. She didn’t have to say it like that. She’s right, but she might not have been, and She didn’t have to be rude about it-
“Why not?”
“Because if that’s your boyfriend, you don’t leave him alone in a bar.”
The other two girls make sounds of disagreement, and that shouldn’t make you feel as good as it does.
“No,” the third one says. “Maybe he’s just like, a loyal guy. And she trusts him.”
“Please,” girl two laughs. “Men who look like that aren’t loyal.”
That almost makes you stand up. Dean’s loyal. Arguably, it’s his worst quality, because it’s nearly given both you and Sam multiple aneurysms. You manage only to curl your fists, though. And the second girl continues.
“Like yes, she was really pretty too. And they looked to be having a serious conversation-“
“Which isn’t what people just hooking up do-“
“I know that. But like, he wasn’t touching her. Maybe they were sitting really closer together, and he ordered her those cherries before she asked-“
“That was really cute-“
“Yeah, but, maybe they’re just like friends!”
“Kaylee.” The third girl says, voice flat. “Did you see how he looked at her?”
“No. You’re the one who pretended to go the jukebox.”
“Well, it was like a puppy dog face. He love loves her.”
You feel like you’re being shot. The girls don’t stop talking.
“Are you sure?”
“Oh, yeah, just pretend to walk past them later. It’s super obvious.”
They leave a few minutes after that. And you have to remember how to move your legs, but a lot of things are crashing around in your brain. You’re pretty. You and Dean look cute together.
Dean looks at you like he loves you.
It feels like you’re floating, when you make your way back to the bar. Dean’s fidgeting with his sleeves, mostly staring at his bottle, and when you tap his shoulder, he looks up at you with a frown.
It quickly turns into a grin. And he holds up your folded cherry stem with a proud grin, puffing out his chest.
“Did it while you were gone. In one shot, by the way. You can, uh- Keep it? I dunno. Didn’t think past doin’ it, I guess.”
You give him a softer smile, and tuck the cherry stem into your pants. “I’ll keep it. Thank you.”
“Course.” He shrugs, glancing around the mostly empty bar.
The cowgirls are watching you.
Dean’s hand is resting on your wrist. You’re not sure if he knows he’s doing it, but it’s warm and electric over your whole body.
And when you scan over his face, there’s nothing on it that screams he loves you. That’s just Dean’s face. Maybe the third girl just had too much to drink, or is rooting for him to be in love with you, which is very sweet but overall useless to you-
“You wanna head back?” Dean squeezes your wrist, giving you another easy, causal grin. “We should get our three hours, before we beat the storm.”
You sigh, giving him a tight smile. “It’s eight hours.”
“Yeah, if you’re a health nerd.”
“Dean-“
“It’ll be six hours, if we go now.”
You wrinkle your nose at him, and he just grins back. It really is the same grin he’s always given you. But you hear the cowgirls giggling, when you pass them. They’re probably reading into Dean’s hand, on your back, way too much. You know you have.
But reading too deep into things is what you’re best at.
And now that they’ve mentioned how Dean looks at you, it’s impossible stop.
You’re picking it apart, for the rest of the night. For the entirety of the drive, as you analyze every shift in his face, when he glances your way. How he smirks at you, when he opens your door with a dramatic, sweeping gesture. How he laughs when you roll your eyes, and the face he makes when you mumble that you’re getting changed. Then the face when you come back, and he looks up from the TV.
“Dean.” You lean over the back of the couch, making your voice as firm as possible. “Six hours. You promised.”
He groans, but turns off the TV, and flicks your nose. “After all I do for you, sweetheart, you’re gonna make me sleep?”
“Yep.” He’s so close. You can see every handsome feature of his face. “Go to bed, Dean.”
He grunts and his gaze is trapped right on yours. His eyes are so fucking green, and they’re shining on yours. His breath is warm on your face, and in the cold of the night, it’s impossible to ignore. How all the heat is coming from Dean. You could move. Just an inch. Press your lips against his, and see what it does. Maybe he’d pull you over the couch and into his lap, kiss you until he’s all that you can feel. Until you’re burning alive, but he’s burning with you.
Or it could change everything. And you’d lose your best friend.
You pull back. And don’t look at Dean again, as you go to bed. You need to stop torturing yourself. You’ll do it enough on the car ride tomorrow.
Dean’s true to his word. He goes to the bathroom, takes another shower, then gets into bed right after you. Enough for six hours, even if he’s up first.
He doesn’t wake you up, as he gets ready to go. Packing his bag, then yours, then the remaining supplies. You mostly just drift in and out, listening to him shuffle around the room, pause, then move again. At one point, after you hadn’t shifted around in a while, his hand rests on your brow. And because he thinks you’re just sleeping, you nuzzle into it.
He lingers.
Fingers trace over your face. Your cheeks and nose and eyebrows, then up into your hair.
He sighs, and moves away, and there’s another thing to over think. He could be disappointed in you. Annoyed with you. Tired of you. Just tired overall, and that was a yawn. But Dean doesn’t really yawn.
He also doesn’t just touch people’s faces.
But-
“Son of a bitch?”
Your eyes shoot open, and you sit up in a second, reaching for your gun. No one seems to be in danger. Dean’s glaring out the window.
You rub your eyes, pushing up to your knees. “Dean, what’s wrong?”
“Come look.” He mutters, and you shuffle to your feet, peering out the window.
“Oh.” You whisper, and he chuckles.
“Yep.”
You didn’t beat the storm.
The storm beat you. The world is all gray and white, falling snow and sheets of white over the whole world.
So you’re trapped in the motel. With Dean
———
“We did try to leave early.” Dean grunts into the phone and you sigh, holding your knees to your chest on the bed.
It took five hours for the storm to clear enough that Dean could call Sam. Another hour for Sam to pick up, because he is on vacation.
And you’re not sure how you’re going to survive this.
Not the storm. The storm will be easy. You’re what Dean’s called paranoid—but is proving itself to just be prepared—and there’s no possible way you’re going to run out of food. The water is still running, as it electricity. The heater did break again, but Dean’s spent the last two hours on his knees, trying to fix it.
Most of his tools are both for cars, and in the car.
He’s improvised.
And he’d given you this big, boyish and proud grin, when he’d realized he could use the wire hooks without being electrocuted. And that’s why you’re not going to survive this.
You’re trapped with Dean. And his smiles and voice and body and general everything. It’s one room—two if you count the bathroom—and it’s just you and Dean. No buffer to stop you from saying something stupid, like how you love him. No distractions, because the electricity is working but this motel only has cable, and that’s down. Just you and Dean.
“Fuckin’ Christ.” Dean mutters under his breath, shooting you an odd look.
You mouth what back at him.
He rolls his eyes, and mouths back Sam, before speaking aloud. “Yeah, I know how waitin’ out storms works, Sam, I freakin’ taught you- We ain’t gonna run out of water, this isn’t a drought, we can drink the snow- I’m not drinking it right now.”
You giggle, and Dean gives you a flat look. You only shrug in return, and that eye roll is for you, but you don’t really care. At least it’s for you.
“No.” Dean turns back to the heater, his voice having dropped. “I ain’t doing that. No- Sam. Shut your face or I’m calling Eileen and telling her she’s got a funeral to attend. Not mine-“
Dean groans, running a hand over his face, and you climb out of the bed. The blankets have to stay wrapped around you—it’s fucking freezing—but you can still help. You kneel down at his side, holding out your hand and nodding to the hanger. Dean frowns at you and shakes his head, and you flex your fingers, giving him a pointed look.
He pulls the phone away, covering the speaker—Sam’s voice muffled through his hand—and grunts, “I got it, sweetheart. Go back to bed.”
“Dean.” You sigh, just grabbing it out of his hand. He doesn’t fight you, just staring as you shift on your knees. “Finish your phone call.”
He opens his mouth to say something, then sighs, and nods. He squeezes your shoulder, as he moves to his feet, and you watch him walk to the other side of the room.
You’ve been studying his face all morning. The cowgirl’s words haven’t stopped replaying. He looks at you like he loves you.
But you really don’t think he does.
He’d given you tight smiles all morning, until you’d finished sorting the supplies and decided that you’d easily survive this without eating each other.
“If we don’t have enough,” he’d said, hanging over your shoulder. “I want you to eat me.”
You’d sighed, and whacked his thigh. Better not think about how firm it had been. How if you turned your head, you would have been at perfect eye level with his bulge. And it had been freezing, but that was the kind of heat that was going to kill you just as much as it made you come alive. Now, trapped in a motel during a blizzard, was not the time to test the waters of how much Dean would want you. You’d rather turn to ice than have to spend a whole week, awkwardly pretending you hadn’t come onto Dean and gotten rejected.
“I’m not going to eat you, Dean.” You’d muttered, and he’d shaken his head.
“I’m telling you to eat me, sweetheart.” He’d dropped at your side, and you’d focused on your sorting. If you looked at Dean, you’d stare and try to figure out if he loved you. “It’s my last wish. You not gonna honor a dying man’s last wish.”
“No.”
“That’s pretty damn rude-“
“You’re not dying.” You’d looked at him, because you’re weak. No promise you ever made yourself about Dean lasted more than about twenty minutes, because most of them were don’t look at him or don’t talk to him, and actually committing to that would mean more change.
He hadn’t been looking at you like he loved you.
It had just been the same way he always looks at you. Open, handsome, with a small grin and light in his eyes.
That’s just his stupid, pretty face. And it had been hard to keep pretending to be annoyed with him, when this was the first real smile he’d given you all morning.
“We’ve got enough.” You mumbled, your eyes seemingly trapped on his. “I- I won’t need to eat you.”
“Awesome.” He’d grinned at you, and you’d swallowed, and nodded.
That was just another expression he always made. It didn’t mean anything.
He is scowling at the air, now that he’s focused on his phone call. He hasn’t looked at you like that, ever. But you also haven’t been saying anything to piss him off.
It’s very rare, that you actually do piss Dean off.
But you’re his best friend, so that can’t mean much.
You have to drag your gaze back to the heater. You’re going to drive yourself out of your mind, before you even hit day five.
Dean keeps talking, and it sounds like a serious conversation—serious enough that you’re not allowed to hear it, which you’re trying and failing not to read into, but it can just be another way to fucking torture yourself—when you hear the rattling buzz from the heater that means it’s working.
You turn to Dean with a wide grin, sitting up straight and making a ta da gesture to your work, and he grins at you again. Gives you a thumbs up, even his brows remain furrowed at whatever Sam is saying.
“Sam.” He grunts, walking towards you. “I’m going.”
There’s a sound of protest from the other end of the line, and you bite your lip to stop yourself from laughing again.
“I know how rationing works, Sam, I taught you that shit, too- No, we’re not fuckin’ talking about that- Bye.”
Dean hangs up, Sam’s voice dying mid-sentence, and you give him a curious look.
“Not talking about what?”
“Don’t worry about it,” Dean mutters your name, crouching down at your side and scanning over the heater. “Nice work.”
That shouldn’t make you flush as much as it does. But Dean’s really close, and he’s praising you, and suddenly the room has spiked from freezing cold to almost insufferably hot.
“Thanks,” you mumble, and Dean just shrugs, clapping you on the shoulder. The way he would a friend.
“No problem. So.” He scans around the room, and his brow pinches together the moment he’s not looking at you.
He’s thinking. That’s all it means.
“We got food, water, heat, shelter.” Dean says, mostly to himself. “Overall we’re not half fucked.”
“Only a quarter.”
Dean snorts, and his brows un-pinch as he looks at you.
Which still probably means nothing.
“What do you think that quarter fucked is, sweetheart?”
Him. Being trapped with him. Already starting to spiral about what everything he does and says means, if this is going to make things change, if he’s going to get sick of you, if he does look at you different. You really can’t tell anymore. You might have already gone mad, or the heat is just getting to your brain.
Making you hallucinate how close he is. How his attention on you is undivided, how his thumb is rubbing small circles where it’s still resting on your shoulder.
That’s your quarter fucked.
But you also know what Dean’s is, so you say that instead.
“No TV.” You give him a mock pout, and he lets out a dramatic groan.
“It’s not funny, sweetheart-“
“Yeah, it is.”
“You’re saying that now, but what are you gonna do when you get sick of talking to me?”
You frown at him. “I won’t get sick of talking to you.”
He scoffs. “Sure-“
“I’m serious, Dean.” You lean forward, which is a mistake. He steadies you with a hand on your knee. He’s still like a furnace. You’re going to catch his heat and melt into nothing. “I won’t get sick of you. Are-“ You swallow. You shouldn’t ask it. “Will you-“
“No.” He mutters, scanning over your face. “But I still miss TV.”
You give him a small smile, a weightlifting off your chest. “It’s been like, twelve hours.”
“Fifteen.”
You laugh at his grumpy face, and his lips twitch.
“We’ll find something to do, Dean.” You cup his face as you move to your feet. He might have leaned into your touch. Another thing to pretend not to think about. “I promise.”
———
“Checkmate.”
Dean groans, leaning over the board with a glare. “No, that’s- Son of a bitch.” He looks up at you with wide eyes. “I fuckin’ had it, sweetheart, what the hell.”
You shrug, starting to reset the pieces. “You never had it, Mr. Winchester. You’re a fool and your knowledge of the gentleman’s game is weak.”
He snorts. “I think you’re just cheating.”
“Maybe.” You grin at him. “But if I am, you haven’t caught me.”
“So you have been-“
“Do you have proof?”
Dean sighs, and grumbles, “No.”
You hum. “Innocent until proven guilty.”
“Or until you admit it.”
“I’ve never admitted anything. In my life.”
Dean raises his brows. “Half an hour ago, you told me you used to sing lyrics to classical music.”
You flush, and throw a pawn at his face. “That was a secret-“
“I haven’t told anyone! I’m just sayin’ back to you what you said to me-“
“Well, you used to name your toy cars after different cartoon characters-“
“Hey.” Dean wields the pawn at you like a knife, narrowing his eyes. “Don’t bring She-Ra the Pontiac into this.”
He glares at you, you glare right back, and there’s only a beat of silence before you both burst out laughing.
This has been most of the last two days. You’d raided the entire room, to see exactly what type of amenities were provided, and found mostly paper, meaning that you and Dean spent most of last night playing drawing games. He drew genuinely the worst tiger you’ve ever seen, and you drew a snake so worm-like he spent twenty minutes laughing on the ground. This morning—before you got up—he went outside during a brief lull in the storm, grabbed your playing cards from the trunk of Baby, and raided the lobby for board games.
He beat you at two-person poker, twice. You won gin rummy, and cribbage, so he insisted on a third poker round. You know he just wanted it to win again. But you love him—and his stupid, dopey grin whenever he does something well—so you let him have it. And he did win. But you kicked his ass in Candyland.
Dean said this one was a kid’s game, so it didn’t count.
You’d pulled out the chess, after that.
This is your fifth win in a row. And you’re not cheating.
But Dean is adorable when he’s grumpy. And just for now, you’re giving up on trying not to look at him too long. You won’t mess up, because this is already such a fragile situation. You’re on a high alert to not do anything too obviously in love with him. And already spent all of last night with the sheets tangled between your legs, looping over and over how Dean had made you dinner. Stared at you when you’d come out of the bathroom in a towel and coughed. Talked to you until two in the morning, because for once neither of you had anywhere to be in the morning.
In a very, very strange way, this feels like a vacation. A precarious one, where you’ve sealed over half the things you want to say to him—I love you, Dean, I want you, I spent that whole shower thinking about what it would feel like if you were with me, on your knees or behind me or anything, I’d take anything—and allowed yourself to look at him to keep it together. To keep him from noticing.
It would be suspicious, if you didn’t look at him. And it’s quelling that unending heat, in your body.
You’re going to get through this. Walk out the other side, with only good memories, and nothing changed.
You’re probably going to be trying to figure out how Dean looks at you forever, but that’s only hurting you, so it’s fine.
It’s all just fine.
“No more chess.” Dean grumbles, grabbing a rook out of your hands and bumping it on your nose. You blink at him kind of stupidly. He doesn’t seem to notice. “Let’s go back to cards.”
You take the rook back, poking it into his chest. “Why, so you can win poker?”
He shrugs with a grin, and you sigh.
“How about war? No skill. Just luck.”
Dean frowns. “I got shit luck, sweetheart.”
“And I don’t?”
“Better than mine.” He mutters under his breath, and you frown.
There’s something heavy to his tone that you don’t understand. But before you can try and find the words to ask him about it, he’s moving on.
“One poker game, just to level out the field. C’mon. I’ll make you lunch?”
“And- Do I not get lunch if I say no?”
“No, but this doesn’t work if you keep bringin’ reason into it, sweetheart.”
“Sorry.” You pick at your nails, giving him a small smile, and he sighs.
“It’s alright, sweetheart. But if we play war, I’m shuffling.”
You nod, giving him a wider smile, and his jaw twitches. It’s been doing that a lot, today. You spent most of breakfast staring at it, trying to figure out what it meant. Probably just that he’s tense, from the stress of the situation. Even though it started last night. And overall, the situation hasn’t been all that stressful.
Again. Trying not to think about it.
“Deal.” You hold out your hand, and Dean shakes it. His hand fits perfectly, in yours. It always has. You’ve had a lot of fantasies about just Dean’s hands, alone.
And it’s impossible not to stare, as he shuffles. His fingers have always moved so deliberately, with such exact, measured movements, and they’re big and thick and rough, and when you passed him the cards, he’d touch your forearm and you felt like you were going to fly out of your skin-
“Ready?” Dean nods to the pile of cards in front of you, and you blink.
Right.
The game.
“Ready.” You mutter, sounding breathier than you meant to, but you’d also worked yourself into a small frenzy, thinking about his hands. His smirk isn’t helping.
You really don’t think he knows, exactly what he does to you.
But if he does, this is downright cruel.
“Alright,” he drawls your name, picking up his own deck with a dramatic roll of his shoulders. “Let’s skirmish.”
You laugh—it’s stupid, but you always laugh—and Dean’s grin widens.
It’s not clear if he’s smiling because you laughed, or just he got a laugh.
You really have to stop picking yourself apart like this.
The first few flips run by, and soon you’re not even counting down to flip anymore. You and Dean have gotten somehow merged your game brains, and you’re flipping in perfect sync. You’re winning most of them. Dean hasn’t seemed to notice yet.
“Would you rather be attacked by a duck, or a hippo.”
You blink at him, flipping over another card. “What kind of question is that, obviously-“
“Wait.” He grins at you. “The duck has a gun, and the hippo is a baby.”
“Oh.” You tilt your head at the air. “Does the duck know how to use the gun?”
“Sure.”
“Okay, and is the hippos mom around?”
Dean frowns. “Why does that matter.”
“Mothers are incredibly aggressive when their babies are threatened, Dean. A grown mom hippo kill me.”
“Huh. Well, we don’t want that.” His brow furrows, and you try not to let that make you feel too gooey. “Let’s call it that the mom hippo is around, but far enough that she won’t know if you’re careful.”
“Careful? The hippo is attacking me-“
“So you gotta kill it.”
You gape at him. “I’m not killing a baby hippo, Dean.”
“Fair.” He nods, flipping over a nod. “So you’re going Gun Duck.”
“Do I get a gun?”
“If you can take his.”
“I can do that.” You watch him grab the cards he won. He’s rolled up his sleeves, so you can see his forearms. It’s distracting. “What would you choose?”
“Gun Duck.” Dean shrugs. “I think I could take that mama hippo, though.”
You snort. “No, you couldn’t.”
He gives you a mock look of offense. “Sweetheart, I’ve fought the Devil-“
“Hippos kill 500 people a year, Dean.”
He scoffs. “So?”
“So there are about 180 plane crashes a year.” You give him pointed a look and he gulps, going a little pale.
“Good point. No hippos.”
You hum, pulling more of your own cards forward. “Would you rather live on the moon, or underwater?”
Dean pauses, thinking about it as you both flip. “The moon. Space would be pretty awesome. Can I guess your answer?”
You nod, a little desperate to know what he thinks you’re going to say, and he grins at you.
“Underwater.”
You keep your face perfectly neutral. “Why?”
“Because you think space is scary.”
“The bottom of the ocean is scarier.”
“Yeah, but you wouldn’t live at the bottom of the ocean.” He gives you a look like that’s obvious, and sighs when you just stare at him. “I think you’d be like, a lady of the lake or whatever.”
“A-“ You blink at him. “Like in King Arthur?”
“Yeah.” He grins at you, wide and toothy. “I’d be a pretty awesome King, right. I’d get to sit at the round table.”
“Sure,” you return his grin, setting out three cards. “What are your stances on tithes and feudalism?”
“Uh.” He makes his tight, adorable thinking expression—the one where he’s really trying, but doesn’t have a fucking clue what you’re talking about—and you want to kiss him all over his stupid face. “Anti?”
You hum and nod, and he raises his brows.
“Was that right?”
“I don’t know, you’re the King.”
“Yeah, but you’re my- Lady advisor.”
You snort. “Lady Advisor?”
“The- Guinevere lady-“
“That was Arthur’s wife.” You say, and it’s really hard to sound causal about that. “And she cheated on him with his best friend.”
Dean recoils slightly, shaking his head. “Okay, so you ain’t that.”
You give him a cautious look. “Do I have to be something, in your fantasy land?”
“Course you do, sweetheart.” He says that like it’s obvious, too. “It ain’t a fantasy land if you’re not there.”
You flush, and Dean sits a little taller, clearing his throat. You don’t know if he meant it like that. He probably didn’t. But now he’s not looking you in the eyes, and he probably thinks he’s leading you on—even if he doesn’t know he doesn’t need to put you on a leash or offer you a reward, you’d follow him to the end of the earth no matter what—and things are going to change-
“I’m the Lady of the Lake.” You mumble, folding a card between your finger and giving him a small smile. “Of course I’m in your fantasy.”
He coughs, but grins at you, and he’s ears are red again.
Don’t think too much into it.
“Awesome.”
———
It’s only been three days.
You’re falling into a far too comfortable pattern.
Dean makes you breakfast, you do lunch, he does dinner. You play card games and talk, Dean goes out to check that nobody’s stolen Baby—it doesn’t matter how many times you tell him that won’t happen, he has to do it anyway—and you make him hot chocolate for when he gets back. You spent most of today talking about superheroes, Dean hanging your paper stars on the ceiling because he’s perfect, and you don’t know how you were ever supposed to not fall in love with him.
“Can I have the purple?” You ask, and he passes the marker to you with a small grin.
“I still don’t understand why you these in the car, sweetheart.”
“For organizing. Duh.”
“Right. Duh.” He chuckles, nudging your side with his foot, and you squeak.
“Dean-“
“Sorry.” He laughs above you, and he kind of looks like a God. Big and strong and handsome, so far above you, so untouchable, but offering you more with his joy than you can understand.
Because you haven’t seen Dean this happy in years. He’s fully relaxed, he’s not scanning around every few seconds to check that everyone is safe, and he’s still sleeping with his gun under his pillow—that’s never going to change—but when you woke him up this morning, you didn’t end up with the barrel in your face.
It’s probably because there are no threats.
It’s getting harder and harder to think it’s not about you.
“Can you pass me my book?”
“Sure.” He shuffles away, and your body seems to want to follow him, which isn’t fair. “What, you gonna use the pages to make more stars?”
“Don’t joke about that.” You mutter, frowning at the star in your hands. “I just want to use this one as a bookmark.”
Dean just hums, and the book is passed into your hands as he sits at your side. “You, uh- Liking it?”
You angle your head to see him, and he’d grabbed a beer while he was getting your book. He’s picking at the label again. His jaw is ticking.
You really don’t know how to ask him what that’s about.
“The book.” He adds—after you’re quiet for a beat too long—giving you a sheepish grin. “How are you liking the book.”
“Oh. It’s- Good. I’ve always wanted to read it, and I- yeah.” He’s sitting too close. It’s making you short circuit.
Dean just nods, turning the bottle in his hands. “So it’s on your bucket list?”
He gives you a half-grin, and that makes you almost go limp. He’s smiling at you like it’s a secret. Like it’s something only you get to know about, even if it was because you accidentally snooped.
You smile back. It always makes his grin wider, and his shoulders relax, and that could be about you-
No.
You’re not doing that.
“Maybe.” You shrug, and he raises his brows.
“You gonna tell me what else is on there?”
You sit up, holding his gaze. Your knees are bumping together. You could swear his eyes widen slightly.
“The sex.” You whisper, and he groans, shaking his head and looking back to his bottle with a tight smile as you giggle.
“Bet you’re proud of that one.”
“I am.” You poke his thigh, lying back down as his nostrils flare, and he gives you an odd look.
“You should write one.” He says suddenly. “We got a shit ton of paper. Sammy says they’re good for you to do. Reckon with your own mortality or something.”
You snort, fiddling with one of the stars. “Like you’ve ever reckoned with your mortality-“
“I’m serious,” he says, and when you look back up, he’s staring right into you. “It’s useful. Sammy’s usually out of his freakin’ mind, with that therapy bullshit, but-“ He sighs, tipping his head back to rest against the bed. “It’s not half bad.”
He glares at the ceiling, as if he can’t believe what he’s saying, and you take a risk. It won’t change anything. You’ve comforted him before, and he’s comforted you, so this won’t change anything.
“Dean.” You murmur, resting your hand on his thigh. “I believe you, I just- I don’t want that many things.”
“Everyone wants things.” He mutters, and you shake your head.
“Not me.”
He finally looks at you, and that strange expression has returned. His eyes lock onto yours, and there seems to be a heaviness to him that you’ve never really seen before. You smile at him gently, and his lips only twitch. He’s looked at you like this before, as well. In the dead of night, when he woke up shouting and you were the only one who heard.
But you’ve never seen it in the light before.
And it’s the way he always looks at you, but more. His eyes are softer, but his jaw is clenched so tight you’re worried he’ll hurt himself. There are deep lines on his face that you want to trace with your fingers, and his lips are in a tight line you want to pry open with your tongue.
“Nothin’ you want, huh.” his voice is deeper than only a moment before, almost a little hoarse.
You sigh, your eyes darting to your hand, still resting against him. “Nothing I can have.”
He gives you a curious look. “What, going back to civilian life?”
“No. Never.” You bite on your inner cheek, playing with the fabric of his jeans. “You’re stuck with me, Winchester. Sorry.”
He lets out a low laugh, leaning back once more. “Don’t worry about me, sweetheart. I think I’ll live.”
———
Dean taps on the top of your head, and you look up to find him grinning down at you, holding your book.
“What-“
“I read it.” He stands a little taller, seeming to puff out his chest. “You were right, sweetheart, it’s pretty good.”
“It’s- The book?” You blink at him. “You read the book?”
“All of it. Except the acknowledgments.”
“Yeah, you don’t really have to read the acknowledgments-“ You shake your head, chewing on your tongue. “Why did you read the book.”
“I dunno. You,” he gently bops your head with the book. “Fell asleep early. And you didn’t stop reading it yesterday, so- I dunno. Wanted to see what the big deal was.”
You nod, watching him carefully. “And you liked it?”
“Sure.” He pauses. “Did you like it?”
“Yes.” You whisper, and you’re not sure why this is hitting you in the chest so hard. It’s just a book.
But he read it for you.
And he’s been looking at you all week. Laughing with you. Not pushing you away or shutting you out when the conversations get too serious. Acting like you’re the only two people in the word, which is what it feels like.
It’s just you and Dean. In this room, and—even though you know that it’s not true, that he’ll probably turn around and walk right into another bed when you’re free—in the whole fucking universe.
It’s really impossible to think that none of this is about you, now. It probably isn’t, but playing pretend is getting easier and easier. You’re not getting sick of him. He’s not getting sick of you.
And if you never had to leave, you might ask him. If he’s happy here with you, or just happy here. If he thinks he looks at you differently, if there was any truth to what the cowgirls said.
If he really was never going to go home with them.
What the hell he was going to tell you, at the bar.
If he can feel how humid it is, here. How outside, the storm is still raging, but in here your skin is hot and sweaty because Dean’s been pulling your legs over his lap when you’re on the couch. And the steam keeps following him out of the shower and into your dreams.
Last night you had to take an emergency shower, because you’d had a fucking wet dream. It had been all hands and lips, everywhere over your body at once. Soft on sensitive skin and rough on your neck and tits and between your legs. You’ll woken up with your hair stuck to your brow, and your hips grinding into the mattress. Chasing release in nothing, until you’d scrambled into the bathroom, turned on the water, and finished where he wouldn’t hear you.
Couldn’t hear you.
Didn’t hear you.
Dean couldn’t have heard you. If he had, he wouldn’t be looking at you right now. He’s been trying to let you down gently, instead of sitting right next to you. Waiting for your attention. Pressing his thigh into yours.
Best friend.
He’s comfortable with you because you’re his best friend. And you’re getting really, really bad at remembering that.
But he’s really not making it easy.
“You- Uh-“ He clears his throat. “You ever think about how Sammy’s doing?”
“Like- Emotionally?”
“No, like-“ Dean lets out a slow breath, watching you so carefully it feels like he’s pulling you apart. “With this life he’s got goin’ for himself. Less hunting, more time with the missus. Thinking about that white picket fence, payin’ taxes, apple pie shit. You ever think about that?”
You swallow, and speak slowly. This sort of feels like a warzone. You don’t want to misstep.
“Sometimes.” With you. “I- I mean, I have the dream.”
“The dream?”
You nod, and he frowns.
“I thought you didn’t want things.”
“I don’t want things I can have.” You correct, and Dean raises his brows.
“It’s a dream, sweetheart. Doesn’t gotta be something you can have, think that’s the whole freakin’ point.” He pauses. “I’ve told you about my dreams.”
Fuck.
“I- Don’t know.” Your gaze drops to your hands, but Dean’s gaze keeps searing over your skin. “It’s dumb.”
“Nah. You’re never dumb.”
Fuck. “Dean-“
“You don’t have to tell me.” He mutters, something oddly edged in his tone. “But I’m here. If you wanna-“
“I’d like it.” You cut him off softly, and he stills at your side. “What Sam’s doing. I mean- Not exactly that. But we- I would kind of want both, I think. Keep helping, even if it’s mostly research. Having something good, my way.”
You give Dean a small, nervous smile, and his mouth is hanging open. He’s closer than he was, only a second ago. You could lean forward and bump your noses together, if you tried.
And you want to.
But Dean’s just staring at you, and your knees are starting to feel weak, despite sitting down.
“Why isn’t that something you can have?” Dean’s voice is so low you can almost feel it in your chest, and he only seems to be getting closer.
“Because there’s no one I can do that with.” You say, before you can think about it, and Dean’s jaw twitches.
He’s so fucking close. You can really smell that pine tree wash. Your heartbeat is in your ears, along with a strange rattle that’s bouncing around your skull with every heated thought—his hand wandering up your leg and between your thighs, his body covering yourself, his lips wherever the hell he wants them, as long as it’s on your skin—and most of your brain is just a haze of Dean.
But you can’t move first. Things can’t change, when this inevitably ends.
The rattling sound is getting too loud to just be the hunger, bouncing around your ribs.
“The heater is making noise again.” You whisper, and Dean licks his lips, his voice still low and hoarse.
“It’ll be fine,” he mutters. “You fixed it.”
That is not a good enough reason for it to be fine, no matter how confident and smooth Dean says it. Even if it ignites in your lower gut, and spreads humid between your thighs. “But-“
“You want dinner?”
You frown. “It’s my night-“
“It’s fine.” He moves to his feet suddenly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Uh- Pasta. And those frozen meatballs, we haven’t used them yet.”
“At least let me help.” You try to stand up, but Dean just blocks you, shaking his head. “Dean-“
“I got it, baby. Don’t worry about it.”
You don’t argue with him after that. Not because he’s right—he’s not—but because you’ve forgotten how to walk. Or talk. Or do anything at all.
Baby.
Dean called you baby.
———
He doesn’t do it again. Not for the rest of the night, or in the morning. The next day is mostly spent making up a new card game, that’s mostly based on you and Dean yelling at each other, and trying to steal cards. At one point he tackles you, starting a mock wrestling match, and it’s like being tossed into a wildfire. You giggle too much. Give in too fast.
Dean stands abruptly, and goes to the bathroom for twenty minutes after that.
You don’t think that’s about you. Not when he immediately drags you to your feet and announces that he’s ready to learn how Zodiac signs work. If he was pissed at you—if something had changed—he wouldn’t be talking to you at all. But he doesn’t move from your side for the rest of the day.
So the heat doesn’t die.
Not until you crawl into bed, and the heater stops rattling.
Stops all together.
And everything starts to freeze.
For the first hour, you try to just bundle yourself as tight as you can, burrowing yourself in the blankets and curling up in a ball. But the temperature drops faster and faster, and these are motel sheets. Thinner than they should be, a little itchy, and not made to withstand the cold of a blizzard. Your fingertips start to go numb, and you can feel the cold almost in your bones, until you have to clench your jaw to stop your teeth from chattering.
Dean’s snoring soundly, in his own bed. You don’t even think he’s realized how cold it’s gotten.
But the man runs like a furnace. A warm, big furnace that could wrap around you, and make you warm, so fucking warm-
You sit up, and stare at him in the dark. Just as handsome as always, with all the panes of his face cast in sharp long shadows that only make him more beautiful. You could easily lose yourself kissing along his jawline or running your finger through his hair. Sitting in his lap and pressing your face into his chest, just feeling him until the whole world is lighter.
And this isn’t about that.
It can’t be. You roll out of bed—keeping the blankets wrapped around you—and this isn’t about how you’re in love with Dean. If it becomes that, you’ll spiral into what every single brush of his skin and breath means. You’ll stare at him all night instead of sleeping, and he’ll notice, and you’ll ruin everything.
So it’s just about heat.
You nudge his arm, and drop your voice to a loud whisper. “Dean.”
He grunts, and you sigh, poking him again.
“Dean.”
He rolls over, making a low sound like your name, and his hand rests over yours as his eyes flutter. He looks so comfortable. Peaceful. At complete ease, in a way you’ve almost never seen.
It’s so fucking selfish to wake him up, just for you.
But another chill runs through your body, and you don’t have another choice.
“Dean.” You shove him gently, and he makes an adorable grumbling sound, slowly opening his eyes.
“What- What’s’a matter.” He frowns around the dark, then up at you. His hand over yours tugs you a little closer.
It doesn’t mean anything.
“I’m cold.” You whisper, he frowns, and this was stupid. “Never mind. I’m sorry, I just- I’ll go back to bed-“
“Wait, just-“ Dean pulls you back with a small yelp, and his hand rests over your brow. “Son of a bitch, sweetheart, you’re freezing.”
“I- I know.”
“Well, we gotta-“ He cuts himself off, scanning over you carefully as his nostrils flare.
You just stare at him back, and whatever he can see on your face, it’s what he wants.
Dean gives you a tight nod, and throws open his blanket. “C’mere.”
“No- It’s okay- I’ll be fine-“
“You’re already not fine-“
“But you don’t have to-“Dean grunts your name, and it’s a good thing he can’t see the flush of your cheeks. “Get in the fuckin’ bed. Please.”
Please.
He did say please.
You crawl onto the mattress, and before you can build any sort of safety barrier between your bodies, Dean’s pulling you right into his chest. And that’s enough to make the heat spike and return, stronger than before. But then he bows his head so his lips brush over your hairline, and his hands dive just under your shirt to rub your skin, and his legs tangled with yours until all you can feel is Dean.
Hot.
So fucking hot, you’re worried you’re going to evaporate and turn into nothing but steam.
“Relax.” He mutters, deep and right in your ear, and you almost go limp in his arms. “There you go. Warmer?”
You hum—speaking feels like a taller order right now—nodding against his shoulder, and Dean lets out a slow breath.
“Good. Go to sleep, sweetheart, I’ll fix it for you in the morning.”
He’ll fix it. For you. Dean will fix it for you.
That’s about you.
And he’s fixing it now. But not in the way he probably thinks.
You’re warm, but you can’t fall asleep. Also you can think about his Dean’s fingers, brushing over your spine and spending smaller, pleasurable shivers through your body. His knee is pressed far too close to the painful ache between your legs. His breath his fanning over your brow, and he’s wrapped an arm around you to pin you right against him. Every inch of your body feels alight, just in his presence. The heat between your legs is almost painful, and when you rub your thighs together, you can feel your arousal.
You’ve never been hotter in your life. You’re on fucking fire, trapped in Dean’s everything, and there’s no fucking way you’re going to do anything but memorize him. The way his body shifts, how it feels to be swimming in him, and the feel of his strength keeping you so tight.
You can hear his heartbeat.
It’s faster than you thought it would be.
And when you wiggle in his arms a little, trying to get more comfortable, his fingers curl on your back and he holds you tighter.
“Don’t move.” He almost growls in your ear, and you swallow.
“Dean?” You whisper, and he grunts, the sound vibrating through your whole body. “My leg is falling asleep.”
He moves you without another word, but the friction just makes you hornier. And now his lips are pressed against your neck, making your core molten and forcing a soft, high sound from your throat.
Dean tenses around you, immediately pulling away and readjusting you again, but you don’t get the chance to over think it.
Because you feel it, first.
His erect cock, pressed right over your pussy.
You lean back to stare at him, your mouth hanging open, and Dean looks at you like he’s looking at the sun. His jaw is clenches, his features blown out with hunger, and his fingers on your spine have started a soft, slow dance that makes you arch into his touch.
His eyes flick down to your lips, and then expression he gives you is almost pleading. His thumb traces over the shape of your lower lip as you try to remember how to speak, or move, or do anything.
Then he mutters your name, dropping his brow against yours, and you grind fully into his knee.
“God, fuckin’-“ Dean groans, his lips so close you can almost feel them. “Tell me I can, baby. Please. Let me- Fuck-“
You can’t remember how to speak.
But Dean’s knee pressed right against your clit, and it jumpstarts your memory of how to move.
You grab his face, and slam your lips over his. He responds in a second, flipping you flat on your back and dropping his hips, keeping you pinned beneath him. He’s rough, hot and wet and desperate, with grabbing your jaw and angling it back, using his tongue and lips and teeth until you’re slack in his hands.
He pulls back suddenly, examining you for a second before starting to kiss on your neck. Sucking small spots that feel like flares, sparking through your body and making you squirm with a desperation for more.
“Dean-“ You gasp, tugging at his hair as you try to spread your legs. “I- I need- Dean-“
“I know.” He growls against you, his teeth grazing over a soft spot, and you arch off the bed with a high whine. His free hand finds its way between your legs, cupping your pussy over your clothing, and you gasp, wiggling until his palm is pressed against your clit. “Heard you callin’ for me last night, baby. Christ, you have no goddamn idea how much I- Fuck-“
You start to grind into him, and Dean rises over you, something like awe written all over his face.
“That bad, huh.” He mutters, and you nod weakly. “You want me? Gonna let me warm you up?”
You don’t know why he’s doing this. Don’t know what it will bring in the morning.
All you know right now is that Dean’s pulled your pants down, and is teasing your slit over your underwear with two broad fingers. That he’s above you, and looking at you like he wants to eat you alive.
So you nod, letting your brain turn into only a fog of Dean and good, so fucking good.
And Dean grins.
A sharp, almost predatory grin that makes your breath hitch in your throat, and your hips jolt as he flicks your clit. He gives you a deep, heavy kiss, pressing his tongue between your lips and down your throat, all while circling his thumb right around your clit, and you’re melted within seconds.
“Can you say it?” He drawls, his lips still brushing right over yours, and you just blink at him through the daze. “Say it, baby. Tell me what you want.”
He rests his thumb right over your clit, his fingers playing with the wet spot on your panties, and you just manage to whine out what he wants to hear.
“Touch me.” You gasp, and he chuckles, giving you a soft, rewarding kiss.
“Good girl.” He hums, and you don’t even have time to register how that makes your moan before Dean’s moving.
Your shirt gets pulled over your head, as he kisses down your neck and over your shoulders. Dean makes a small stop at your tits, taking one in his hand to palm and knead, the other being almost attacked by his mouth. Licking and sucking and kissing everywhere he can reach, before pulling your nipple between his teeth. He groans as you shiver and writhe below him, switching his attentions until you’re flushed and tugging at his hair, silently pleading for more.
He hums, kissing over the curve of your breast before continuing down. Under the covers where you can’t see him, making every single touch even more electric. Your eyes close as he gently works over your stomach abdomen, gasp when he nips at your inner thigh, and fist the sheets as you try to guess where he’s going to be next.
Dean kisses your clit softly, over your panties, and he squeezes your ass as he slowly pulls your hips off the mattress.
You hold your breath, when you feel the cool air hit your dripping cunt.
And Dean doesn’t move right away.
His breath is warm over your pussy, his stubble brushing sensitive skin as he kisses your thigh, but he’s not touching you. All you’re getting is his hands on your ass, the phantom feelings when he’d been before, and it’s starting to make you go cold again. He could not like what he sees. You might have pushed this—whatever the hell this is—too far, and he’s going to come up and tell you this was a mistake-
Dean licks a rough stripe up your pussy, and you almost fly off the bed. His arm plants over your lower stomach, pinning you to the bed as he swirls his tongue around your clit, and pinches your ass gently. You flop back down with a deep breath, shooting a hand under the covers to tug at his hair—unsure if you’re trying to move him away or urge him on—and Dean moans against your pussy as he starts to eat you out like a man starved. Sucking your clit and rapidly flicking his tongue until you’re panting, before starting to lick your pussy as a feverish speed.
You never know where he’s going to be next, and it’s driving you out of your mind. It doesn’t take long for you to feel that coil in your gut tightening, set to snap any second, and Dean seems to know that. His hand on your ass rolls and squeezes as he tongue fucks and licks you, his arms holding you firm against his mouth. Every yank of his hair only makes him groan, and the sound vibrates in your pussy, making your eyes roll back in your head.
“Dean.” Your voice is high, almost whiny, and Dean hums. “Please, I- I’m going to-“
He presses his tongue flat over your clit, shoves two fingers into your pussy, starting to pump them at a brutal, rapid pace, and your mouth falls open as the heat flood through you. You see white, your thighs clenching around Dean’s head and toes curling as he eats you out through the orgasm.
Dean gently pries your legs away, as you float back down, and presses an almost mockingly sweet kiss over your clit—making you shudder in his hands, and earning you a second one—before shuffling up your body.
You stare at him, as he reappears from under the covers. His chin is shining with the wetness from your pussy, and you take a ragged breath as he wipes it with his thumb, and hold your gaze as he sucks it clean.
“I-“ You take another breath, almost grabbing at the air to try and get him up, with you. “Dean, Dean-“
He crashes up, angling his lips over yours for a sloppy, open-mouth kiss, and you moan, tangling your fingers in his hair. You can taste yourself, on his tongue, and just like that you need more.
You need to taste him.
Dean pulls away first, resting his brow against yours with a wide grin.
“Hi.” He mutters, and there’s something soft in his voice you didn’t expect. “Anyone ever told you how good you taste, sweetheart?”
You flush, fingers curling on the nape of his neck. “No.”
He hums, giving you another soft kiss on the nose. “Well, you do. Taste like fuckin’ heaven, make so many pretty sounds.” He rolls your nipple between his thumb and forefinger, and grins when you squeak. “So sensitive, baby. Even better than I imagined.”
You blink at him, your sex-addled brain not really able to understand what he meant by that, so you just say the only thing you can think of.
“You’re really good at that.”
He gives you a look that’s awfully close to pride, and kisses up your neck, stopping to whisper in your ear.
“Easy when I got such a pretty fuckin’ pussy to worship.”
You take a sharp breath, and Dean trades it with his own, almost pushing his tongue fully down your throat. He keeps kissing you like he’s trying to mark you, or maybe just fuse you together.
You really wouldn’t mind that.
But you have something else to do first.
“Dean,” you whisper, and he pulls back with a tight expression.
“What’s-“
“I wanna put it in my mouth.”
You say it fast, before you can lose confidence. Dean stares at you for a long beat after, his eyes dark and jaw clenched, and you suck on your lower lip, trying not to focus on how his cock is pressed against you. It feels thick. Big. You need it.
“Please.” You add, and Dean’s eyes flash, his voice hoarse.
“Sweetheart, you don’t have to-“
“I want to.” You manage to push up on your elbows, and Dean swallows. “Please, Dean, I- I want it so bad-“
He slams you back down into the bed with a kiss, and you grab his face between your hands. You want to feel him. Have this passion branded into you, until you can feel it forever.
“Fuck,” he grunts, pressing a softer kiss to the side of your mouth. “You wanna suck my cock, baby?”
You nod, and Dean hums, leaning back to give you an almost strict look, after.
“I’m not comin’ in your mouth. If I finish, it’s in you.” He pauses, then adds. “Long as that’s- I don’t wanna make it something you gotta give me, just like- Head would be awesome-“
You rise up to meet him this time, hooking your arm fully around his neck and cutting him off with another kiss.
“I’m on the pill.” You say, nipping at his lower lip. “And I- I’d like you to- Do that.”
Dean looks like he just won the lottery. You even get one last kiss, before he’s flipping you over and helping you settle between his legs. He is big. Mostly thick, but still big. And pretty.
You want to choke on him.
Dean smirks at you as he lazily strokes himself. “Like what you’re looking at, sweetheart?”
Somehow, that gives you whatever little jump you needed to move. You roll your eyes, swat his hand away, and take him into your mouth in one, quick movement. Dean grabs your hair with a grunt, as his cock bumps against the back of your throat, and you take what you can’t fit in your free hand. It’s easy to set a pace, rubbing his cock as your tongue swirls and you suck him off like he’s candy. He’s heavy and perfect on your tongue, and even moan of your name only makes you speed up. You hum around him, grinding your hips into the sheets, and Dean makes the most animalistic sound you’ve ever heard.
His hips jerk, making you gag, and he tries to pull back.
You squeeze his leg, and go faster. Faster. He’s twitching in your mouth and saying your name like a prayer, and-
Dean yanks you off with a grunt, and you giggle as he drags you up his chest, glaring at you with a lustful, dark expression.
“You think this is funny, baby?” He mutters, and you smile at him, nodding.
His lips twitch, and he reaches up to grab one of your breasts, smirking when your breath catches in your throat.
“You want to fuck you?”
“Yes.” You whisper, and Dean hums.
“Gonna be a good girl for me?”
You nod, and Dean’s hand trails between your thighs, slowly circling your clit until you’re grinding on his abs, nails digging into his chest.
“Felt how tight you were.” He says under his breath. “But you’re fucking soaked, sweetheart. Think you can take it?”
A whine leaves you, and Dean chuckles, the sound rolling through your cunt.
“Yeah. You can take it.”
He picks you up, and your mouth falls open as you’re driven slowly down onto his cock. The stretch burns, but it’s so good. Dean lets out a deep moan as he bottoms out, and he doesn’t waste any time. He guides you up and down, helping you bounce on his dick, and you try to roll to meet him but you’re alight, high on the feeling of him dragging every needy spot inside of you, gasping whenever he slams you down and you feel fuller than even in your life. Dean slams up to meet you, every time, and you arch in his hands, starting to set your own, desperate pace of grinding on his dick.
Dean groans, and he looks at you under hooded eyes, hands starting to roam and grope anywhere they can find. You roll your hips and he grabs your throat, hissing when you clench around him. Dean starts to jackhammer up into you, and you whimper as he hits impossibly deep, squeezing hard. He sits up, taking your breast back into his mouth, and you yank on his hair, trying to warn him that you’re close. You can’t remeber how to do anything but whimper his name, though, and he somehow understands.
Dean sucks on your neck as he starts to tap on your clit, and you go slack in his arms, trying to fight it off.
“Come on,” He growls, pressing down hard as he slams up. “Give it to me baby, fucking cum on my cock-“
You gasp, as your orgasm crashes into you. Stars dance behind your eyes as white-hot pleasure washes through your body, and Dean gives you one last, bruising kiss as he groans your name with his own release. It paints inside of you and sends you over the edge one last, shivering time, and you whine as he stills inside of you.
And this doesn’t feel real.
It’s the type of heat that feels like steam. Like a drug. As if, when Dean kisses your brow and pulls out, it could only be a dream.
You’re too fucked out to think about it. You can only let Dean move you around—clean up, bathroom, back to bed—in a trace like state, before you’re tucked back into his chest. In his bed.
Warm.
You drift easily off into sleep with your body spent, and you’re so easily, happily, perfectly warm.
———
The world is slow, when you open your eyes. There’s a deep comfort you haven’t felt in a while, a comfortable warmth settled in your body—not wired, not goin to burn you, but just peaceful—and you take a deep breath, settling into the covers.
Dean groans, and his lips brush over your ears. He shifts behind you, tugging a little tighter against his chest.
You still.
His chest. His arm, wrapped over your stomach. Because you slept with him.
You fucking slept with him.
And he’s still here, in the morning. Still holding onto you. When you roll over, his features are relaxed, and his mouth is hanging open as he snores. His chest rumbles with each breath, and his fingers trail over your waist in his sleep, and you slept with him.
You can’t stay here. In his arms. You don’t want to sit in it too long, let yourself get too high on the smell and feel of him around you, then have him wake up. Stare at you, then jump away. Tell you this was just a casual thing, you’d just been stuck together too long, and this doesn’t change that you’re just friends. You’ll have to pinch yourself, to stop from crying. And then the car ride back will suck, and Sam will come home and notice things are weird, and you’ll have to stop yourself from crying again.
It’s easier, if you just pretend nothing happened. Nothing will actually change. Your heart will remain in its fragile shape—made like glass, so fucking easy for Dean to shatter—and Dean won’t have to go to the trouble of rejecting you.
So you, very slowly shift your way out of his arms. It takes longer than you thought it would. Dean keeps pulling you back, and grumbling in his sleep, and at one point his morning wood ends up pressed right against your bare ass, and you have to take about fifty deep breaths.
But you manage. With a lot of help from the sheets, stuffed into his arms as you move away, you get out of the bed.
Take a shower. Wrap yourself in blankets and layers, because the heater is still broken. Make coffee.
Drift through the early morning, trying to think about anything but the thing. If you think about it, you’ll start crying all by yourself.
And when you look out the door, it’s a small blessing.
You won’t have to think about this at all. The storm has stopped. Someone cleared the roads, last night.
You and Dean can leave.
Dean groans your name, a few hours later, when he wakes up. Shoots upright with his gun, when he realizes you’re not in bed with him.
“Over here.” You say, rubbing your hands against the quickly cooling coffee, and Dean grunts.
His eyes still aren’t in total focus. He’s rubbing his face, his hair spiky and the sheets pooling around his lap. You have to stare at your coffee mug, because now all you can think about is how those abs had felt flexing under your fingers, how his chest had looked above you, heaving as you sucked his cock-
“What’re doin’ over there?” He mutters your name, and the heat isn’t need anymore. It’s prickling. Sore. You just want to leave this behind. To give him the out he’s probably looking for, and not think about how it’s not you. Dean doesn’t regret sex with you.
He just doesn’t want to do any sex that leads to expectations in the morning.
“It’s safe to drive.” You mutter, glaring at a carving of a flower Dean did on the table. It’s making you think about his hands. On your tits, holding your neck, inside of you. Focus. “Heater’s broken. We should probably go.”
Dean stares at you. You can feel it. And when you look up, there’s an expression you’ve never seen before. You don’t even know how to read it. His face is tight, but his brows are relaxed, and his mouth is open. It’s not even there long enough for you to analyze it. Dean just shakes his head, runs his hand through his hair, and stands up.
You flush, biting your lip and looking back to the table. His cock is hanging between his legs, and you can still taste him, still feel him when you shift in the chair, and it’s going to maybe haunt you for the rest of your life.
“Right.” Dean mutters—not seeming to notice how you’re squirming in the chair—and you can see him pulling on his boxers in your periphery. “We should. I’ll start packing-“
“I already did everything.” You tilt your head to the couch, where you’d hauled the bags. “You just- Have the keys. And I need your help carrying them.”
He snorts, voice dry. “What, you gonna take off with the money?”
You frown at him. “We don’t have any money.”
“It’s- Never mind.” Dean shuffles to the bathroom. “Gonna take a leak. Get dressed. Then we’ll leave.”
You don’t know why he’s saying it like that. He wanted to leave. He wanted to beat the storm in the first place. And this has been perfect, this feeling of peace with him you haven’t known in years, but if you were still stuck here that would have to change. He wouldn’t have this clean, neat out.
But it feels like he’s pissed at you. You’re not trying to talk to him, but he’s not trying to talk to you. Dean almost stomps out of the bathroom, grabs the bags, and hauls them outside without a glance in your direction. While you go to the front to turn in your key, he walks a pace behind you. When you grab a blanket from the trunk and slide into shotgun, he doesn’t tease you about being cold.
Dean glances at you, his jaw ticks, and he starts the engine. It warms up quickly, but you can’t really feel it. Your fingers are still numb. Your heart feels like it’s going too fast and too slow, all at once.
There’s only that hot, uncomfortable prickling sensation, and pure fucking cold.
Dean’s not moving at all. Not driving away, and leaving this all in the dust. He’s just drumming on the wheel, glaring out the windshield, and pressing his lips tight together.
He’s going to tell you no anyway. You did so much to avoid it, to get out before the change could sink and stick, but he’s just going to do it here-
“I just-“ He takes a long breath, and you swallow. “Before we go, you gotta tell me, sweetheart. Are we locking it?”
“Are we-“ You blink at him. “What.”
“Locking it.” He grunts, giving you firm, almost heavy look. “This. What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas.”
Oh.
You don’t want to lock it. You don’t want to trap it and push it down, because it’s just going to bubble up and you’re going to explode.
But you don’t want things to change.
“If that’s what you want.” You mumble, and Dean huffs a low, dry laugh.
“Yeah. Alright.”
It doesn’t sound alright. He sounds pissed, and tired, and he’s still not looking at you, but he usually looks at you all the time. Maybe he’s never going to look at you again, maybe your friendship is going to melt away with the storm if you don’t-
“Is that what you want?”
You speak before you can think. But it gets Dean to look at you.
Stare at you.
With that same strange expression from before. Seeing it closer, for longer—his breathing heavier than it should be, his grip on the wheel white-knuckled—it looks almost broken.
Almost as cold as you feel.
And you shouldn’t speak again. You should just let it go. Speaking it will change everything, without any way to stop it. The water will run, and you’ll either be smoothed out and locked into the riverbed, or you’ll be swept away with the current.
But everything has already changed. Dean’s never not looked at you for so long. You’ve never felt this hot discomfort around him.
So you take the leap.
“I- I don’t want it.” You whisper, and his jaw ticks. “I want it to be more. I want to go back to bed, and I want to wake up next to you, and I want you to pee with the door open and make up stupid games together and order me cherries- Everything else we’ve always done but you kiss me after. Like- I cut out paper stars and give them to you and you kiss me, and you take a shower, and I kiss you, and you keep making me breakfast but now it’s just me-“
“It’s always just you.” Dean grunts, and you blink.
“What?”
“Breakfast.” He mutters, still staring at you. “I don’t really make Sam breakfast.”
Oh. “Oh.”
Your voice is barely a breath, and Dean chuckles.
“Yeah, and, uh-“ He clears his throat, his ears going red again. “You’re the sex. The one I’ve kinda- Since I freakin’ met you, I- Yeah. So, guess I got two bucket lists this week.”
He gives you a small, crooked grin, and it’s like a spark in your chest. Warm. Bright.
Maybe guiding you to something really, really good.
“You know the bar we went to?” You say carefully, just because you have to be sure. “The girls who tried to flirt with you?”
“Not really.” Dean shrugs, and that just makes the spark start to catch fire. “What about them?”
“In the bathroom, I heard them talking, and-“ You give him a tight, nervous smile. “They thought you were my boyfriend. Because of how you look at me. Like you- As if you love me.”
You expect him to dismiss it. To say he has feelings you, but avoid the L word. To awkwardly tell you he just wants to keep having sex, and the cowgirls were just drunk.
But he doesn’t.
Dean just grins at you.
The exact way he always has.
“Y’know, Sammy says I do that.” He twists to fully face you, his fingers still drumming on the wheel. “Said it was obvious. So obvious I needed to man up and tell you out loud. But you never acted like you could see it, so I guessed he was just being a bitch. But I guess that’s kinda the only face I make, when I’m looking at you. Guess I can’t blame you for that one.”
He gives you a smaller grin, raising his brow, and you breathing heavy through your nose.
Obvious.
It’s been obvious.
And he’s- He’s not say-
“Dean.” You whisper, leaning forward until your hand is braced on his knee. “Do you-“
“Yeah.” His voice is low, but not like it’s secret. Like he’s telling you something so critically important, it has to be said slow and deep, just to make sure you understand. “You?”
“Yeah.”
Dean’s jaw twitches, and his eyes flick down to your lips. “Can I kiss you, then? Whenever I want?”
You nod, and Dean crashes forward. It’s slow, this time. With music in your chest and a high feeling in your head, as Dean pulls you closer and hold your face like it’s something priceless. There’s no rush, to try and imprint yourself upon each other. You’re already molded into him, and he’s already branded all over you.
And things have changed.
But you’re never going to go back.
End Note: Thank god for that snowstorm. I choose to believe Sam summoned it to trap them together.
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Thought to myself: Oh, I'll just bang out a quick one-shot and try writing smut for the first time, and it somehow turned into this monstrosity (sorry for the word count)
Pairing: Avengers!Bucky x Scientist!Reader
Summary: The experimental neurobond was an accident. Getting stuck with Bucky Barnes was just your luck. Now you’re linked—body, mind, and something worse: sexual tension. You’ve got 72 hours to resist him. And every hour, it gets harder to remember why you should...
Warnings: 18+ (mdni!). Explicit Sexual Content. Enemies to Lovers. Forced Proximity. Accidental Neurobond. Shared Dreams. Shared Physical Sensations. Angst. Mutual Pining. Female Masturbation. Oral Sex (f receiving), Dirty Talk, Vaginal Sex. Praise Kink. Creampie. Multiple Orgasms. Post Thunderbolts Setting. Fluff.
Word Count: 16k
You’re three sips into your too-hot coffee when you see him.
He’s leaning against the wall outside Lab 4, all broad shoulders and brooding posture, like some kind of noir detective who wandered into a government facility and refused to leave. Tactical black from neck to boots. That infamous metal arm crossed over his chest like it has something to say and no one brave enough to contradict it.
Tall. Sharp. Sullen.
James Buchanan Barnes.
You stop mid-step. Your brain short-circuits just long enough for the lid of your coffee cup to betray you—a small dribble of liquid lava hits the edge of your hand.
“Shit,” you hiss, wiping it on your lab coat. Not the best look, but frankly, it’s not like he can judge. You have your flaws. He has a kill count.
Captain America’s ex-best friend. The Winter Soldier turned Avenger. The human embodiment of a sealed file. Exactly what your overclocked nervous system needs at seven in the damn morning.
You don’t hate him. That would require too much emotional investment. What you feel is more like… persistent irritation mixed with a healthy dose of distrust. He’s everything you resent about agents: cocky, haunted, prone to unpredictable violence, and somehow still glorified in every agency briefing and classified report.
But more than that—it’s the Budapest symposium.
Two months ago, you were presenting a closed-door session on the ethical implications of biometric surveillance overlays in the field. You’d made a case for data-limited neural interface protocols—no deep emotion-mapping without consent, no unconscious tracking. You had charts. Citations. A damn good argument.
And Bucky Barnes? He was in the back row, arms folded, face unreadable. Before the time even came for questions, he stood up and asked—in front of a dozen international regulators—
“Aren’t you just trying to build a better leash?”
The room had gone quiet. You’d gone cold. Because the worst part was—he hadn’t been wrong.
He walked out before you could answer, leaving you to field the fallout with a thin smile and a throat full of fury. You spent the next week drafting three different sarcastic emails you never sent.
So no, you’re not thrilled to see him outside your lab. Especially not looking like a government-issued mistake you’d almost make twice.
“You’re here,” you say once your voice decides to cooperate. You hold your coffee like a weapon—or a shield. “And scowling. Which I think breaks at least two of our site protocols.”
He turns his head slightly. Those icy blue eyes flick toward you, unreadable behind the scruff and the perpetual shadow of something heavier than war. You’ve read the file. But seeing him again in person is different. Less haunted soldier, more statue carved from tension.
“Security assignment,” he says, voice low and gravel-rough. “I’m with you today.”
You blink. “Excuse me?”
“Protocol says highest-risk assets get an escort during internal breach investigations.”
And by ‘protocol’, he means Val.
You stare at him. “I thought that meant someone like Ava. Or Lena. Not…” You gesture vaguely at all of him. “This whole glowering thing.”
He doesn’t answer. Just steps forward, pushes the door open, and holds it for you with exaggerated politeness—like a gentleman or a prison warden. You’re not sure which is worse.
You walk past him muttering, “I’m not a high-risk asset. I’m a scientist who got stuck in the crossfire of a bureaucratic dick-measuring contest.”
He follows close behind, boots heavy on the linoleum. “You designed a compound that links neural responses across two brains. That’s high-risk by definition.”
You spin on your heel to face him. “It was theoretical. You know what theoretical means, right? No human trials. No deployment. No volunteers. The compound is locked down in cold storage with three redundant containment protocols.”
There’s a beat of silence.
“You sound defensive,” he goads mildly.
Your jaw drops. “I sound correct.”
He raises one eyebrow, expression neutral—which somehow makes it worse. “You always this wound up?”
You glare. “Only when former assassins are breathing down my neck before breakfast.”
He gives the faintest shrug, like it’s not worth arguing. You turn away again, heels clicking faster now as you head for the secure wing, hoping you look more in control than you feel.
God, you haven’t even had time to check your email.
The corridor stretches long and bright and sterile, lined with reinforced doors and retina scanners, every square foot designed to scream classified. You reach the final keypad and punch in your code, a practiced sequence that usually calms you. But this morning it just makes your fingers itch.
The door slides open with a quiet beep—
And the air hits you like a punch to the face.
Your nostrils flare instinctively. Sharp. Acrid. A faint metallic tang riding the edge of the ventilation.
Chemical.
You freeze. One second. Two. Your brain connects the dots a hair too late.
Gas.
“No, no, no—”
You drop your coffee—cup and all—and sprint into the lab. Your eyes lock instantly on the containment cabinet against the far wall. The red emergency light above it pulses in warning, casting the walls in sickly, flickering hues.
The cabinet—where the prototype compound is stored under triple-sealed cryo-containment—is open. Not wide. Just… cracked. A whisper of vapor hisses from its seams like breath from a sleeping monster.
You spin toward the door. “Barnes, get the door sealed—”
But he’s already inside, scanning the room, eyes sharp and military-fast, and it’s too late anyway.
The soft whoomp of emergency ventilation kicks in, the system responding to your alert. You stagger as the remaining aerosolized compound bursts into the air in a rapid pressure release—microscopic particles blooming invisible around you like a deadly fog.
You cough. Once. Twice. The taste hits the back of your throat. And then you feel it.
Not panic. Not exactly. More like a tug just behind your ribs. A subtle wrongness threading through your consciousness like a splinter sliding in the grain.
Not pain. Not fear. Something else. Something other.
You turn—and Bucky Barnes is staring at you like you’ve both just heard the same gunshot.
His pupils are blown. His stance off-kilter. He looks—
Connected. Like he feels it too.
“Oh shit,” you whisper.
Because there’s only one thing in that cabinet capable of inducing a shared neuro-emotive feedback loop between two human brains.
And now it isn’t theoretical anymore. It’s happening.
To you. And him. Together.
—-
You’re ushered into quarantine within six minutes of exposure.
By minute seven, your blood pressure has been taken, your pupils checked, and your ego thoroughly trampled by a flurry of panicked lab techs—and one very smug containment officer who keeps muttering, “Told you this was going to happen,” like your entire life’s work exists solely to vindicate his mediocre career.
By minute ten, you’re sitting on the edge of a cot in Isolation Chamber A, glaring through the reinforced glass at James Buchanan Barnes in Chamber B like you can will his lungs to stop working out of sheer spite.
He, unfortunately, looks fine.
“You don’t look like you’re dying,” he says blandly.
You fold your arms. “Neither do you. Tragic oversight.”
He doesn’t smile. Of course not. He just leans back on his cot with that frustratingly composed, ex-assassin posture. Like stillness is a performance and he’s performing it at an Olympic level.
It makes your teeth itch.
“You feel anything?” he asks, casually. Too casually. As if he’s not currently entangled in a theoretical neural tether that was never supposed to reach human trials, much less him.
You hesitate. “Not really.”
Which isn’t a lie. But it isn’t the whole truth either.
Physically, you feel fine. No nausea. No tremors. No limbic misfires. But there’s something else. A buzz under your skin. Familiar, because you modeled it. Dismissible—until it isn’t.
A quiet frequency, just at the edge of perception. Like pressure. Or breath on the back of your neck.
Mental static. Not yours.
“I feel something,” Bucky says. He frowns—an actual expression—and taps his chest once, distracted. “Not pain. Just… something else.”
You arch a brow. “Let me guess. Low-level irritation and the overwhelming urge to be left alone?”
His eyes flick to yours. “Exactly.”
You scowl. “That’s me, genius.”
He blinks. Then frowns harder. “Shit.”
You groan. “Nope. This cannot be happening. Absolutely not. No thank you.”
You stand up abruptly and start pacing. The cot creaks behind you like it also hates this.
Because this is bad. Not theoretically bad. Functionally. You know what the compound is designed to do—and how unstable it gets at full potency. This isn’t an accident. It’s a worst-case scenario.
The door hisses open.
Dr. Yen, the Chief Medical Officer of your division steps in, tablet already lit, lips pressed thin. You’ve seen that look before. It means the results are in, and you’re not going to like them.
“Vitals are stable,” she says. “No visible cellular breakdown. But limbic scans are confirming cross-resonance.”
You close your eyes. “So it’s real.”
“It’s real,” she confirms. “You’re linked.”
Across the glass, Bucky sighs. “Linked how?”
Yen barely looks up. “Emotionally. Neurologically. The aerosolized bond agent was absorbed via mucosal membranes—eyes, nose, mouth. Maximum contact.”
“You’re saying we’re… what? Reading each other’s minds?”
“Not minds,” you say automatically. “Emotional states. Neural fluctuations. Maybe low-level somatic impulses.”
She nods. “Shared dreams are possible. Mirror physiology. Elevated empathy. Possibly even localized reflex responses.”
Bucky raises an eyebrow. “So if she stubs her toe, I feel it?”
“Not unless your motor cortex overcompensates. Which is unlikely. For now.”
You sit back down, hard. “This wasn’t supposed to happen.”
Yen gives you a dry look. “No, but your name’s still at the top of the protocol. I believe the phrase you used in your original paper was ‘temporary adaptive tethering of live-state neural patterns via synthetic limbic resonance.’”
You mutter, “God, I hate myself.”
“You invented the scientific version of a psychic handcuff,” Bucky says.
You glare at him. “Trust me, if I could break it off and throw it in a volcano, I would.”
He leans back again, exasperated, like this is just another mission gone sideways. But you see it now—underneath the irritation. Not just annoyance.
Curiosity. Amusement. And something quieter that you can’t place yet.
Dr. Yen taps through her readings. “We’re transferring you to Observation Room One. Together.”
“What? Why?” you ask.
“Because separating you could intensify the neurological drift. The bond is responding to proximity—removing it might trigger feedback escalation.”
You blink. “Escalation?”
“Increased bleed. Emotional volatility. Uncontrolled synching. You remember, the time we tested on mice, one started trying to dig a tunnel with its face when the other was removed.”
You stare.
Bucky sighs. “Great. Can’t wait.”
Dr. Yen continues, already halfway out the door. “I’ll monitor for spike activity. Try not to kill each other.”
The door hisses shut behind her.
You look at Bucky. He looks at you. And just like that, the hum gets louder. Not in the room. In your chest. Like the tension between you has grown teeth.
“Don’t talk to me,” you mutter, grabbing your duffel.
He smirks. “I don’t have to. You’re already broadcasting loud and clear.”
“Then prepare to suffer.”
You follow the guards out of the chamber, still vibrating with dread, loathing, and a pressure you absolutely refuse to call attraction.
He falls in step beside you.
And just before the door closes behind you, you hear him mutter, “Could be worse.”
You don’t look at him.
He finishes anyway. “You could be stuck with Walker.”
—
The room isn’t big. Two cots. One bathroom. A table with bolted-down chairs. A surveillance camera blinking red in the corner like a passive-aggressive metronome. The air’s too cold, the lights too bright, and the fluorescent hum drills straight into the base of your skull.
Everything about the room says safe and neutral. Which really means sterile. A trap.
You sit across from Bucky at the table, arms folded tight across your chest, as if sheer compression might keep your thoughts from bleeding into the air between you.
It doesn’t work.
There’s that tug behind your ribs—low, persistent, off. Not pain. Not even discomfort, really. Just… dissonance. Like your body’s tuned to the wrong frequency and can’t stop resonating. Or, more accurately: someone else is doing the vibrating, and you’re just along for the ride.
Barnes stretches out in his chair like he’s got nowhere better to be, shuffling a deck of cards with infuriating calm. His hands move slow and steady. Like he’s done this before. Like it centers him.
You don’t want to know what he needs centering from.
The silence builds, heavy and electric. Until finally, you crack.
“So,” you say, deadpan. “This is awkward.”
He doesn’t look up. Just keeps shuffling. “You think?”
“You’re taking this very well for someone who just got mentally handcuffed to basically a complete stranger.”
His jaw flexes but he only shrugs. “Not the weirdest thing that’s happened to me.”
There’s no bravado in it. Just tired truth.
You sigh. “God. What a comforting standard.”
He cuts the deck with a flick of his wrist, then holds a card out toward you without even glancing up. You narrow your eyes. Then take it anyway.
Blackjack. Of course.
“Is this how you pass time in high-security quarantine?” you mutter. “Gambling with unwilling civilians?”
“You’re not unwilling,” he replies easily. “You’re just pissed it’s your own fault you’re stuck with me, Doc.”
You open your mouth—then close it again. Because the second he says it, you feel it: a jolt of annoyance. Not just yours. A flicker of his, folded inside something steadier. Something infuriatingly composed.
Your irritation rebounds like a ricochet—hits something calm. Anchored. And softens.
You feel it. His quiet, bone-deep stillness sliding under your skin like heat through a vent. Not comforting. Not invasive. Just there.
You stare at him, breath catching. Then drop the card on the table. “God. This is real.”
He finally meets your eyes. “Yeah. It is.”
“It was just a theory. I never meant for it to get to this… But y’know, Val.”
He jerks out a nod. Your pulse kicks. “You can feel me.”
He nods once. “And you can feel me. Can’t you?”
You don’t answer right away.
Taking stock of what’s resonating through your body. A pressure you want to think is just the room, the strangeness of proximity, the humiliating weight of a containment protocol gone wrong.
But it’s not the room. It’s him.
You can feel his focus when he watches you—that heavy, unblinking heat of attention, like standing too close to a silent engine. You can feel his amusement when you snap at him, like your temper tickles something buried and patient beneath the surface. You can feel the effort it takes for him to stay back—to keep his emotional distance while you’re sitting three feet away. Like he’s building a wall in real time, plank by plank. You can feel him trying not to feel you.
Biting your lip, you take a few deep breaths, trying to calm your rapidly rising pulse. It’s intimate in the worst possible way. The kind that makes privacy a joke and pretending pointless.
Every flicker of discomfort. Of defensiveness. Of attraction—
Wait.
Your stomach flips. That wasn’t yours.
It comes in hot and sharp, a spike of want so visceral it knocks the breath out of you. Frustration tangled with something lower. Needier. You haven’t felt anything like that in months, maybe years.
For one stupid second, you want to crawl out of your skin. And then it’s gone. Or suppressed. Or masked. Or—
“You okay?” he asks.
His voice is lower now. Cautious.
You nod too fast. “Fine.”
You can tell he doesn’t buy it. Doesn’t need to. He probably feels the spike in your chest, the flicker of your pulse when it jumps. You’ve lost your poker face. And not because of the cards. God, you are never going to survive this.
“So we're just stuck here?” you ask, trying to steady your voice. “We just sit here for three days and try not to think about anything incriminating?”
He tilts his head, the corner of his mouth twitching. “That’s not really how brains work. And just a gentle reminder—you’re the one who built this little science fair nightmare.”
You groan and bury your face in your hands. “I am going to kill Dr. Yen.”
“She said it’s temporary.”
“She also said we might share dreams.”
Bucky makes a face. “Don’t dream much anymore.”
“Well, I do,” you mutter. “And I don’t need you wandering through my subconscious.”
A beat.
“You think I want you in mine?”
That shuts you up. Because no. You don’t think he wants anyone in there. Not even himself.
The silence settles again. But it’s not empty.
You can feel his discomfort now. Quiet and low-grade. But there. Wrapped around something denser. Guilt, maybe. Something that sticks. And underneath it—just barely—curiosity.
You sit back, exhaling. “We need ground rules.”
“Like what?”
“Like no thinking about sex. Or trauma. Or childhood pets.”
He snorts. “In that order?”
“Especially in that order.”
You catch the edge of a smile before he looks down again, resuming his slow, steady shuffle. The cards whisper against each other like they’re in on the joke.
You try not to notice how your chest feels a little less tight. How the noise in your head quiets when his focus drifts. How the hum beneath your skin feels less like static and more like something alive, because you’re feeling him. And—God help you—he’s feeling you.
—
The lights never fully shut off. They dim, sure, but the surveillance camera stays on, its little red eye blinking in the corner like it’s watching your soul unravel in real time. The overhead fluorescents are on a slow cycle, just soft enough to lull your brain into thinking it can rest—until the second you close your eyes and they flicker again.
You’re not sleeping. And judging by the restless way Bucky shifts on his cot every few minutes—blankets rustling, jaw grinding—he isn’t either.
The silence is loud. Not peaceful. Not companionable. Just dense. Like the air itself is waiting for one of you to say something that will tip the whole room over the edge.
You’ve tried reading. Tried meditating. Tried breathing exercises, even though you usually hate those with a passion reserved for line-cutters and PowerPoint animations.
None of it helps. Because whatever thin emotional boundary once existed between you and Bucky Barnes has long since dissolved.
His emotions creep into you like fog—quiet, heavy, invasive. You don’t get specifics, not clearly, but the mood is unmistakable. Guilt. Anger. A bone-deep ache compressed into something sharp and humming under the surface.
You feel it. And worse—you can tell he’s trying not to let you.
You roll over for the hundredth time, then give up. Sit up. Rub your hands over your face. The room feels like it’s shrinking. Or maybe it’s just the part of your brain still screaming about boundaries.
From across the room, his voice finally cuts through the quiet.
“You feel that too?”
It’s rough. Quiet. Worn raw from disuse.
You blink into the dim. “The… what? The vague, awful sense that I’m about to start crying for no reason?”
A beat.
“Yeah,” he says. “That.”
You press your fingertips to your temples. “God, is that you or me? I can’t even tell anymore.”
“Me,” he says immediately. “Sorry.”
You shake your head, rubbing your hands down your thighs. “Don’t be.”
And you mean it. Sort of.
“Do you wanna talk about it?” you ask, still not looking up. You’re not sure which one of you will flinch harder at the offer.
He’s quiet long enough that you figure it’s a no. A nerve hit. A wall closed.
Then, “No.”
You nod, the cot creaking beneath you. “Fair.”
A breath passes.
“But I might anyway,” he mutters, so low you almost miss it.
That makes you look. He’s sitting now, hunched forward with his elbows on his knees, staring at the floor like it might disappear if he looks hard enough. His vibranium fingers twitch—absent, reflexive.
“It’s like…” he starts, then stops. You wait. “When I was the Soldier, there were days I didn’t feel anything. Years, probably. Just… silence. Nothing in my head but orders.”
You stay still. Hold your breath.
“And then it all came back. All at once. Like my brain had been hoarding it in a box and someone finally kicked it open. And I couldn’t breathe under it.”
The weight of it lands between you like ash.
“And this?” He looks up at last. His face isn’t cold. It isn’t angry. It’s just tired. Raw.
“This feels like that. Too much. Too close. Like I can’t shut the door.”
Your throat tightens. Because you feel it too—his overwhelm, his fear of being seen, his instinct to slam every door before someone gets inside. It isn’t unfamiliar.
His jaw ticks. His eyes stay locked on yours. “And now you’re in my head."
“And now I’m in your head,” you echo.
There’s a beat before a low, dark laugh escapes him.
“Well. Fuck me.”
You smile—tiny, reflexive. “Tempting.”
His gaze sharpens at that. And instantly, you regret it—not because of the joke, but because of the response it pulls.
Want.
It hits like a shock to the chest. Sudden. Warm. Unmasked. Not lust. Not crude. Longing.
You flinch. Inhale sharply.
He looks away fast. “Shit. That wasn’t on purpose.”
You shoot to your feet, pulse kicking. “You’re not supposed to broadcast things like that.”
“I wasn’t!” His voice rises—gritty, strained. “I’ve been locking everything down since this started. But apparently your brain’s running on the emotional equivalent of a glass wall.”
You stare at him, heat rushing up your neck. “Jesus, Bucky.”
“You think I want you to know that I—” He cuts himself off, jaw clenching hard. Shakes his head like he’s trying to shove the feeling back down his throat.
You cross your arms tightly over your chest. “I don’t want to feel this.”
“Yeah, well, me neither.”
The silence snaps tight. You stand there, two hearts hammering in unison, locked in some terrible emotional feedback loop neither of you asked for. It doesn’t break. It pulses harder.
“I think I need a wall,” you mutter. “A mental one. Like an internal firewall.”
“I tried that already,” he says. “Didn’t hold.”
You look at him. He’s watching you again. Still. And it’s not anger on his face anymore. It’s grief.
“This is a violation of literally every HR protocol in existence,” you mumble, arms still crossed.
“Good thing I don’t work here.”
You snort. It escapes before you can stop it. And you feel it—that flicker of relief from him. Small. Fleeting. But real.
You sit down hard on the edge of your cot. “I’m not good at this.”
“Neither am I.”
“I don’t want you to feel what I’m feeling.”
“I already do.”
You fall quiet. Because, for better or worse, you’re in this together now. You don’t know what’s scarier—that he can feel your loneliness. Or that you can feel his.
—
You’re dreaming.
You know it without knowing how. It’s the stillness that gives it away. Like the air is too weightless, the light too diffuse—nothing casting shadows, nothing fully real. The kind of hush that doesn’t exist in waking life.
You’re standing in a field you’ve never seen before. It’s not specific. Just green. A meadow with no wind, no scent, no sound. Every color softened at the edges like an unfinished rendering. It doesn’t feel like anything.
And that’s what tells you it’s yours. A liminal space. Peaceful. Barely conscious.
You close your eyes. And that’s when you feel it. A presence. A pulse.
Not in the dream—in you. Tapping against your thoughts like someone knocking softly on the inside of your skull.
Not words. Not movement. Just pressure. Steady. Coiled. Heavy with something unsaid.
Your eyes open. You turn in place, scanning the edges of the field, expecting—Nothing.
But the weight gets stronger. You feel it in your chest. Low. Familiar. Tense.
Bucky.
But you don’t see him. You just know he’s close. Or maybe not even close. Maybe just… bleeding in.
Your dream flickers.
A breeze picks up—impossible in a dream that’s never moved before. The grass ripples once, unnatural and out of sync, like the physics here are starting to break.
Your pulse stutters. And then—
It hits.
The air tears. The color drops. The field vanishes like someone cuts the feed.
And suddenly you’re underground.
A corridor. Narrow. Stained concrete walls. The ceiling is low, the light sharp blue and sterile. The air tastes like iron and rust. You stumble. Your knees scrape. You catch yourself on a wall that shouldn’t be cold, but is. It’s disorienting. Wrong. You know this isn’t your dream.
It’s his.
“Bucky?” you call out.
No answer. But the pressure behind your ribs spikes. You push forward anyway. Each step echoes. Your own, but also—his. Mismatched. Heavy. You turn a corner and see him.
He’s not looking at you. He’s walking in the opposite direction, body rigid, head bowed, like he’s being led. Or dragged.
He’s not dressed like the man you know. No tactical black. No soft tee and boots. Just bare arms and restraints. Fresh bruises. The remnants of blood not his own.
He’s not Bucky. Not here.
You try to speak but your voice fails. He turns the corner ahead. You follow.
The room you enter is stark. Cold. A chair in the center—stripped down and inhuman. Restraints hanging like dead vines. A spotlight fixed directly above it.
He’s standing beside it now, still not looking at you. The air is too still. Too thick. The bond hums so loudly you want to scream. And then he speaks.
“Don’t look.”
You freeze. His voice is quiet. Barely audible. But it’s him.
He still won’t face you.
“Bucky, this isn’t—”
“I said don’t look,” he says again. Sharper this time. A command—not to control you, but to protect himself. To hide. “You don’t want to see this.”
But it’s too late. The dream—his memory—wraps around you like wire. Sharp and invasive. You feel it like it’s your own. Not a picture. Not a scene. A flood.
Pain. Control. The snap of identity stripped away. Screams that echo without sound. The weight of command phrases burned into neural pathways like rot beneath the skin.
You stagger backward. But the bond holds. You feel it all. The moment he gave up trying to remember his name. The moment he forgot why it mattered.
“Please,” he says. He’s still facing away from you. Shoulders tense. Fists clenched.
“I’m sorry,” you whisper, tears blurring the edges of the dream.
“This isn’t yours,” he grits out. “You shouldn’t be here.”
You take a step closer anyway. That makes him turn. Not all the way. Just enough for you to see it—his face. Younger. Blank. Terrified.
“I didn’t want you to see,” he gestures to himself. “This.”
“I didn’t mean to,” you say, voice shaking. “I fell asleep and… you pulled me in.”
He winces. Like that makes it worse.
“I tried not to,” he admits. “I’m sorry.”
You reach out, slowly, not to touch him—just to offer your hand. Because right now, you’re in this together. And the bond doesn’t care what either of you want.
His gaze flicks to it. Then to you. His jaw flexes. And he takes it.
The second your fingers touch, the dream shudders. The restraints flicker. The chair vanishes. The floor beneath you cracks—just hairline fractures, like the nightmare is losing hold.
“I’m still here,” you say.
“I know,” he says softly.
And then—
—
You jolt upright in your cot, heart hammering. Breath sharp. Palms sweaty.
Across the room, Bucky sits up just as fast—like something yanked him out of deep water. He’s already breathing hard, sweat darkening the collar of his shirt, jaw clenched like it might hold something back if he just bites down hard enough.
You lock eyes. Neither of you speak. Not at first. The air is thick with something raw and invisible. Or the kind of silence that settles after a confession neither of you wanted to make.
He runs a hand over his face. “So. That happened.”
“Yeah,” you rasp.
You don’t say what that was. You don’t need to. You felt it. Lived it. Not as a witness. Not even as a passenger. As a part of him. And now you can’t un-feel it. Can’t shove it into a clean corner labeled ‘his problem’. It’s in you now. In your chest. Threaded through your ribs like something grafted there on instinct.
You shift slightly, fingers curling into the edge of the blanket, grounding yourself in anything that isn’t his memory. But it doesn’t help. The emotional weight is still there, even as the dream fades. A dull ache under your skin. The echo of metal restraints and too-bright lights.
He exhales, rough and low. “I didn’t want you to see that.”
You don’t answer right away. Instead, you lie back slowly, eyes on the ceiling. Cold. Pockmarked. Real. And for the first time since this started, you stop trying to block him out. Because the truth is, you don’t want to. Even now, with the weight of what you saw still lodged somewhere between your lungs. You don’t want to pretend you didn’t see him.
“It’s not your fault,” you murmur. “That I saw it.”
“No. But it’s still mine.”
You turn your head. He’s staring at the floor now, hands braced on his knees, elbows sharp beneath the sleeves of his shirt. His metal fingers twitch slightly. Barely a motion, but it radiates with tension. You feel that, too. Of course you do.
“Do you think if we sleep again…” you start, then trail off.
He finishes it. “We’ll go back?”
You nod once.
He shrugs. “Don’t know. I’ve never had to share a nightmare before.”
You breathe in. Then out. Neither of you moves.
The hum of the overhead lights seems louder now. The surveillance camera ticks faintly in the corner. Somewhere, two hearts beat in rhythm without trying.
“I’m not tired,” you say.
He glances up at you. “Me neither.”
It’s a lie, on both ends. You can feel it in your body. The ache. The heaviness. The way your limbs sink just a little deeper into the mattress. But sleep isn’t safe now. Not when it might mean pulling each other into things neither of you are ready to carry, let alone share.
You sit up again. Curl your legs under you. Bucky shifts to do the same. It’s not planned. It just happens.
No one speaks for a while. And then—
“I’m sorry you had to,” he starts, so quietly it barely lands. “Feel that.”
The words linger, fragile but deliberate. They hang in the air like breath held too long.
Bucky doesn’t look at you. Not right away. His shoulders stay tight, his stare pinned to the floor like he’s trying to unsee what he knows you saw.
You study him. And something shifts in your chest. It’s not sympathy. Not even admiration. It’s deeper than that. Stranger. Something close to awe—and not the clean kind. The complicated kind. The kind that unsettles.
Because now you’ve seen him. Not the soldier. Not the sarcasm and shadow. The person. The fear. The memory. The grief.
And somehow, that makes him feel… real. Not more fragile. Not smaller. Just clearer. You’re seeing him now in a way you hadn’t before. And it’s doing something to you.
Is it the link?
You want to say yes. Want to blame the synaptic bleed, the proximity, the dream. Want to label it as data and side effects and bad timing. But deep down, you’re not sure. Not anymore.
You shift. Your voice, when it comes, is quieter than before.
“Do you have them a lot?”
He stills for a beat too long. Then he exhales, the sound low. “Used to. Nightly. For years.”
You nod, eyes tracing the seam of your blanket. “But not anymore?”
“Not like that,” he admits.
Something in your chest lifts, but only a little.
“So…” you hesitate, careful not to make it sound like anything more than what it is.
“Was it easier this time? With me there?”
This time, he looks up. Direct. Steady. No evasion. His voice is quiet. Almost reluctant. “Yeah.”
You blink. It shouldn’t matter. It shouldn’t land the way it does. But it does. Because it means something. Or it might. Or maybe it only feels like it does because your brain is lit up on synthetic empathy and shared neural architecture. But still. It means something.
You nod, barely. “Okay.”
You don’t say what’s spinning in your chest: I see you now. I don’t want to look away. I don’t know if that’s you or me or both.
You can feel that he doesn’t want to ask either. Not yet. So neither of you does.
You both just sit there, in the dimmed silence. The bond—a quiet, pulsing presence between your ribs. And this time, you don’t try to shut it out. You just let yourself feel it. Feel him.
—
You wake up suddenly—hot, restless, throat dry. Your skin is flushed. Your pulse a little too fast. Your legs tangled in the blanket like you were shifting more than sleeping. It takes you a second to orient. The cot. The hum of the lights. And the slow burn pulsing under your skin.
You press your palms to your eyes. Shit.
You’re not dreaming anymore, but your body hasn’t gotten the message. Everything feels hypersensitive. Like someone turned up the volume on every nerve ending and forgot to turn it back down.
You exhale. Try to steady your breathing. But then your gaze shifts—and you see him.
Bucky’s still sitting where he was when you drifted off. Back against the wall. He looks calm, but there’s a sharpness in the set of his jaw, a tension in his posture.
He never went to sleep. He’s watching you now. Quiet. Steady. Like he already knows what you’re feeling.
You shift upright on the cot, trying to tamp it down—the warmth low in your belly, the ache that has no business being this loud, this early, in a lab-grade holding cell with your unintentional telepathic security detail.
“Did I…” you start, voice scratchy, “did I fall asleep again?”
He nods, slow. “Around four. You didn’t mean to.”
Your mouth goes dry. “Did you…?”
“No. You didn’t dream loud enough this time.”
It’s a joke. You think.
But then he tilts his head a fraction, brows drawing slightly together. “You feel… okay?”
You hesitate. Because yes. You do feel okay. You feel too okay. Your heart is kicking a little faster than it should and you know without looking in a mirror that your pupils are probably dilated.
There’s no fear. No adrenaline. Just— Want. Need. Aching. And you’re not entirely sure where it’s coming from.
“I feel… weird,” you murmur.
He shifts a little. You feel the ripple before you see it.
“Yeah,” he says. “Same.”
You glance at him again and your stomach flips. Because now that you’re paying attention, you can feel it. The thrum. The tension. That low, slow ache in your bloodstream that isn’t just yours anymore.
You clear your throat. “This doesn’t feel…emotional.”
“No,” he agrees. His voice is lower now. Rough. “It feels physical.”
Your breath catches. You both look away at the same time. The air thickens.
And then the door hisses open.
Dr. Yen steps in like a fire alarm, holding her tablet like a shield. “Morning,” she says briskly. “Vitals check.”
You sit still while she scans you. Bucky does too. Her eyes narrow slightly as she reads, her mouth pressing into a thin line.
Then she sighs. “Okay. So. Bit of a development.”
You wince, already bracing for whatever comes next.
“The bond’s progressing faster than expected. Your convergence scores are spiking well ahead of baseline. You’re already presenting signs of full-spectrum neural and somatic reciprocity.”
You blink. “Somatic?”
Yen nods. “Body-based responses. Sympathetic systems syncing. Neurochemical fluctuations. Endocrine bleed.”
You just stare.
Bucky crosses his arms. “Translation?”
“You’re not just feeling each other’s moods anymore,” Yen says. “You’re reacting to each other’s hormones.”
You freeze.
“So this…?” you ask, gesturing vaguely to your whole overheated, vibrating situation.
She nods. “Elevated oxytocin, dopamine, serotonin—both of you. You’re experiencing mutual physiological… arousal.”
You swear under your breath. Bucky exhales through his nose, sharp.
Yen scrolls. “This is accelerating. You may experience projection next. Sensory cross-talk. Physical feedback from imagined stimuli.”
You and Bucky don’t move.
“You mean—” you start.
“Yes,” she says. “If one of you starts thinking about something… the other might feel it.”
You shut your eyes. Hard. Bucky shifts.
Yen closes the tablet. “We’re working on a counter-agent. In the meantime—stay calm. Avoid escalation. Try not to, y’know, spiral.”
She gives you both a tight smile that’s not a smile and ducks out the door.
The moment it hisses shut, silence slams back into place. You don’t look at him. He doesn’t look at you. But you feel each other. Your blood still buzzes, warm and quick, like something is sparking just under the surface.
“I need a cold shower,” you mutter.
“If you’re feeling what I’m feeling,” he says, voice low and tight, “that’s not gonna help.”
Neither of you laughs. Because it’s not funny anymore.
You don’t move and neither does he. You stay on opposite cots, both too still, both too aware. You can feel the bond buzzing like a live wire behind your ribs—no longer subtle, no longer background noise.
Not just his mood. Not just tension or restraint. His thoughts. Vague, half-formed shapes brushing up against your mind like fogged glass. You don’t get detail, not really—but there’s pressure behind it. Focus. Heat.
You swallow. Hard.
He shifts again, one leg stretching out, and your eyes flick to the motion without meaning to. Just his hand. Just his thigh. Just some insane amount of muscle in a pair of extremely not regulation sweatpants. And that’s when it hits you. A spike of awareness.
Low. Sharp. Direct.
Not yours. Yours now, but not originally.
Your breath stutters. Because that wasn’t your thought. That was his. You close your eyes, but it doesn’t help.
Now you can feel it more clearly: the way his thoughts catch on your bare legs, on your neck, on the way you just bit your bottom lip without realizing it.
The image forms before you can stop it. Your body reacting to his body. His gaze. His mind. A flash of heat coils low in your stomach. You shift suddenly. Sharp, fast, like that might reset something. It doesn’t.
He feels the shift in you. You know he does. You feel his whole body tense in response. The link thrums, nearly audible in your skull.
“Stop,” you whisper, breath catching.
“I didn’t mean to,” he says, voice hoarse.
You press your palm to your sternum. It’s like trying to press out a heartbeat that isn’t even yours.
“I can feel it when you look at me like that,” you mutter.
“I’m trying not to,” he says through gritted teeth.
“Well, try harder,” you snap—but it’s shaky, breathless.
Your thighs press together unconsciously. And that, he feels. He lets out a breath—low, ragged, like it hurts to hold it.
“Don’t do that,” he says.
“Don’t what?” you snap, voice high and tight.
“That. The thing with your legs.”
You go still. And the heat spikes. The thought now forming in your head is yours. It’s real. Immediate. Something to do with him between your knees, his hands on your hips, his mouth at your throat. The sound he’d make if you pulled his shirt off. The look in his eyes when—
He jerks upright like he’s been electrocuted.
“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, scrubbing a hand over his face.
You slap a hand over your own mouth, mortified. “I didn’t mean to think that.”
“I know,” he growls.
And still—your body pulses. That awful, exquisite feedback loop. Want ricocheting back and forth until you don’t know whose it was to begin with.
You drag your blanket up like its armor. “We can’t do this.”
“No,” he agrees immediately. “We can’t.”
You lock eyes. And don’t look away.
The silence that follows is different now. Charged. Taut. It’s not that the attraction is new. It’s that there’s nowhere left to hide it. No denial. No wall. Just each other. You lie back slowly, exhaling through your nose. Trying to calm your heart. Trying not to think of him. It doesn’t work.
Bucky’s breathing is heavier now. Not dramatic—but deeper. Controlled. You feel it against your own skin. You know—you know—he’s thinking about you too. But neither of you moves. Not yet.
Your heart won’t settle. It keeps pushing against your ribs like it wants to say something first. And then, before you can stop yourself:
“You drive me insane.” The words hang there. Blunt. True.
Bucky shifts slightly on his cot, but doesn’t speak.
“Not in the way you’re thinking, but okay—in that way too.” You pull the blanket tighter around you, trying to hold your voice steady. “You’re cold. Condescending. You don’t say anything unless it’s to poke a hole in something I’ve spent months building.”
His mouth twitches. “You’re a scientist who’s not used to people poking holes?”
“I’m not used to people doing it like you.” You glare at the ceiling. “You just—show up. And stare. And judge. And then disappear before I can even argue back.”
He exhales through his nose. “And you like arguing.”
“That’s not the point.”
“It feels like the point.”
You turn your head and look at him. “You didn’t even stay for the full hearing. Just blew it up and walked out.”
He meets your eyes. “Didn’t need to.”
Your chest tightens. “God. You’re impossible.”
There’s a long pause.
And then he says, quieter: “You were right, though. About the link. About what it could be.”
You blink.
“I didn’t go to that hearing to get in your way,” he says. “I went because what you said scared the hell out of me.”
“Right,” you mutter. “Thanks.”
He shakes his head. “No. I mean—it was good. You were right. You had every angle covered. You didn’t flinch. And the more I thought about it afterward…”
His eyes lift to yours.
“About you.”
Your stomach flips.
He leans forward slightly, elbows on his knees. “So when Val mentioned they needed an internal breach detail at the site—”
“You asked for this assignment,” you state, stunned.
He nods once. “Yeah.”
Silence stretches again—but now it’s different. There’s heat in it. Yes. But also something else. Something real.
Your head falls to your hands in defeat. “I don’t want to like you.”
“Yeah. That’s not working out too well for me either,” Bucky mutters lowly.
You peek up at him through your fingers. “This is a disaster.”
His mouth twitches. “A highly classified, emotionally compromising disaster.”
You stare at him. And he stares right back. Something hums between you, low and molten. Not as sharp as before—but deeper now. Grounded in knowing. Seeing. Feeling. Your eyes flick to his mouth. Just for a second. Just long enough to make it dangerous.
He sees it. Of course he does.
“Don’t,” he says softly.
“Don’t what?”
“That.”
You blink, innocent. “Look at you?”
“Look at me like that.”
You tilt your head, heart pounding. “Like what?”
“Like you want to see what else I’m hiding under these very official sweatpants.”
You suck in a sharp breath. A flush climbs up your neck before you can stop it.
“I wasn’t—”
“You were.”
You narrow your eyes. “You’re imagining things.”
“You’re broadcasting things,” he says, voice low and rough around the edges. “Loud.”
You shift on the cot and feel his breath hitch now.
It’s too much. Too close. And it’s not the bond anymore. Not entirely.
“You think about it too,” you say quietly.
He nods, once. “All the time now it seems.”
You don’t know if you want to slap him or kiss him—or let him press you back against the wall and do everything you’ve already imagined and more.
“So what the hell are we supposed to do about it?”
He smiles—just barely. It’s crooked. Dangerous.
“Nothing reckless.”
You lift a brow. “You’re telling me not to be impulsive?”
“I’m telling you not to do anything you’ll regret.”
You lean forward, like you’re settling into something casual. But you know what you’re doing. You can’t help yourself. You know he can feel it—your heat, your hunger, your restraint wrapped in silk.
“Then maybe stop giving me reasons to want to,” you murmur, voice light. Teasing.
His jaw ticks. His eyes darken. The silence that follows is sharp. Not a pause. Not a delay. A held breath.
You smile, small and smug, and stand up slowly—too slowly.
“Anyway,” you say, heading toward the small attached bathroom, “I’m going to take a cold shower and try to remember I’m a professional with several advanced degrees.”
You stop in the doorway. Look back over your shoulder, just enough to make sure he’s still watching.
He is.
“Try not to think about me while I’m in there,” you add, voice all fake innocence. And then you shut the door behind you.
—-
The water is cold. Brutally so. You step into the spray like it’s punishment—hands braced against the tile, jaw locked, breath held.
Because you’re still trying to wrap your head around the words that just tumbled out of your mouth a minute ago and why the fuck you even said them. The heat in your body needs to burn off or be drowned, and freezing water feels like your last rational defense.
It doesn’t work.
You gasp as it hits your skin—tight, cutting, and sharp. Your nipples pebble instantly. Your muscles tighten. But the cold doesn’t pull you out of it. It sharpenes it.
Every drop feels like a shock, like a wire pulled taut under your skin. Your thighs clench. Your breath trembles. Because Bucky is still out there.
And you can still feel him. Not with your hands. Not with your eyes. But with your mind. Your body. The thread still connects you. Hot under the cold. Deep under the logic. It pulses low in your belly, electric and alive. Dragging your thoughts right back to him.
You try to redirect—try to count the tiles on the wall, name the amino acids in a protein chain, recite your grant proposal backwards.
But your body betrays you. Your hips rock, searching for friction that doesn’t exist. Your hand drags down your chest without permission, sliding over wet skin, slick nipples, the curve of your stomach.
And suddenly he’s there. Not really. Not consciously. But you feel him. Watching. Wanting.
And worse—you want him to.
You bite your lip, hard. Try to shut it down. But your hand keeps moving. Between your thighs now. Water trailing down your skin like a thousand fingertips. The ache blooming sharp and impossible. You press your palm to yourself, just for a moment. Just to quiet it.
But something flares like it’s hungry too.
Your legs almost buckle. Shit. Shit. He felt that. You pant against the tile, eyes squeezed shut.
You can feel his attention spike like a spotlight behind your eyes—his breath, his pulse, the jagged edge of his restraint grinding against yours. You try to pull back. You try. But now you’re imagining it.
The wall behind you pressing into your shoulder blades. His mouth dragging heat up your neck. One hand on your hip—no, both hands. One flesh, one metal, holding you still while he whispers how much he’s been thinking about this.
How he knew you were going to touch yourself in the shower. How he wanted to be the reason you couldn’t help it.
Your breath hitches. A whimper escapes you. Just a sound, high and desperate and real. A surge.
The sensation that hits you is dizzying—like your nerves are suddenly on fire, like your own want is being echoed back tenfold.
You slap the water off fast, heart hammering. Your skin prickles as the cold air licks over it. You lean your forehead against the tile, panting. You’re shaking. Not from the cold. Not from fear. From restraint. From everything you didn’t let yourself do. And everything you know he felt anyway.
You press your hands over your face.
“Fuck.”
You stay like that for a long moment. Trying to breathe. Trying to pull yourself back into your body. Into the present. But even now, with the water off and your hands gripping the edge of the sink, you can feel the bond pulsing low behind your navel like it’s waiting. Like he’s waiting. And worst of all— You’re thinking about opening the door.
You want to know if he’s sitting there as wrecked as you are.
But you don’t yet. You reach for the towel. Wipe your face. Pull it tight around your body like it might hold you together. And you promise yourself you’ll be calm when you step back out there.
You wait a full minute before stepping out of the bathroom. You make sure your skin is mostly dry, your breathing sort of steady, and your towel tightly secured like a barrier that might still mean something. You open the door like you’re composed. You’re not. But it doesn’t matter.
Because the second you step into the room, you know. Bucky’s posture is wrecked. No more monk-like stillness. No more composed soldier routine. He’s pacing. Shoulders tense. Shirt clinging to him in places like he’s been sweating. His jaw is tight. His hands—both of them—are curled into fists like he’s holding back from breaking something. Or doing something.
His head snaps up the second he sees you. And then—he stops moving altogether. Freezes.
You feel it before he says a word: the punch of arousal, the crash of restraint, the friction of denial and desire grinding together behind his ribs like a blade.
His eyes sweep over you. Just once. Slowly.
The towel. The water still glistening along your collarbone. The flush on your cheeks that has nothing to do with temperature.
You feel his restraint falter—just for a breath—and it slams into your chest like a jolt of electricity.
“You…” he says, then stops. Swallows. His voice is hoarse. “That wasn’t fair.”
You blink, playing innocent. “What wasn’t?”
He steps forward once. Not touching. Not even close. But the bond pulls at you like gravity.
“So you felt that,” you say lightly, trying not to lose your footing on the slick edge of this moment.
He lets out a sharp breath. “You think I somehow didn’t feel that?”
The tension crackles between you—raw and thick and already past the point of pretending.
“I tried to shut it down,” you murmur.
He laughs. Just once. Bitter and breathless. “Yeah, I could tell ya tried really hard, sweetheart.”
You grip the edge of the towel a little tighter. “So what, you just sat there and…?”
His gaze drops to your mouth. And stays there.
You feel the burn of it behind your knees, in the pit of your stomach, deep between your thighs where the ache hasn’t fully gone away.
Your voice comes out smaller than you mean for it to. “And?”
His jaw clenches. His nostrils flare. You feel him fighting it again—fighting you. But he doesn’t lie.
“I wanted to come in there.”
The breath leaves your lungs in a shudder.
“I wanted to touch you,” he says, stepping closer. His voice drops lower. “Everywhere you were touching yourself.”
You swallow hard.
“But I didn’t,” he adds roughly.
You look up at him. “Why?”
His eyes search yours. Not angry. Not even pleading. Just—holding back.
“Because if I had…” He exhales, jaw tight. “I wouldn’t have stopped.”
The silence that follows isn’t empty. Your body hums. Your fingers dig into the towel like it’s the last shield between you and a decision you might not be ready to unmake. And all you can do is whisper:
“…Okay.”
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t touch you. But something shifts in his posture—like he’s caught between instinct and decision, body wired forward even as his mind throws up a stop sign.
You see it all happen. The way his eyes flick to your mouth. The way his breaths become deeper. The way every muscle in him says yes while the rest of him fights to say no.
And then, finally—he steps back. One short, sharp step. Like distance will save either of you.
“Shit,” he mutters, dragging a hand through his hair. “We can’t.”
Your heart punches your ribs. “Why not?”
He doesn’t look at you right away. Just shakes his head, pacing once, hands flexing.
“You just came out of the shower like that, thinking what you were thinking, and I—” He stops. “I felt everything. You know that, right?” he repeats yet again.
“I didn’t ask you to.”
“I know. And that’s the fucking problem.”
You blink. “So what, now you’re mad about it?”
“No,” he snaps. “I’m not mad. I’m trying not to lose my goddamn mind.”
You fold your arms over the towel. “You think this is easy for me?”
“I think our minds are so fried that we can’t tell what’s ours and what’s this,” he bites, gesturing between you two. “And if I touch you right now, I don’t know whose choice I’m making. Yours, mine, or the damn compound’s.”
That stops you. Because he’s right. Because you don’t even know anymore.
His voice drops. Still rough. Still wrecked.
“I’m not gonna take advantage of something that’s most likely not real. Not with you.”
You shift your weight, heartbeat hammering. You want to argue. You want to push. But part of you respects the hell out of it. So you just nod once. Clipped.
“Fine.”
His mouth twitches. Not quite a smile. More like restraint in physical form.
“Fine.”
And that’s it. You don’t close the distance. You don’t say anything else. You just turn away, heart still racing, skin still hot, towel still clutched like armor, and try like hell to pretend your body isn’t already halfway to betraying you again.
—-
Just perfect. Now there’s only a few more hours of pretending you’re not fully horny for the government-assigned menace in the corner.
You’re sitting cross-legged on the cot, earbuds in, blasting white noise loud enough to drown out your own thoughts—and hopefully his. It doesn’t work.
You can still feel him pacing. The slow, deliberate kind, like he’s working something out of his system. Like he’s hunting a problem he can’t solve. You can feel the heat of his attention every time your shirt rides up when you stretch. Every time you shift just a little too far sideways and your thigh brushes bare against cool air.
Every time your breath catches and his does, too. You know what he’s thinking. Or trying not to think.
So you decide to mess with him.
You think louder—sweet and smug, like you’re painting it across the bond on purpose: That shirt looks really good on you, soldier.
He flinches. Physically. And then stops pacing.
You smirk, tug the hem of your shirt down with exaggerated innocence. Small victories.
But then he drops to the floor and starts doing pushups. Which is so not fair.
You glance over and immediately regret it. His shirt stretches across his back like it’s apologizing to no one. Sweat clings at the collar. His arms flex, contract, flex again—slow and steady. Every controlled breath pushes heat through the bond.
You are trying to read a report. You are actively attempting productivity. But it’s hard when every line blurs around the mental image of his hands braced on either side of your head. You close the file. Try again.
He switches to pull-ups on an overhead bar. You throw your tablet at the wall.
“You’re doing that on purpose.”
He doesn’t stop. “Doing what?”
“Weaponizing your arms.”
His mouth twitches. “Maybe I’m just trying to stay in shape.”
You scowl. “This is psychological warfare.”
“You started it.”
You grab a pillow and launch it at his head. He dodges without breaking rhythm.
“Unbelievable.”
Later, you fall asleep. Not on purpose. Just long enough for your body to betray you. The dream is hot. Too hot. Lips at your throat, a mouth on your hipbone, hands everywhere you shouldn’t want them. You wake up gasping, sweat pooling at the base of your spine.
And he’s watching you. Sitting in the corner, arms folded, expression like stone. Except for his eyes. His eyes are a slow burn. He doesn’t say anything. But you feel it. The echo of your dream still pinging between you. Not graphic—just emotional residue. A leftover ache.
And maybe the worst part is: you feel his too.
The loneliness under it. The way he felt it right along with you. The part of him that wanted it to be real. To be his hands. His mouth. His weight on top of you instead of the memory of a shared hallucination. You shift on the cot, heart still pounding.
“Did you…?” you ask.
He doesn’t move. Just nods once. “Yeah.”
You pull your knees to your chest and try not to shake.
Five hours in, you almost lose it.
You’re pretending to read again. You’re biting the inside of your cheek to keep your breathing steady. He’s sitting on the other cot now, towel around his neck, shirt wrung out and tossed somewhere in the corner like it wronged him personally. His skin is flushed. His forearms are braced on his knees. His head is tipped back slightly.
You can feel it through the bond—he’s trying not to think about how your skin looked glistening after the shower. Trying not to remember the sound you made. You try to be good. You really do. But then you snap.
“You have to stop thinking about my mouth.”
You don’t even look up. You don’t have to. There’s a long pause.
“I’m not,” he says.
You glance over. He’s biting his lip. You both groan.
He covers his face with one hand. “Okay, you have to stop doing the thing with your tongue.”
“What thing?”
He waves a hand vaguely. “That thing you do when you’re concentrating. You lick your bottom lip slowly like you’re trying to kill me.”
You throw a blanket at him. He catches it with a smug little grin, but you feel the way his chest tightens under it. The way he’s fighting not to lean into the tether—into the pull of you.
You flop onto your cot face-first. “This is the worst horny hostage situation I’ve ever been in.”
“Been in many?”
You scream a muffled “FUCK” into the mattress.
His chuckle is low. Rough. Warm.
It rolls down your spine like a confession you weren’t ready to hear. And when your hand slips between your thighs a minute later, just to relieve the pressure, just to breathe, you feel his breath hitch in your mind.
“Stop.” His voice cuts through the air, hoarse. Strained. Not angry—pleading.
You freeze. But don’t pull away.
“I can’t,” you whisper.
A pause. Heavy. Loaded.
“You can.”
You roll your head toward him, half-lidded, flushed, and exhale: “Then say it.”
He doesn’t answer.
“Tell me not to touch myself,” you say. “But say it like you mean it.”
You feel his restraint buckle. The desire choking the back of his throat. You move your hand again, slow, under the blanket. The wet slide of your fingers deliberate.
“You already know what I’m thinking,” he grits out.
“Say it anyway.”
He’s still across the room, sitting rigid on the cot, fists clenched on his knees like it’s the only way to stop himself from moving.
You close your eyes and moan—quiet, bitten-off. You can’t help it.
And that’s when it breaks him.
“God,” he growls. “You don’t know what you’re doing to me.”
“I have some idea,” you tease back and squeeze your eyes shut.
And in your mind, you can feel a switch flip in his.
There’s a sudden metallic crack—a sharp, violent sound that echoes off the walls. Your eyes fly open. The security camera in the corner is shattered—glass fractured, wires exposed, the red recording light extinguished. His chest is heaving, fists clenched like he didn’t even think before moving.
“I want to be over there,” he rushes out hoarsely. “I want to rip that sheet off and watch you fall apart for me.”
Your breath stops but he keeps going, like his tongue is unable to stop.
“I want your legs open. Want your fingers soaked because you were thinking about my mouth.”
He rises, takes one step forward, then stops himself—grabbing the edge of the table like it might anchor him. You whimper.
“I’d put my hand between your thighs,” he says, lower now. Rougher. “Press my fingers into you until you begged me to fuck you.”
Your mind hums, white hot. You feel it in your ribs, your spine, your throat.
“You’d take it, wouldn’t you?” he murmurs. “All of it. My fingers, my cock—”
You cry out softly, thighs twitching, chasing friction.
“I’d have your back arched and your hands in my hair and you wouldn’t even be able to say my name without sobbing.”
You grind down harder now, pulse pounding in your ears. You feel him feeling you—his hips twitching, cock hard and aching, brain flooded with everything you’re giving him.
“Touch your clit,” he commands.
You do. Gasping. The pleasure punches through your body like a current.
“Just like that,” he says, voice shaking. “Rub slow. You don’t need to come yet. I want to hear you say what you want.”
“You already know,” you choke out.
“Tell me, doll,” he says again, dark, wanting. “Tell me how wet you are.”
You almost sob. “So wet—Jesus—Bucky—”
“That’s it,” he says. “Let me hear it. I want every filthy sound you’ve got.”
You move faster, breath catching, the heat coiling tight and hard and close.
“I’d eat you out so slowly you’d scream. Then fuck you with my fingers until you begged for more. You want that?”
“Yes.”
“You want my cock?”
“Yes.”
“You want me to come in you, fill you, make you feel it for hours?”
Your whole body locks—back arching, legs tightening—
And you shatter.
White-hot pleasure rips through you, shattering like glass behind your ribs—louder and deeper than anything you’ve ever felt. It’s not just the orgasm. It’s also his body responding to yours, his want echoing through every nerve ending like a second heartbeat.
You can feel what you’re doing to him. The hunger. The ache. The way his restraint unravels with every sound you make, every twitch of your fingers.
The bond lights up like an explosion—flooding both of you. There’s no separation. No inside or outside. Just youandhimyouandhimyouandhim in one long, gasping pulse of release.
His groan is feral. Raw. Wrecked. You’re still trembling when you open your eyes. And he’s right there.
Closer than he was. Right in front of you. Breathing hard, eyes dark, hands clenched like it took everything in him not to touch you. Not to throw himself into the wreckage and keep going.
He’s about to move. About to drop to his knees. About to make good on every filthy promise he just breathed into your bones—
Then a chime sounds at the door.
You both freeze. A beat. Then Dr. Yen’s voice comes crisply over the intercom.
“Just a heads up—I’ll be entering the room in ten seconds for dampener prep. Try to look less… elevated.”
You let out a strangled noise and yank the blanket over your face, legs still shaking.
The door hisses open. Light spills in. Footsteps. Dr. Yen walks in like she didn’t just catch you mid-meltdown.
“Good evening,” she says, clipboard in hand, eyes respectfully trained downward. “Time for neural dampener administration.”
Bucky turns away like he’s been gut-punched. You lie there in silence, half-covered, half-exposed, pulse still thundering.
Dr. Yen pauses. Looks up.
“I’m going to pretend I didn’t just watch both your biometric readings spike like you ran a marathon while getting tased.”
You groan louder.
She sighs. “I’ll return in ten minutes with the equipment. Maybe try some breathing exercises.”
She turns and walks out, boots clicking.
The door shuts, and the silence she leaves behind could crush a mountain. You’re both wrecked. Glowing. Silent. Not comfortable. Not even heavy. But pressurized. You shift on the cot. Pick at the edge of the blanket, like you’re unthreading a thought. You cough once. Clear your throat.
“So…” you say. Then instantly regret it.
Bucky doesn’t look up from where he’s now sitting, arms braced, jaw tight. His eyes are fixed on some invisible point across the room.
You try again, softer this time. “That was… intense.” Still nothing.
You roll your eyes at yourself. “God, sorry. That sounded like the end of a bad first date.”
Finally, his voice cuts through the silence. Low. Flat.
“I shouldn’t have said what I said.”
You blink. “What, the part where you told me everything you wanted to do to me while I was—?”
He exhales sharply. “Don’t.”
You pause. Watch him. “Why?”
“Because it wasn’t fair,” he mutters. “I didn’t have to make it worse.”
“You didn’t make it worse.”
He glances at you. Briefly.
And you feel it—what he won’t say. The guilt. The self-loathing. The fear that he wanted it more than he should’ve, and the shame that he let himself say so.
You try to keep your voice light. “It hasn’t been all bad, you know. Feeling like this.”
Something flickers in him—shame, maybe. Sadness. But it’s gone before you can name it.
“It’s not real,” he says. “You know that.”
You shift again. “You think I can’t tell the difference?”
“I don’t know, Doc. But you should. You wrote the fucking book on it!” He’s not angry. Just tired.
“You’re reacting to a synthetic neurochemical tether.” He says it like he’s quoting a file. “It wires your empathy straight into mine and floods your body with cross-sensory feedback. Of course it feels like something.”
“Yeah,” you say. “It feels like you. Like… warm static. I didn’t think I’d get used to it, but I have.”
His jaw clenches.
Something bracing inside him tickles through your bones. Like he’s locking the door before you even finish knocking.
You hesitate, before adding, carefully, “Maybe that’s not so terrible.”
He turns toward you now, finally, and there’s something in his face—tired, closed off, already half gone.
“Look,” he sighs. “In a few hours, you’re going to feel normal again. This’ll wear off, we’ll detox. And you’ll go back to thinking I’m a prick.”
You stare at him. “Is that really what you think I’m going to walk away with?”
“It’s what I’ll walk away with,” he says.
How certain he is bounces back at you. The way he’s already convinced himself this was a mistake. Not just a misstep, but a flaw in his wiring. Something he’s trying to undo before it’s too late and your resolve starts to melt.
His voice softens, but not in a comforting way. In that quiet, beaten-down way that says he’s already written the ending and doesn’t want to hear another version.
“I crossed a line,” he says. “And you’re going to wake up tomorrow and wish I hadn’t.”
You feel it. In your ribs, your throat, your teeth. Not the tension from before—but a dull, hollow echo of finality. He believes this.
You don’t answer. There’s nothing left to say that won’t bounce off the wall he’s putting back up. You nod once. Slowly. Then lie back on the cot and turn your face to the wall. The link hums faintly behind your ribs—tender, uncertain. But you don’t follow it. You just let the silence settle between you again. Thicker than before. Colder. Final.
—
You’re sitting across from him when the door opens. Same cots. Same sterile walls. Same ten feet of silence between you. You haven’t looked at him but you still feel him linked. Quiet, almost gentle now. Like it knows it’s dying. A breath too deep. A flicker of guilt. A spike of regret. It doesn’t matter that he won’t meet your eyes.
Dr. Yen steps into the room with her tablet in one hand and a hard-sided case in the other. She’s in scrubs this time. Hair tied back. Movements clipped and practiced.
You don’t speak. Neither does he.
The case opens with a soft click. Two injectors inside, small and sleek. She pulls one out and checks the dosage.
“Once administered, the dampener will suppress all synthetic limbic resonance. You’ll feel a shift within thirty seconds. Disassociation. Numbness. Maybe a little nausea.”
You exhale through your nose.
“And then?”
She meets your eyes. “Then the link breaks.”
You nod. She walks to you first.
“Roll up your sleeve,” she says gently.
You do. The motion feels surreal—like you’re watching yourself from somewhere outside your body. She presses the injector to the soft skin inside your elbow.
You take a breath, hold it. Click. A whisper of compressed air. Cold floods your arm instantly—icy, clinical, creeping up your bicep like frostbite. It spreads into your shoulder, your neck, your spine.
And then—
Something inside you flickers. The hum. The warmth. Him. It begins to fade. Not all at once. It drains. Like light slipping out of a room. Like someone slowly turning the volume knob on a song you didn’t know you’d memorized. You feel the difference before you can process it. Your thoughts stop echoing. Your heartbeat feels… alone.
Bucky says nothing when it’s his turn. He doesn’t ask what it’ll feel like. He doesn’t hesitate. Just rolls up his sleeve, still pitched forward. Dr. Yen administers his dose with quiet efficiency. Click. Hiss. And then it’s quiet again. Except it’s not the same.
Because now, the silence is dead. No hum. No pulse. No emotional feedback or flicker of awareness. No him. He’s still there, physically. Still sitting across from you. Still wearing the same black T-shirt, the same unreadable expression. But you can’t feel him anymore. And the absence hits harder than you expect.
Dr. Yen checks the readings on her tablet. Taps a few buttons. Then nods.
“That’s it,” she says. “Connection is terminated.”
You nod, slowly. There’s a ringing in your ears that wasn’t there before.
Yen doesn’t linger. She packs up and walks out without another word. The door hisses shut behind her. And that’s it. It’s over.
You look at him. He’s not looking at you. There’s no warmth where your chest used to light up every time he almost met your gaze. Now it’s just empty space. You wait. A beat. Two.
He finally stands. Moves like he’s stiff. Or maybe he’s just trying to control the way his body reacts now that you can’t feel it.
His eyes flick toward you, just once. And then away.
At the door, hand hovering near the panel, he pauses. Just long enough to let hope get in one last swing.
“You’ll feel like yourself again soon.”
You blink. Straighten slightly. But before you can respond, he’s already gone. The door shuts behind him. And this time, you feel nothing at all.
—
Two weeks later and you definitely don’t feel like yourself again. Everyone said you would. That the dampener would work, that your neural pathways would recalibrate, that within a few days you’d forget what it felt like to share your mind with someone else.
They were wrong. The silence is worse than the bond ever was.
It isn’t just quiet—it’s hollow. There are no phantom thoughts, no flickers of static behind your ribs. No heat curling in your stomach when someone else walks in the room. You’re not buzzing anymore. You’re just… still.
You’ve tried to distract yourself. Buried yourself in lab reports. Filed updates. Pretended the whole thing was a chemical anomaly that didn’t matter.
You haven’t heard from him. You haven’t reached out, either.
Mostly because you’re not sure what you’d say—and partly because the last time you saw him, he all but told you that everything you felt was fake. You were still deciding whether to be mad or hurt when Valentina Allegra de Fontaine’s name lit up your encrypted line.
And now here you are. Walking into the new Avengers Tower for a mandatory debriefing.
You strut through the sleek white corridor with polished concrete floors, reinforced glass walls, surveillance cameras tucked into every corner. A place designed to look like freedom and security, while quietly reminding everyone who’s in charge. And Val’s definitely in charge.
You press your thumb to the biometric reader. The door clicks open. And then you’re in the room.
Seven chairs. One long table. Your team’s already there—Dr. Yen, Dr. Deenan, and Dr. Morales, seated stiffly with laptops open and half-expressed concern on their faces. You nod to them, then catch sight of the others.
The New Avengers. Ava’s leaning back with her boots up on the chair next to her, scanning her phone like she’d rather be anywhere else. Yelena twirls a pen in her fingers while whispering something to Bob, who stifles a laugh. Alexei ie eating something from a foil pouch. John Walker’s in full uniform, arms crossed, eyes narrowed like he’s waiting to be pissed off.
And at the head of the table—Valentina Allegra de Fontaine. She smiles when she sees you. It doesn’t reach her eyes.
“Doctor,” she purrs. “Right on time. We were just getting to the fun part.”
You arch an eyebrow. “I didn’t realize this was a party.”
Val gestures to the empty seat across from her. “Take a load off.”
You sit. The chair’s cold. So is the room.
She taps her tablet, and the wall monitor comes to life—schematics, biofeedback logs, simulated overlays of two bodies in sync.
Yours. And his. Your heart gives a tiny, involuntary jolt.
“We’ve reviewed your data,” Val says. “The bonding agent was more successful than projected. Real-time empathic mirroring. Linked adrenaline response. Even synchronized aggression modulation. Fascinating.”
You glance at your team. No one meets your eye.
“Fascinating doesn’t mean safe,” you say.
“No,” Val agrees, tapping to the next slide, “but it does mean viable.”
Your stomach drops.
She keeps going. “We’ve had early conversations with R&D. We think we can refine it. Pull the limbic entanglement into tighter constraints. Give our agents an edge in the field. Total tactical unity. Real-time mental synchronicity in squads of two to five. Imagine it.”
“I’d rather not,” you say flatly.
Val tilts her head. “That’s surprising. You invented it.”
You cross your arms. “I invented a theory. Not a weapon. That compound was never designed for field ops. It was meant to test artificial empathy synthesis in high-stress environments. I never signed off on deployment.”
“You didn’t have to,” she replies, sweet as poison. “You tested it. That’s what matters.”
Your jaw tightens. “What do you want from me?”
Val smiles.
“I want you to stabilize it.”
The room goes quiet.
You don’t answer.
Because your fingers have curled into fists under the table, and the muscle in your jaw is working too hard.
Val’s smile sharpens. “Don’t make that face. You’re not the first brilliant mind to regret what they’ve built. That’s why we’ve brought in oversight.”
You glance around the table, pulse ticking higher. “This is oversight?”
Val gestures lazily toward the door. “Speak of the devil.”
It opens. He walks in. Bucky.
Same stride. Same black tactical pants. Same expression that says he’d rather be anywhere else. But not quite the same. Tighter. Like something inside him is coiled and hasn’t uncoiled since the dampener. You sit straighter without meaning to. He doesn’t look at you. Just nods to the room like it’s a formality. Takes the seat across the table from you, beside Ava, who gives him a quick look. You can feel the space between you stretch like a fault line.
Val keeps going, too casual.
“As most of you know, Sergeant Barnes was one of the two bonded during the prototype incident.”
No one speaks. Ava tilts her head, intrigued. Alexei is still chewing. John looks like he’s waiting to laugh. Bob’s the only one scribbling anything down.
Val turns toward Bucky, her voice silk-wrapped steel. “You submitted a full statement. Care to summarize for the room?”
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink.
“It’s not stable.”
“Define ‘not stable.’”
He looks directly at her now. “There’s no shut-off switch.”
Val smiles like she’s waiting for that. “The dampener worked.”
“Eventually.”
You feel a tug in your chest—but not from the bond. Just memory. Just him.
Val leans back. “Let’s talk about the psychological aftermath.”
You freeze. So does he.
“I read your report,” Val continues. “There were some… interesting observations. About your partner.”
You glance at him, breath catching. He doesn’t speak. Val does.
“‘Responsive. Precise. Too quick to hide discomfort behind sarcasm. Wants to be in control but softens under pressure. Harder to ignore than expected.’”
You stare at her. Then at him. He’s not meeting your eyes. His jaw is tight.
Val keeps reading, but her eyes are on you. “‘I think she felt it too. I think we both wanted it to stop, and neither of us wanted it to stop.’”
The room is silent. No one breathes.
She closes the file with a tap and smiles. “Romantic. Almost poetic.”
Bucky shifts in his chair. “That wasn’t meant for discussion.”
Val keeps going, tapping her tablet again. “Of course, Sergeant Barnes wasn’t the only one who filed a report.”
Your eyes narrow. She scrolls casually. “Let’s see here…”
Your team shifts awkwardly. Ava raises an brow. Walker leans back, already skeptical.
“Ah—found it,” Val says, lips twitching. “‘Post-dampener vitals returned to pre-bond baseline within 48 hours. No lingering physical effects. Subject reports successful cognitive decoupling.’” She glances at you. “Very clinical so far.”
You say nothing. Your throat is tight.
Val continues reading, voice just loud enough to carry. “‘Subject notes difficulty adjusting to emotional silence. Persistent phantom resonance. Reports occasional insomnia, sensory misfires, and…’” She slows. “‘…a recurring sense of loss with no identifiable origin.’”
You feel the breath leave your lungs.
Val looks up, smile gone. Her tone shifts—mocking, just slightly. “‘It’s strange. I should be relieved to have myself back. But some part of me feels like it’s still looking for him.’”
The silence in the room shifts. Heavy. Sharp. Bucky turns to look at you. Not subtly. Not just a glance. He looks at you like you’ve just said something dangerous. Like you’ve handed him a key he didn’t know he was allowed to touch.
You look back. And for the first time since the bond broke—you really see him seeing you.
But then his expression shutters. Clean. Cold. Gone. Like he’s pulled the wall back up in one brutal breath.
Val closes the file with a flick of her fingers.
“Well. This answers my question. If it worked that fast on two unsuspecting individuals—one emotionally distant, the other the one who wrote the damn rules about boundaries—what do we think it’ll do to a trained field team under fire?”
You exhale through your nose. “You’re not trying to refine it. You’re trying to weaponize it.”
Val shrugs. “Tomato, tomahto.”
Your pulse spikes. “You want to use forced bonding as a tactical tool. You want soldiers to feel each other die in real time, feel pain that isn’t theirs, emotions that aren’t theirs—”
“They’ll be trained.”
“They’ll be broken.”
Now the room shifts. Ava sits forward. Yelena’s brow lifts. Even Walker glances sideways at Val.
Val only smiles. “Everyone breaks differently, doctor. That’s the point.”
You can’t help it. You turn to Bucky. He’s looking down. Still silent. Still locked. But you know that posture. You’ve felt it. The way he retreats. The way he steels himself before walking away.
Val’s voice cuts back in. “Final reports are due in forty-eight hours. Including yours, Doctor. Whether you cooperate or not, this is moving forward.”
You don’t answer. She rises. The others begin to move.
But Bucky doesn’t. Not until the last chair scrapes back. Then he stands. And walks out without looking back. This time, you don’t hesitate.
You catch him in the hallway just outside the briefing room.
“Barnes.”
He keeps walking, boots steady on the polished floor like you’re not behind him, like he didn’t just bolt from a public dissection of your most private thoughts. You pick up the pace.
“I said—”
“Don’t,” he mutters without turning. “Not here.”
You follow anyway. Right past the security checkpoint. Into the common area of the residential wing.
Then you hear them. Voices behind you—low, not subtle. Bob. Alexei. You’d bet money Walker’s loitering just out of view, arms crossed and dying for gossip.
“Wow,” Yelena says from behind the coffee bar. “Very dramatic storm-off. Ten out of ten.”
Bucky still doesn’t stop. You catch up beside him, matching his pace. “You’re seriously going to act like none of that meant anything?”
“I’m not doing this in front of an audience,” he snaps, still not looking at you.
You ignore it. “What did you think was going to happen? You walk away and I just go back to being a line item in your report?”
He reaches the end of the hallway. Stops. Jaw locked. Hands at his sides.
“I’m not doing this,” he says again, quieter now. Less sharp. More tired.
You hesitate. And then you say it—just low enough for him to really hear it.
“Bucky, please.”
His head turns. Slow. Measured. Like he didn’t expect you to use his name. Like it broke through something.
You stare up at him. One beat. Two. And then he grabs your wrist—not rough, not rushed—and pulls you with him through the nearest door.
His quarters. The lock clicks behind you. He doesn’t let go. You’re both breathing too hard for how little either of you has moved. His fingers tighten around your wrist.
“I don’t need a debrief,” he says flatly. “Whatever Val’s hoping you’ll get out of this—”
“Don’t do that,” you say.
His shoulders go rigid. “Do what.”
“Shut me out.”
He finally turns. And the look on his face makes your heart falter.
He’s not angry. He’s gutted.
“I told you, once this wore off—”
“I didn’t say it because of the link,” you snap. “I said it because it’s true.”
He shakes his head. “You think it’s true. Because it’s recent. Because you’re still sorting it out.”
“No,” you say. “I said it because I miss you. Because I can’t sleep. Because the silence feels worse than the noise ever did.”
He goes quiet. You take a step closer.
“And don’t tell me it’s not real. Don’t tell me it’s just feedback. I’ve been through every model of post-synthetic resonance in the literature. This isn’t detox.”
Bucky stares at you like he wants to believe you. Like he’s aching to. But the wall is still up. Tighter than ever.
“It doesn’t matter,” he says. “You’re going to walk out of here and get over it. And I’m going to remember everything I said. Everything I wanted. And wish I hadn’t said a goddamn word.”
That knocks the air out of you. You feel the urge to step back—but you don’t. You root yourself there.
“I’m not over it,” you say, quietly. “And I don’t want to be.”
He looks at you. Really looks. And something shifts in him. But he still doesn’t move. So you step closer. Not too close. Just enough to make it clear you’re not afraid of the space between you. Not anymore. You don’t touch him. Not yet.
“I’ve spent two weeks trying to shut you out of my head,” you murmur. “Pretending I didn’t miss you. That I wasn’t checking every hallway and every email, wondering if you’d say something.”
He exhales sharply through his nose and looks down.
“And when you didn’t,” you add, voice tighter now, “I told myself you were just being careful. That you were trying to do the right thing.”
A pause. Then, lower.
“But maybe it was just easier for you.”
That hits. You see it—right in his eyes. Still, he doesn’t speak. So you finish it.
“Either you felt what I felt or you didn’t,” you say, chin lifting. “But don’t stand there and act like it was just some side effect. Like all of it—everything between us—was just my body misfiring.”
You take a final step closer to him.
“I know who you are now—not just the version you show, not the file, not the soldier. You. I felt every part you tried to hide. And it only made me want you more. And if that was all fake, I don’t know what the hell is real anymore.”
That’s when he moves.
It’s not gentle. It’s not rehearsed. It’s like something inside him snaps, and before you can take another breath, his hands are in your hair, his mouth crashing against yours like he’s been holding back for years—not weeks.
You stumble into him with a gasp, grabbing the front of his shirt like you need it to stay standing. His kiss is rough, hungry, almost frantic—like he’s trying to erase the silence with his teeth.
He spins you, walks you backwards until your shoulders hit the door, and then he’s bracing one arm beside your head, the other sliding down to your hip like he needs to feel you, all of you, right now.
You kiss him back with everything you’ve been holding in. Anger. Frustration. Hunger. Something dangerously close to relief. He pulls back just long enough to look at you, lips swollen, breathing hard.
“You don’t know what you’re asking for,” he says, hoarse.
“Yes,” you whisper, dragging your fingers down the line of his stomach. “I do.”
His mouth reclaims yours. This time, the kiss is slower. Hungrier. Less desperation, more purpose. His tongue traces the shape of your lips, parting them before diving in. His hands move, rough and reverent. Skimming your jaw, down your neck, across your chest. They slide beneath your shirt, palms splayed wide like he’s trying to cover all of you at once, like he can’t decide what to touch first. You feel the heat of him through every inch of fabric, and it lights you up from the inside.
He hesitates Just a little. Like it costs him something to stop. A breath caught in his throat. Fingers curling into fists where they’d just been on your ribs. Everything is vibrating with want. No bond. No compound tether. Just this. Just him. And he’s shaking. Not visibly. But you feel it in his breath. In the way his hands flex when they grip your hips. Like he’s holding back with every ounce of control he has left.
“You sure?” he rasps, low and wrecked.
You nod. He doesn’t move. So you press your mouth to his ear.
“Bucky,” you whisper. “I’ve been sure since I looked you in the eye and told you not to think about sex.”
He exhales, a bit shaky, but lifts you, guiding you backward toward the bed. Walking you slow and blind, like he’s memorized every inch of you and he’s finally getting to touch what he learned.
You hit the mattress. He’s on you a second later, crowding you down with the weight of his body, the strength of his stare.
“Don’t move,” he murmurs, mouth brushing your cheek. “I want to see you.”
Your heart stutters as he starts to undress you. Slow at first, like he’s unwrapping something fragile. Fingers dragging over skin with intention. Mouth kissing every new inch he uncovers.
“You’re fuckin’ beautiful, sweetheart,” he murmurs. “You don’t even know what you do to me.”
You whimper, hands reaching, but he pins your wrists lightly to the bed.
“Let me,” he says. “You’ve had your hands on yourself enough, haven’t you?”
Your face burns but your thighs twitch. He clocks it.
“Oh, you liked that,” he murmurs, voice like velvet. “Liked making me feel it. Every fuckin’ second.”
“Bucky—”
“You wanna know what it did to me?” he asks, trailing his fingers down your stomach, your hip, your thigh. “The way you touched yourself? Knowing I couldn’t stop you. Couldn’t help you. Couldn’t taste you.”
Your breath hitches as his lips graze your inner thigh.
“I almost lost it, doll.”
He groans as he spreads you open, thumb teasing, mouth following. He’s slow at first. Too slow. Licking soft circles like he’s memorizing the shape of your pleasure.
And then he dives in.
Moans into you like it’s the best thing he’s ever tasted. Holds your thighs apart, firm and unrelenting, while his tongue works in perfect rhythm. Watching you. Murmuring praise between licks and gasps. Your hips twitch, a whimper slipping through your clenched teeth.
“Already?” he murmurs, breath hot against you. “You that close, sweetheart?”
You try to answer, but it’s useless.
“God, look at you,” he groans. “So fucking wet.”
You arch up in response, gasping.
“Needy little thing,” he laughs, brushing his fingers through your folds. “Bet this is all you’ve been thinking about the past two weeks, huh?”
He plunges a finger inside of you and curls, as do your toes while you rasp out.
“Bucky, please!”
“You gonna fall apart for me, doll?” he murmurs against you, the words so filthy and tender they almost make you cry. “I want it. Want to feel you shake. Want to taste every bit of it.”
He flicks his tongue in tight circles, then flattens it low and slow. Adding another finger to your weeping core. Your hips start to shake, lifting off the bed. He feels it and grips you tighter.
“Don’t fight it,” he gasps into you. “Don’t you fucking dare. That’s mine.”
He sucks hard—just once—and your vision whites out. You try to warn him. A gasp, a stuttered breath, a twist of your hips. But it’s already too late. You come with a cry, fists clutching the sheets, legs locked around his shoulders, everything inside you unraveling at once.
It’s too much. Too sharp. Too good. And he groans into you like he’s the one coming. You’re limp, gasping, still shaking—and he’s still there, mouth wet, fingers brushing your hip.
“Shit,” you breathe. “That was…”
He kisses the inside of your thigh. Then again, a little higher.
“You’re not done yet,” he says, voice thick with hunger. “Not even close.”
He keeps going, softer now—just enough to draw the aftershocks out of you, murmuring things you can barely hear over your own heartbeat.
“So perfect. So fuckin’ sweet”
You blink through the stars behind your eyes, chest rising in fast, uneven bursts.
“Bucky—”
He finally comes up for air, his eyes are darker with something deeper than just heat as his gaze locks on yours. And for a second, neither of you moves.
You’re still panting, still wrecked from his mouth and fingers, but there’s something in the way he looks at you now. Like he’s trying to memorize you, even as his restraint starts to crack again.
“Still with me, sweetheart?” he murmurs, voice hoarse.
You nod, breath caught in your throat.
“Good,” he says, fingers sliding up your sides. “Because I’m not done learning how you fall apart.”
You whine when he pulls away. But when his own shirt comes off, followed by the rest, your breath stutters—because even now, with the link broken, you’re still wrecked by your need for him.
Not like before. Not a shared mind or emotion. But like muscle memory. Like your skin knows him now. His mouth tilts up—barely a smile, more like relief bleeding through restraint.
Then he climbs your body like he owns it, skin dragging over skin. Not rushing. Savoring. Like he’s been starving for you and doesn’t want to miss a single fucking bite. His chest brushes yours—bare, flushed—and you both exhale hard, the contact so electric it knocks the air from your lungs.
You reach for him, aching, but he catches your wrists—not to stop you. To feel you. To anchor himself. His thumbs press into your palms, grounding hard.
“You still want this?” he murmurs.
You nod. But that’s not enough. Not for either of you.
“Yes,” you breathe. “I want you.”
He kisses you like he means to brand it into you, deep and claiming. His whole body comes down over yours, pinning you into the mattress with his weight like he’s trying to fuck the memory of him into your bones.
His hand trails down your side, over your hip, gripping your thigh with purpose. Holding you there, keeping you open for him.
“You feel that?” he whispers against your jaw, slowly dragging his cock against your sensitive heat. “That’s real. Not chemicals. Not the compound.”
You nod again, blinking up at him.
“I felt you before, doll,” he murmurs, pressing the head against your entrance. “But now? Now I get to have you.”
Then he pushes in slowly. Inch by inch as it steals the air from your lungs, not realizing how you could ever feel this full. He’s everywhere. It’s not artificial. It’s just him. Just this. And it’s overwhelming in a completely different way.
“God, you feel so fuckin’ good,” he groans, as his hips finally meet yours. “Like you were made for me.”
He moves slow at first, watching your face, chasing every gasp, every arch of your body. Letting you relax into the stretch as he drags himself in and out of you. Your body answers him before your mouth can. Nails digging into his shoulder. The pressure already building, faster this time, hotter. And he feels it, responding with a low, rough growl in your ear.
“Got used to feeling everything,” he murmurs. “Now I’ve gotta earn it. Every sound. Every twitch of those perfect fuckin’ hips.”
You can’t even speak. You moan, hips tilting up, greedy for more.
“That’s right,” he breathes, rougher now. “Show me.”
He rocks into you again, harder this time. You gasp, cry out softly against his shoulder.
“Bucky—please—”
“You begging already?” he groans, continuing to pound you deeper into the mattress. “Thought I was just a side effect.”
“You weren’t.”
He freezes, just for a moment. Kisses you again, softer now, but more desperate.
“Say it again.” His forehead presses to yours.
You touch his face, thumb brushing the hard line of his jaw. “You weren’t.”
He exhales like it hurts.
“You gonna come for me again, sweetheart?”
You whimper, helpless as your walls begin to flutter around him.
“Yeah, you are,” he breathes. “I can feel it. So tight around me already.”
And the way he looks at you—wrecked and reverent and just this side of feral—makes your whole body stutter. You want it. Want to be ruined by him. Claimed by him.
You tighten around him again, and his hips snap harder. His hand slips between your bodies. Finds your clit. Zeroes in without mercy.
“Give it to me,” he whispers into your throat. “Let me feel you fall apart.”
It hits like a freight train—loud and messy and devastating. Your back arches, your breath catches, and you cry out his name like it’s the only word you’ve got left.
He fucks you through it—long, dragging thrusts that keep you trembling. Your body’s oversensitive now, every nerve frayed, but he doesn’t stop. Keeps going, holding you there like he’s afraid you’ll vanish.
“Bucky,” you moan, hand in his hair, nails dragging over his scalp.
He breaths into your mouth—kissing you like he’s starving.
“You drive me fuckin’ crazy,” he pants. “You know that?”
You whimper, thighs shaking.
“I tried to keep it together,” he growls, voice ragged. “I tried—”
Every thrust is brutal now. Precise. Shattering.
“Fuck,” he breaths. “When you were—”
“Buck—”
He kisses you again, biting your lip. His hand moves between you again, thumb rubbing fast and perfect.
“God, baby—” His voice cracks. “You’re gonna make me fuckin’ lose it.”
“Then lose it,” you whisper. “I want you to.”
He growls your name, broken and wrecked, hips jerking once, twice—And you shatter. It slams through you—raw, loud, everything burning at the edges. Your body seizes, clenching around him, sobbing his name as you fall apart in his arms.
He buries himself inside you. You feel the heat. The flood. The way he tries to hold himself together and can’t. He’s trembling over you, muscles locked tight, jaw clenched as he pulses deep in you, riding it out with a low, wrecked moan.
You’re both gasping now. Shaking. Tangled up and clinging. And still—he doesn’t pull away. He stays. Forehead to yours, still buried deep, arms wrapped around you like you’re the only thing keeping him grounded.
“I’ve never thought—” he starts, voice ragged. “That wasn’t just—”
You touch his face, soft now. “I know.”
Because you do. This wasn’t adrenaline. Wasn’t science. Wasn’t the bond. It was him. It was you. He lifts his head slowly. Looks at you like he’s still afraid to believe it. So you cup his face, kiss his temple, and whisper, “Don’t you dare vanish on me now.”
His throat works, jaw clenches. But he doesn’t run.
He stays right where he is. Wrapped around you.
—-
The room is warm. Quiet. You’re lying on your back, one leg tangled with his, the sheets kicked halfway off the bed. Bucky’s fingers skim slow circles over your hip, like he hasn’t figured out how to stop touching you yet. Or doesn’t want to. You stare at the ceiling.
“Tell me again how this wasn’t a terrible idea,” you murmur.
He huffs out a laugh. “It was a terrible idea.”
“Oh, good,” you say. “So we’re on the same page.”
He shifts, rolling just enough to look at you. His hair is a mess, his chest still rising a little fast, like he hasn’t fully come down. There’s a smudge of dried sweat at his temple and your teeth marks fading on his neck, and you have the completely inappropriate urge to kiss both.
“Can’t believe I got to sleep with the woman who called me a glorified blunt object,” he says dryly.
You smirk. “Wasn’t planning to sleep with the guy who implied my life’s work was an emotional leash.”
“Touché.”
You sigh. Close your eyes for a second. The weight of it all—what came before, what you just crossed into—settles somewhere behind your ribs. He’s still watching you when you open them again.
“I’ll deal with Val,” he says suddenly. “If she tries to pull anything with the compound, I’ll shut it down.”
You blink. “You’re serious.”
“I usually am.”
You study him for a beat. “You don’t have to fight my battles, Barnes.”
“No,” he says. “But I want to.”
Something about the way he says it. Casual and quiet, like it isn’t a big deal, makes your stomach tighten. He’s not pushing. Not performing. He just means it. You shift closer, resting your chin on his chest. “You know, if you’d told me two weeks ago I’d end up in your bed—”
“You would’ve laughed in my face.”
“I did laugh in your face.”
“You told me I looked like a government-issued mistake.”
You snort. “Well. You kind of did.”
He smirks, fingers brushing a line along your spine. “Still think I’m a mistake?”
You glance up at him. He’s smiling, but it’s tentative. Like he’s not sure if you’ll dodge or hit back. So you lean up, kiss him—soft, but real. Honest.
“Maybe not a mistake,” you whisper against his mouth. “Maybe just… statistically improbable.”
He laughs against your lips. You both fall back into the pillows, tangled up and far too warm, but neither of you moves.
Eventually he murmurs, “This thing between us—whatever it is—it’s real now, right?”
You stretch a leg over his, sighing. “I mean, if it’s not, then I’m still having incredibly vivid sex dreams while awake.”
“That’s flattering.”
“That’s science.”
He kisses your forehead and mumbles, “Then let’s see what happens without science.”
You let that settle. No neurobond. No link. No forced proximity. Just choice. You curl in closer. And this time, when you breathe him in, you don’t feel afraid.
Just steady. Just… okay. You smile. And he feels it.
