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[buckyscaptain]

how good you make me wanna be | college bucky x fem reader

authors notes: hello, so, i've unintentionally been working on this for the last two months, but here it is! it was supposed to be this request, but it kinda changed and warped, but hopefully it still works!

warnings: waffling, so much waffling, like word vomit level. wandanat are girlfriends because i said so x they're just both awkward idiots who don't realise they're in love. reader has some self doubt peppered through this. mild proofreading, kinda, i'm so sorry, we die like tony stark men. please feel free to let me know if i forgot anything!

word count: 5.8k

summary:

you're kinda awkward, he's the popular guy with a bad reputation. the twist? both of you have been crushing on each other, despite the fact you've never spoken to each other for more than five minutes. so what happens when your friends finally throw you together?

masterlist!

"you coming to the party on friday?" sam asked, holding the door open for you before he fell back into step next to you. "it's gonna be like, legendary. nat's sister is in town, there's no way that it's not gonna be historic, come on, you should come!" you'd lost count of how many parties sam had tried to drag you into—both in high-school and now college—but he was nothing if not persistent, you had to give him that one.

you smiled as you shook your head, shoving your hands in your hoodie pockets. "it might be stuff of legends, but you're not gonna change my answer. name one time that i've ever been to one of your parties." it wasn't that you had anything against them, they just didn't fall into the productive category and at this point in the semester, you needed every scrap of productivity that you could muster up. "sorry, buddy, you'll have to catch me up on monday, i gotta work on my paper."

"you skippin' on us again? c'mon, baby. one time, you deserve to have fun." you almost jumped clean out of your skin when he stepped out from behind a column, blocking your path. bucky barnes, in all his stupidly broad shouldered glory—completely out of place in the middle of the psychology halls. he was like a walking embodiment of one of those hot frat boys from every coming of age film ever. business major, football team vice captain—hot, very hot—and not the kind of person who'd ever look twice at someone like you. to someone like him you probably faded into the background.

or so you thought.

you had zero idea that you were the entire reason that he was here, using sam as an excuse to exist in the same space as you for five minutes. he could think of a million better places he could be, but they didn't have you. and that was the problem. he had a million girls who would die for the opportunity to even have his attention, and the one he actually wanted didn't even want it, to his knowledge anyway. it was like the universe was playing some cruel joke on him.

not a single one of those thoughts had ever left his mind outside the confines of the friendship group. it was bad enough with sam's endless jabs and steve's god awful jokes.

despite the fact it felt like a butterfly enclosure in his stomach, he grinned as he watched the blush creep across your cheeks as you dipped your head in an feeble attempt to hide from him. "can't, sorry. i gotta study." it wasn't exactly a lie, not with exam season so close and even if you did want to go? amongst all the other things, you had no idea how to exist in his world. you were on completely different ends of the social spectrum and honestly? you weren't sure you wanted to be in it, not if it was like the rumours.

besides, you'd never even had a conversation with him that lasted longer than five minutes and didn't have steve or sam involved.

the whole thing was ridiculous, and you knew it. you'd been fawning over this guy since the very first time you'd met him, sam had invited you to one of steve's games which meant by extension—and the fact he was the star quarterback—bucky was there too. he'd barely even acknowledged you past a quick hi and asking if you enjoyed the game. but your heart had done a traitorous a little flip and just never stopped. and now he was calling you baby like it was nothing, which it probably was to him.

"awe, c'mon. it'll be fun. you can't go your entire college life without going to a single party. and hey, i'll be there." he offered, like that would magically make you change your mind—in his defence, it would have worked on most of the girls he knew by now. sam snorted, holding a quiet admiration for his persistence. if you knew bucky well enough—which he did, he really did—it was easy enough to pick up on bucky's nervousness. the way he shoved his hands into his pockets, picking at the lining to give him something to do. "that usually works."

sam ducked his head to hide the way the way his lips were twitching, dying to burst into laughter at how awkward he was being about it all. it was glaringly obvious that bucky had no idea what to do with women who weren't throwing themselves at his feet.

and then you smiled at him. the same smile you'd give him after that game, the one that made something warm spread across his chest. the same smile that he didn't know what to do with. he could feel the blush spreading across his cheeks as he let his head dip. "she doesn't wanna go, man, leave her be. c'mon, we got places to be. i'll catch you later." sam gave you a smile before he put a hand on bucky's shoulder and guided him towards the door.

that left you just stood there, blinking at the loss of—well, you weren't quite sure what it was anymore. you let out a shaky breath as you tried to work out how the hell you were gonna tell the girls about this.

"the hell was that for? i was getting somewhere!" bucky hissed as he shrugged sam's hand off, turning to look at him. "that's like, the furthest i've ever got with her, and what? you pull me away!" bucky scoffed as he pushed sam's hand away, falling into step with him. sam just scoffed, shaking his head. "what, trying to hound her into a party that isn't her scene? c'mon, man. you're bucky barnes, you're supposed to be the coolest guy on campus and you think that was progress? oh man, you're losing your touch. you're soft for her, man, and you've spoke to her for less than ten minutes. you were blushing." he genuinely wished he could have videoed the whole thing to keep for blackmail purposes, god knows it would have worked too.

bucky rolled his eyes as he grumbled under his breath, flipping sam off. he was not losing his touch. you were just nice, too nice to look in his direction and he couldn't afford to mess it up. "not losing my touch. 'm just taking it slow. not exactly something i'm used to, in case you forgot."

he was used to the rush and the buzz and anything under a hundred miles an hour felt agonisingly slow—probably the main reason that he'd never had anything real. nothing lasted past one night stands and half assed dates to dorm parties he was going to either way.

and you deserved more than that.

so much more, he didn't need to know you to know that.

"i'm just…refining it. i don't wanna barrel in there and scare her off. it's like a dance, y'know? gotta warm up." it was a weak excuse for the fact he didn't know exactly what he was gonna do about it. "you should start with the library." sam offered, shrugging a shoulder like it was the most obvious solutions in the world. "you know, the big scary place that a business major should definitely spend more time."

bucky rolled his eyes again at how easy he made it all seem. "right, yeah. i'll just show up at the library and be all quiet and meek, pretending that i know the first thing about psych. what could possibly go wrong? that's the worst idea i ever heard, man."

it was sam's turn roll his eyes this time. he wasn't sure what was more ridiculous, how far gone bucky was already or how hard he'd managed to fumble the entire two minutes he'd been in front of you. it was sweet, though, in it's own embarrassing kind of way. "you might think it's a bad idea, but it's better than any that you've got. trust me, i know her. she likes to be listened to, and being as you don't like to do that, just trust me. work it out or don't bother. she's too nice to be messed around. she's my best friend, like ever. period. and i mean it, you mess her around and i'll—"

bucky held his hands up in surrender, cutting him off. "woah, woah. i just talked to her, that's all. i wouldn't—it's not like that. i'm—" the realisation that he couldn't say that he wasn't like that hit him like a freight train. he was exactly like that, and it was his fault entirely. if he ever got the chance, he'd be different with you. if he said it out loud then he'd sound crazy, but he'd try. really try, if his confidence hadn't evaporated into thin air, like it felt like it had.

you'd made a lot of mistakes in life, you'd hold your hands up to that one, but your biggest mistake? actually telling your best friends about the entire two minute interaction that nat was currently analysing like she was gonna write a final paper on it. it seemed like a great idea in your head but now it had been fifteen minutes and they were still dissecting it.

"he smiled?" she repeated, mainly to herself. bar steve, she'd known bucky the longest which apparently made her the fountain of knowledge on every single one of his movements. "he never smiles, he's allergic to smiling. he's gotta like you. it's written in the stars, let's get the marriage license ready, can i be godmother to your firstborn?" wanda snickered as she turned the page, fully used to every ounce of her girlfriends over exaggerations by now.

"he smiled at me…and you think…?" your head tilted like an already confused puppy that had the treat bag shaken at them as you watched her pace across your living room. "i don't get it." you weren't as naive as that made you sound—you just genuinely couldn't get your head around her way of thinking. you were sure he'd smiled at plenty of people in his time, he had to have done. "i think you might be seeing this differently."

"okay, let me try." wanda smiled as she set her book down, obviously having more patience with this one than nat. "i think what natasha is saying is that barnes might be into you more than he lets on. which isn't a bad thing, obviously." not a bad thing, right. because good things were supposed to make you this nervous. "might? might?! oh no. there's no might. mr quarterback is like, head over heels for her. c'mon, wanda! when did you last see him smile?" nat groaned, flinging her arms around like she was trying to solve a diplomatic crisis instead of your sorry excuse of a love life.

"what? i'm easing her into it! not everyone runs into everything head first. you're going to scare her off."

nat huffed as she flung herself back onto her bed, already reaching for her phone and pulling up steve's last message to text him again. if he didn't have the answer then they were all doomed.

nat: okay what's going on with barnes? nat: is he serious? nat: if he's not serious then i'm gonna start breaking bones.

steve: okay, first of all. steve: no breaking bones, the team needs him. steve: second of all, yes. serious from what sam was saying. swing by after practise, we need to plan. steve: bring snacks.

"i just don't get why you think he likes me, that's all." you shrugged. "i'm not exactly part of his target audience. he likes—loud, and wild, and—not me." as much as it was terrifying, you'd be lying if you said there was a tiny piece of yourself that wanted to lean into it, to know what it felt like to not fade into the background for once—which very quickly spiralled into wondering what his lips would feel like against yours. you shocked yourself how quickly the thought came, shaking your head like it would get rid of it. "you both know what he's like."

you side eyed nat as she mumbled something under her breath that sounded like 'we can change that' as she stood up, grabbing her jacket. "as much as this is a riveting conversation, i promised steve that i'd swing by practise, so i gotta bounce. don't do anything stupid until i get back, like, y'know, spontaneously combust. love you!" she called over her shoulder before she disappeared out of the door.

"i know that she's intense, but i think she might have a point." she got up and sat down on your bed, wrapping an arm around your shoulders. "and hey, i guess that there's worst people on campus to have like you, right? he's not exactly bad looking, probably great sex and—" you shuddered as you pushed her away, shaking your head. "no. nope. we are not going there. nope. too much." you fake gagged as you got up, scrubbing a hand over your face. "i don't even know how i'm supposed to talk to this guy and you're already marrying me off and getting me laid, maybe not in that order, but—"

you needed someone to steady the ship, to tell you to stop spiralling and you were going to be find, not merciless teasing. wanda tilted her head slightly like she could actually read your mind as she reached out, taking your hand in hers. "breathe, sweetie. you're you. you're smart, and pretty, and completely socially awkward unless someone brings up phycology or something else you like. but that's you, that's exactly who you are and if that isn't enough for him, then he doesn't deserve you. you think i wasn't terrified when i realised that i was into natasha?" she smiled as she gave your hand a squeeze, standing up with you. you laughed quietly, returning the squeeze as at least the tiniest part of your anxiety eased. she had a way of doing that before you'd even realised what she was doing.

"you're going to be fine. and it's not worth getting yourself stressed out over something that might turn out to be nothing. you're smart, you'll be okay. trust yourself."

your first real suspicion should have come when nat asked if you wanted to study group with her, wanda, steve, and sam. the steve and sam part wasn't suspicious, but the nat part was. you could count on one hand the amount of times she'd sat in the library for more than an hour before she got restless and started causing chaos. she was more of a grab books and make a dash kinda gal. but you were toast if you didn't get a move on with your paper. so you agreed, albeit reluctantly.

"you cannot get us kicked out." you pleaded with nat as you bagged the table underneath the window, hanging your bag on the back of your chair. "don't worry, i'll keep her under control." steve promised as he dropped into the seat opposite you next to nat. you snorted at that, the idea of the golden retriever captain trying to keep the category five hurricane known as natasha romanoff in line absolutely hilarious to you. "yeah, and i'm the next queen of england. what have you got on this paper?" sam asked as he looked over your shoulder, already mentally calculating which parts he could rewrite and pass off as his own. you rolled your eyes, shoving his shoulder before you turned your screen away. "your best friend status is on thin ice, buddy." you warned, pointing a finger at him. "get your own sources."

by the grace of god—and some very clever distraction techniques—the bucky thing hadn't been mentioned again. every time nat tried to bring it up, you not so subtly changed the subject, completely unaware of the plan that had already been cooked up behind you back, courtesy of nat and steve.

"y'know…" sam started, drumming his pencil against the table. "bucky's been talking about you." you almost choked on your own saliva, spluttering as you looked over at him. "i mean it. all i've heard for days is the fact you looked at him when he swung by after our lecture." you shook your head, focusing on your laptop screen with such an intensity that could have burned a hole through it. you didn't dignify him with a response as your typing picked up instead, hammering the keys like they'd personally offended you.

you might have prevented it coming up in conversation until now, it had been on your mind religously. it was ridiculous how he'd managed to worm his way into your brain and take up residence there. "i'm sure bucky talks about a lot of people. especially that blonde fashion major." you murmured under your breath. sharon carter, permenant thorn in your side and the latest in a long list of bucky's conquests. "actually…" wanda looked up from her page, pen stilling mid sentence. "i heard that's not a thing anymore. apparently he blew her off after the last game he had."

"i can second that." steve added. "hasn't seen her for awhile, they were never good for each other anyway. all they did was have sex and argue, it was kinda lame."

you were suddenly very aware of the fact that it felt like everyone was ganging up on you against your will, but you chose to not think too much into it before you drove yourself crazy. it wasn't until you noticed everyone disappearing slowly that you payed attention. wanda said she was going for coffee, sam mumbled something about a misplaced textbook before he disappeared into the aisles—and then it was just you, nat, and steve.

"okay, wanda doesn't even like coffee. sam had his textbook, what exactly is all of this about? it's not—" nat interrupted you by clearing her throat loudly, nodding towards the doors. you almost spontaneously combust when you saw him. bucky barnes, looking completely out of place with two cups of coffee in his hands, looking somewhat out of place.

"gotta go, steve's got important, uh—stuff. stuff to do, let's go." nat smiled before the two of them disappeared quicker than the speed of light. "good luck." nat winked as they walked past bucky, steve clapping a hand on his back.

bucky swallowed thickly, standing there awkwardly as he looked in your direction. see, when steve and sam had talked him into this, they'd both failed to mention the fact that you'd be on your own. "hey, i uh—" he stopped in front of your table, holding the cup out awkwardly. "iced vanilla latte, sam said something about it being your favourite." you just blinked at him, and then at the cup for what felt like an eternity before you reached out and took it. "yeah, no, uh, that's my favourite. you can take a seat, i mean, if you want to." you nodded towards the now vacant seats opposite you before you took a sip of coffee for something to do other than gawp at him.

you could feel the dread setting in simultaneously with the blush creeping up the back of your neck. "nat, uh—"

"sam—" you motioned for him to continue as you silently wished that the ground would open up and swallow you whole. "sam said that i should swing by—he kinda forgot to mention this part." he nodded, picking up your notebook and scouring your notes like he understood a word of it. "well, i kinda started getting a little sus when everyone disappeared on me, so. sorry, i kinda need those." you leaned over and took your notes back, breath hitching as your fingers brushed past his. it felt like you'd grabbed a live wire. he looked devastatingly good like this, the sun filtering through the light making his eyes look more blue than they were—if that was even possible.

the silence that settled between the two of you was awkward, unbearably so. he knew exactly what he wanted to say, he just couldn't form the words into a sentence that didn't ruin his reputation and make him look like an idiot. you could feel the blush creeping up from your neck into the tips of your ears, staring intensely at your notebook. "i don't know how to—i don't usually—" he groaned as he squeezed his eyes shut, as it became his turn to want the ground to swallow him whole. maybe the silence was better than this. "i kinda like you. not—not kinda, i do like you. a lot. and i think it'd be really nice to get to know you. i don't ask people on dates. i take them to parties and i take them back to my place—i don't do all of this." he opened his eyes, lifting his head enough to look at you properly. "but i want to, with you."

the world shifted.

not literally, obviously, but it felt like someone had turned it upside down on you. a date, he wanted to take you on a date, a real one. your brain blue screened and everything that you'd ever remembered turned to mush. "erm. a—yeah. no, okay, why?" you didn't mean for it to sound as blunt as it did, but it happened anyway. "not that i don't—it just, it doesn't really make sense to me, and—" he was running out of straws to grasp at before he had to tell you what he was really thinking, not exactly part of his speciality. he groaned softly, letting his head fall back.

"you're pretty. really pretty. not that—that's not why i wanna take you out, not all of it anyway. i mean—okay, i'm doing a bad job of this." he murmured, running a hand over his face as he tried to get the right words in order. "i wasn't joking when i said i was awful at this, huh? i promise that i'm not just asking you out because i think you're pretty." he assured you, which made you laugh as you shook your head.

"that is not what campus gossip says about you, for the record." his face fell for a second before he realised you were joking with him and then his signature cocky little grin was tugging at the corner of his mouth again. "oh, so you're funny now, huh? i was starting to think you didn't have it in you." you rolled your eyes as you tossed a balled up piece of paper at him that he caught mid air and tossed into the trash can with ease. "seriously, let me take you out, just once and if you completely hate it? we never mention it again and i'll leave you alone."

you pretended to think about it, despite the fact your heart was about to burst out of your chest. it felt like something that had manifested itself right out of your dreams but you didn't want to see too eager. "one date." you nodded as your eyes flickered back down to your notes. "what's the worst that can happen?" mentally you were already preparing for every single thing that could actually go wrong, and the list was growing by the second. it wasn't that you didn't trust him, it was just that he had an history of being, well, a player, and getting your heart broken by the guy you'd had a crush on since forever wasn't ideal.

"but if you stand me up then i'm never talking to you again."

"noted. i'll swing by your place. saturday, seven?"

"it's a date."

he was going to cancel. that was the latest thought that had etched itself in your brain. you pulled at your dress nervously as you stared at yourself in the mirror, trying and failing to convince yourself that it was just your brain. "stop fussing." wanda tutted quietly as swatted at your arm. "you look fine, and this is my lucky dress—trust me, i wore this on my first date with natasha. and then she took me axe throwing." you snorted as you dropped the fabric, rolling your eyes. "hey! i didn't know you were gonna rock up in that. if i knew, i'd have taken you someplace else." nat protested from the bathroom, poking her head out of the door. "and you looked badass throwing those axes. win win situation, it wasn't that bad."

you took a deep breath as you threw your purse over your shoulder, fiddling with the strap—the two of them bickering fading into the background. you were ready way too early, you'd been a fumbling mess for god knows how long. you were about to lovingly ask them to save the argument for later when the knock on the door echoed through the air. your eyes flickered up the clock on the wall, quarter to seven. he was early, if it was him. it probably wasn't him, and maybe it was the self doubt talking—it was—but you wouldn't blame him either. you didn't have time to finish that thought before the next knock came.

"oh, i so got this!" you'd never seen nat move quicker than she did when she launched herself at the door, clearly ready to slip into full interrogation mode if it was him. "please don't. oh god, you—" the words died in the back of your throat as the door swung open.

oh god, it was him—clutching a bunch of carnations like they were both his saving grace and also terrifying at the same time. they were the exact same shade as your dress, a happy little coincidence. "sam told me that you didn't like roses, so, i uh…didn't them…? these were pretty, i figured you'd like them. kinda need you to move, romanoff." he held them out awkwardly around nat, swallowing thickly before wanda tugged her out of the way. sam had warned him about that part, how they could be a little overbearing sometimes but they meant well, and he couldn't blame them.

he held them out properly as you stepped forward and took them from him, holding them up to smell them. "actually, i never get why people do that, i never think they smell of anything. but thank you, they're—they're really pretty." you didn't have many expectations, but in the two minutes he'd been here, he'd blown them out of the water.

"go on, shoo. i'll put these in water. go have fun, you deserve it." wanda plucked the bouquet from your hands and shooing you out of the door. confusion flickered across your face as the door closed behind you. "huh." you hummed, head tilting slightly. "i think i just got kicked out of my own apartment." bucky chuckled quietly as his hand settled on the small of your back, warm and heavy. "yeah, but don't worry. i got a plan." he winked as he led you towards the stairwell. for a minute, the uncharacteristic shyness dropped away and his usual cocky self shined back through. "and i think you're gonna like it just fine."

"i'm just saying, i think it's a noble thing to do. putting up with sam wilson is a full time job, i got my hands full enough with steve." he shrugged as he looked at you out of the corner of his eye. you giggled quietly, eyes dropping to your hands folded in your lap. "aw, c'mon. don't be mean to him! we grew up together, he's my best friend. i'd hate to see how you talk about steve, does he know about that?" you teased as you lifted you lifted your head up, rolling your eyes at him. "you wound me, sweetheart, truly. i have nothing but nice things to say about mr captain america. i give him a glowing review 24/7." he winked as he rolled into a parking lot and nodded out of the window. you raised an eyebrow, turning your head to follow his gaze. it probably wasn't anything special to anyone else, but it was to you.

the old diner was nestled just off the highway, the kind that was still trapped in a bygone era with cracked black and white flooring and booths that creaked when you slid into them. you'd had way too many meltdowns in the one by the window, tears plopping into your chocolate milkshake as you wondered how the hell you'd ended up here. it was almost an extension of yourself, a home away from home. "how did you—"

"i asked sam, he said you come out here sometimes. i didn't even know this place existed, so—" he hopped out and came around to your side, holding the door open for you. "sam could have sent me on a wild goose chase, if he was that kinda guy. figured we could grab a shake and some fries and just, talk. or whatever." he shrugged a shoulder as he offered you his hand, which you blinked at for a second. your brain short circuited for a second before you took it as you slipped out the passenger seat. "thanks, i uh—you—they do really nice shakes. chocolates my favourite, they do it with sprinkles on top and i get extra cherries, and—" you were rambling without even realising, giving him the ins and outs of the menu.

he bit back a smile as you carried on, his hand slipping to the small of your back again. this was all—normal. no bass bouncing off the walls, no one passing around a solo cup with some unidentified liquid in. just flickering neon and a bell above the door that jingled as he pushed it open for you. that was when it hit you that you hadn't stopped talking all the way from the parking lot. "oh, i didn't—i haven't shut up this entire time." you said sheepishly, sliding into your favourite booth by the window. "no, you haven't." he chuckled as he slid in opposite you. "but i like it, you're good at talking, is that why you're going into psychology?" he asked, resting his chin on his hand as he just watched you for a second. "uh…yeah, actually. guess i figured that i could help someone somewhere. why did you pick business?"

"woah, loaded questions already. guess it's just what i'm good at, other than football. my ma said i needed something to fall back on, and that's what jumped out at me. my dad owns a mechanics, i help him out over the summer—i used to, before football. have i told you that you look really pretty tonight?" he flashed you that same smile that mad your heart do a flip, and you felt the blush creeping across your cheeks. you were saved from your awkwardness by a familiar face stopping by your table. "well i never, look at this! this looks like a date, young missy. wow, he's kinda nice looking, too. nice smile, good shoulders, he'd make for good kids some day." jeanie grinned as she pulled the notepad from her apron. she'd probably been here as long as the place had been open, hair long gone grey and wrinkles by her eyes from all the smiling she'd ever done—like everyone who'd ever come through the doors granny.

it was bucky's time to be embarrassed, dropping his head in hope you wouldn't notice the fact he was blushing. "yeah, no—can we just get two chocolate shakes? one with extra sprinkles and cherries on top. and some fries, please. you want anything else? pancakes, or—"

"shakes and fries is good. although the pancakes are really good too." you smiled, drumming your fingers against the table—pretending that you weren't impressed by the fact he'd remembered your order despite the fact you'd only told hin five minutes ago. "oh, sweetie, you're too kind to me. don't you go hurting her, mister. earl back there is alway itchin' to fight someone, don't let it be you." she warned before she headed off to put your order through. bucky raised an eyebrow as he looked back at you, leaning forward as his voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. "does everyone just feel compelled to protect you, or…"

"yeah, that happens a lot." you whispered back, your eyes flickering between his eyes and his lips—for a second, you wondered what they'd feel like pressed against yours. no. don't go there. not on the first date. you cleared your throat as you leaned back, knee bouncing so hard under the table that the whole thing shook. "sorry."

"don't apologise."

he was so sincere that you almost forgot his reputation.

time blurred together after that. you drank your shake while he smeared whipped cream on your face to make you laugh, you ate your cherries and then stole his—he didn't complain. talk swung between college and his football and his sisters, you learned that he had three. as things went on, this warm fuzzy feeling started to spread deep inside of you, right next to the butterfly enclosure in your stomach. "no, go on." he shook his head as he pushed the last of the fries towards you. "nope." you pushed them back. "oh, so it's like that, huh?" mischief flashed across his face as he picked one up, holding it up to your mouth. "i insist, take the fry." you giggled as you took a bite, unaware of the ketchup smeared on your cheek. "you got a little—"

he gestured towards your cheek before he grabbed a napkin."little sauce, right there. i got it." he reached over and wiped it away, his hand lingering on your cheek for longer than was considered still friendly. his face drifted closer and closer to yours until his lips were on yours, the napkin dropped to the table as his hands cupped either side of your face. a pathetic noise left the back of your throat, a mix between a whine and a groan as your eyes fluttered shut. it was everything you'd hoped it would be—soft, warm, but then the bell above the door rang again and crashed you back down to earth.

"don't" you warned him, pulling back just enough to look at him properly and the stupid shit eating grin on his face. "now what made you think i was gonna anything, huh? well, maybe i was gonna kiss you again, but can you blame me? pretty girl, pretty diner. but if i asked you to come back here again, with me, for a date…?"

you took a deep breath, pretending to consider it, even though you already had the answer. "yeah, i'd like that. but you're on probation, one step out of line—"

"oh, sweetheart. you have no idea how good you make me wanna be."

[goldiwrites]

crushcrushcrush

pairing: roommate!bucky barnes x female!reader

summary: it was unrequited love at first sight when you met bucky barnes. having a crush on him—your roommate—is hard enough, but hearing him fuck through your shared wall? that almost kills you.

warnings: 18+ MDNI, modern au, lots of plot, fluff, angst, sloooow burn, anxious!reader, kinda insecure!reader, reader works at a bar, cap’s quartet roommates (romanogers !!), swearing, drinking, weed mentions, idiots in love they just don't know it, oblivious!reader (i love her your honour), yearningggg, jealousy, reader crashes tf outttt, miscommunication, one (1) argument, love confessions, pet names (sweetheart, angel, doll, pretty girl), detailed explicit smut, slight dom!bucky, dirty talk, teasingggg, grinding, munch!bucky, oral (f!receiving), fingering, dacryphilia, pussy pronouns, small inspection kink, praise kink, unprotected pnv (don’t do this, friends), missionary, mating press, multiple orgasms, brief sub space, mention of f & m masturbation, happy ending, no use of y/n, reader wears a dress, no physical descriptions of reader, reader's pov, kinda dramatic, briefly proofread, this is not your typical roommate!bucky fic !!

word count: 20.6k (apparently i have this condition where i can't write a short fic)

authors note: i am actually the leader of the 'having debilitating crushes on your roommate' club so... thank you to my gorgeous, stunning, one of a kind beta reader @phoenix-in-writing 🫶 yes, i did use some off campus characters as reader's coworkers - there's no subplot with them, they just suited the vibe 😎 likes, reblogs, and comments are very much appreciated (and feed my validation kink)

you are responsible for your own media consumption. don’t like? don’t read

song inspo: crushcrushcrush - paramore & boyfriend - best coast

divider credits: line dividers by @/omi-resources, heart divider by @/strangergraphics

masterlist

Nothing compares to a quiet evening alone Just the one, two, I was just counting on That never happens, I guess I'm dreaming again Let's be more than, more than this

You knew from the moment you stepped into the Brooklyn brownstone that you were royally fucked. 

Ruffled, sleep mussed, dark brown hair. Slightly squinted, soft, deep blue eyes. A white sleep shirt that loosely clung to the hard ridges of a muscled body. Grey sweatpants that hung dangerously low and showed the shape of him if you stared longer than was appropriate.

And, god, the low, husky voice that you could feel rumble through your body from metres away. The slender, strong, veiny hands that didn't hesitate to grab the box slipping from yours. The pink lips that stretched into an easy smile, pearly white teeth dazzling and rendering you speechless for a minute.

The heat that crawled up your back was instant—your body reacting to your new roommate before you even knew his name.

Attractive men existed, you knew that. The bar you worked at had handfuls of them come in every night, some that even flashed you a flirty smile with interest in their eyes. But you didn't live with any of them—you didn't see them when they were half-awake, their rough edges softened by sleep and early morning light.

He introduced himself as James Barnes, but he requested you call him Bucky—"only my ma calls me James"—, and mentioned he worked as a physiotherapist at the VA.

He was quick to put the box in your new room, running out to the curb to grab the rest of your belongings from the rental van. You stood near the entrance, frozen in shock. Words failed you, your brain failed you—the only thing you could think about was the shift of his back muscles beneath his shirt as he hauled boxes through the door. It was an intoxicating sight, one you didn't even know would affect you.

You quickly came to learn that the problem was Bucky—everything he did had an intoxicating effect on you.

The smile he flashed you as he handed you your morning coffee, the wink he tossed your way when he took your side in your weekly movie night debate with Sam, his laughs that you could hear through your shared wall when he gamed with his friends.

His laughter was one of the most intoxicating things about him. There were the low, deep huffs when he was tired. The louder, harsher ones when he was caught by surprise. Then your favourite—the long, slightly breathless giggles that crinkled the corner of his eyes and had his nose scrunching. Every time you were blessed with them, you could only think about how cute he looked. It made him even more attractive, and you even more infatuated.

When your friend and roommate said that she was going to move into her partner's apartment once your lease was up, the first thing you felt was dread. You didn't know anyone who was looking for a room, nor did you know anyone who was looking for a roommate. The last thing you wanted was to move in with a stranger—having already lived with complete strangers in the past you could not say it was a pleasant experience. Your friend—an absolute angel—was quick to tell you that a coworker at her law firm was looking for a roommate, and she assured you that Nat would not break into your room and steal your jewellery like your first ever roommate did.

While you weren't exactly ecstatic to move in with four best friends, Nat had quickly won you over when you met for coffee. You sat down feeling like a complete contrast to her—sporting an old sweatshirt over your sweaty work uniform while she was in a creaseless emerald pantsuit. But she made you feel completely at ease—offering up embarrassing college stories about her and the guys, asking you about yourself and actually seeming interested, talking about the brownstone with so much adoration in her voice you couldn't help but love it already.

You felt awkward living with the close knit friends at first—shuffling on your feet as the four of them lounged on the couches, pulling at the loose threads on your sweater as you sat and listened to them bicker.

Fortunately, it didn't take long for you to find your place in the group. Sam played a big part—his teasing and infectious personality making you feel at home within a week. He didn't let you retreat into yourself; he pestered you with a mix of random and personal questions—"what extinct animal do you most identify with" followed by "what was your first heartbreak"—, teased you about your cooking (to which he always stole a mouthful), and was just warm—and yeah, slightly chaotic.

Nat and Steve quickly became one of your favourite couples. They weren't heavy on the PDA—unless red wine was involved—and they balanced each other out perfectly. She was loud, he was quiet. After a few too many on a night out she was ready to start a fight with any asshole who dared to look her way, and he was there to gently steer her away by the shoulders and remind her it wasn't worth ruining her fresh manicure.

Despite having some opposite traits, they were both incredibly kind and comforting people—truly living up to their titles of being the household's mom and dad. Nat was there for you after your gruelling shifts, holding either a glass of wine or mug of hot chocolate. Steve was the one knocking on your door with a bowl of soup and bag of medicine when you had the flu.

And then there was Bucky. He was just as kind, a good middle between Sam's chaotic nature and Steve's quiet one, and he made you feel seen.

Uncomfortably so.

He was the one next to you during social gatherings, gently nudging his shoulder against yours in a silent check in. He was the one suggesting fresh air when your breathing picked up incrementally. He was the one staring at you like he was captivated, sitting forward as you rambled about your niche interests.

Bucky noticed you, paid attention to you, like no one else had in your life.

He remembered what mugs you liked, making sure to use one of them when he made you both coffee—he remembered that too, the way you liked your coffee made. He bought you more body wash when you complained about running out but not having time to go to the shop before your shift. He sat next to you as you rewatched your comfort shows for the fifth time, asking questions like he was genuinely interested—a welcome contrast to Sam's mocking comments.

Each day he was in your life, looking at you like you were worth knowing, was just another day you fell deeper.

And then there were the moments. There weren't many, only a handful, but they were burned into your memory.

The first was when you came back after brunch with old friends, wearing a white sundress that made you feel pretty.

Bucky was in the kitchen, leaning against the counter while eating an apple. You smiled in greeting as you walked in, grabbing a glass to fill with water. You sneaked a side glance at him like you always do when he's in the same room as you, catching his eyes already on you—drifting from the bottom of your dress up to your chest. You watched his adam's apple bob in his throat as he swallowed.

"That's a nice dress, sweetheart."

Goosebumps erupted across your skin at his low drawl, a warmth spreading in your core from the pet name. He had never called you that before.

He pushed off the counter and walked out of the kitchen, acting like those five words hadn't changed your whole day—your whole life.

Where once you thought the dress was pretty, you now saw it as a lifeline—tethering you to the hope that Bucky might just like you back. You found reasons to wear it more often; making an effort to hang out in the common spaces when you came back home wearing it, delaying changing into your comfortable clothes because Bucky wasn't home yet and you wanted him to see it. To see you.

The second moment was when the five of you were at a birthday party for one of Sam's army buddies.

Nat and Steve had left after only being there for half an hour—Nat giggling to you on their way out, telling you and the boys to hold off on coming back home for a couple of hours. Sam was in the lounge with a large crowd hanging on to his every word as he retold his war hero stories— to which Bucky was quick to throw you a look, raising his hands to mimic being strangled, making you laugh and receive dagger eyes from Sam.

The two of you made your way outside towards the game of beer pong being set up. Bucky was quick to accept their offer to join in and that's how you found yourself standing opposite him, a sticky fold out table between you—the ping pong ball in your hand shaking, your breath catching as his lips tilted into a smirk. His eyes were as dark as the sky, the moonlight making them twinkle with their own constellations—staring straight into yours with a silent challenge, daring you to miss your next shot. His tongue sweeping over his bottom lip stole your attention and your hand faltered, the ball almost dropping out of your grip.

"You got this, sweetheart."

Time slowed down as the ball left your hand, your eyes watching it sail through the crisp night air while Bucky watched you. It dropped to the table with a pathetic, dull tock—inches away from any of the red solo cups. Bucky's smile grew even more lopsided, his eyes gleaming with mirth.

"Better luck next time, angel."

What the fuck was with him calling you these stupid, heart stuttering, knee trembling pet names?

Your beer pong partner was quick to brush off your missed shot, chuckling at your flustered expression and offering to help you with your stance. The game continued with you almost missing every shot, your partner guiding you with hands on your hips in the hopes of you sinking a cup. His arms wrapped around your waist when you made your first successful shot, but it wasn't his attention that had your mind clouding—you couldn't even say it was the alcohol flowing through your veins. No, it was the look of pride on Bucky's face that had you freezing, everything else around you fading away until all that remained was shining midnight eyes and curved pink lips.

God, how you wished the arms around your waist were his.

The guys you were playing with retreated inside after the game ended, with your partner telling you to find him before you left, throwing you an easy smile over his shoulder.

Bucky and you lingered in the fresh air, slowly walking towards the backdoor, your bare arm brushing against his denim jacket with every step. Music and laughter trickled out of the open windows, the noise softening in the cool breeze before it reached you. Despite the calm, you felt your body vibrate with a persistent buzz—Bucky's close proximity and the beer you downed making it hard to find the line between your feelings and reality.

"You do realise he was flirting with you, right?" Bucky's voice broke the silence. You turned your head to find him already gazing at you—soft eyes a contradiction to his clenched jaw.

You scoffed, looking at him like he'd grown another head. "What, no he wasn't."

"Uh yeah, he definitely was. The 'let me fix your stance' play is the oldest trick in the book and has a pretty decent success rate." He chuckled softly, shaking his head with an uptick of a smile. "Not with you, though." He paused, giving you a teasing wink. "I'll keep that in mind."

The wink had your body flushing with heat, the words I'll keep that in mind burrowing into your lovesick heart and amplifying the buzzing. Your words stumbled on their way out."Th-there's no way he was flirting with me—he's way out of my league."

Bucky stopped in his tracks, turning to face you fully with a deep crease between his eyebrows. The gentle breeze swept a strand of hair over his face, your hand twitching with the need to brush it behind his ear.

His voice dropped low, the teasing tone subduing. "What are you on about? Tell me you know that's not true, doll."

You crossed your arms over your chest, feeling exposed and vulnerable under the intimacy of the dark sky. You shivered, not just from the cooling wind caressing your bare arms. You gave a small shrug in response.

Bucky started to take his jacket off, exposing the black t-shirt that hugged his biceps a little too tight for your sanity. "While I don't believe in the whole people being in different leagues thing, I can confidently say you are so far out of his league you're on a whole nother planet."

"…Are you saying I'm an alien?"

"If the shoe fits," Bucky responded, a fraction of his seriousness easing into a cheeky smile. He draped his jacket over your shoulders, his thumbs brushing the sides of your neck as he fixed the collar—another shiver running down your spine from his faint touch. The warm, rich scent of his cologne and him wrapped around you and dragged you under—the scent that you now associated with home.

Bucky's eyes met yours, the starlit blue swirling with something you couldn't quite decipher. His hands moved from the collar of his jacket to the hem, fingers toying with the rough fabric. "No, what I'm trying to say is that you're—" he licked his lips, trying to find the right words. "Any guy would be lucky to have you, but I don't think anyone is deserving of you."

Your brain short-circuited, the haze of rose coloured glasses starting to fall over your eyes—threatening to distort the Bucky in front of you with the one you stayed up late daydreaming about.

You found a smaller version of your voice. "I…I'm not that special, Buck."

He tugged on the hem, the force pulling the jacket tighter around your shoulders. "No? Then why are you the only person—other than Steve—that I let call me Buck?"

You stared at him, unblinking. You didn't realise other people didn't call him Buck—the nickname just slipped from your lips so naturally after the first month of living with him.

"One of these days, I'm going to make you see yourself how I do."

He leaned in, brushing the faintest of kisses on your forehead—the mere ghost of his lips burning your skin, eliciting a cascade of sparks to run down your body. He stepped back, stuffing his hands in his pockets and tilted his head towards the door.

"Let's get back inside before Sam tells everyone about the time he had to save you from a raccoon."

"He had very sinister looking eyes!" You cried indignantly. "And I was really stoned—remind me to never have one of Nat's brownies ever again."

The third moment happened during your bar's weekly quiz night.

The four of them were in their usual booth for the night—the one Sam demanded you reserve for them ever since you mentioned your work had a quiz night on Tuesdays. Nat and Steve were sitting on one side, each nursing a pint of craft beer, with Sam and Bucky sitting opposite them—the latter half hanging out of the booth with his hand raised in a beckoning gesture, shooting you one of those irresistible half smiles that made the butterflies in your stomach flutter.

You rolled your eyes at him, knowing exactly what he wanted—but you couldn't stay away from that smile, even if it was starting to get you in trouble at work.

You walked over to them, pocketing your pen and notepad before stopping next to Bucky, your eyebrows raised and arms folded.

"What do you want now?"

"Can I please place an order for the answer to question five?" Bucky held the quiz sheet up to you, pointing at the blank space next to number five like it was a menu. "Oh, and question eight." His smile evolved into a endearing grin, your heart aching traitorously at the sight.

"No."

The smile dropped a fraction, not expecting you to say no to his charm. "C'mon, you're the one here who knows niche pop culture the best—even Sam is stumped. I know you know the answers."

You nodded, looking at the sheet in his hand before his puppy dog eyes made you crumble. "You're right, I do. I'm not giving them to you, though."

"I thought I was your favourite." His voice dropped like he was genuinely upset, but his twitching cheeks gave away the smile he was suppressing. Sam scoffed next to him, Nat and Steve exchanged a knowing look. You ignored them.

Bucky put the sheet on the table, patting it softly like he was about to make a deal. "How 'bout this—I'll make you dinner for a week." He carefully watched your face, trying to find a crack in your resistance. "Two weeks."

You sighed, dropping your arms to your sides. "Bucky, the prize is only a fifty dollar bar tab."

Bucky shook his head. "It's not about the prize, it's about the glory of winning four weeks in a row." He squinted his eyes, tilting his head in the way you knew meant he was thinking—probably something stupid, too. "Wait—is there another prize for that?"

You scoffed, tempted to hit him with your notepad. "Yeah, you get put on the no entry list."

Nat and Steve snickered at Bucky's clearly offended face, and you bit your lip to hold back your smile—he looked too cute, it was tugging at your heart strings.

"Besides," you continued, "you only won them because you cheated."

He raised his hands in mock defence. "Hey, not my fault the pretty waitress was more than willing."

Sam choked on his beer, spluttering a mouthful onto the table. Your eyebrows skyrocketed, heat rushing to your cheeks and ears at his choice of words.

Bucky's cheeks lit up red and he ran a hand through his hair. "No—wait, I didn't—that wasn't what I meant." He nervously chuckled. "What I meant was that you're more than willing to help—help us…" He trailed off, turning and shooting Steve a look.

Some of the tension left your shoulders, along with some of the hope you always carried that Bucky liked you more than a friend. You cleared your throat, your heart rate struggling to slow down after 'pretty waitress'.

"Maybe I've grown a conscience." You looked slightly to your left, your eyes flicking to your manager standing at the end of the bar, narrowing her eyes at you.

Bucky chuckled softly, his confidence back even with his cheeks still glowing. He crossed his arms on the table, leaning towards you. "Are we gettin' you in trouble, sweetheart?"

"There's no we in this, Barnes. It's all you." Nat interjected, pointing a perfectly manicured finger at him. He gave her a dismissive wave, his eyes still looking at you expectantly.

"She said if you win one more time then she's going to put me on the bar for quiz nights—something about testing a theory…" You admitted quietly. You watched his blue eyes soften, his previous amusement dissipating.

"Well, we can't have that happening." He said, serious. "I would stop coming to quiz night."

"Yeah, right." Sam muttered into his beer.

"You'd be on the no entry list anyways, Buck." You said to Bucky, your tone lilting jokingly.

He tilted his head, the right side of his mouth twitching, his eyes looking like a sky full of secrets.

"You wouldn't do that to me, doll. You like me too much."

Your stomach dropped at his low voice, his words piercing right into the chamber of your heart he had unknowingly etched his name on. A breath got stuck in your throat, your usual witty banter getting lost in the sea of thoughts that only screamed his name.

Like an angel pulling you from a seizing riptide, your managers voice called out your name—saving you from saying something stupid, something that exposed how you had gone past the boundary of like six months ago, stepping into a dangerous territory that could tear you apart.

"Duty calls," you laughed out breathlessly, pointing a thumb over your shoulder. You turned on your heels and walked away like you were on fire.

Sam's low mutter made its way to you through the hum of soft pop music and chatter. "Get a room already, for fuck's sake."

Your shoe scuffed on the hardwood floor, your feet almost tripping over each other. You caught your balance—narrowly avoiding falling and making a fool of yourself in front of the guy you're hopelessly in love with.

You reached your manager waiting at the end of the bar, overcome with the desire to kiss her in gratitude.

"I need you to cover the bar while Dean has a smoke. He'll be ten minutes, tops."

You nodded your okay, used to covering the bar for your coworkers breaks. "Unless a pretty girl walks past, then he'll be at least thirty."

Your manager hummed in agreement. "Remind me to dock his pay for pulling that shit on Saturday. Boy gets enough tips from his flirting to make up for it."

You exchanged a small laugh, walking around her to go behind the bar. She touched your forearm as you passed, stopping you with a gentle touch.

"Word of advice?" She started, voice a little quieter. "Don't screw the crew."

You stared at her with furrowed brows, confused. "What? I would never sleep with Dean, that's just—ew, who knows how many untreated diseases he has." You visibly shuddered your disgust at the idea of hooking up with your coworker who was always chasing tail.

She nodded her head in the direction you came from. "They're your roommates, right?" You nodded slowly. "Hon, you look at him like you can't decide whether you want to run in the opposite direction or get on your knees."

Heat rose beneath your skin, your body freezing in mortification. You gaped at her, your mouth opening and closing until you pushed out a forced laugh.

"What—you're—that's ridiculous. You should get your eyes checked because that's, like," you laughed nervously, panic starting to burn through your rib cage, "he's like…a brother to me?" You phrased it like a question, your voice rising uncharacteristically high at the end.

She gave you a deadpan look, not buying a lick of your bullshit. Your shoulders dropped in defeat, your teeth starting to tear at your inner cheek.

"Is it…am I really that obvious?"

She sighed, her hand on your arm giving a reassuring squeeze. "I've worked with you long enough to know when someone is making you uncomfortable, when you're seconds away from exploding at a condescending customer, or when you want to jump over the bar and climb a guy like a tree." She paused for a second, pursuing her lips in thought. "Funnily enough, they all looked like him."

She let go of your arm, nodding towards the bar. "Now, stop thinking about fucking your roommate and get to work. I'm pretty sure table seven just ordered six espresso martini's." She gave your ass a friendly swat, pushing you behind the bar and making you throw your head back with a startled laugh.

You grabbed the docket from the POS printer, seeing an order for five espresso martini's and one spicy mango margarita. You walked down to the cocktail section, hands moving on autopilot as you prepared the margarita first.

Your eyes flicked up out of habit, your attention drawing towards the booth your roommates had practically scratched their names into—finding a pair of piercing blue eyes already gazing at you. The tequila bottle in your hand shook.

Don't screw the crew.

The last moment occurred during a typical movie night, where yours and Sam's raised voices warranted a domestic disturbance call from your neighbours.

"Oh my god, we are not watching Top Gun for the third time this month!" You exclaimed exasperatedly, throwing your head back against the couch with a groan.

Sam scoffed from his spot sprawled on his stupidly large beanbag—the one you're fairly certain is a dog bed for a Great Dane. "Oh, like your suggestions are any better? You made us sit through a fucking Twilight marathon a couple weeks ago! That's precious time I'll never get back."

You glared at him. "That's bullshit, Wilson—I didn't make you do anything. You chose to sit in that exact same spot and watch all five movies." A mocking smile twitched your lips. "And, if I remember correctly, you were the one asking me to pause the movie while you went to get more snacks."

Sam shook his head adamantly. "No, what's bullshit is your taste in movies—I only sat through it so you wouldn't feel bad!"

Nat and Steve were cuddled up on the couch perpendicular to you, their eyes darting back and forth between you and Sam like they were watching a tennis match. Bucky was sitting on the other end of the couch you were on, legs spread wide with a soda in one hand—his eyes shooting daggers at Sam.

You let out a harsh laugh. "Oh, really? So you crying when you thought Carlisle was dead was just you not wanting me to feel bad?"

"Yes!" Sam yelled, throwing his hands up in the air. Then he paused, processing what you just said. "Wait, no—there was no crying! I just acted sad for your benefit."

You opened your mouth to refute his statement when a deep, husky voice rumbled out from next to you.

"Sam," Bucky started, tone low and final, "stop lying, I saw you wiping your eyes." He continued glaring at Sam, his shoulders more tense than they were a minute ago. "Apologise to her so we can move on."

Sam looked at him like he had lost his mind. "Apologise? What the fuck do I have to apologise for?"

Bucky nodded towards you, darkened blue eyes still narrowed at Sam menacingly. "You said her taste in movies was bullshit. Apologise."

You were suddenly speechless—not sure how your usual movie night bickering with Sam led to Bucky being so…commanding. Protective.

You looked over to the other couch, catching Nat's eye—her mouth overtaken by a knowing smile. Your eyes darted to Steve next to her, his cheeks tinted pink and eyes squinted as he looked at his best friend—a sly smile partially hidden by the can he brought to his lips.

Sam shook his head with a disbelieving laugh, grabbing the TV remote off the coffee table.

Bucky reached out a long leg, giving Sam's beanbag a firm kick. "Now."

"Jesus," Sam dragged out, "chill out, man." He turned to you with a sigh, brown eyes glinting as he gave you his best puppy dog expression. "I am truly sorry for calling your movie taste bullshit. I will gladly sit through ten Twilight marathons if that's what you want."

He turned to Bucky with a smug grin. "There, I apologised to your girl. You happy now?"

A breath hitched in your throat, your brain freezing and going offline.

Your girl.

Said so easily, so naturally. Like it was a fact and not a mocking taunt.

Goosebumps prickled across your skin, a pleased shiver running through you at the thought of being Bucky's girl.

Bucky glared at Sam, the apples of his cheeks dusting pink. "Very." He said before leaning forward and snatching the remote out of Sam's hand. He turned to you, cheeks still flushed but eyes considerably softer. "What do you want to watch, doll?"

"…Shrek 2."

Groans erupted from three of your roommates, the fourth keeping his eyes on you while he shook his head with a fond laugh—the one that showed his pearlescent teeth and crinkled his eyes. The one that was your damnation, sentencing you to a life of yearning and false hope.

"It's the soundtrack, right?"

You nodded eagerly, a bright smile making your cheeks ache. "I knew you would get me, Buck."

You faintly heard a fake gagging sound come from the nuisance being swallowed by a beanbag, but you couldn't care less. Not when Bucky was looking at you like you were an astronomical phenomenon.

Condensation beaded glasses stained the wooden tabletop, chewed paper straws slowly disintegrating in melted ice. A half eaten bowl of fries grew stale in the middle of the table—your manager's attempt to get some food in her staff while they abused the (prepaid) leftover function alcohol, yourself included. The disco ball was still spinning, sending a thousand shards of light dancing throughout the empty bar, while an ABBA track murmured softly beneath laughter and gossip.

"I'm telling you," Dean said, spreading his arms over the back of the booth, "the ladies can't get enough of me."

The booth packed full of your coworkers vibrated with long groans, someone to your left loudly booing and your manager threatening to throw her gin and tonic in his face. You shoved his arm off the seat behind you, earning yourself a pinch to your cheek as his arm retreated.

"I'm serious!" Dean continued, pulling his phone out of his jean's pocket. "One of them even left a review about me last week—hold up, I'll get it." He squinted against the glowing light from his screen, bringing up the bar's google page to show everyone.

"Here it is—last Saturday: bartender was cute, would drink here again. Five stars." He leaned back in the booth with a smug smile, barely reacting when your manager ripped his phone out of his hand.

"Did you see who left the review, dingus?" She asked him, her mocking smirk overpowering his. "I don't know about you, but I don't know any ladies who go by the name James." She waved the phone in his face before going back to reading the review.

Dean recovered quickly, holding his hands up with a shrug. "I'm not opposed to having male admirers—they're some of my biggest tips."

You snorted a laugh. "Oh, I bet they are."

The table dissolved into laughter around you, the liquor and line cook's joint lowering everyone's inhibitions.

Your manager looked up from the phone at you, her eyes lighting up. "Weren't you also working on the bar last Saturday?"

You took a sip of your drink, lifting a shoulder in a half-shrug. "I think so? Was that the night we had two bachelorette parties come in?"

"Yeah, we ran out of cold brew because of them." Dean said. "I set a new record for how many numbers I could get in one night."

You rolled your eyes, choosing to ignore him like everyone else at the table. "Yeah, I was definitely on the bar—my arms are still aching from shaking espresso martini's all night."

Your manager leaned forward, her glassy eyes glinting at you teasingly. "I think this review is about you," she said in a sing-song tone.

You couldn't help but feel a little giddy at someone leaving you a review calling you cute, even if they were most likely stumbling drunk.

Allie—your fellow waitress who was sitting on the other side of Dean—grabbed the phone and read the review herself, scrolling on the screen with her eyes growing wider until a delighted gasp left her.

She looked at you with a beaming smile. "This James guy has been leaving reviews about you for months."

"What?"

She nodded eagerly, a small squeal leaving her. "This is so good, nothing this exciting ever happens here!" She was almost bouncing in her seat as she looked back at the phone, her excitement shaking the booth. "Okay, this one is from Valentines Day: waitress's frown is cute, I still should've bought her flowers." She fell back against the booth seat, clutching the phone to her chest with a dreamy sigh.

Your heart stuttered, the tipsy fog in your head clouding further. "That's—it doesn't say my name…" you trailed off with a nervous laugh. "It could be about any of the waitresses."

Your manager snorted. "We called you sourpuss the whole shift, you wouldn't stop frowning."

Before you could start your rant about how Valentine's Day is just another highly commercialised holiday and people shouldn't need a specific day of the year to celebrate love, Allie started reading out another review.

"This one is from four months ago: come to this bar if you want to see a real-life angel."

Dean groaned, "that's so fucking cheesy." He turned to look at you, "I hope you're not falling for this shit."

"We don't even know if it's about me!"

"I think it's cute," the new waitress piped in from the other end of the booth. "You've got a secret admirer."

"More like a stalker." One of the line cooks mumbled.

"Oh," Allie gasped, "this man has it bad. These are borderline love confessions." She reached past Dean, handing you his phone with the review page still open.

You hesitantly grabbed the phone from her, your heart beating rapidly in your chest. There's no way some guy was leaving these reviews about you…right? That just seems insane, like something out of a romcom. Or something that will end with a restraining order and you moving states away.

The phone faintly trembled in your unsteady hands, your eyes narrowing against the screen's bright glare.

James B.

★★★★★ a month ago

Wars were started over smiles less beautiful than hers.

Oh.

That's maybe the most romantic thing anyone has ever said about you.

You don't know if it's about you.

You exhaled shakily, shrugging nonchalantly as you handed the phone back to Dean. "He could be talking about any of the waitresses." You repeated your earlier statement. And then for good measure—"It's hardly a compliment—wars are started over literally anything."

Allie looked at you with wide eyes, bringing her hands up and shaking them in a strangling motion.

"Do you know anyone called James?" Your manager probed, clearly invested.

"No." You answered, ignoring the dull, tingling sensation at the back of your head. "No one significant."

"Well, even if he does turn out to be a stalker, at least he boosted our ratings."

Over the next few weeks, your coworkers had made it their personal mission to find out the identity of James B. Your manager had the brilliant idea to set up a weekly bar tab giveaway—for people to be in the draw they just needed to put their business card in a jar on the bar. What your customers didn't know was that every Friday after close, Allie and Dean were emptying the jar not to find a lucky winner but to look for any cards with the name James B.

It turned out there were a few more James B.'s than they were expecting, and there were no other parameters to narrow down their search. And much to their chagrin, you didn't recognise any of their names.

"Wait!" Dean exclaimed, holding a finger in the air. "Why don't we just reply to one of his reviews?"

"Oh," Allie said, leaning forward in her chair, "that's actually kind of smart. Maybe we could say we have a thank you gift for our number one fan?"

"Or we could just ask who he is."

Something about that made you uneasy.

After the night you all first discovered the reviews, Allie had drawn up a timeline of them which revealed this James guy had been leaving reviews for a year. And while they never mentioned your name, everyone knew they were about you—but you didn't want to believe that; it felt absolutely insane.

Majority of the reviews were brief and mundane, similar to the first one Dean saw. But a few of them…they read like poetry, like the pages out of someone's journal. They mentioned your smile, how your laugh could cure any ailment, that being in your presence was like witnessing a supernova.

It was beautiful and terrifying.

And every day it was looking more like a stalker than someone you knew—you didn't want to give him attention in fear that it could evolve from something harmless to dangerous.

"Already tried that," your manager sighed next to you. "He didn't reply."

Something in the atmosphere felt off when you shouldered the brownstone's front door open with a heavy sigh. It was well past midnight on a Saturday, and the soft murmuring you would usually hear coming from the lounge—Sam had a habit of passing out in front of the TV on Saturday night's—was nonexistent. You didn't think much of it, your mind single-focused on needing a scolding hot shower to wash away the ten hour bar shift.

Your work uniform was drenched and sticking to you uncomfortably, a crust of sugary cocktails and beer lining your skin. It had been one disaster after another—the beer keg soaking you as you tried to tap it, the cocktail shaker exploding in your hands, the new waitress who failed to call out "behind" and you ended up covered in a customers chili cheese fries.

You welcomed the boiling water, scrubbing your skin until it was red and raw. Visible steam swirled from your body even after you retreated into your room, and only then did some of the tension ease from your shoulders. Your fatigue ran bone deep—it felt like you were dragging your feet through mud as you slowly started your nighttime routine.

A noise cut through the eerily silent night, soft and faint, but an unmistakable echo from the room next to yours. It made you pause, your eyebrows drawing together. Then more noise followed, three breathy high pitched moans that the wall separating your rooms failed to drown out. A hot realisation curdled your stomach, rising through your body until it settled in your chest and throat—a tight, unrelenting fist clenching and making it harder to breathe.

Bucky had company.

Your ears zeroed in on the noises against your wishes. The last thing you wanted was to hear the guy you had a debilitating crush on fuck someone else. And yet, you stood frozen—your towel still wrapped around you, water dripping onto the floor, heart trying to beat out of your chest. Your nervous system had entered fight or flight mode, triggered by the sounds of another woman's pleasure.

Sweat started to line your back, your hands trembling where they were clutching the towel, chest stuttering as your breaths turned sharp and quick.

The moans grew in volume and soft thuds reverberated against the wall—then, a faint low murmuring graced your ears. A deep voice you would recognise anywhere, that you had heard through the wall plenty of times during your one year living there.

You snapped out of your shock, ripping open your work bag to find your headphones. Your phone shook in your hands as you searched for 'calming' playlists, your thumb jabbing violently at the first result. You turned the volume up loud enough to vibrate your eardrums, but the damage was already done.

You paced the length of your room, clenching and unclenching your fists in an effort to calm down—to will your racing heartbeat to slow, to tamp down the spiralling thoughts that made you feel like you were drowning.

You got ready for bed in a blur, trying to stay as quiet as possible with your heart beating wildly in your throat. The exhaustion that had your bones aching after your shift was lingering, but had been overwhelmed by the adrenaline surging through your veins. You laid in your bed, trying to concentrate on your breathing.

Inhale. One, two, three, four.

Hold. One, two—

It didn't sound like she was faking it.

The breath rushed out of you quickly.

You squeezed your eyes shut tight, clenching your fists and trying to focus on the sensation.

Inhale. One, two, three—

Bucky's bed is pressed up against your shared wall.

You grabbed the pillow next to you and pressed it against your face, something between a pained whimper and frustrated groan leaving your throat.

Did he like to talk? Was he whispering dirty things in her ear, telling her how good she felt, how much he wanted her? Did she get to hear him moan and whimper?

The music in your ears had become irritating, overstimulating you even more. But there was no way in hell you were taking your headphones off—your heart was already broken enough.

Did he call her sweetheart, too?

You slept for two hours, maybe three if you were being generous. The exhaustion won out against the anxiety around two am, only for you to jerk awake two hours later when the same noises echoed through the wall. At some point in the night your headphones had slipped off and you were defenceless against the noises your body had already filed as a threat.

Your nervous system reacted as if you were being hunted down by a lion, not overhearing your roommate-slash-crush have sex. It was a horrible way to wake up—your body pumping full of adrenaline and cortisol before you even took a deep breath.

The headphones went back on a second too late—leaving a scratched record of giggles looping through your head that the music couldn't drown out. One giggle that you knew well, that had you beaming with pride whenever you coaxed it out of him.

A silent tear slid down towards your ear, disappearing into your hairline as you stared at the ceiling.

Hours passed before it felt safe for you take the headphones off, and even then anxiety gripped your chest whenever you thought about leaving your room. Everything that had once felt safe, had once felt like your solace, now felt like a prison.

You knew you were being dramatic, knew that your jealousy and hurt was unreasonable. Bucky wasn't yours, he would never be yours—you knew that, you'd always known that. But that's the thing with crushes—they are irrational, uncontrollable beasts that mistake kindness for attraction, that disguise inevitable heartbreak as fluttering butterflies.

Opening your bedroom door slowly, you saw the flash of a towel dart into Bucky's room—two faint sets of giggles sounding behind the closed door, slicing into your aching heart. Heat burst behind your eyes and you willed the tears to stay at bay—at least until the shower could drown out your sobs.

You sat on the floor of the shower, staring at the wall while hot water rained down on you, each drop feeling like a knife piercing your skin. You sat there, unblinking, as your vision blurred—the water washing away your endless tears. You sat there as the shower stream changed from a burning fire to an icy bite, your body shivering but unmoving.

Nat's banging on the door about rising water prices snapped you out of your dissociative daze.

"Bucky! Oh, fuck—don't stop, please—"

"Yeah? You like that?"

"Yes—god, so much!"

"You feel so good, baby."

Thump, thump, thump.

You had taken your headphones off for half a minute while getting changed. All it took was thirty seconds for tears to swell in your eyes and a silent scream to claw at your throat.

It had been four weeks since you first heard them. Four weeks of knowing your crush was fucking someone else less than three metres from your bed. Four weeks of debilitating anxiety and heartache consuming you until there was nothing left to take.

You knew their routine; she came over every Wednesday and Saturday, always after ten pm. Depending on your roster for the week, sometimes you were home when she came over—subjected to hearing Bucky's low baritone greet her at the door, their footsteps padding down the hall past your room, the soft click of his door closing and the giggles that followed.

You fucking hated giggles.

By the end of the second week, you had put in a request to work the closing shift every Wednesday and Saturday. The tightness in your chest and churning in your stomach never faded, but you took some comfort in knowing you would only be in the same house as her for a few hours. You hadn't met her—you didn't even know her name—but you were envious of a faceless woman, a voice you heard in the dark, because she had the one thing you wanted but could never have.

No one brought her up—there were no casual chats between the boys, no probing questions from Nat. Apart from the first time, she was out of the house by six am—narrowly avoiding Sam and Steve leaving for their morning run. You weren't even sure they knew she existed—not until Nat gave you a sympathetic smile over a glass of wine, confirming that they did in fact know without uttering a word.

The usual nights the five of you spent together continued as normal. Or, at least as normal as you could manage. The space between you and Bucky grew—he stopped trying to charm quiz answers out of you, and you hugged the arm of the couch like it was a life preserver during movie night. The soft conversations over morning coffee ceased to exist, the nights of you two reading together in the lounge just a hazy memory.

The distance made your heart yearn for him while his proximity made your nervous system overload. It was a push and pull that sucked the life out of you, exhausting you until you were a shell of who you used to be.

When Sam asked you what your first heartbreak was you instantly thought of Liam Turner from the sixth grade. He was the classic class clown that both charmed and annoyed all the girls in your grade. He sat next to you during History and English, always pestering you for help and trying to make you his partner in crime. You did what any smitten eleven year old girl would do—you handed him a note. It was simple, you didn't even write your name—just "do you like me" with tick boxes for yes and no. You handed it to him before recess and watched with bated breath as he ran to his group of friends, watched as all of them turned to you and fell into hysterics. You crashed into your mom's arms once you got home from school, sobs wracking your body as you felt like you were going to die from the crushing sensation in your chest.

What you felt that day wasn't even a drop in the agony that consumed you when you walked into the lounge for movie night.

"You're late!" Nat yelled, her voice travelling down the hall as you rushed through the front door.

"I know, I know," you yelled back, heading for your room and changing out of your work clothes in record time. You made your way towards the lounge once in comfy clothes. "The health inspector would not stop asking me questions, no matter how many times I told him I'm not the—"

Your feet and words came to a halt once you reached the doorway to the lounge, your heart dropping to the floor and shattering into a million pieces.

Because there she was—sitting in your usual spot with her feet resting on Bucky's lap, one of his hands engulfing her ankles.

She was beautiful. And the complete opposite to you in every way possible. From the texture and colour of her hair to the shape of her body. From the clothing and jewellery she wore to the colour of her eyes.

The two of you weren't even comparable—you were from completely different planets, different universes.

It hit like a sucker punch. You weren't his type, not even close.

You're a fucking fool.

She smiled brightly at you, the white of her teeth glaring. You faintly heard her great you through the ringing in your ears, offering you her name. You managed a meek hi in response, dragging your wide eyes away from her over to the other couch.

Big mistake.

Nat and Steve were already looking at you with pity in their eyes, a silent "are you okay?" written all over their faces. Nat scooted closer to Steve, tilting her head towards the small open spot next to her on the couch. You knew the second you sat next to them that her comforting presence would wrap around you and tear away the last of your fraying composure. So, you did something you had never done before.

"Move it, bird brain." You muttered to Sam, squatting down next to his beanbag and shoving his shoulder to make room for you.

"You ever tried not being bossy?" He grumbled in reply, shuffling to the right so you could collapse down next to him.

Normally you would respond with something just as snarky. But that required mental energy that you did not possess—energy that was being drained with each passing second she sat behind you.

You settled into the beanbag, the rustling of polystyrene beads filling the quiet room. You tried to take calming breaths as subtly as possible, the blood from your broken heart clogging your throat and lungs.

"We're watching Interstellar tonight," Nat spoke softly. "Steve's pick."

You hummed, keeping your eyes glued to the TV screen as Steve navigated through the streaming app.

Sam stiffened next to you, turning to you with a peculiar look on his face. "What? You got nothing to say to that?"

You sighed. "Every white guy's number one film on letterboxd. Try being less predictable next time, Rogers." You said in a flat monotone.

A deep, breathy chuckle sounded behind you, and it took all of your diminishing willpower to not turn and get a glimpse of the soft smile that haunted your dreams.

You tried your best to focus on the movie, you really did. You tried to focus on the press of Sam's shoulder against yours, something tangible to keep you grounded. But nothing could distract you from the soft murmuring behind you, the sound of her giggles as Bucky provided commentary throughout the movie. It was something that you normally didn't mind, something you indulged in, even. Not tonight. Thirty minutes into the movie, your eye had developed a constant twitch from suppressing the urge to turn around and tell them to shut the fuck up.

At one point Sam's hand had fallen over both of yours, stopping you from picking at your bleeding hangnails. You didn't even notice the sting from the exposed wounds—too preoccupied with gnawing on the inside of your cheeks.

You walked into your shift the next day with another request.

You clocked into your shift on Tuesday afternoon with a sinking pit in your stomach. A feeling that you had become accustomed to over the last couple months, a feeling that had you walking the scenic route home at night, delaying your arrival. It was the feeling that you had started associating with home, along with the ache in your chest.

You loved quiz night—you loved seeing what stupid team names people came up with, loved judging them when they got such an obvious answer wrong. Once upon a time, you had loved seeing Bucky's handsome face sitting in your section, waving you over with an up to no good smile stretching his lips. Now, it all felt like a taunt.

Nothing was out of the ordinary—the opening shift said it had been quiet as usual, there had been a couple bookings from newcomers for quiz night, and the tabby cat that wandered the block came in to say hi.

And then, she walked in. Strolling in behind Nat and Steve, her arm looped through one of Bucky's, flashing you a kind smile as they made their way to their usual booth. In your section.

You wanted to scream. Cry. Jump into the East River.

The bar had become your safe place—which honestly sounded crazy, you hated half of the customers. But your home hadn't felt like your home since she walked through the door. And now she was in the one place that hadn't been tarnished.

She was nice, you knew she was. But she was a constant reminder that your heart belonged to a man who never looked at you twice.

You rushed over to Allie who was standing at the bar waiting for Dean to finish garnishing cocktails.

"I need you to swap sections with me—please." You said in a frantic breath.

She turned to you, her face already telling you her answer. "Hell no! I've got two tables of big tipper's—I am not giving that away."

Dean leaned his elbows on the bar. "I'll swap with you."

Your head whipped to him at a comical speed, your wide eyes meeting his unbothered grin. "…But you hate working the floor."

He nodded towards one of your tables—one of the newcomer bookings, a booth full of girls in their early twenties. A few of them were already looking over at your trio—more specifically, looking at Dean. You turned back in time to see him flash them a wink.

Your chest deflated with a relieved breath. "This is the only time I am ever going to be grateful for you being such a dog."

"I'll take that as a compliment."

"It wasn't." You and Allie said at the same time, matching deadpan expressions on your faces.

Allie turned to you, squinting suspiciously. "Why do you want to swap?"

You shrugged, looking at her forehead to avoid eye contact. "Just felt like a change."

"You said please—pretty desperately, too. It was kinda hot." Dean piped in.

You glared at him, choosing not to acknowledge his comment. You turned back to Allie looking at you expectantly. "Variety is the spice of life?"

She hummed disbelievingly. "Mhm, sure. We'll talk later."

Working the bar brought you no reprieve; every time you walked to the cocktail station, they were in your direct eyeline. Every time you poured a cosmo, shook a lemon drop, garnished a mojito, you could hear them laughing. You watched how she fit in like the missing puzzle piece, her body slotting perfectly under Bucky's arm—like that's where she belonged. You watched your roommates welcome her in with open arms and crying laughter, the realisation hitting you that she replaced the temporary hole your absence had opened.

Your knees were shaking while you closed up the bar, your hands scrubbing the beer grates with an urgency that was cause for concern.

"Hey, hey, woah that's—" Dean came up next to you, his hands gently clasping your wrists. "That's enough," he said, uncharacteristically gentle, "your hands are bleeding." He brought your hands up, your unfocused eyes seeing spots of red raised on your knuckles.

"Oh."

"Yeah, oh. What's up with you today?"

Dean led you away from the bar, grabbing a first aid kit on your way over to where your manager and Allie were sitting, working through the next week's orders. He pushed you into a chair, stepping back with an awkward pat to your head.

"I'm sensing that this is a girl talk so I'm just gonna finish closing the bar."

The two women turned to you with concern painting their faces. Allie glanced down at your hands and opened the first aid kit, pulling out supplies to treat the cuts. Neither of them spoke while she tended to your hands, watching your face closely.

"These aren't too bad, just scrapes." She said softly, packing the kit back up and sitting it out of the way. She clasped your hands lightly, her thumbs rubbing soothing circles on the back of your hands. "What's going on, sweetie?"

You looked up from where you had been staring at the table, seeing her eyes and your manager's shining with worry. A silent tear slipped from your eye, leaving a damp path in it's wake.

"Whose kneecaps are we busting?" Your manager demanded.

That broke you.

Your shoulders started shaking, your throat closing in on itself in the form of a sob. Your heart escaped from your chest cavity, rising up like bile. Your vision was completely blurred, hot tears taking your eyes hostage. You caved in on yourself, wrapping your arms around your body as your frame trembled like a leaf.

You couldn't even feel embarrassed about bawling like a baby in front of your coworkers, the pain you had been sheltering for months overruling any other emotion. Allie wrapped her arms around you, pulling you into her warmth and making you cry harder. Your manager placed a gentle hand on your shoulder, her thumb rubbing calming patterns as they both whispered words of comfort to you.

You gasped for breath, trying to get some air past the ball in your throat. "I-It's so—" your words broke with a hiccup, "it's so fucking stupid." You rushed out. "We were never—ugh!" You wiped at your cheeks furiously, willing the tears to stop. You gulped down a deep breath, trying to focus on the comforting touches and not the agony vibrating every cell in your body.

"We were never anything. God, I'm sobbing over a guy that—he was only being nice, and I made it into something it wasn't." You garbled out, the brine of tears lining your lips.

You opened up to them, telling them about how deeply you fell for Bucky in between sobs. How you felt like a goddamn fool, your lovesick heart reading into things and mistaking your strictly platonic relationship as something else entirely. You told them how you hate going home most nights, finding it harder to breathe the closer you got to the brownstone. You admitted to them that it's not just jealousy over him with another girl, it's something deeper—the fear that you've been replaced, that he doesn't need you anymore.

"…my sleep is fucked, I'm on high alert every second I'm home—I don't feel safe in my own home. Which—I know, it sounds so fucking dramatic. But it's like she's seeped into every crack, changing the foundations I built over a year ago. Now she's turning up here—on fucking quiz night, my night—and I just can't escape." You finished with a deep breath, feeling drained from your emotional monologue.

Allie, who had kept her arms wrapped around you throughout your rambling, lifted her head and looked at you with a mix of understanding and sympathy. "That's why you wanted to swap sections, because she was here." You nodded meekly.

She sighed and sat back in her chair. "Give me a couple days to clear out my spare room. You need it more than I need a second closet."

Before you could start sobbing over her offer a muscular arm reached in front of you, depositing a vodka cranberry onto the table.

Dean's voice rumbled behind you. "If it makes you feel any better, I've wanted to sleep with you since my first shift."

"Dean," both women next to you hissed. You turned to look at him, catching that easy-going smile of his and you started laughing—the first genuine one in weeks.

Thursday 6:18pm

Nat: Hey, you working late tonight? The boys are getting restless, Sam is threatening to watch Top Gun if you're not home in 10…

You: shit i forgot to tell you i'm working thursday nights now! sam can watch whatever mediocre garbage he wants :-)

Nat: We can change movie night to another night! Maybe Sunday? Whatever works for you x

You: don't worry about it, thursdays work for everyone else!

Nat: Is everything ok? I feel like I hardly see you anymore :(

You: aw i'm sorry natty :-( just been picking more shifts up at work - boss has me training the newbies! promise we'll have a wine night soon xx

"I'm moving out."

It was the Sunday after that fateful quiz night, the sun beating down on your four roommates as they laid out in the backyard. Sam was going on about some barbeque he had been invited to—telling the other three that if they behaved he would let them join him. Nat's head was resting on Steve's chest, half asleep while he massaged her scalp. Bucky was lying with a hand behind his head, shirtless, and reading his well-loved copy of The Fellowship of the Ring.

Allie had sent you a photo of her spare room an hour before, a bottle of Tito's sitting on the floor the only thing in the empty room. You couldn't put off telling your roommates any longer, knowing that once you moved out you would start feeling like a human again. You stood in the doorway, arms tight across your body—fearing for their reactions.

Sam stopped talking abruptly, Nat jolted awake and sat up from Steve's chest, Bucky slowly lowered his book to his chest. Nat was the first to speak.

"What?" She asked softly.

You started to shuffle your feet, looking around the backyard—at the fairy lights that flickered like dying stars, the small veggie patch Steve cared for like it was his child—avoiding eye contact with them. "You remember Allie from the bar? We've gotten really close these past few months and she was looking for a roommate—kinda felt like a no-brainer, y'know?"

You finally looked at them, your heart beat rattling your jaw. Sam looked speechless, his face frozen in confusion. Nat was looking at you with that assessing gaze, her eyes squinting like she knew something else was going on. Steve nodded his head solemnly, his features pulled into a frown that looked out of place on him. Bucky had abandoned his book completely, sitting upright with his pretty lips downturned, his sunglasses hiding whatever emotions swam in his cerulean depths.

"I can sort out getting the room filled—can probably pay double rent if necessary—"

"I'll handle it." Bucky cut you off, his tone gruff and curt.

You wrung your hands together, hating being under the spotlight of your roommate's attention. "Are you sure? It's a bit late notice so it might be hard to—"

That same curtness cut you off again,"I said I'll handle it, didn't I?"

He probably wanted his girlfriend to move in.

Your three other roommates momentarily directed their bewildered stares to him, just as surprised as you at his bluntness. Just like Steve frowning, this was out of character for him. You could feel his eyes glaring holes into you through his sunglasses.

Nat shook her head at his attitude, turning her attention back to you. "I didn't know you wanted to move out."

Okay, time for the lies—just like you practiced in the mirror.

"It's not about wanting to move out," you started softly, "it's just something that naturally unfolded. Her landlord upped her rent last month and she can't afford it on her own anymore." Steve and Sam nodded along, while Nat was looking at you with that unwavering stare. You didn't even want to glance at Bucky. "She jokingly asked me over drinks a couple weeks ago if I was looking and after thinking on it, I think it's the best choice for me. It's closer to work, cheaper than what I currently pay and, as I said, we've become really good friends."

Nat continued squinting her eyes at you, watching as you fidgeted with your fingers—your tell that you would rather be anywhere else.

"Okay," she acquiesced. "When are you moving? We'll throw a little goodbye party."

"Great idea," Sam mumbled.

"Sometime in the next week." Everyone's eyebrows shot up at that. "And that's not necessary—I'd prefer it if you didn't do anything; it's not like I'm leaving the city, I'll only be a few blocks away."

Steve recovered from the brief shock at how soon you were leaving them. "Let us know what day and time, we'll help you move your stuff."

"I appreciate the help, really I do, but my coworkers have already offered—we have Dean to do all the heavy lifting."

That made Bucky stir, standing up with a scoff and arms folded across his chest. "Did you think about us at all? Sounds like you can't wait to get away from here."

You froze, the ice running through your veins equal to the frost in his tone. "That's not—I didn't want to bother you—"

"How can you think you bother us after all this time?" He asked, the frost melting into water—revealing something that trembled close to desperation.

"Bucky," Nat warned.

"I just don't understand," He snapped, shaking his head and walking towards where you were stuck in the doorway. He paused in front of you, his sun slicked chest making your heart gallop. You kept your eyes on his chin—locking on the clef still visible through heavy stubble, resisting the desire to glance at his naked chest, or worse, look into his eyes. "Mind letting me through?" He muttered lowly, his frame now blocking you from the sun. You ducked your head, pressing your back to the doorframe to give him space.

"Buck—"

"Not now, Steve." He bit out, your body absorbing the heat radiating from him as he brushed past you. You stood still, head tilted to the floor until you heard his door slam closed.

"Well, that was…" Steve started, his uneasy chuckle filling the heavy atmosphere.

The shock of his attitude left you dazed. You expected some blow back from Nat—she could read you like her favourite book, knowing the emotions you held within yourself better than you did. You expected—hoped, really—that they might be a little down about your departure, but Bucky acting like this wasn't even in your realm of possibility.

"What was that about?" You muttered to yourself.

Sam stood up with a huff, grabbing a beer from the cooler near the table. "Fucking idiots, the pair of you."

You timed the move for the following Wednesday, not wanting to risk another night of hearing what you had labelled your own personal torture. You had been working nights since Sunday, avoiding any interactions with your roommates. The vibe in the brownstone felt off, the air tasting stale even when you were the only one home. Nat had been texting you for updates, apologising for Bucky's strange behaviour, and assuring you your friendship with her wouldn't slip away after you were gone. Sam continued to send you memes—he had an affinity for the gradient instagram reels—and Steve saved you the best strawberries from his garden, hiding them in the fridge for you.

Bucky was radio silent.

Tuesday 5:36pm

Nat: Just spoke to Allie - apparently you're not working quiz night anymore?? What's going on?

You: we thought the new waitress should work it for a bit! good experience :-)

Nat: You should come join us then! We would be unstoppable with you on our team xx

You: maybe another time? don't want the other teams to think you have an unfair advantage lol

Nat: Fuck what they think. We miss you! Movie night was not the same without you last week :(

A month passed before you saw Bucky again.

You had been texting Nat on and off, feeling an awful reluctance to seeing her. It had nothing to do with Nat and everything to do with you continuing to avoid the problem—your feelings. Because you still thought about him, religiously so. You hated yourself for it—hated your brain conjuring up scenarios of him and her, replaying the happiness that glowed on his face the couple of times you saw them together.

Your sleep had improved, at least. There was no anxiety constricting your chest when you walked home, no fear for what you might hear through the walls. Allie encouraged you to cry it out on the bathroom floor, over tubs of ice cream on the couch. While it was horrible to address and to actually feel the heartbreak instead of intellectualising it, you had to admit you did feel lighter. It was a weight off your chest for someone else to know your secret, to let you speak about the pain and not forcing you to move on.

Your manager was quick to approve your request to work the day shifts—asking if you wanted to get your managers license, to be her dependable day shift manager. You were elated to have something else to focus on, and the pay rise wasn't bad either. Working the days also meant you weren't there in case your old roommate's called in for a drink on their way home from work.

But you knew your luck was going to run out some day soon.

It was on a quintessential late summer evening—the kind where the sun was low enough to shine through the tree canopy, casting the ground in a scene of dancing light and shadows. Gravel crunched beneath your shoes as you ambled through Prospect Park, listening to the harmony of kids laughter, dogs barking, and a busker playing guitar. Walking through the park lengthened your journey home by twenty minutes, but on a day like this it was hard to resist.

You heard him before you saw him, too lost in appreciating the world around you to notice him strolling towards you on his trek home. He called out your name softly, hesitantly. And you would recognise that husky baritone even if you were locked in a soundproof pool drowning underwater.

Your gaze ripped away from watching a pair of swans glide along the shimmering lake, your heart jumping into your throat as you saw Bucky a few metres in front of you. He was wearing his gym clothes, the black compression top clinging to his chest with light patches of sweat. His hair was tied back in a small bun, a few strands stuck to his dewy forehead and your fingers twitched to brush them back. Soft sapphire eyes roamed the valleys of your face, his shoulders dropping with an almost relieved sigh.

You hated how your body heated under his watchful gaze in an instant—hated that he still had control over you and he didn't even know it.

"Hey," he said quietly, a small smile tugging his lips. He hesitated for a moment, doubt flickering across his face before he shook his head and stepped closer, lifting an arm and placing his hand between your shoulder blades to pull you into his embrace.

A startled gasp escaped you at the contact, blood pulsing in your ears as his warmth enveloped you. His other arm wrapped around your waist, his hand resting on the small of your back to pull you in closer. Your traitorous body relaxed in his hold, the heady scent of sandalwood, spice, and his sweat clouding your mind.

Fuck him for always smelling so irresistible.

"Hi." You murmured, muffled by his shirt. You kept your arms at your sides, knowing that if you felt his body beneath your hands you would backtrack all the progress you had made over the past month. You could already feel yourself slipping—comparing being in his arms again to lying in front of the fireplace while rain pelted the windows and thunder clapped outside. The feeling of being warm and safe despite a raging storm.

He rested his chin on your head, his chest expanding underneath your cheek as he inhaled deeply. The hand between your shoulders flexed, pushing you further into him. His chest rumbled below you and you felt his words more than heard them. "Missed you."

You stepped back quickly, stumbling out of his embrace. His brows pinched together and his lips turned down with a frown. He took a small step back and cleared his throat, a muscle flexing in his jaw as he stuffed his hands in his pockets.

"I—uh—how, how have you been?"

You folded your arms across you chest, focusing on the light freckle on his neck. "I've been okay."

"That's good, great. I—we've missed you." His throat bobbed as he swallowed hard and his voice dropped lower, softer . "Place isn't the same without you."

You had to leave before you did something foolish—before you dropped to your knees and pleaded for an ounce of his affection.

You cleared your throat, trying to rid the sudden emotion clogging it. "How have you been? How's the new roommate?"

Bucky's eyes flicked away from you, a hand leaving his pocket to rub the back of his neck. "Fine—they're fine." Splotches of red coloured his cheeks. "They don't compare to you, though."

What the fuck did that mean?

"Um—okay, well, that's good? I should—"

"Listen," Bucky interrupted you before you could flee from the increasingly awkward encounter. He stepped closer, his eyes locked on the gravel lining the earth. "I—I want to apologise for my behaviour, when you told us you were leaving." He looked up at you, remorse and distress bleeding from him so viscerally you could almost grab it. "I was in shock, I think—it doesn't really matter, I'm not trying to excuse it. I just wanted you to know that I really am sorry and you didn't deserve that." He closed the distance between you more, hands raising towards you before they dropped to his sides. "I—um, I would hate for that to be the reason you haven't come 'round—if you felt uncomfortable because of me."

It was resting on the tip of your tongue, the truth. It was begging to spill out, to tell Bucky that you were uncomfortable because of him but not for the reason he believed. You could handle a little attitude—what you couldn't handle was hearing the guy you're in love with treat another woman the way you had fantasised about since the day you met him.

Grateful for the fact you had been getting enough sleep to keep a grasp on your filter, you accepted his olive branch instead of starting a confessional. "Thank you, Bucky." You looked into his eyes, trying to express your sincereness. "I appreciate it, really."

Hope flared bright across his face. "So, wanna join us next Thursday? Your pick—I'll tell Sam to keep his comments to himself."

Guilt curdled your gut. "Thank you for the offer, but I can't make it, sorry. I already have plans."

If sitting in front of the TV watching New Girl and doomscrolling on your phone constituted as plans.

And just like that, the flame was extinguished. "Oh."

You interrupted before he could say more. "It was good seeing you, Bucky, but I have to get going." You stepped around him to continue home, giving him a small wave goodbye before focusing forward—walking brisker than the tranquil evening called for, your shoulders too tense for the serene landscape.

"Bye," he murmured, the sound drifting towards you with the light breeze.

You kept your head straight forward the rest of the walk home.

You expected the text from Nat the next day, knowing that Bucky would've told your former roommates that he ran into you. She demanded you meet for brunch at your earliest convenience, and given that it was Saturday and you had no plans you couldn't deny her any longer.

You were sitting on the couch putting on your shoes when Allie burst through the front door, her hands full of bags from the morning market and mouth stuffed with cake from the pâtisserie around the corner.

"Oh my god," you heard her mumble around frosting and sponge. "Guess what I just found out."

"Apparently not what decent manners are. Swallow before you talk."

A mop of floppy blonde hair appeared in your doorway. "That's what he said."

You rolled your eyes as Dean sauntered in with a wolfish grin, closing the door behind him. "What the hell are you doing here?" You shot wide eyes at Allie, wordlessly demanding an explanation.

She took your advice and swallowed before speaking again. "I ran into him at the market—he has an update on James B!"

A mix of anticipation and dread made your morning coffee stir. "I thought he stopped leaving reviews?"

Dean collapsed next to you, eyeing the dress you were wearing with approval. "You dress up for me, angel?"

You shoved his shoulder. "Not in a million years. What's the update, dumbass?"

He pulled his phone out with a sigh. "He left a review last night—don't look at me like that, I set up notifications for this very reason." He tapped on his phone before handing it to you, the screen displaying the latest review.

James B.

★★★★★ 13 hours ago

Quiz night isn't the same without her. Nothing is.

Your heart rate picked up, sweat gathering at the back of your knees.

What the fuck?

"But last night wasn't quiz night?" Was the only thing your dumbfounded mind could vocalise.

"I mean, yeah, but you're missing the point!" Allie interjected, standing behind the couch and leaning her head down to read the review. "Now we know he's a quiz night regular! That narrows the search pool down so much."

"Ooo, what if it's one of the old dockmen?" Dean giddily queried.

"They do normally sit in your section—or, well, what used to be your section." Allie supplied, wandering back to your kitchen to put away whatever trendy new chutney she bought from the market.

Your eyes followed her, catching sight of the clock hanging on the wall. "Shit—I'm going to be late." You jumped off the couch, frantically grabbing your phone and shoulder bag. "We can theorise more later, Nat is going to murder me for being late."

"Bye, honey!" Dean yelled as you ran out the door—stopping for a second to throw him the middle finger.

Nat was sitting at a table towards the back of the cafe, her crimson hair a stark contrast to the soft pastel interior. The atmosphere was buzzing and lively—every table occupied, with laughter and heavenly aromas wafting out the open door. It was the go to brunch spot for Brooklyn natives, it's covered outdoor courtyard an enticing location on a warm summer's morning—you were surprised Nat even managed to score a table.

Her face lit up once she saw you, standing to welcome you with a hug. "One more minute and I would've thought you were ghosting me."

You hugged her just as tight, the smell of her perfume relaxing your shoulders and making your heart clench—you shouldn't have gone this long without seeing her. "God, I know, I'm sorry. Allie came home with gossip before I could make my escape."

You both pulled away and sat down, reading the menu like you hadn't looked at it online on your walk over.

"Gossip? Anything interesting?" Nat asked, wiggling her eyebrows.

You let out a deep sigh. "It's a long story. One that's better told over a bottle of wine."

"Okay, now I am beyond intrigued—you better not leave me hanging for another month." She shot you a small glare, the smile on her face lessening it's sharpness.

The waitress came over and took your orders before the two of you fell into easy conversation. She updated you on what trouble the boys—Sam—had gotten into, and you told her about the time you and Allie were locked out in your pyjamas and tried to scale the fire escape. Neither of you broached the subject of why you moved out, but it was lingering in the air—in the soft way Nat said Bucky's name. Throughout the hour you spent chatting you noticed she didn't mention their new roommate once, and the curiosity was making you restless.

"So, how's the new roommate, really? Bucky didn't say much about them."

An out of place nervous hesitation tightened Nat's face, her eyes darting between yours as she bit her lip. After a tense few seconds her shoulders dropped with a sigh.

"Honey, there is no new roommate."

You reared back, your eyebrows furrowing in confusion. "What? But Bucky said yesterday—he said they were fine."

"Of course he did," she muttered under her breath, pinching the bridge of her nose. She looked at you with a huff. "The room is empty. Bucky…he's been paying for it."

"What?" You nearly exclaimed, your body temperature rising.

"Look, I don't know why he didn't tell you the truth—I honestly don't know what goes on in his mind, he has made some terrible choices the last few months." She placed a gentle hand on top of yours, her tone softening. "Choices that had you leaving us."

"I don't understand." You muttered quietly.

"I probably shouldn't be the one to tell you this, but—Steve and him were drinking after work last week and he admitted he's paying for the room—saving it in case you want to come back."

Shock rendered you speechless—frustration climbing up from your gut, opening the partially healed scars seared into your heart. Confusion, irritation, and heartache swirled together until they formed one emotion—anger.

Your hands balled into fists, your clenched teeth making your jaw ache. "I'm sorry, what?" You bit out.

You barely noticed the smirk twitching her lips, red starting to blur your vision. "Sam and Steve are out fishing today—he's home alone if you want to go bite his head off."

You didn't need to be told twice, the red-hot fury bringing you to your feet quickly. You grabbed your stuff with urgency, your hands already starting to shake.

"Brunch is my shout—go knock some sense into him."

It took you less than ten minutes to reach the brownstone, outrage powering your legs with a speed you didn't know you were capable of. The fresh air did nothing to calm you down—you were too consumed by the memories from the past year, the heartache you endured, your utter confusion at Nat's revelation.

Your fist pounded on the wooden door, not stopping until it swung open to reveal a puzzled Bucky.

His eyes widened at the sight of you, pink lips stretching into a knee trembling smile. Your dress caught his attention, his smile freezing as blue eyes trailed down and back up your body.

He cleared his throat before speaking. "What are you doin' here, doll?"

"Don't fucking call me that," you seethed, pushing him out of your way to storm inside. You barged down the familiar path to your old room, ignoring Bucky as he called out your name behind you.

You opened the door to find the room exactly how you left it—empty. You whipped around to see Bucky standing a few feet behind you, looking down at the ground with a hand rubbing his neck and a fire overtaking his cheeks.

"Why the fuck are you paying for an empty room? No, better yet, why did you lie to me about it?" You loudly demanded, just shy of shouting.

He stumbled over his words, looking up to see you with your eyebrows raised, arms folded across your chest, hip jutted out—the perfect picture of barely contained rage.

"Well, I—you see, it's—" he dragged a hand through his hair, blowing out a breath. "It's complicated?"

"Yeah, no shit. You were so pissy about me moving—it makes no sense! Just tell me the truth for once, Bucky!" Your voice raised higher, your hands flying around as the confusion and aggravation took hold of you.

Bucky's own frustration started to seep through, the volume of his voice a notch below yours. "I was upset because you were leaving—and you didn't seem to care about us, just running straight to Dean for help!"

He was upset? He had no fucking right to be upset.

Hot, frustrated tears flooded your eyes without your permission. "I left because of you, Bucky! No one else, just you." You stepped toward him, pushing a finger into his ridiculously sturdy chest. "And I didn't run to Dean! He offered to help after he watched me have a fucking breakdown over you."

His glistening eyes stared into yours, his eyebrows drawn upwards in distress. "…What?"

A crack had fractured the dam keeping you contained, your pent up thoughts and feelings crashing through and destroying the concrete barrier.

"Every fucking day I came home feeling like my world—my heart—was being torn apart—" your voice cracked and you turned around, starting to pace the length of your old room. "And I know, I fucking know, it's not your fault—that my delusional mind and hopeless romantic heart are to blame for reading into things that weren't there, for creating a fantasy of you—of us."

You wiped away your flowing tears, sniffling as you tried to catch your breath. "But now, you expect me to, what—feel bad for leaving? I was barely human." You let out a wet, humourless laugh.

"What are you talking about?!" He demanded desperately, his face shining with frustration and something akin to hope.

"I'm talking about the goddamn walls, Bucky! I don't know if you know but they're pretty fucking thin! And every Wednesday and Saturday night I heard you and her—I heard the guy I was obsessed with fucking somebody else and it killed me."

"I only started seeing her to get you out of my head!" Both his hands found their way to his hair, tugging the dark strands in frustration. "And maybe I wanted to make you jealous—which I know is a terrible—"

You closed the distance between you in two quick strides, reaching out to shove his chest. "Jealous? You wanted to make me jealous?!" You seethed out, your fists hitting his chest as your vision blurred. "Are you blind?! Everyone could see how infatuated I was with you." Your hits lost their strength, your cheeks growing even more wet.

"Hey," Bucky whispered softly, his hands gently encircling your wrists and his thumbs rubbing tender patterns on your radial pulse. "Breathe for me."

"No," you stubbornly whispered back, despite your panting breaths slowing to match his. You drew in staggering breaths, finally noticing how hard your heart was beating—your body shaking with every thump. Your fists unfurled, your palms resting flat on his broad chest—the fast pounding of his heart a near match to yours.

He let go of your wrists, his hands cupping your face delicately. He wiped your tears away with such care it made your heart ache. Your vision cleared enough to focus on his face, seeing his eyes shining with their own tears.

"I think we're both a bit blind, sweetheart. Everyone can see how smitten I am with you." He rested his forehead against yours, the space around you two growing charged in the aftermath of your anger. "Sam gives me shit about it every day." His breathy laugh ghosted your lips, leaving tingles in it's wake. His voice dropped low, "I'm so fucking in love with you I was leaving reviews about you like some—like a hopeless sap, hoping you would realise it was me."

His confession of love flew over your head, incredulity controlling your mind. "That was you?!" You gasped, pushing his chest lightly. "I thought I had a stalker, you idiot."

The memory of the night you and Allie read all the reviews ran through your head, remembering the disturbingly romantic details written; remembering the reviews you secretly reread like a guilty pleasure, going to sleep with a giddy smile and fluttering butterflies because someone was noticing you.

"That's all you took from that?" He shook his head minutely, one of his hands brushing down your back to cradle your waist. "I'm trying to tell you I'm in love with you here."

You stepped out of his embrace, your mind still picking through all the small details. "But—the first review was, like—" you started to pace again, your hands resting atop your head. "It was well over a year ago!" Your voice raised again, recalling how horrible you felt only a month ago—the heartbreak you could've avoided. "Why did you never say anything?!"

"Because I was scared!" His voice raised to meet yours. "I didn't want to ruin things and lose you forever!"

"Yeah, well look at how that turned out!" You gestured wildly to the empty room.

"Why are we shouting again?" Bucky walked towards you, reaching for your hands. You were both breathing heavily, the sound of your pants echoing in the emptiness as your chests heaved up and down.

"Because I'm mad at you." You finally met his eyes, the blue bleeding with regret and sorrow. Your voice dropped lower, timidness starting to creep in. "You…you broke my heart, Buck."

He gripped your hands tighter, raising one to rest on his chest—right above his heart. "I am going to spend every day until I die trying to make it up to you." His remorse polluted the air around you, tears welling in your eyes once again—this time from the pain clouding his. "If you'll let me."

"That's a bit dramatic," you mumbled, sniffling lightly. "Until you're fifty is fine."

He laughed, wet and husky. He let go of your hands to cup your face again, smoothing his thumbs along your cheekbones. Your breath hitched at the touch, the pain in your system being diluted by the drug that is Bucky.

He leaned in closer, his eyes darting between yours and your lips. "I'm gonna kiss you now, okay?"

You managed a small nod before his lips were on yours—desperate and aching, stealing the breath from your lungs. One of his hands shifted to the back of your neck, tilting your head to kiss you deeper. Your hands found his chest again, fisting his shirt and causing a groan to sound in the back of his throat. He took control of the kiss with no complaint from you—happily letting him suck your bottom lip before nipping it, opening for him when his tongue grazed your lips.

The first touch of his tongue against yours had fire scorching down your body, the intensity of his kisses settling in your gut and awakening the need you've had for him for over a year.

The annoying human need for air had you pulling away from his lips, gasping as you tried to catch your breath. His stubble scratched your skin as he trailed kisses along your jaw, tilting your head to reach the sensitive spot below your ear. He gave it a soft experimental kiss, his tongue darting out and drawing a small whine from you.

His chest rumbled beneath your hands. "You talk about the walls being thin—trust me, I know." He stepped forward, his fingers dancing down your sides to grasp your hips, backing you into the wall. "I know you like to beg, what pretty sounds you make when you're about to come." He trailed his nose back along your jaw and down the other side of your neck, nestling into the crook and sniffing deeply with a small moan.

"Wh-what? I haven't—I never brought anyone home." You stuttered out, head starting to feel heavy from the lust fogging it.

"No, but you still have needs, don't you?" He let out a small chuckle, trailing feather-light kisses along your collarbone. "You thought you were alone, thought it didn't matter how loud you let yourself be." He pulled back, bringing a hand up to brush his fingers along your cheek, making their way down your neck. Onyx eyes met yours—a shiver racing down your spine at the barely contained hunger in them. "I came home with a migraine and you were so wrapped up in pleasure you didn't even hear me—but I heard you. And shit, doll, the noises you made cured my migraine faster than any pain meds ever have." He dropped his forehead to yours, his breath fanning your lips. "I had to fuck my fist three times that night. I replayed every little whimper, moan, every gasp of please until it drove me insane."

A gasp escaped you at his admission, heat rolling through your body—a mix of embarrassment and hunger swirling in your core.

"And then, like it was the universe's sole purpose to bring me to my knees, you walked in the next day wearing this dress." His fingers drifted to the neckline of your dress, toying with it as your breasts moved rapidly beneath. "Looking like a fucking angel sent here to torture me. Like sin wrapped in white lace. I had to leave before I dropped to my knees and begged for a taste—to let me worship you."

Your heart was trying to beat out of your chest, the throbbing in your core escalating with every word he murmured into your lips.

"You kept on wearing it, and I had to pretend like I wasn't replaying those sounds every time I saw you—like my dick wasn't rock hard at just a glimpse of this fucking dress." The hand on your neckline travelled down to the line of lace below your breasts—his thumb stroking along it making your breath stutter and nipples harden. "I had to do something, I felt like I was going insane. I started seeing her to get you out of my head—didn't fucking work now, did it?"

The mention of her cut through the Bucky induced haze, and you hesitated—needing clarification before you could let him consume you.

"Are you still seeing her?" You whispered.

"Fuck no, we were strictly casual. I broke it off the day you left."

Your head reared back an inch, hitting the wall lightly. "You know that doesn't make me feel better, right? That you only wanted to sleep with her because I was in the next room."

Both his hands gripped your waist, squeezing gently. "Okay, that—that wasn't what I was trying to get at." He lifted his head to stare into your eyes. "What I meant was that you leaving really showed how much of an idiot I'd been, wasting my time with her when you were right next door."

"Why didn't you reach out, then?"

He shrugged, his eyes darting away nervously. "I didn't think I had a right to. I wasn't exactly proud of how I acted the last time we spoke."

You saw Bucky almost every day for over a year—you knew he didn't get outwardly nervous often, and you knew when he was being vulnerable and honest. The Bucky in front of you wasn't lying—you could tell he was genuinely worried he'd messed everything up.

You relented with a sigh, lacing your hands around his neck. "I think it's time you start making it up to me."

"Gladly," he said before pulling you into him and kissing you deeply. He pressed his hips against yours, pushing you harder into the wall. You gasped at the feeling of his bulge against your stomach, your core trembling and aching in anticipation.

The pace of the kiss picked up, Bucky's tongue licking into your mouth with a deep moan. His grip on your hips tightened and he spun you around, walking you backwards towards his room without removing his mouth from yours.

He kicked the door shut behind him, leading you towards his bed with his hands drifting down to squeeze your ass. You broke away with a moan, your lips swollen and chin tender from his stubble.

"Sit down for me, sweetheart." Bucky rasped out. You quickly obliged—your need for him making you ready to do anything he said.

He kneeled on the floor in front of you, slowly taking your shoes off. His hands trailed up your bare legs, stopping when they reached the hem of your dress.

He pressed a soft kiss to your knee. "You gonna let me make you feel good?" He mumbled into your skin.

You nodded rapidly, your hands clenching his sheets in desperation.

He clicked his tongue. "I need words, angel."

"Yes, Bucky—please. Please touch me," you gasped out, the sight of him on his knees robbing your intelligence.

His mouth tilted into a smirk, his eyes gleaming. "There you go with that begging again."

He clasped your knees, spreading your legs open. His breath tickled the sensitive skin on your inner thighs, goosebumps erupting and surging up to your core. He pressed light kisses along one thigh, stopping when he got to your dress and switching to the other.

You could feel slick leaking out of your cunt, your clit pulsing from the lack of attention.

"Buck, stop teasing, please." You whined softly, lifting a hand to push the hair away from his eyes. He nuzzled into your hand, turning to press a kiss into your palm. Your hand vibrated as he hummed low.

He grasped the hem of your dress, lifting it slowly up to your hips. "Lean back f'me."

You leaned back on your elbows, your body trembling with need as his hands scorched paths up your thighs.

He let out a low groan once your dress was up past your hips—revealing your soaked panties to him. His eyes locked onto them, his pupils dilating until only a sliver of blue remained.

"All this from a little kissing?" He brushed a thumb along the wet patch, grazing your clit. Your head fell back with a loud gasp, your hips twitching towards his touch.

"Sensitive," he mumbled. His hand moved, tracing the edge of your panties—you were sure he could feel the heartbeat pulsing in your core. "How long has it been?"

You lifted your head up, looking into his dark eyes—the desire in them reflecting your own. "Since before I—"

You cut yourself off with a soft moan, your body jerking as Bucky pressed his thumb to your clit through your underwear—circling it with a steady pressure.

"What was that?" He asked smugly.

Your chest heaved as you tried to wade through the sensations buzzing through you. "Since before I moved in," you rushed out quickly, another moan escaping you at the feeling of his touch directly on your pussy—his hand slipping underneath the wet fabric.

"Fuck," he breathed out through clenched teeth. He grabbed the waistband of your panties and pulled them down your legs quickly. He groaned out looking at your exposed cunt, and you tried to close your legs on instinct.

He gripped your thighs to stop them from closing. "None of that," he growled out lowly. "Let me look at her."

His hands trailed up your thighs until they reached your bare hips, yanking you closer to the edge of the bed. You fell onto your back softly, your breath shaking from the impact.

He pulled your lips apart and moaned loudly. "She's fucking dripping, sweetheart."

You clenched at his words, his teasing leaving you aching and squirming. He chuckled and pressed a soft kiss millimetres away from where you needed him most. He breathed you in deeply making your hips buck up with a needy whine.

"Bucky, please."

He dragged a single finger from entrance to clit, pulling it back with a string of your arousal connecting the two of you. You sighed at the small touch, opening your eyes to see Bucky suck the tip of his finger.

He groaned at your taste, hands grabbing the back of your thighs to push your legs back and spread you wider.

"Gonna make her feel so good, pretty girl." He slurred out, his lips trailing a path of fire up to your core. "Be a good girl and make those noises for me again."

He dove in, licking the same path as his finger. His groan vibrated through you and your hands flew to his hair, gripping the strands as you gasped.

"Taste so fucking good," he mumbled before latching onto your clit. He sucked gently, circling the nub with his tongue. You rewarded him with a tug to his hair and a shaky moan.

He picked up the pace, moaning as he went from tasting you to devouring. He thrusted his tongue into you, lapping up everything he could. The room filled with the lewd sounds of your slick and his saliva coating your pussy—with your unabashed moans and gasps bouncing off the walls.

He pulled away from you, his chin and beard glistening. "That's it, pretty. Being such a good girl." You whined at the praise, using your hold on his hair to push his face back into you.

Your hips rocked against his face, the flame in your core growing fast. He moved an arm to your hips, holding them down to keep you still. He sucked your clit harshly, your back arching at the pleasure he was unleashing on you. You gasped out his name as your orgasm built rapidly.

"Fuck, Bucky—right there! Please, I'm gonna—" you cut off with a loud moan, your body jolting from him lightly biting your clit. Stars started to dot your vision as he continued to feast on you like a starved man—like you were his first sip of water after wandering the desert.

The knot in your core clenched tight before it unravelled, Bucky's groans vibrating through you pushing you over the edge. You came with a cry, your hands yanking his hair hard. A blissful fire spread throughout you, making your toes curl and head float.

Bucky drank up your release, prolonging your high until you were shaking and trying to push his head away. He relented, moving back to kiss and nip your inner thighs. Your heavy panting filled the room, your pussy twitching as you came down.

You propped yourself up on weak elbows, your droopy eyes meeting his glazed, pussy drunk ones.

"You're so fucking beautiful," he whispered reverently. He moved back in closer, his breath fanning your cunt making you clench around nothing. "Another one."

He slowly licked at your hole, leaving your overstimulated clit throbbing painfully. Your arms gave out, a whimper crawling up your throat. You brought a hand up to your chest, squeezing a breast over your dress—trying to relieve the ache in them.

"Fuck, look at you," Bucky cooed, pulling away from you to stand up. "As much as I love this dress, I think you'll look even more beautiful without it."

You nodded, sitting up slightly so he could pull it over your head. Your eyes were level with his crotch, seeing the large bulge tenting his pants—your mouth salivating already. Once your dress was off you reached a hand out, palming his hard dick over his pants. You gasped at the heavy feel of him, your walls clenching at the thought of him stretching you open.

His head rolled back with a moan, a hand catching your wrist to stop your movements. "Not right now." You let out a displeased whine and his mouth twitched with a smirk. "Later, promise. Lay back down so I can worship you."

He grasped the back of his shirt and pulled it over his head, leaving you to gape at his insane torso. You had seen it before but you always adverted your eyes quickly, scared of getting caught staring. Now, you could stare and touch all you wanted.

You leaned up to run a hand over his bare chest, his body scorching beneath your skin. You trailed a finger down the hard ridges lining his body, a thrill running through you as his muscles rippled and breath stuttered. Your mouth found his pecks, lathering them in wet kisses while your hand teased the waistband of his pants. He grasped your chin, jerking your head up to look at him. His jaw was tense and eyebrows furrowed, a slight darkness shadowing his face.

He leaned down and placed a gentle kiss on your lips. "What did I just say, sweetheart?" He mumbled, his tone laced with warning.

Before you could reply, his hands grasped your waist and pushed you up the bed until your head met his pillow. He crawled on top of you, kissing your neck.

"Thought you were gonna be a good girl." He mumbled, biting the spot below your ear and making you gasp. He pulled on one of your bra straps, letting it snap back onto your skin. You gasped louder at the small stinging sensation, the slight pain dousing your core in gasoline.

"Please, I am—I will be. M'sorry." You whimpered out, tilting your head back as he continued his assault on your neck.

He hummed in response, sucking on your pulse point before trailing lower—his stubble scraping the top of your breasts. He reached a hand behind your back, unclasping your bra with ease before pulling the straps down your arms slowly.

Your nipples hardened more once exposed to the cool air, begging for Bucky's attention. He lavished your breasts in kisses, covering every inch of skin with his spit. One of your hands clutched onto his bicep while the other wound into his hair again. He continued to avoid your nipples and you squirmed underneath him, trying to move his head to where you wanted him.

He relented, licking a nipple before sucking it into his mouth. You moaned from the relief and the zaps of pleasure racing down your torso. He pinched your abandoned nipple, rolling it between his thumb and finger as he bit down on the other one. You arched off the bed with a loud whine, the pain and pleasure morphing into one. He switched nipples, dolling out the same sweet torture with moans lodged in his throat.

Once both your nipples were raw and aching he kissed down your abdomen, hands clutching your hips as his mouth worshipped your stomach. You giggled at his beard tickling your sensitive skin and he lifted his head, his blown out eyes meeting yours with a soft—almost unbelieving—smile.

"You're breathtaking," he whispered. "And you're all mine, yeah?"

"Yes, Buck. Only yours."

He hummed in approval, pressing a light kiss to your hip. "Good. 'Cause I'm yours, angel. I'm sorry it took so long for me to say."

He moved back down to where you were dripping onto his sheets, your body wound tight from your first orgasm and his teasing. He licked into you without hesitation, drawing out loud noises from you as he sucked your sensitive clit.

"You're so wet—wanna live between these thighs, doll."

A hand left your hip to poke at your entrance, one finger sliding in easily before your walls squeezed at the intrusion. He pumped it in and out slowly until you were begging for more. A second slipped in, both of them curling upwards and grazing the spot that had you arching off the bed with a sound you'd never made before.

He lifted his head up, praising you for how good you were being—telling you how pretty you sounded. His mouth descended on your clit again and his fingers picked up their pace.

Your head rolled around on his pillow, the dual stimulation to your pussy making a heat rush through you like you'd never experienced with anyone else. You could feel how he was paying attention to you, altering his movements to gauge what sounds he could pull out of you—getting to know what you liked.

The ball tightened faster than the first time, your body edging on being overstimulated. Both your hands were fisting the sheets, your hips grinding against Bucky's face and fucking his fingers—the obscene squelch of your pussy soaking his hand mixing with your moans and gasps.

"Let me come—please. Been s'good for you, Buck—"

You know you didn't need his permission to come, but begging and submitting to him felt so good. Your own words pulled the coil in your core tighter—his resounding moan shaking through you telling you how much they affected him too.

A third finger joined in and you clenched down hard, the stretch almost throwing you off the cliff. They curled into your spot over and over, his other hand moving to push down on your lower stomach—causing something between a moan and squeal to leave you.

"Course you can come for me, sweetheart. I want nothing more than this sweet pussy drenching me."

With one last curl of his fingers and suck to your clit, your body started to shake, the ball bursting and sending waves crashing through you. Your eyes rolled back and your ears started ringing, deaf to the borderline animalistic noises you were letting out. You clamped down on his fingers hard, your juices gushing out and coating his hand—dripping and staining his sheets.

Your head was up in the clouds, cotton filling the space your brain used to be. You briefly registered his mouth leaving your overstimulated and raw nub, his fingers still moving slowly as you floated through your high. Small, gentle kisses across your cheeks, nose, and eyelids had you giggling breathlessly. Your body felt heavy, your eyelids struggling to open.

"You doin' okay?" Bucky whispered into your temple, peppering more light kisses to your forehead. You hummed softly.

"Need'a minute," you slurred out.

His fingers slowed and then left you, a whine slipping past your lips at the emptiness. You felt a hand rubbing soothing circles onto your scalp, your body turning towards his warmth. You slowly opened your eyes to find him staring at you, electric blue lazily roaming around your face.

"Hi," you whispered, lifting a heavy hand to push hair behind his ear. He grabbed your hand and covered it in soft kisses, his eyes never leaving yours.

"Hi. How you feeling?"

You leaned in, nuzzling your nose against his. "Good—really good," you muttered before kissing him softly. Your hand weaved into his hair, pulling him in as your kiss grew more passionate.

One of his hands cradled your jaw and the other spanned the small of your back, pushing you into his bulge. You bit his lip teasingly, revelling in his body shuddering and drinking down the moan he let free.

You grinded your hips against his—gasping and whimpering at the rough fabric of his pants dragging against your oversensitive pussy. He responded in kind, rutting his bulge into you with a groan.

"Want you inside of me," you mumbled into his lips, throwing a leg over his to roll your hips harder.

"Fuck—okay," he breathed out. He pulled away to reach for his bedside drawer but your hand on his chest stopped him.

"Are you clean?"

His eyes widened and he nodded dumbly. "I got tested the other week—wait, I'll show you." He reached for his phone but you stopped him with a giggle.

"I believe you. I'm clean—obviously. And on birth control."

His eyes almost bulged out of their sockets, pupils dilating until they physically couldn't anymore.

"Are you sure?" He gripped your face in his hands, eyes darting between yours. "I only used condoms with her so I understand—"

That fact pleased you absurdly, your hand trailing down his chest to his groin—squeezing his heavy bulge. "I'm sure. Wanna feel you, all of you."

He pulled you into a searing kiss, rolling you onto your back and hovering over you. Your mouth moved against his eagerly, both your hands on his waistband to unbotton and unzip his pants. You reached a hand into his boxers, a gasp leaping out as you wrapped your hand around him—his cock throbbing and big. You briefly worried about the limp you'll have later.

He panted above you, his eyes closing as you stroked him slowly. You could feel his boxers damp with pre-cum, beads of it dripping from his tip. You brushed your thumb over it and he moaned gutturally, eyes opening as you pulled your hand out. You kept eye contact with him as you brought your thumb up to your lips, licking his pre-cum before sucking it into your mouth with a satisfied moan.

He pulled your thumb out, tracing his own along your lip before you sucked on it—twirling your tongue around it.

"You're gonna be the fucking death of me, angel." He groaned out.

He pushed away to pull his pants and boxers off, throwing them behind him carelessly. Your eyes zeroed in on his cock standing proud—your mouth somehow simultaneously drying up and drooling at the sight. He was the biggest you'd ever seen—long and thick, the tip flushed red with his need. Your knees fell apart on instinct, the fire building up just looking at him.

"Wanna take a picture?" He teased.

"Another time," you whispered, surging up to grab his shoulders and pull him back on top of you.

He chuckled into your mouth before it dissolved into a moan, your hips bucking up and smearing his cock with your slick.

He grabbed your hips, pulling them up slightly as he settled between your legs. You both broke off from the kiss with matching gasps, the feel of him sliding along your slit making you both dizzy. His tip bumped into your clit with each glide, whimpers echoing from your chest as you twitched from the stimulation.

"You're so fucking pretty," he mumbled, dropping his head to kiss and nip along your neck.

"Please," you whined, your hips rocking without thought.

He pulled back and looked down between you, groaning at his dick already glistening with you. He wrapped a hand around himself, tapping his head against your clit a few times. You squealed, starting to feel dizzy with desire. He shushed you gently, dragging a thumb along your cheekbone before positioning himself at your entrance.

His eyes met yours as he pushed in slowly, the intensity in them making you choke up. It had never felt like this before—never felt so passionate, adoring. It made everything feel elevated—your nerve endings singing with pleasure wherever he touched you.

You clenched down on him instinctively, your walls stretching around just the tip. Your chest heaved as you tried to relax—you weren't in pain, it just felt so fucking good.

"Be a good girl and let me in," he whispered, leaning forward to kiss you.

Your legs opened wider for him, your core relaxing to let him push in further. Moans and gasps filled the air around you as he thrust slowly, sinking until he reached the hilt.

The breath knocked out of you, the feeling of him filling you completely making your head rush. He moved slowly at first, small thrusts to get you accommodated before pulling back until just the tip was inside. He sank home with deep moans, his cock pushing against your spot with every thrust.

You wrapped your legs around his waist making him reach deeper inside you. He picked up his pace, his hips meeting yours with soft slaps.

"You feel so good—oh, fuck!" He exclaimed as you clenched down on him.

"Harder, please." You moaned out, scratching your nails down his chest.

"Yeah? My pretty girl—my little angel—likes it rough?"

You nodded deliriously, the tension in your core sizzling with every thrust.

He sat up, bringing your hips with him. He held them up and delivered harsh thrusts—each one expelling a gasp out of you. Your legs tightened around him, his strength pushing you up the bed.

The headboard knocked against the wall, adding to the symphony of moans, whimpers, skin slapping that was already deafening the room. Each sound had you soaring higher, each thrust kissing your cervix sending a shock through you.

Bucky removed your legs from his waist, clutching your thighs to push them towards your chest. Your wide eyes met his with a gasp, the change in position igniting a roaring fire everywhere. He dropped forward slowly, pushing into you so far you swear you could feel him in your throat.

He groaned into your ear. "This is—god, you're made for me."

His thrusts resumed their previous pace, your mouth falling open in a silent scream. Sweat beaded along his hairline from the exertion, his hair sticking to his temples—and he looked so beautiful, your eyes started to well with tears.

Everything rushed through you in an overwhelming burst—the heartache you suffered, the months of yearning and uncertainty, how much you loved him. How much he loved you.

Tears fell from your eyes as the sensations built higher and you grasped his face, pulling his forehead to yours. Your gentle kiss to his lips was a stark contrast to his cock drilling into you.

"I love you," you whispered, your words breaking on a sob of pleasure.

His hips stuttered, his eyes squeezing tightly. "You can't say that again or I'll blow my load." You laughed at his clear struggle to hold back, making him groan as you squeezed him tighter.

He continued his thrusts, wiping a thumb under your eye to catch your tears. "This is the only time I'm gonna make you cry from now on, yeah? Only gonna make you sob cause I'm fucking you so good."

You nodded, letting out little "uh-huh"'s as you climbed higher and higher.

"Play with your clit, sweetheart." Bucky rasped out.

Your hand snuck between your bodies to press circles around your clit—your back arching with a whine. Tears continued to track down your temples, wetting the pillow below you.

"Fill me up, please," you managed to get out between whimpers and sobs. Bucky's grip on your thighs tightened, surely leaving marks for you to admire over the next few days.

"Come with me," Bucky moaned, pressing a scorching kiss to your lips as his thrusts grew sloppy. You tensed below him, your body locking up before pure ecstasy barrelled through you. You came with a scream of his name, clenching down on his cock to keep him trapped. Your vision faded to white, your body trembling and pulsing.

Bucky groaned out your name as his orgasm rushed through him, his cock throbbing and pulsing inside you as he filled you completely with cum.

He collapsed on top of you, his sweaty chest heaving against yours. He slowly lowered your legs then wrapped his arms around your waist, nuzzling into your neck.

You laid there for a few minutes, the both of you gradually coming back down to earth. He pulled out of you slowly, the both of you groaning at the feeling. A mix of your releases dripped out of you, coating your ass and staining the sheets.

"Stay right here," Bucky said before giving you a chaste kiss, pulling his boxers on to run to the bathroom. He came back with a wet towel, sitting on the bed next to you to clean you up with gentle, reverent touches.

He climbed behind you, pulling you into his strong chest—a satisfied rumble vibrating your back. He kissed the back of your head, trailing towards your ear and giving your lobe a gentle bite.

"I love you too."

"When can we move your stuff back in?"

Bucky and you were still lying on his bed, basking in the warmth of each other as the afternoon sun trickled through his half closed curtains.

You turned in his arms, slinging a leg over his and booping his nose. "I think we should go on a couple dates before I move in with you."

His nose and eyes scrunched with that laugh you first fell in love with. "Oh, is that right?"

"Living together before you've even bought me flowers? Sounds a bit rash to me."

"I'll buy you a whole flower shop," he mumbled, his fingers tracing patterns on your bare hip. "Well, maybe not right away—I am paying for two rooms, y'know. Would be nice to be able to buy groceries next month."

You laughed softly, poking his bare chest. "Yeah, and whose fault is that again?"

He grumbled something unintelligible, hiding his face in your neck to lavish you in more kisses.

Wars were started over smiles less beautiful than hers.

The reminder of his reviews about you flourished in your mind, prompting you to pull his head away from your neck.

"So, you're James B? This whole time?"

His face bloomed red, a huff leaving him before he nervously licked his lips. "Yeah…"

"Why? Why start leaving them in the first place, why didn't you tell me?"

He shrugged slightly, lifting a hand to trace the lines of your face. "We were at the bar drinking, and some guy nearby pointed to you and said ratings must be higher with you working there. And—I don't know, I guess I was drunk enough to agree and then…it just happened?"

You furrowed your brows at him. "Why not just write in a journal?"

"Trust me, I was already doing that." He laughed softly, his eyes glowing. "I guess, in a weird way, I was telling you how I felt without actually telling you. Stupid, I know."

Warmth started to spread from your chest. "It took us ages to even notice the reviews—we only realised they were there because Dean assumed one was about him."

Bucky tensed under your hands. "Fucking Dean," he muttered.

"…Are you jealous?"

The blush on his cheeks grew, his eyes avoiding yours. "He was always staring at you, and you laughed with him like—like you did with me. I thought there was something goin' on."

Is it bad that him being jealous is turning you on?

"You have nothing to worry about, Dean is a gross womaniser who I only see as an annoying brother." You pushed at Bucky's chest, making him lie on his back as you straddled his hips. You pressed kisses along his chest, your hips slowly rocking against his. "He did tell me he wanted to sleep with me, though."

Bucky's hands grasped your hips harder, his face turning stormy. "I don't wanna hear you talkin' about another guy when you're on top of me, doll." He muttered low.

You leaned in to kiss him, your hips moving faster and drawing gasps out of the both of you—his dick already half hard under you. "You're so hot when you're jealous."

The sound of the front door opening had you both freezing—your former roommate's laughter drifting down the hall.

"Get dressed, lovebirds!" Sam's voice rang out. "We've got fish to fry!"

a/n: thank you to this pic on pinterest that inspired half the plot (i couldn't get the ho to fit into a moodboard 😔) yes, team, reader should’ve made bucky grovel HOWEVER high emotion tension filled make up sex is hot 🫦 bro is buying her flowers and taking her on dates every day for the rest of their lives 😌

[knowledgeableknitter]

The Shape of Staying

A one-shot. An Old School Avengers Tower Fic.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Cat Shifter! Reader (curvy reader friendly; no descriptions regarding weight)

Word Count: 8.8k

Summary: You are a shy shapeshifting member of the Avengers. Nobody suspects, though, that your favorite shape is a housecat. When Bucky finds you one night, he thinks you’re just a team member’s pet, not the woman who flees the very sight of him. One night you’re forced to reveal yourself to him, finally allowing your borrowed closeness to lead to something real. 

Trigger Warnings: Shapeshifting descriptions (fur retreating; vertebrae lengthening); unknowing non-sexual touch (like, she's a cat; he doesn't know it's her, and he pets her); angst, but hopeful ending (it's realistic).

Author’s Note: Reader shifts with clothes. Because it would be awkward otherwise. Also, I WISH I had the knowledge of physics and thermodynamics (but alas, those were my worst subjects) to really think about the concepts of matter and energy conservation and how it could be possible for a human to shape shift into both a housecat and a jaguar. 

Masterlist

You padded across the training mat on silent paws, each step measured and unhurried.

The rubber floor dipped faintly beneath your weight, releasing the sterile scent of disinfectant and old sweat that never quite left the compound. Every sound separated itself cleanly: Sam’s steady breathing near the wall, the faint tap of Tony’s fingers against a tablet screen, the high electric pitch of the fluorescent lights. Most were too faint for human ears, but not for yours. 

As a jaguar, the world arrived in layers.

You thought in distance, in angles, in threat assessment. The air brushed your whiskers; the room mapped itself by your nose. Your shoulders rolled beneath your spotted coat, muscle sliding smoothly under fur. 

The jaguar wasn’t something you wore; she was something you were.

Your tail swayed low as you circled the sparring dummy, paws whispering against the mat. Even in training, you conserved energy. No wasted motion, no unnecessary display. Only power.

“Okay, that’s just unfair,” Sam muttered somewhere behind you. “She’s like her own zoo.”

You flicked an ear but didn’t look at him. Distraction was vulnerability.

You inhaled deeply, drawing in the scent of canvas and padding. You imagined heat beneath it and the quick pulse of prey or enemy. The line blurred easily in this form. Your heartbeat slowed, steady and deliberate, matching the coil gathering in your hind legs.

Tony’s voice cut in, dry with amusement. “Careful, Wilson. One of these days she’s going to turn into a saber-tooth and use those teeth on you.”

You sprang before he finished.

Your muscles compressed and released in a single, fluid surge. You hit the dummy hard enough to rattle its base, jaws clamping around its padded shoulder. The impact vibrated through your skull, a satisfying jolt. You could have torn right through it, shredded the canvas and left stuffing scattered across the mat.

But you didn’t. Because control was part of the power.

You held, then released, stepping back with quiet precision.

A low murmur passed through the room. Natasha’s eyebrow lifted slightly in a silent acknowledgment of precision recognizing precision.

You let the jaguar recede, loosening her hold on your bones.

Heat flared beneath your skin. The shift moved through you like a tide reversing direction: fur dissolving, spine compressing, limbs reshaping with a crackle that never quite stopped being strange. The air felt cooler against skin without fur as you straightened, barefoot on the mat, workout clothes clinging faintly to damp shoulders.

Your chest rose and fell, fatigue setting in. The jaguar never tired easily, but you did.

Polite applause followed. It was familiar and almost lazy, because your prowess was expected. They relied on you to be formidable, to be the one who could become teeth and muscle without hesitation.

“Still only cats, huh?” Sam called. “What’s your favorite? Lion? Snow leopard? Don’t tell me you can do a housecat. That would be too cute.”

Laughter rippled outward.

You smiled automatically, rolling your shoulders as though the shift had cost you nothing. “Just the big ones.”

The lie slid off your tongue, delivered with practiced ease.

Because the truth pulsed quietly beneath your ribs even now.

It was a different kind of pull, not outward, but inward. A subtle drawing close, tight along your spine. Your bones wanted to shrink instead of lengthen. Your muscles wanted to compact instead of swell. The phantom sensation of smaller paws pressed at your awareness, light and nimble instead of heavy and lethal.

The housecat waited inside you like a secret.

She was tan and white, soft fur, and small enough to curl into the hollow of someone’s lap without drawing a second glance. She had a body built for slipping through doorways unnoticed, for basking in windowsills, and for existing without performance.

No one knew about that form.

You made sure that no one even suspected.

As a lioness, you felt command settle in your chest like a crown: steady, territorial, and unyielding. You stood taller in that skin. You expected to be obeyed.

As a panther, you were shadow made flesh: silent, watchful, and impossible to pin down. You were fearless in darkness.

As a jaguar, you were force: sudden, decisive, and unapologetically lethal.

Each big cat amplified something already present in human nature, whether it be strength, instinct, or authority.

But as yourself?

You second-guessed. You measured every word. You felt the weight of eyes on you like pressure against your ribs.

But as a housecat, there were no expectations to meet, and that was why you preferred it. Because in that smaller shape, your shyness wasn’t a flaw, it was natural and expected. A housecat wasn’t judged. It simply observed it and existed in it.

You kept your small shy smile as Sam’s teasing faded into other conversations. You kept your posture relaxed and let the focus shift elsewhere.

But deep in your bones, the smaller form hummed patiently.

Your favorite shape wasn’t the one that made the ground tremble.

It was the one that let you breathe without being noticed.

*****

You fell for Bucky in fragments.

In the way he held doors open without waiting for praise. In the quiet patience he offered the world, never interrupting, never correcting, just listening with a steadiness that felt older than the room. In the rare curve of his smile, the way it pulled hesitantly at the corners of his eyes as if the muscles had forgotten the motion and were relearning it slowly.

You noticed because you were good at noticing.

You tracked micro-expressions, shifts in breathing, tension in shoulders. You knew when someone was lying before they finished their sentence. You knew when fear crept in, when anger coiled tight. And with Bucky, you noticed a gentleness he kept tucked away, soft and restrained. 

It was more than enough to make you fall hard.

You told yourself it was harmless appreciation at first. The simple admiration of recognizing goodness in someone who had fought so hard to keep it. But admiration didn’t make your pulse stumble when his voice carried across a room. Admiration didn’t make your body hyperaware of the exact distance between you and him at any given moment.

When his blue eyes flicked your way, even briefly, it felt like standing in the open under a searchlight.

You didn’t know how to survive that kind of attention, so you avoided it.

One afternoon you sat curled into the corner of the common room couch with Wanda, a mug of chamomile warming your palms. The room smelled faintly of old books and polished wood, late sunlight spilling in through wide windows in slow golden sheets. Wanda was saying something soft and thoughtful, her voice a gentle hum against the quiet.

The door slid open.

You didn’t even have to look to know it was him.

You recognized the cadence of his steps, measured, almost soundless despite his size. A subtle shift in the air followed him, something crisp and clean, like cold wind off metal. Your spine straightened before your mind caught up.

He glanced your way and gave a small barely-there tilt of his lips as he crossed toward the fridge, and your throat went dry.

Your pulse began to pound, too fast, too loud, like it was trying to escape your ribs. Heat crept up your neck, staining your cheeks. You stared down into your tea as if the swirling steam might save you.

Say something, you told yourself. Say anything. 

Instead, your tongue felt thick and useless.

“I—uh, I should go check on something,” you muttered, already setting the mug down too quickly. A thin line of tea sloshed over the rim, spotting the table.

Wanda’s eyebrow arched with quiet, knowing precision. “Still?”

But you were already on your feet, already halfway to the door. 

When you were overwhelmed, your first instinct was to flee. Because escape was survival. It was the same in every feline form you took, but as a big cat you could overcome it. When you were just yourself, you knew it was best to give in.

The hallway air felt cooler, thinner. You walked quickly, heart hammering as though you had just outrun an actual threat. 

Your thoughts spiraled.

He didn’t even speak to you and you ran. Then again, why would he? Why would he look twice when you couldn’t even say hello?

It was like that every time.

If he entered the gym, you cut your training short, pretending you’d hit your limit. If he sat at the far end of the dining table, your appetite vanished as if it had never existed. If he lingered in the lounge, you suddenly remembered emails that needed answering.

The others noticed, of course. You caught Sam’s speculative glances, Natasha’s narrowed eyes. They likely assumed tension or dislike, maybe even unresolved friction from a mission.

It was simpler to let them believe that, because the truth felt unbearable.

The truth was that your crush on James Buchanan Barnes had grown so heavy it pressed against your lungs. It made you clumsy in your own skin. You, who could become a jaguar without hesitation, who could face down armed men without blinking, you couldn’t manage a simple conversation with him.

The irony would have been funny if it didn’t ache so much.

Late at night, sprawled across your bed in the dim quiet of your room, you allowed yourself to imagine it differently.

In your mind, you were composed and effortless. You leaned casually against the kitchen counter while he poured coffee. You said something dry and clever, and he huffed out that soft, surprised laugh you’d heard only a handful of times. Maybe he asked you a question. Maybe he lingered.

Maybe he looked at you the way you looked at him.

In those imagined conversations, your voice didn’t shake and your hands didn’t tremble.

But reality was merciless.

The moment he stepped within ten feet of you, your courage evaporated like mist in the sun. Your thoughts scattered and your instincts screamed retreat.

So you retreated.

You stayed silent, and distant, and safe.

You told yourself it was enough just to watch him from across rooms and to catalog his small kindnesses. It was enough to feel your heart tug quietly in your chest and never act on it.

You had always been good at restraint.

But restraint did nothing to quiet the wanting.

It lived in you like a restless animal, pacing, stretching, pressing against the cage of your ribs. It followed you into sleep and lingered between breaths. It whispered what if and what if and what if until the questions felt like bruises.

You wanted his attention, his smile, and you wanted to stand in the spotlight of his attention without flinching.

And you hated yourself for wanting it at all.

*****

The compound changed after midnight.

During the day it thrummed with conversation, footsteps, clashing metal, the constant current of lives intersecting. But at night, the lights dimmed to a low glow along the corridors, shadows stretching long and quiet against polished floors. The air cooled, carrying the rhythmic whoosh of the ventilation system.

You preferred it like this.

You padded down the hallway on small, soundless paws, tail swaying lazily behind you. The carpet fibers brushed between your toes. Every shift in air skimmed across your whiskers, translating the world into delicate currents and invisible edges. The compound felt enormous in this form: ceilings higher, doorframes taller, and the world reshaped into something cavernous but safe.

In this body, no one expected anything from you.

A housecat was harmless, nothing but a background presence slipping along baseboards and under furniture. You could enter any room and curl into corners meant for shadows. 

You could exist without being judged.

That was what you loved most.

You rounded the corner toward the lounge, already imagining the soft dip of the sofa’s back beneath your weight, the warmth left behind by earlier occupants. It was your quiet perch, for you to rest a few peaceful minutes before returning to your room.

But you stopped short.

Bucky was there.

He sat sprawled along the length of the couch, long legs stretched out, socked feet resting against the edge of the coffee table. A book lay open in his lap, one large hand bracing the spine while the other held a mug of tea that sent up thin spirals of steam. The room’s low lamplight caught in his loose hair, casting soft shadows along his jaw. His brow was faintly furrowed in concentration, mouth set in that familiar, thoughtful line.

He looked peaceful.

Your first instinct was immediate and sharp: retreat. Turn and disappear before he notices.

But his eyes lifted and landed on you.

For one suspended heartbeat, panic flared hot and blinding. You froze mid-step, muscles taut beneath soft fur. He was looking directly at you, seeing you, even if not truly you.

Then his expression shifted.

The tension in his brow eased. Surprise flickered, then melted into a warmer and softer expression. The corners of his mouth curved, small at first, almost hesitant.

“Well, hey there,” he murmured.

His voice carried easily through the quiet room, low and roughened by disuse, yet threaded with unmistakable gentleness. He closed the book carefully, setting it aside as though unwilling to startle you, and leaned forward slowly and deliberately, giving you space to flee if you chose.

He crouched, one knee pressing into the carpet, metal hand resting lightly against the floor while his flesh hand extended toward you.

You hesitated. Your tail flicked once, betraying nerves you couldn’t hide in this form. You told yourself you could still run. You should run.

Instead, you stepped forward.

Each paw landed carefully, silently, until you were close enough to lower your head and sniff his fingers, catching his scent: soap, clean cotton, and a faint trace of metal and oil beneath it all. 

He didn’t move abruptly. He waited for you to decide.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he said softly, the words nearly a breath against the quiet. “Where’d you come from, huh?”

His fingers brushed under your chin.

The contact was gentle, tentative at first, then more certain when you didn’t pull away. He scratched lightly beneath your jaw, right at that sensitive spot you could never quite reach yourself.

A purr rose in your chest before you could stop it.

Mortifying.

You leaned into his touch without thought, pressing your small body against the warmth of his hand. The purr deepened, vibrating through you, betraying everything you kept guarded in your human skin.

“Good girl,” he murmured.

The happy praise made something inside you flutter and fold in on itself, tenuous and bright. His smile widened, not the tight, polite curve he wore in meetings or training sessions. This one was unfiltered. It erased years and softened his entire face.

You had never seen him smile like that at you.

Not when you were standing across a room, heart in your throat. Not when you forced yourself to look away first.

“Didn’t know anyone around here had a cat,” he continued quietly. His thumb traced a slow path along the top of your head. “Who do you belong to, huh?”

The question lodged somewhere deep in your chest.

Who do you belong to?

No one, you wanted to say. I belong to myself.

But the traitorous part of you, the one that ached and yearned and replayed imaginary conversations at night, whispered something far more dangerous.

You leaned harder into his palm in lieu of answering.

He chuckled softly at that, the sound low and warm. “Guess it doesn’t matter,” he said after a moment, easing back onto the couch. He patted his thigh in invitation. “You wanna keep me company?”

You hesitated only a second.

This was reckless. Intimate in a way your human self would never be invited. He would feel your weight settle against him. He may absentmindedly stroke your fur. He would look at you.

And he would not know it was you.

The thought twisted inside you, sharp and bittersweet.

Still, you gathered yourself and leapt lightly onto the couch. The cushion dipped beneath your small frame. After a brief pause, you circled a few times before curling against his thigh. His warmth seeped into you immediately, solid and steady.

His hand returned to your back without hesitation.

Slow strokes from shoulders to tail, careful, almost reverent.

You closed your eyes.

In this shape, you didn’t stammer or burn under his gaze. You could sit beside him and be wanted, even if only as a small, harmless housecat.

Your purr filled the quiet lounge, mingling with the soft hum of the compound at rest, and you told yourself this was more than enough.

This way you could have his warmth and borrowed closeness in the dim evening light.

Even if he would never know who he was truly holding.

*****

One night became two. Two became three.

Soon, the choice to seek him out stopped feeling like a choice at all.

You found yourself slipping into smaller bones as naturally as breathing, your body folding inward with familiar ease. The world expanded around you as fur grew from skin, as weight vanished from your limbs. The compound welcomed you in ways it never did when you walked upright: its quiet corners opening, its long hallways stretching into soft, navigable paths meant for something small and unseen.

You told yourself it was harmless.

You padded through the sleeping corridors, guided by instinct more than thought. His room, the common room, the library, you learned his rhythms quickly. He was a creature of habit, whether he realized it or not.

You always found him eventually.

Sometimes he read, his posture relaxed but never careless, one ankle resting over his knee. Sometimes the television murmured quietly in the background, forgotten as his thoughts wandered elsewhere. Sometimes he did nothing at all, just sat in the stillness, shoulders loose, gaze distant.

Those nights, you understood something about him that he never said aloud: he was lonely.

His eyes would soften when you appeared, the tension in his frame easing as if he had been waiting without knowing it. He’d greet you in that low, warm voice, never startled, never suspicious, just welcoming, like you belonged with him there.

You would leap lightly onto the couch beside him, settling against the solid length of his thigh or curling into the curve of his hip. His warmth soaked into you immediately, steady and grounding.

And then his hands would find you, large, careful, and ever careful.

His fingers would sink into your fur with slow certainty, stroking from the base of your skull down along your spine. He never rushed, never grabbed. He let his touch linger, his palm broad and warm as it moved over you in long, soothing passes.

The pressure was perfect, firm and gentle and soothing.

You could feel the strength in him even through the restraint, the quiet power in his hands, the way he held himself back from ever using more force than necessary. His thumb would sometimes drift behind your ears, scratching lightly, and a helpless purr would vibrate out of you in response.

It was humiliating.

It was perfect.

You couldn’t stop thinking about those hands. What they would feel like against your human skin. How they would move across your shoulders, easing the tension you carried there. How they might press into the tight muscles of your back after training, slow and deliberate, patient in ways no one had ever been patient with you before.

Against your will and against your better judgment, when alone in your room at night, you imagined those hands on your waist or your hips or your thighs.

The thought alone caused an ache inside your chest.

You could never allow yourself to want that out loud. You would never risk seeing rejection in those soft blue eyes.

So you took what you could have: this version of closeness, this quiet illusion.

Sometimes he talked to you while he read, his voice a low murmur as your cheek rested against his leg. He’d comment on things absently, sharing thoughts he offered no one else. Other nights, he said nothing at all, but his silence never felt empty. 

You drank in every moment greedily, storing them away like some precious and finite resource.

Because here, you didn’t stumble over your own words.

Here, you didn’t flee from his presence.

Here, you didn’t feel like something fragile pretending to be strong.

You could exist beside him without fear of ruining it.

His hand would continue its slow path along your back, fingers threading through soft fur, and your eyes would drift closed despite yourself. You let your body go loose beneath his touch, trusting him in ways you never trusted anyone.

It was a relief that he never asked anything of you. You were nothing but a cat to him, so he never expected anything. He simply let you stay.

And selfishly, quietly, you began to need it.

Because here, in this small borrowed body, you could have the one thing your human heart was too afraid to reach for.

You could be closer to him than you had ever dared to be in your own skin.

*****

You didn’t remember when curiosity had turned into boldness.

At first, you had hesitated. You’d lingered at thresholds and stayed in doorways, ready to flee if your presence wasn’t wanted. But over time, his continued welcome eroded your caution. You began to follow him more openly, padding down the compound’s dim evening halls with your tail swaying in loose, unhurried arcs, as if you belonged nowhere and everywhere at once.

As if you weren’t choosing him.

He never questioned it, never pushed you away. Sometimes he’d glance down at you with that soft, private smile, slowing his steps without realizing it so you could keep pace beside him.

You treasured those small mercies more than you should have.

That night, the compound carried the fading echoes of training, distant clanks, muffled voices, the lingering scent of sweat and exertion clinging to recycled air. You found him just as he stepped out of the gym, his movements looser now, fatigue softening the sharp edges of his posture. A faint sheen of sweat darkened the collar of his shirt, and his hair clung damply at his temples.

He didn’t notice you immediately.

You fell into step behind him anyway.

He walked the familiar route to his quarters, boots quiet against the polished floor. You followed at a measured distance, paws silent, heart beating faster with every step closer to his private space that you had always deemed off-limits. 

When he reached his door and pushed it open, he waited for you.

You stopped, every muscle locking.

His gaze dropped to you where you stood just on the threshold, caught.

For a moment, you waited for rejection, for confusion, or for the gentle but firm ushering back into the hall.

Instead, his mouth curved.

“Persistent little thing, aren’t you?” he asked. “Come on, then.”

Warmth bloomed in your chest as he let the door close behind you.

The click of the latch sounded louder than it should have.

You moved quickly before you could second-guess yourself, avoiding the soft bed and leaping lightly onto the chair by his desk and curling into a neat loaf. You tucked your paws beneath your chest, arranging yourself into practiced casualness, forcing your body into stillness despite the frantic rhythm of your heart.

You tried to look like you belonged there.

But his room smelled unmistakably like him: leather, soap, clean cotton, and beneath it all, the faint, metallic trace of gun oil and something uniquely him. The scent wrapped around you, grounding and disorienting all at once.

The room itself was neat but not sterile. His bed was made with military precision. A book rested on the nightstand. His running shoes sat beside the wall where he must have left them after the morning’s run.

You drank in every detail greedily.

This was a part of him you were never meant to see.

He kicked off his training boots with a quiet exhale, rolling his shoulders as if trying to ease lingering tension. Then his hands went to the hem of his shirt.

You froze.

He pulled it up and over his head in one smooth motion, tossing it into the laundry basket without ceremony.

Your pupils widened, vision sharpening instinctively.

His back faced you, broad and powerful, muscles shifting beneath skin marked by history. Scars traced pale, uneven paths across him, some thin and surgical, others jagged and unmistakably violent. They mapped places where pain had lived, where he had endured and survived.

He was beautiful.

The thought struck you without permission, sudden and overwhelming. Not in the distant, untouchable way of admiration, but in the immediate, breath-stealing way of proximity, close enough to touch.

Your heart stumbled over itself. 

And then awareness crashed in.

He had just finished sparring. He was tired. Sweaty. Alone.

And you were in his room.

Oh no.

Your ears twitched, nerves igniting all at once. This was territory you had never prepared yourself for. You had sat beside him, felt his hands stroke your fur, but not this. 

You never imagined witnessing the quiet, unguarded rituals of his solitude.

Not when he thought no one was watching.

His fingers moved to the button of his pants, humming an old tune faintly under his breath. The sound was absentminded and unselfconscious.

Panic surged through you.

This was about to be a gross invasion of privacy.

Before he could go any further, you yowled and launched yourself off the chair.

Your claws scrabbled against the wood in your haste, the sound sharp in the quiet room. You hit the floor running, darting toward the door and rising onto your hind legs to paw frantically at the handle.

Escape. Escape now.

Behind you, he laughed.

The sound was low and warm, threaded with gentle amusement.

“Guess even cats know when to give a guy some privacy,” he said.

Footsteps approached, unhurried. He reached past you, opening the door with easy understanding.

You bolted the second the gap was wide enough, barely hearing his bemused, “Bye!”

The hallway air felt cooler as you sprinted through it, paws barely touching the ground. You didn’t stop or slow. You ran until distance dulled the immediacy of his presence, until the scent of him faded into the neutral emptiness of the compound corridors.

Two hallways away, you finally stopped.

Your tail had puffed to twice its size, fur standing on end. Your sides heaved with quick, shallow breaths. Heat burned beneath your skin, mortifying and inescapable, even in this form.

You sank back onto your haunches, trying to will your racing heart into submission.

His laugh lingered in your mind, warm, teasing, and gentle.

He hadn’t been annoyed. He hadn’t even been suspicious. He had just laughed.

Relief and an odd disappointment tangled together inside your chest, impossible to separate.

He thought you were just a cat. Just a harmless, curious creature who had wandered somewhere it didn’t belong.

If he ever realized the truth… if he ever looked at you and saw the real you, not this small borrowed shape but the person hiding inside it… 

You didn’t know what you would do.

You didn’t know if you would survive the loss of this fragile, impossible closeness.

Or worse, if you would survive his rejection of it.

*****

The lounge was nearly empty that night.

Only one lamp had been left on, its shade casting a soft pool of light over the couch and the low table in front of it. The rest of the room faded into gentle shadow, bookshelves blurred at the edges, windows reflecting back the dim shapes of the room.

You were already curled tightly against Bucky’s thigh, tucked into the warm space between his hip and the couch cushion. His body radiated heat through the thin fabric of his sweatpants, solid and reassuring next to your smaller frame. One of his arms rested along the back of the couch; the other draped lazily at his side.

Then his hand began to move slowly and absentmindedly.

His fingers slid between your ears, careful as always, stroking down the curve of your skull and along your spine. He traced the line of your back with deliberate gentleness, never pressing too hard, never gripping. Even distracted, he handled you like something precious.

You purred before you could stop yourself.

The vibration rose from deep in your chest, filling the quiet space between you. His thumb shifted, rubbing lightly behind your ear in response, as though the sound pleased him.

For a while, he said nothing.

His breathing was slow and measured, but you could feel tension beneath it, subtle and coiled. His fingers would move, pause, then resume. At times they tightened almost imperceptibly in your fur before easing again. His gaze wasn’t on the television or the darkened windows. It was fixed somewhere far beyond the room.

You recognized that look.

After a long silence, he exhaled through his nose, the sound faint but weighted.

His fingers continued their steady path along your back.

“You know, there’s this woman on the team,” he went on, tone careful, almost casual. “Strong as hell. Fast. Smart. Turns into those big cats like it’s nothing.” A faint breath of something that might have been admiration slipped into his voice. “She’s incredible.”

Your entire body went rigid.

If he noticed, he gave no sign. His hand kept moving, smoothing over your fur in long, thoughtful strokes.

“But every time I walk into a room,” he said, a humorless huff escaping him, “she leaves. Won’t look at me. Won’t stick around long enough for me to say more than a word or two.”

His jaw tightened slightly beneath the lamplight.

“Guess I can’t blame her.”

The words landed heavier.

“With a past like mine…” He trailed off, thumb rubbing slow circles just behind your ear, as if grounding himself. “I probably make her nervous. Wouldn’t be the first time.”

Your chest felt too small for your heart.

He thought you were afraid of him.

The irony was so sharp it almost hurt.

“Besides,” he added softly, gaze dropping to some unseen point on the floor, “why would she want anything to do with a guy like me?”

You pressed closer without thinking, your small body fitting more tightly against his thigh. If you could have climbed inside his mind to shake that thought loose, you would have.

His hand stilled briefly at the shift, then resumed, slower now.

“Don’t know why I’m telling you this,” he murmured. “You’re just a cat.”

His mouth curved faintly, not quite a smile.

“Maybe that’s why it’s easier.”

The confession settled between you.

He adjusted his hand, thumb stroking beneath your chin this time, drawing another helpless purr from you.

“Funny thing is,” he continued, voice softer now, “I don’t think she’s scared of fights. Or missions. She’s got more courage than most people I know.” A pause. “But around me? It’s like I’m something she needs to… outrun.”

Your stomach twisted.

You were never running from him.

You just hadn’t wanted to make a complete fool of yourself in front of him.

“Hey,” he added after a moment, tone slightly lighter, a bit self-deprecating. “You’re a cat. She’s kind of a bigger cat.” His fingers scratched gently at the base of your neck. “Think you could put in a good word for me?”

A quiet breath of laughter followed. “Yeah. Didn’t think so.”

Each word pierced you clean through.

Your purr filled the space, trembling faintly now with everything you couldn’t say.

He mistook it for comfort.

His loneliness wrapped around you, threading through the air like the low hum of the compound itself. He had offered you something raw and unguarded: his insecurity, his fear of being unwanted.

And in this form you could only answer with the steady vibration of a creature he believed incapable of understanding him.

He thought he frightened you, when in truth, he made you too nervous to breathe.

The ache of it settled deep in your chest.

All those moments you had fled the room, cheeks burning, heart racing, he had read them as proof that he was too damaged to be wanted.

You burned to undo that damage more than anything.

You wanted to shift right there in his lap. You wanted to let bones stretch and fur recede and skin return so you could take his face in your hands and tell him the truth. That he didn’t scare you. That you thought he was kind and gentle and beautiful.

That you weren’t afraid of him. 

But if you did that, then he would know. He would know that the unwitting feline that had been his companion on lonely nights… was you. And this fragile connection you had with him would be gone forever. 

But of all people, didn’t he deserve to know the truth? Wouldn’t the loss of his presence in your life be a small price to pay to right the false image of himself that your own actions had given him?

He had placed his heart, into the lap of a cat, while the woman trembled inside, unable to speak.

Your purr faltered beneath his hand before it died altogether.

The sound of your heartbeat filled your ears, drowning out the soft hum of electricity in the walls, the distant rush of ventilation, even the steady rhythm of his breathing above you.

You couldn’t stay like this.

Not after what he had said. Not after he had admitted his own insecurities in that quiet, unguarded voice, thinking you were nothing more than a warm, uncomprehending presence curled against his side.

Your body suddenly felt too dishonest. The borrowed shape clung to you like a lie.

Before you could retreat into instinct, before fear could convince you to wait, to hide, to preserve the precarious safety you had built, you pushed up on unsteady paws and stepped out from beneath the cradle of his hand.

The loss of contact was immediate and sharp.

For a fraction of a second, he glanced down at you, confusion knitting his brow at the abrupt absence of your weight.

Then you stepped back on the cushion and changed.

The shift rippled through you in a wave, fur withdrawing in a whispering sweep beneath your skin. Your spine lengthened vertebra by vertebra, a muted crackle threading up your back. Limbs stretched, reshaped; paws unfurled into trembling hands that caught against the couch cushion for balance. The world tilted and reoriented as your center of gravity rose, the familiar heaviness of your human body settling back into place.

Warmth vanished.

His thigh was no longer beneath you. The steady rise and fall of his breathing was no longer pressed against your ribs.

Cold air kissed skin that had been shielded moments before. Your hair spilled loose around your shoulders. Your lungs struggled to draw in a full breath.

You were sitting beside him now, human, shaking, and painfully exposed.

Bucky froze.

His hand remained suspended in midair, fingers curved as if still expecting fur beneath them. His blue eyes widened, not in anger yet, but in pure, unfiltered shock. You watched understanding dawn in increments: confusion, disbelief, realization crashing in behind it.

For a heartbeat, neither of you moved.

The lamplight seemed harsher suddenly, throwing sharper lines across his face. The room felt smaller, the quiet heavier, pressing in against your ribs.

“I’m not afraid of you,” you said.

Your voice came out thinner than you intended, but steady enough to be understood.

His gaze snapped fully to yours. The shock hadn’t faded, but it had sharpened into something more focused now, searching, wary, trying to reconcile what he was now seeing with weeks of his lived experiences.

“I never was,” you continued, the words rushing before you could lose them. “I just… I don’t know how to talk to you. I get in my head. I say the wrong thing. So I run.” Heat crept up your neck, flushing your cheeks. “It’s easier when I’m a cat.”

The admission hung between you, exposed and humiliating.

You dropped your eyes, unable to withstand the intensity of his stare. Your fingers twisted together in your lap, knuckles whitening with the pressure. Shame pooled low and heavy in your stomach.

You had thought it was harmless at first, no more than a small indulgence. You saw it as a quiet way to sit beside him without risking humiliation or rejection. But now, sitting there in your own skin, you could see it so much more clearly: the secrecy, the blurred line between comfort and deception.

“I didn’t mean to trick you,” you added, voice softer now. “I… like you. And I just wanted to be near you.”

And that was the truth, stripped down to its simplest, most vulnerable shape.

You wanted to sit beside him and be wanted. Your heart hurt with the knowledge of how you had ruined the possibility of that now.

“I’m sorry.”

The words felt insufficient the moment they left you, insignificant against the weight of what you had done. You had let him confide in you, let him believe he was talking to an unknowing animal, let him pet you, an intimacy he surely never would have knowingly invited.

You couldn’t bear to watch his expression shift into anger. Or worse: disgust.

So you stood before the silence could stretch any further.

Retreat was easier than waiting for judgment.

You rose from the couch on unsteady legs, the distance between you widening by inches that felt like miles. Your heart pounded so hard it bordered on painful, each beat echoing in your throat.

“I’ll go,” you said, already stepping back. “You don’t have to say anything. I just—needed you to know.”

The admission left your mouth and you’d have sworn you died a little inside. But you needed him to know you weren’t afraid, that you cared, even though it had been in feline form.

Even though it cost you everything.

You turned toward the hallway, the words still hanging between you.

The space behind you seemed to stretch, widening with every inch you put between yourself and the couch. Every step toward the doorway felt like peeling something raw from your chest.

Your pulse thundered in your ears. You didn’t look back, you couldn’t.

So you walked.

Each step felt unsteady, like the ground had shifted and never fully settled after your transformation. The cool floor beneath your bare feet made you acutely aware of your human weight, of the vulnerability of skin nails instead of fur and claws. There was no shrinking from this, no slipping into smallness to soften the blow.

You had told him the truth.

And now you would accept whatever came next.

The doorway loomed closer. Just a few more steps and you could escape into the dim hallway, into distance, into the safety of being alone with your humiliation.

Behind you, the room remained quiet.

The thought of how much you just lost hollowed your heart.

You had wanted him to know the truth.

You just hadn’t been ready to lose him the moment you said it.

*****

Bucky was stunned.

The shock locked him down, seizing his muscles, freezing him exactly where he sat. One second there had been the steady weight of a small feline body curled against his thigh, the soft vibration of a purr beneath his palm.

The next, there had been you.

Human, and shaking, and looking at him like you were bracing for impact.

His hand still hung in the air where fur had been.

His brain lagged behind his eyes. It replayed the last few seconds in fractured pieces: the sudden absence of warmth, the ripple of movement, the impossible lengthening of bone and limb. 

And then you had spoken.

Not afraid of him.

Easier as a cat.

Wanted to be near him.

The words overlapped in his head, colliding with weeks of quiet evenings, the steady rhythm of a purr against his leg, confessions he had let slip into dim lamplight because he had thought he was alone.

He stayed seated and watched you rise like you were already preparing for exile. 

The space beside him felt colder now, like something essential had been yanked away without warning.

The lamp cast long shadows across the lounge, catching in the tension of your shoulders, the rigid line of your curled spine, your fingers twisting together.

He sat there, silent, as you took your first step away.

Shock still held him fast, but it was fading now, giving way to a need for clarity.

Questions rose, quick and unwelcome:

Did you plan this from the start?

Had every quiet night been calculated?

What was the end goal here?

He suddenly realized that if he let you walk out now, he might not get the truth later.

“Hey—wait.”

The words tore out of him before he could temper it, rough with shock and something sharper underneath. It scraped his throat on the way out, like his voice hadn’t quite caught up to the reality his eyes had just witnessed.

You stopped, your shoulders tightening and your step faltering. You hadn’t expected to be stopped. 

You didn’t turn immediately. You stood there, caught halfway between staying and fleeing, like a startled animal deciding whether the threat behind it would give chase.

The couch creaked as he pushed himself upright. His muscles felt stiff, delayed, like they had spent too long locked in disbelief. For several seconds after you had changed, he hadn’t been able to breathe, hadn’t trusted himself to move. His mind had been too busy trying to reconcile two incompatible truths: the warm, quiet creature that had curled against him night after night, and the woman now standing in its place, trembling under the same lamplight.

“We’re not done. Don’t just walk out like that,” he said.

This time his voice was steadier. You glanced back over your shoulder.

The sight of your face hit harder than the transformation had.

Your eyes shone, not with defiance, but defeat. Your expression wasn’t defensive. It was resigned, like you had already decided what he must think of you and were bracing yourself to accept it.

He closed the distance between you slowly, each step deliberate. He didn’t reach for you or block your path. He stopped close enough to see you clearly, but far enough that you could still leave if you chose.

“I need to understand,” he said.

Up close, the details became impossible to ignore: the faint tremor in your hands, the way your fingers curled inward, like you were trying to make yourself smaller, your jaw was locked too tight, your breathing uneven.

You weren’t standing your ground.

You were enduring.

The realization didn’t softening the situation, but sharpened it. You weren’t someone caught in a lie trying to justify it, you were just waiting for the verdict.

“That first night…” he asked carefully. “Did you seek me out?”

Your reaction was immediate.

“No. Absolutely not.”

Your eyes widened, horrified at the implication.

“I didn’t plan it. I was just going to nap on the couch… But you were there…” Your voice faltered, fragile but insistent. “And it was so simple at first. You didn’t expect anything. And I wasn’t going to say the wrong thing. And then it kept happening, and the longer it went on, the harder it was to stop… And by then I knew where you like to be quiet… And I liked being near you…”

The honesty in it disarmed him more than pure denial would have.

You hadn’t tried to reshape the truth into something cleaner. You hadn’t minimized it. You had simply admitted it, raw and unprotected.

He held your gaze, searching for any sign of calculation, but didn’t find it.

“You say you wanted to be near me,” he said. “So what did you think was going to happen?”

Your throat moved as you swallowed.

“Nothing was supposed to happen.”

The words sounded smaller now. Less certain.

He studied you, weighing them against what he knew. Against quiet nights and steady breathing. Against the weight of a small body pressed against his side while he said things aloud he had never trusted another person to hear.

“You knew that it wouldn’t stay simple,” he replied. His voice wasn’t accusing. Just honest. “There’s no way you could sit there night after night, listening to me talk about things I don’t say to anyone else, and not think about where that leads.”

Your gaze fell.

“I didn’t think that far ahead.”

He believed you.

Not that it excused anything, but it fit. Because nothing about you, in hindsight, had felt orchestrated. You hadn’t steered him. Hadn’t lingered with intent. You had simply existed beside him, quiet and warm and steady.

He dragged a hand over his face, trying to make sense of the situation

“Were you going to tell me?”

The question lingered between you.

Your silence answered first. Then, quietly, “I didn’t know how.”

He believed that, too. 

Because he remembered the night cat-you had followed him to his room. The startled yowl and panic in your movements when he had reached for his pants, the frantic scramble of claws against hardwood as you fled.

There had been no manipulation in that, only embarrassment.

And yet.

“You let me believe I was talking to an animal that didn’t understand. When it was you.”

The words settled heavier than he intended and he saw you flinch.

Your head snapped up, apology filling across your face. “I didn’t mean to. I swear. You were talking. I didn’t—” You stopped yourself, voice trembling under the strain. 

You took a deep breath, “I didn’t want to leave, because that felt like a rejection. And…” you hesitated with this much honesty, “you seemed as lonely as I was.”

He could see the effort it took just to stand there, to remain instead of retreating into the safety of fur and silence.

“But I couldn’t let you believe for a second longer that I was afraid of you or avoiding you because of your past.”

He had believed you avoided him because you wanted distance. Because he made you uncomfortable. Because he reminded you of things you didn’t want near you.

Not because you liked him.

You went quiet, and he could see in your face that you were replaying every moment from his side. Every absentminded scratch behind your ears. Every slow stroke along your spine. Every quiet, unguarded confession he had offered into what he thought was solitude.

“And every time you reached for me…” you said, your voice smaller now, stripped of all defenses, “I let you. When I knew it wasn't that simple. And you didn't.” 

The admission was dangerous. He felt the truth of it in his chest. Not something done to him, but as something you had allowed and had carried alone.

He glanced down at his own hand. 

The same hand that had stroked along your spine night after night. That had scratched behind your ears, traced the line of your skull, rested warm and unguarded against what he had believed was nothing more than fur and feline instinct.

His fingers flexed once, slow and uncertain, recalibrating.

Memory rearranged itself in real time: the weight of you curled against his thigh, the steady vibration of your purr, the way he had let his touch linger because it had felt uncomplicated.

It hadn’t been uncomplicated.

It hadn’t been simple.

He let his hand fall back to his side, not withdrawing from you or recoiling, but acknowledging the difference, the fact that it had been you all along.

The warmth of those evenings didn’t vanish, but it shifted. And so did he.

He drew in a slow breath and let it out through his nose, forcing his pulse to settle into something manageable. The initial jolt of shock had burned away, leaving deliberation in its place. This wasn’t about reacting. It was about choosing how to move forward.

“This is weird,” he said plainly.

There was no point pretending otherwise. The understatement felt almost inadequate, but it was honest.

“I know,” you said, softer now, the fight gone from your voice.

“And yeah,” he continued, steady but unflinching, “it crosses a line.”

You flinched like he had physically struck you. Your shoulders tightened, chin dipping as if bracing for impact. He saw the moment your mind leapt ahead: to exile, to consequences, to punishment.

“But,” he added before you could retreat into that spiral, “it’s not the line you think.”

You looked up at him, confusion cutting through the shame.

“If I thought you were manipulating me,” he said, voice level and certain, “we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

He meant that.

Manipulation had a texture that he knew intimately. It was subtle and coercive and designed to control. What had happened here had felt quiet and human.

The weight of his words settled between you. He saw the way you swallowed, saw the resignation flicker behind your eyes, as if you were already prepared to pack your things if he asked.

You would leave voluntarily, he realized, out of guilt. And a deeper realization followed, that he didn't want that.

“I don’t think you were trying to control me,” he said. “I think you were hiding.”

Your lips parted slightly, startled.

“But from what?” he asked.

“From… myself, mostly,” you admitted. Your voice didn’t shake this time, though it was raw and unguarded. “From messing it up. From becoming a laughingstock. From hearing you say you didn’t feel the same.”

The admission of your fear settled deep in his chest. He recognized it easily. He had lived in it for years: fear of being too broken, too complicated to choose.

“I should have told you before it… got this far,” you continued. “I just… I didn’t know how to be brave enough… as myself.” Your throat tightened around the last word. “I’m sorry.”

He measured the truth in your expression silently.

The sharp edge of suspicion that had flared earlier dulled under scrutiny. You hadn’t been orchestrating anything, you hadn’t been steering him. You had been avoiding the risk of rejection the only way you knew how.

It was flawed and it was unfair, but it wasn’t malicious.

“You should have given me the choice,” he said finally.

The words weren’t raised or sharp, just firm.

Choice mattered, especially to him, who had been stripped of his autonomy before.

“You’re right,” you accepted, without argument or deflection.

Silence filled the room again, but this time it didn’t feel suffocating. It was closer to a recalibration: two people adjusting to a new truth neither of them had expected to face tonight.

His gaze flicked briefly to the couch, to the indentation where you had been curled minutes earlier. The moment no longer felt like a lie. It had been reframed, colored differently, but not erased. 

The warmth had been real. The quiet companionship had been real.

But so had the imbalance.

He looked back at you.

“You can’t hide,” he said. “Not if you want something real.”

Your breath hitched softly.

He took a deep breath, settling on a decision.

“So you’ve spent weeks getting to know me. You likely know me better than most here in the compound. Now… I’d like to get to know you back,” he added, holding your gaze so there would be no confusion, “As you. Not as the cat.”

There was nothing romantic in the way he said it. He meant it as both boundary and invitation tangled together; a new start. 

He searched your face again, not for apology this time, but for resolve. For the willingness to stand in your own skin and not retreat the second it felt uncomfortable.

“Can you do that?” he asked.

The question lingered between you, fragile but steady.

Then he stepped back and sat down on the couch, lowering himself into the cushions deliberately. He didn’t reach for you or gesture as further invitation. He simply created space beside him, open, but not demanding.

For a heartbeat, you remained standing.

He watched the decision move across your face. The familiar instinct to withdraw flickered there, and then faded.

You crossed the distance and sat beside him, not as something small and safe and untouchable, but as yourself.

“What do you want to know?” you asked quietly.

Tag list (1): @lovely-seb @calwitch @its-in-the-woods @ficmeiguess @yesiamthatwierd @kitasownworld @sensuouscactus @cyacola @justalittle47 @bunniotomia @mayal0pez @star-yawnznn @bartonsparrow25 @globetrotter28 @sebastians-love @emmathefanficgal @lilysflowersworld @daiseymaisy @thelastbluecookie @daydreamgoddess14 @ria132love @vurelliex @ozwriterchick @mrsnikstan @muchwita @ruexj283 @janie57 @iyskgd @sweetserendipity65 @overwintering-soldier @barnesgirlx @thecozybookworm13 @imanidiotsimpforhotmen @winterwomansblog @cassity357 @buckybarneswife08 @fictionalmensexual101 @delusionalwomsn @mindpalace1995 @staley83 @boomyoulookingforthis @peanutbutt3rcup @alex-cheraya @the-once-and-future-bitch @werewolfgirl1995 @phoenix-in-writing @mariamorales1998 @morphoportis @pattiemac1 @imtoooldforthis82 

[knowledgeableknitter]

Can't Do Casual with You

A one-shot. A lot of angst, a little comfort.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x you (gn!)

Word Count: 7.8k

Summary: You've loved him quietly, patiently, and faithfully. But when he makes you an offer you cannot accept, you need to distance yourself to protect your heart. Will he figure out his feelings in time or be too late?

Trigger Warnings: FwB offer; lots of angst; he grovels!!

Author’s Note: I wanted this to hurt, but I’m afraid it falls short. I don’t know, but I can't keep looking at it. (Also, I was exceedingly kind and did not, in fact, make this a two-parter and leave you with a cliffhanger. You’re welcome.)

After-Market Edit: Y'all need to TELL ME if I forget to add a "Read More"!!! I'm so sorry I missed it for like the first 12 hours. 😭 I know that's so annoying to have to scroll and scroll to get past it. I'm having an off week. (No, literally, I was taking this week "off", but finished this fic earlier than I expected so I threw it up. Turns out I'm really bad at taking time off... 😅)

Masterlist

The Ask

You noticed the way he stirred his coffee, always counter-clockwise, in three slow, deliberate loops, before tapping the spoon once against the rim of the mug. It was a small, mundane ritual that should have faded into the background of everyday life, but somehow, it became a part of your mornings too, quietly mirrored, as if syncing your rhythm to his could tether you to him.

You hadn’t even realized when you started doing it yourself, three soft swirls, a single tap, and then setting the spoon down gently beside the cup. It wasn’t conscious at first, just a silent mimicry, an unspoken yearning to belong in his space in whatever way you could.

After missions, your eyes found him without thinking. You watched his jaw and knew its language by now, the way the muscle beneath his cheekbone clenched before he spoke. A flicker of tension was a subtle warning. You’d learned to read it, telling you more than words ever could: whether things had gone wrong, whether someone got hurt, or whether something in the field had dredged up a memory he’d never speak aloud. You quietly ached for him in those moments. 

But there were softer things, too, fragments of gentleness he rarely showed the world. You saw it when he crouched to pet a stray cat near the compound gate, his metal fingers brushing behind its ears with an almost reverent tenderness. Or when he leaned in when you laughed, as if your laughter was gravity and he couldn’t resist being pulled in.

You told yourself not to read into it. You tried, at least.

But you felt every brush of his hand when you passed in the hallway, every joke that only the two of you would find funny, every movie night that ended with you curled into the corner of the couch, too tired, or maybe too content, to move.

There was a rhythm to your movements and his. He'd sit close enough that your thighs touched, and never once did he shift away. He passed you the popcorn without asking. He’d already be there, waiting, when you wandered into the common room at night, remote in hand, eyes flicking up like your arrival had settled something in him. He never said stay, but you always did.

And most nights, that felt like enough. Or you convinced yourself it did.

But sometimes he walked beside you after a long day, his shoulder brushing yours as if drawn by instinct. Or he said your name, low and soft, like it was something precious in his mouth.

You would laugh, and smile, and you play it light.

But truth lived inside you like a bruise you couldn’t help but press. And in the quiet of your room you replayed every glance, every shared silence, every breath that passed between you.

You told yourself you shouldn't feel this way. That he didn’t want that, didn’t want you, not in the way you wanted him.

But wanting didn’t stop just because it was one-sided.

You longed for him in a way that didn't fit neatly into words. It lived in your body, in the softness of your curves and it slipped beneath your skin and made a home there, humming low like a secret only you knew how to carry.

You wanted more, but you swallowed it like guilt and held it down like something shameful.

And still, you stayed.

Because proximity to him, his voice, his presence, his soul, felt like oxygen. Because being even a small part of his world, even just in the shadows of what could have been, felt better than being without him at all.

You told yourself you could live with this.

But some nights, the truth whispered louder than your lies.

*****

It was so late the tower felt abandoned. Even the hum of the electricity in the walls seemed muted.

You were both still in your mission gear. The sleeves of your top were smudged with ash, your boots leaving faint, muddy prints on the pale tile of the kitchen floor. The scent of smoke clung to your skin, settling into your hair and the soft fabric that clung to the curve of your waist. You hadn’t had the energy to shower. Neither had he.

You sat across from each other at the kitchen island, elbows propped, mugs of tea slowly growing cold between your hands. His jacket hung open, and his shirt beneath was creased, marked by the weight of the vest he’d worn. His hair, damp with sweat, had fallen from its tie. Strands curled at the ends, brushing his jaw.

He looked so human in this light, and a little too beautiful. 

He said something dry and half-heartedly funny about the mission: a play on words about how the extraction plan hadn’t gone to plan. You laughed, too tired not to. 

He gave you the soft, crooked version of his smile that he only gave in the quietest moments. But then it faded, and you felt a shift in him before you saw it.

His gaze drifted, from your mouth, to your shoulder, to the hand you rested against your mug. It wasn’t predatory, or even overtly suggestive, but it lasted beat too long, and in that moment, something changed in the air between you, like the wind had shifted.

“Hey,” he said, his voice pitched lower and softer.

You looked up, and your chest tightened like your body was trying to warn you.

His tone was too neutral; you’d only ever heard it when he was defusing a threat he wasn’t sure he’d win against.

“You know…” He hesitated, tapping a rhythm with his thumb against the ceramic. “I was thinking… if you ever wanted to, I don’t know—blow off steam sometime. I’m around.”

You blinked.

He continued, careful and measured.

“No pressure. No strings. Just… comfort. We know each other. We’re… comfortable with one another, right?”

Comfort. Comfortable. 

The words felt wrong in your gut. They were too casual, and for a moment, you didn’t understand what he was offering. And then, all at once, you did.

He said it too easily, like it was nothing. Like it was simple. Like it just made sense.

And you could see why it would did make sense to him. Because you were never more than comfortable. 

Your fingers tightened around your mug, just so you could hold on to something tangible when every thread inside of you had been cut loose and you were drifting.

You couldn’t breathe.

You felt your body still and cold, the shock sinking into your bones before your mind could catch up. 

He was still watching you, waiting and carefully composed, as if he thought he was being kind. Like this was a gift, something thoughtful. An offer of intimacy dressed up as generosity. And maybe, to him, it was.

Your mouth went dry. Your throat burned.

You nodded, small and mechanical, not in agreement, but in acknowledgment of his words. You didn’t trust your voice not to break. You felt the moment shift around you, irreversibly.

When you looked up again, your expression was smooth. You’d practiced calm, and you could wear it now like a mask.

“I’ll… think about it,” you said.

His shoulders eased just slightly, as if he’d been bracing for something harsher than that. He nodded back once, simple and unfazed, and leaned away, his gaze drifting to a corner of the room, the matter settled.

He didn’t press. He thought that was enough.

The least thing seemed to be enough for him. 

You stood slowly, legs a little too stiff, heart a little too loud. The chair scraped gently against the tile, but he didn’t look over. You made some excuse, mumbled something about needing rest, or a shower. You weren’t entirely sure, and you didn’t hear if he replied.

You walked away, your body moving on autopilot. Down the hall, past the training room, around the corner to the elevator. The button lit up beneath your touch, but you didn’t feel it.

And when the doors closed, sealing you into that quiet, metal box, you let your breath tremble out of you. The tears didn’t fall yet, but they hovered, burning the backs of your eyes.

Now you knew there would never be more.

He didn’t see you, not in the way you’d secretly hoped and dared to let yourself believe. To him, you were soft curves and steady hands. Familiar and trusted, but not cherished. 

He wasn’t offering a beginning, he was offering an end before anything ever had the chance to start.

You leaned your back against the cold wall of the elevator, arms folded tight around your middle like you could hold yourself together through sheer force of will.

Because the truth was unbearable.

You had loved him in all the ways he would never notice. And in return, he had offered you his body, nothing more.

And God help you, a part of you wanted to say yes.

Not because it would’ve made it easier, but because it would’ve meant being close to him, maybe even for long enough to pretend he was really yours.

But you knew it would hollow you out.

So you closed your eyes and let the silence settle over you, and you stood there, waiting for the elevator to carry you anywhere else. 

Anywhere that didn’t contain him.

*****

You didn’t sleep that night.

The offer echoed through you long after he’d gone to bed, replaying itself over and over until it stopped feeling like words and started feeling like a wound. You lay on your side in the dark hush of your room, the moonlight catching faintly on your skin, and tried to breathe around the ache pressing against your ribs.

No strings. Just comfort.

The phrase itself seemed harmless, almost gentle. But you knew what it meant.

It would mean touching him.

It would mean him touching you.

You closed your eyes, and your mind, traitorous and tender, painted the scene for you in vivid, aching detail. You imagined the warmth of his body pressed against yours, his breath heavy and human against your neck, his hands tracing the lines and curves of you like they were something he’d always known, always wanted. You imagined him saying your name so tenderly, imagined that he’d see all of you and want you still.

You let yourself hover there for a moment, suspended in that fantasy, where your body wasn’t an afterthought and your softness was something desired. Where your curves weren’t tolerated, but revered. Where his touch wasn’t born of loneliness, but of need.

But the warmth in the dream turned cold too quickly.

Because you knew how it would end.

He would leave. Maybe not immediately, but quietly, gently, and with that careful distance he’d mastered. No mess, no fight, just a soft closing of a door you’d never see reopen.

And you’d be left behind, stripped bare, trying to gather pieces of yourself from the floor.

You knew the shape of this kind of heartbreak. It wasn’t sharp and sudden, it was slow, patient, and all-consuming. It would bleed you dry in small, invisible ways.

You knew, because you could already feel it happening.

You pressed the heel of your hand to your chest, trying to breathe through the ache that wouldn’t fade.

You had given him your laughter, your patience, and your silence. You had given him loyalty and warmth and a quiet love. You had been steady and kind and constant. You had offered him your gentleness in a world that had rarely been gentle to him.

Your reward was an opportunity of physical pleasure. You had no doubt you’d enjoy it, no doubt he would make it good for you. 

But if you said yes, if you took what little he offered, you’d be agreeing to live in fragments. You would be held only when it was convenient. 

You’d spend your nights pretending that the warmth of his skin was enough, even as your heart cracked under the weight of what it wasn’t.

Because being wanted wasn’t being loved.

He’d move on eventually. To someone lighter, easier, or simpler. Someone who wouldn’t hand him her heart before he asked for it. And you wouldn’t be able to get angry when he did, because you’d agreed to the terms. Even though it would break you.

You sat up in bed, wrapping your arms around your knees, your forehead resting against them. The tears finally came, hot and quiet. They slipped down your cheek and disappeared into the fabric of your shirt. 

Your chest felt hollow. He had reached in and carved out the part of you that still believed this could ever be more. Your throat was raw from swallowing sobs that refused to stay buried.

You’d spent so long convincing yourself that just being near him was enough, that his company, his smiles, the sound of your name on his breath could sustain you. That you could survive on scraps if it meant staying close.

But this wouldn’t be survival, this would be surrender.

This would be letting him take the pieces of you he wanted and leaving the rest behind. This would be letting yourself become a convenience to him, a body without a soul attached.

You’d felt that before. 

You hadn’t always believed you could be loved.

Growing up, you learned early how to be useful instead. You knew how to earn your keep with silence, with steadiness, with not asking for more. The belief that wanting something tender was selfish, even shameful had followed you into adulthood.

And no one had ever chosen you before, not romantically, not openly. You had always been the safe friend, the reliable one, the comfort, never the spark. Never the first pick.

But with Bucky, you reserved hope like a flame. 

He had looked at you once, in the kitchen, just after a mission, bruised and exhausted, and said simply, “You make it easier to breathe.”

You’d clung to that moment because it had felt like a glimpse of being put first, like maybe you weren’t invisible to him the way you always had been to everyone else.

But you were wrong. 

You glanced toward your phone, dark on the nightstand. You didn’t need to text him. You knew he wasn’t waiting. He probably thought you’d come to him when you were ready, that you’d knock on his door in the middle of the night, shy but willing, maybe even grateful.

He probably thought it was a generosity.

And maybe it would have been, to someone who didn’t love him.

But you did love him. You loved him with a devotion that asked for nothing and gave everything. You loved him with a faithfulness that deserved to be returned, not used up.

And for the first time, you let yourself see that truth.

You deserved more than to be a resting place for someone else’s loneliness.

You deserved the same love you had been giving: an unconditional love that reached for you in the light and stayed through the dark. A love that didn’t need to be earned, or bargained for, or reduced to simple comfort.

You drew in a trembling breath, your chest aching with both grief and clarity.

You loved him, yes. Maybe you always would. But you couldn’t give him pieces of yourself just to stay close.

You wanted to be loved whole. Not just because he was lonely and you were soft and willing. But because you were you.

You wiped your cheeks with both hands and whispered to the dark, barely loud enough for the words to exist, “I can’t survive pretending I mean less to him than he means to me.”

And somehow, saying it out loud didn’t destroy you.

It saved what was left.

*****

It took you a few days to find your voice again. The words lived inside you, coiled and patient, but you hadn’t spoken them because once they existed in the open air, they couldn’t be unsaid. And there was still a part of you that wasn’t ready to feel the weight of them yet.

Late evening pressed soft and heavy against the compound walls, seeping through the windows. Almost everyone had retreated to their own corners of the building, and silence settled in. There were no meetings, no training, and you had no more excuses.

You found Bucky in the common room. He was sprawled across the couch, a half-read book resting in his lap, fingers idly brushing the edge of a page he hadn’t turned in a while. The low lamplight made his features look softer, tired but with a rare peace.

When you stepped into the room, he looked up, and expectation flickered in his eyes.

That lack of tension, lack of uncertainty broke something small and fragile inside you.

He thought you were here to say yes. And of all the things you felt in this moment, you foolishly hated disappointing him. 

There was a subtle shift in his body, his spine straightened, his legs uncrossed slightly, and he leaned forward a bit. His gaze dipped, catching on your mouth before returning to your eyes, relaxed in a way that tried to hide how closely he was watching you.

You saw it all.

You’d always seen him, read him more easily than the books he left half-finished around the common room.

And you saw the quiet confidence in his posture, the quiet assumption that you’d chosen him. Not in love, but in convenience. You would make it easy. You would accept what he could give.

You hated how much you wished that could have been enough for you.

But it wasn’t. It never would be, not without breaking something vital in you.

You crossed the room slowly, every step heavier than the last, and sat beside him on the couch, close, but not touching. Your hands folded in your lap to keep them steady. You didn’t trust them otherwise.

“I thought about your offer,” you said, voice soft and carefully measured.

His eyes flicked to yours again. He nodded slowly, as though he'd been expecting this, waiting for it.

You took in a shallow breath. Any deeper, and you knew it would rattle in your chest.

“And I need to be honest with you.”

He leaned in, barely, giving you his full attention. He gave off a quiet anticipation, like he was sure this would end with you in his bed. He thought you were searching for the right words to agree, maybe set a few conditions.

You couldn’t look at his face, so you looked at his hands.

Those hands, so steady, so careful, hands you’d watched assemble and disassemble rifles at speed and throw knives with precision. Hands, cold and warm in tandem, that you’d imagined against your skin. But now you looked at them as though you’d never let yourself look again.

“I can’t do casual with you,” you said, each word slow and deliberate. “I wish I could. I wish I could separate it all. But the truth is, I’d only end up loving you more. And I don’t think I’d come back from that.”

The silence that followed was all-encompassing.

Your eyes flicked up in time to see the subtle flinch and shift of his posture. Not away from you entirely, but back, like your truth had knocked the wind out of him and he didn’t know how to brace for it.

His mouth parted just slightly, then closed again, but he didn’t speak.

His eyes scanned your face, searching for another version of this moment. Maybe one where you took it back, or where this wasn’t the truth, just nerves or second thoughts or hesitation. He was looking for something he could counter with a look or a soft word.

You gave him a small, tired smile. It hurt to make it, but you gave it anyway, because you still loved him. That hadn’t changed.

“I know my heart too well to lie to myself,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. “And I love you too much to pretend that being just comfort is something I could survive.”

You watched his jaw tense, but he offered you no words.

And somehow, you weren’t surprised.

You stood slowly, your body suddenly so heavy, like your bones were made of the densest metal. You hesitated only once in the doorway, something in you needing to look back.

He was still there, still staring at you, still stunned in that quiet, unreadable way of his.

“I deserve love,” you said quietly, your voice steady despite your heart tearing open. “The kind I was willing to give you.”

For half a heartbeat, you thought he might say something. His mouth opened, a sharp breath catching in his throat like the beginning of a word, maybe even your name, but it never came.

His hand twitched, like he might reach for you, and your chest went still waiting for it, waiting for anything.

But then his gaze dropped, and the moment passed.

Whatever he almost said lived and died in that breath.

After a moment, almost too soft to carry across the room to him, you let him go, “I hope you find what you’re looking for.”

It hurt how much you meant it.

Because even as your chest ached and your throat burned and your vision blurred, you still wanted him to be happy. Even when that happiness would grow in someone else’s hands. Even though you'd have to watch him become the version of himself you’d only ever seen glimpses of, but for someone not you.

You still hoped he found it, because he deserved that love.

You only meant to let him see that you weren’t angry, that you hadn’t denied him out of cruelty. But you may have revealed too much, shown him how much you were breaking. 

You held his gaze for a moment longer, then said, quiet, wistful, and aching, “Goodbye, Bucky.”

You turned, swallowing around the lump in your throat. You hadn’t cried in front of him, had sworn you wouldn’t. But as you escaped down the hall one tear slipped free. One silent fracture you could no longer hold back.

And you knew, with a dull certainty that settled in your heart, that he wouldn’t come after you. He never had before. 

*****

The Aftermath

He sat there long after you left.

The door was still open a crack, letting in a thin sliver of hallway light. He could have moved, stood up, shut it, followed you, done something, but he didn’t. He just stared at that sliver of light like it might shift, like you might change your mind and step back through it.

He hated that he was hoping for that.

His hands felt wrong. The flesh one stayed curled too tightly on his knee, the metal one twitching uselessly against the couch cushions. His shoulders were drawn up with tension he hadn’t noticed until now, and his chest was folding inward slowly.

He didn’t know what he’d expected. Maybe a soft laugh, a shy nod. Maybe, in the wild, foolish part of him he rarely listened to, you’d touch his hand and say yes.

But not this. 

Your voice had been gentle, so careful it almost didn’t hurt. 

“I can’t do casual with you. I wish I could. But I’d only end up loving you more.”

He didn’t know how to process that. Because looking back, it all made sense. He had been blind to every time you laughed at his jokes, every time your eyes found his like you shared some secret.

He leaned forward, elbows braced on his knees, hands twisted together. The air still smelled like you, a trace of something soft and warm and familiar. It clung to the cushions, to his clothes, to the hollows of his lungs.

And it hit him like a punch: you’d been sitting right there, within his reach. You hadn’t sounded angry or bitter, but your voice held a weary knowing, like you'd already made peace with the fact that he wouldn't fight for you. 

And you’d been right. He hadn’t stood up. He hadn’t said a word. He let you go. He pressed the heel of his palm to his eyes until he saw red and black.

“How did I misread this?” he muttered under his breath, the words half-exhaled. 

That was the worst of it, because physically you did want him as much as he wanted you. He could hear it in your voice, see it in your eyes, and that made this unbearable. You hadn’t walked away because you didn’t care, you’d walked away because you cared too much. 

They're better off, he told himself. I’m not built for that kind of thing. Not anymore.

But the words felt like someone else’s lie, not his own.

He got to his feet eventually, pacing the length of the room, like motion might distract him from the weight sitting squarely on his chest. His hand dragged through his hair until it came loose from its tie, falling around his face.

He told himself not to think about the way you’d looked at him, right before you said goodbye. Not to linger on the softness in your eyes, like you were already grieving the part of him that wouldn’t open.

But the memory circled back anyway, again and again until it hollowed him out.

So over the next few days, he made himself scarce.

He started taking his meals earlier or later than the rest. He trained at odd hours, waiting until the gym was empty, lights dimmed and the silence so thick he could hear his own pulse.

He made himself scarce in your world.

When he passed you in the hallway (and it happened more than he’d expected) he nodded once, polite and neutral, careful not to linger or meet your eyes for too long.

He told himself he was giving you space. That it was what you wanted. That it was the right thing to do.

But when he caught the faintest trace of your perfume in the corridor, or heard you laughing from another room, warm and open and free, something twisted in his gut, sharp and cruel.

You were slipping away from him, and the worst part was that he was the one who had cut the line.

You handed him something real, something fragile and true, and he’d turned away, like if he didn’t name it or feel it, then he wouldn’t lose it. 

That was always the game. Keep everything locked down: don’t reach, don’t ask, don’t want.

But this time it wasn’t working.

He could shut it down all he liked, slam the doors, deadbolt his chest, but still, the memory of you kept bleeding through the cracks.

That last, soft line you left him with rang in his ears: “I hope you find what you’re looking for.”

You wanted that for him, even if it broke you. Even if it meant watching him find it in someone else.

And maybe he could find someone easier to lie to, who didn’t see right through him. But no one else would have your unique blend of softness and strength, patience and bravery. No one else would smile like you, smell like you, or look at him like you did.

So he straightened his spine the way soldiers do when their ribs are cracked, but there’s still a war left to fight, and he told himself, firmly, repeatedly, and uselessly, that this was for the best.

That if he didn’t let himself feel it, maybe it wouldn’t hurt so damn much.

*****

Sleep didn’t come easily anymore.

Not that it ever had, but now it wasn’t just the past clawing through his nights, it was you.

He lay on his back, still as stone, staring at the ceiling like he might find absolution up there. All it offered was the same silence he’d handed you.

That night, his sweatshirt had been waiting for him, hanging freshly laundered on his doorknob.

There was no note or explanation, but he knew it was from you. You were the only one he’d ever lent anything to. 

One night after a mission, when your hands were shaking and your words had dried up behind your teeth. You hadn’t asked for anything, but he saw the way your shoulders curled in, like you were trying to disappear. So he’d tugged the sweatshirt over his own head, and handed it to you. You put it on with such reverence, and he remembered how you smiled up at him.

He hadn’t known what to do with that smile so he pretended it was nothing more than a simple gesture. 

And he had let himself pretend that as long as you still had it, still wore it, there was some part of him you were choosing to carry.

But now it was back in his hands, because you didn’t want anything from him anymore. You had returned it like you were unbinding a thread he hadn’t realized was holding him together.

It wasn’t just a sweatshirt anymore. It was something that had touched your skin, something that had, even for a little while, lived in the hollow spaces between the two of you.

His thoughts circled like vultures: your voice, your eyes, the unbearable softness in your goodbye, it all played on repeat until it made something in him ache in a place he thought he’d numbed long ago.

You didn’t accuse him, didn’t ask him to explain himself, didn’t even call him a coward, though you’d have been right to.

You just walked away.

You were protecting yourself from him, from what he hadn’t even realized he was asking of you, and that gutted him.

He sat up and dropped his feet to the floor, elbows braced to his knees, hands curled into fists so tight the bones in his knuckles ached and metal ground against metal. There was a knot lodged behind his sternum, thick and immovable. His mouth tasted like regret, metallic and dry.

He heard your words again, soft and steady, still echoing like a ghost in his chest.

“I love you too much to pretend that being just comfort is something I could survive.”

Survive, you’d said, like loving him was a wound you wouldn’t walk away from.

And what had he offered you in return for that love?

No strings. Just comfort. Not commitment, not promise, just his body. He offered a place to pass through when you wanted a home. His throat ached. He tried to swallow around it and failed. He didn’t deserve the grace you’d given him.

You’d loved him. Maybe quietly, maybe carefully, but you had.

And he’d reduced you to convenience, a physical release. A way to take the edge off without the risk of being known. He’d made you small in his fear, when you’d been so much more to him. 

He hadn’t even seen what you were offering him until it was hanging left behind on a doorknob.

He gripped fistfuls of his hair, the motion rough and punishing. He didn’t try to push the memories away this time.

You waiting up for him after missions, curled on the couch, always half-asleep but never gone until you saw he was back. You never asked for details. You just looked at him, relieved to simply see him.

You laughed when he didn’t expect it, when he mumbled something dry or dark or absurd, and you’d throw your head back, eyes crinkling, like he’d given you something worth keeping.

You touched him like he was breakable: a hand on his shoulder in passing, a brush of your fingers against his wrist when you handed him a mug. All small things, barely there, but they’d made warmth spark in his chest. He’d ignored it every time.

You made him feel human and he’d offered you nothing real. The weight of that truth settled across his ribs like stone.

He didn’t even have the energy to lie to himself anymore, didn’t try to rationalize it or reframe it or tell himself you were asking for too much.

He knew you weren’t. You were only asking for what you deserved. And you deserved to be chosen, not just needed, or tolerated, or touched in the night and ignored in the day.

He hadn’t chosen you, he’d chosen fear. He’d chosen distance and control, because loving you would have meant surrendering something he wasn’t sure he knew how to let go of.

He hadn’t said no to love, he hadn’t even seen it. It had been offered to him in hands that had only ever reached for him gently, and he had been blind to it.

He leaned back, head thudding softly against the cool wall behind his bed. He exhaled hard, eyes closing.

You’d seen something good and worth loving in him. And he’d looked at that gift and spat on it; not out of cruelty, but because he didn’t know how to accept it without breaking it.

And now your hands were gone and his were empty.

He thought the silence would be better than the weight of loving someone he might lose, thought it was safer to keep you at a distance than to risk falling short.

But he’d been so damn wrong. 

The silence now wasn’t safety, it was grief.

You had offered him something so whole, something he didn’t think he deserved but now wanted more than he’d ever let himself admit.

And he hadn’t just turned it down, he’d made you feel like a placeholder and that made him sick.

He dropped his face into his hands, dragging them down slowly, like maybe he could scrub the truth out of his skin.

But it was in him now. You were in him, and it was too late.

Because when it came down to it, he hadn’t been strong enough to choose you.

And now he had to live with the echo of the love you tried to give him, that he’d thrown away like it was too heavy to carry.

*****

Bucky noticed in a thousand small devastating ways how you’d stopped waiting for him.

You didn’t linger anymore, not at doorframes, not beside the couch, not near the coffee pot like you used to, pretending to fix something or check your phone just to buy yourself a few more seconds near him. The silences between you used to hum with possibility. Now they didn’t hum at all.

You were still kind, still polite, still as warm with him as with everyone else. But the quiet intimacy that used to thread itself through your every glance, every softened smile, every half-whispered offer of “need anything?,” that was all gone.

You didn’t wait up after missions anymore. You didn’t ask if he wanted tea. You didn’t follow the sound of his voice with your eyes.

And he felt the absence of all those little things like internal injuries, unseen but slowly bleeding him out.

It wasn’t until he saw you laughing across the room with John that the ache sharpened into something undeniable.

You looked beautiful. You always had, but it was different now.

You wore something bolder that day, something that hugged your body in ways he wasn’t used to seeing, not because you’d never been beautiful before, but because now you weren’t hiding yourself. There was something deliberate in the way you held yourself, more confident, more alive. 

He sat in the far corner of the room, posture perfect, jaw still, expression schooled into neutrality. But inside, he was nothing but a raw wound, watching you lean into conversation, your fingers brushing John’s arm, laughing with abandon. 

He had no right to feel the way he did. And it wasn’t jealousy, though the resemblance was there.

It was despair.

Because you weren’t his. You never had been, but he lost you anyway.

And then, for just a second, you glanced over your shoulder and met his eyes.

It was fast and involuntary, a habit you hadn’t quite broken. Your gaze still sought him, but this time, it wasn’t with hope. It wasn’t with yearning. It was with a quiet, distant sadness.

You looked at him like someone who had loved him. And now you were someone who used to.

And still, your eyes didn’t blame him, just ached from mourning something you had no choice but to let go of.

You looked away and Bucky’s stomach turned.

He clenched his jaw, dug his fingers into the armrests, anything to stay grounded, to keep from getting up and crossing the room right then and there. No one noticed how hard he had to work just to sit still. No one saw how close he was to unraveling.

Because you’d been hurting, and he hadn’t stopped it. You’d been loving him, and he hadn’t seen it.

And worse, when you gave him your heart, not recklessly, but with the courage real love requires, he’d turned away. He hadn’t just missed the moment, he’d refused it entirely.

And now your smile didn’t curve toward him, your softness didn’t settle around him like a balm, and your kindness no longer reached for him first.

He had gutted something good and soft and pure.

And you had never once asked him to be someone he wasn’t. You had never asked for more than honesty, never asked to be anything more than held like you mattered.

You had loved him without condition. And when he asked you to accept less than that in return, you had been brave enough to refuse.

And now he understood that if you had been brave enough not only to love him, but brave enough to walk away when he failed to meet you where you stood, then he had to be brave enough to change.

Because what you gave him, every look, every small laugh, every moment of quiet presence, was a love that chose him every day.

And he hadn’t chosen you.

He had chosen emotional armor, because he still looked like a man who didn’t deserve peace.

But that was cowardice and you deserved more than a coward.

You deserved someone who would stand beside you and reach back when you reached out. 

You were still hurting. He could see it in the way your smile didn’t stretch the way it used to, in the slight stiffness to your shoulders, in the sadness that hadn’t yet left your eyes.

He had done that to you.

He pressed a hand over his chest to feel the pain there. He didn’t know when the ache inside him had changed from guilt to something deeper, pulling at him, but it was there now, undeniably.

He loved you.

And he wanted to be the one who loved you well.

Not just someone who needed you or took comfort in your touch when it suited him.

He wanted to be the man who earned your laughter, your trust, and your time. The man who stood beside you with his hands open, ready to accept what you had to offer, and offer himself in return.

The man who chose you, finally, fully, and without excuses.

The idea of reaching for you terrified him. He didn’t know if you’d reach back or if your heart had moved too far beyond him now.

But the idea of losing you entirely, that was unbearable.

So he sat in the fear, the regret, and the love. He let it in, let himself feel it all, without running or pretending this time.

You had given him something precious. You had believed in something better within him.

And he wanted to become it, for you.

You made him want to be worthy.

And maybe, if he was lucky, it wasn’t too late to try.

*****

He paced for a long time before he left his room.

Each pass across the floor felt heavier than the last, like his body was trying to convince him that silence was still safer than truth.

But he couldn’t live in that silence anymore, not after everything he’d realized and decided.

Flowers sat on his desk. He’d bought them on impulse that morning, after seeing them in the same sidewalk stand you always slowed near. Soft blooms in the color you gravitated to, as if your hands could already imagine holding them.

He picked them up, put them back down. His hands shook with the regret of wanting something he thought he’d already lost.

He’d practiced what to say more times than he cared to admit, but each attempt sounded stiff, too clean, like he was performing grief instead of living inside it.

He looked at himself in the mirror. His jaw was tight, his eyes shadowed. He looked like a man preparing for war. Only this time, the fight wasn’t to survive, it was to earn the chance to love.

He grabbed the flowers, then paused.

The note was tucked under the corner of his keyboard, half-hidden, folded down to a softened square. Don’t forget to eat, okay? You’ll feel like hell if you don’t. I left your favorite in the fridge.

It was a simple domestic thing, a care most people overlooked.

He’d kept it without thinking, unfolding it again and again, fingertips finding the crease in the paper.

Now he knew why he couldn’t bring himself to throw it away.

It had been a mark of your love, shown without spectacle or demand. And now it made him brave. 

You were curled on the couch in the common room, staring into space. Your posture betraying a tired that wouldn’t be fixed with sleep; it lived in the bones, in the heart.

He saw the way you tensed the second he stepped inside.

When your eyes fell to the flowers in his hand your face flickered, brief and bitter, a wound you didn’t bother hiding. You turned away, eyes closing as if bracing yourself for the worst.

As if he’d brought them for someone else.

As if you couldn’t survive being hurt by him so much, so soon.

He hated himself for that. Hated that you were expecting pain where you’d once looked toward him in hope.

He took a slow step forward, then another.

“I know I should’ve come to you sooner,” he said, voice rough and low. You didn’t respond, just stared at the flowers with a wariness he’d never seen from you before.

“I brought these for you,” he added, holding them out like they weighed more than they should. “And—” He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out the note, holding it up gently. “I wanted to show you this.”

Your brow furrowed slightly as you recognized the paper from weeks ago, eyes narrowing in faint confusion.

“I never threw it out,” he said. “Didn’t even know why I kept it at the time. But… now I do.”

You took both, slowly, like they might disappear if you moved too fast.

He let out a breath, shaky and uneven. His heart was pounding harder than it had in any firefight.

“I think I knew from the moment I saw this note that… you loved me. And I couldn’t handle that weight—being loved like that. 

“And so I offered you comfort, because I figured it was better than the nothing I felt I could give,” The words came out quieter than he meant them to, but they were the heaviest he’d ever spoken. 

“But all I did was make you feel disposable—like you were nothing more than a warm body to me,” he said, slowly, shame curling at the edges of his voice. “And you’ve never been that. You’ve never been anything less than everything.”

He paused, to let you see the honesty of it in his expression.

“I thought I was protecting us, by keeping things… emotionless. Simple. But—” he looked away, for a moment, but forced himself to meet your eyes again, “I was only ever protecting myself.

“You told me you’d only end up loving me more. And I didn’t say anything. I just sat there.”

He swallowed around the lump in his throat, trying to get the words out.

“But the thing is… I think I already did. Love you… that is. I just didn’t know how to name it. I didn’t know how to let myself have something that good—something that didn’t come with pain.”

The silence between you stretched, but it didn’t feel to him like rejection, it felt like you were listening.

“You were right to reject me. You gave me a hundred chances in the quiet moments, and I missed every single one. 

“And I’m so sorry that it took me losing you to finally admit that I love you.”

His throat worked around the weight of it, around the truth he should’ve said long ago.

“I had something rarer than gold—and I let it slip through my fingers. And if I’m too late, I’ll respect that.” His voice cracked and broke, still he took a quiet step forward and continued. 

“But I need you to know that I see it now. You deserve someone who chooses you. Not just someone who needs you. And if there's even the smallest part of you that hasn't stopped… I’d like the opportunity to be that. If it’s not too late, I want to try to be that.”

You said nothing for a moment, but your expression cracked in the way only honest emotion does.

Your hands trembled slightly as you looked down at the note in your lap, your thumb brushing the softened edge.

Then you looked up.

“There were days I thought you’d never come,” you said, voice quiet but steady. “And there were days I almost convinced myself I didn’t want you to.”

He nodded slowly; he deserved that.

You swallowed hard. “But I loved you. I did. I still do. And the only thing I ever wanted was for you to choose… me.”

Bucky knelt at your feet, still not touching, still giving you space.

“I see everything I was too scared to face before,” he said, his voice roughened by something close to awe. “And if you’ll let me, I’ll make sure you know that. Every day.”

Your eyes shimmered, your fingers curled tighter around the note, and your smile, small, tentative, allowed hope to bloom in him.

“I’d like that,” you said softly, the words trembling just slightly. “But I’m not sure I believe you yet.”

He nodded in quiet understanding, with no protest or quick promise.

“Then I’ll show you,” he said. “As long as it takes.”

The corner of your mouth lifted, not a smile, but something that might become one.

He didn’t reach for you, but he stood there, hands at his sides, letting you see him unguarded for once.

And you both let the silence sit between you, more heavy than it used to be, more real.

It wasn’t a clean beginning. But it was an honest one.

Tag list: @lovely-seb @calwitch @its-in-the-woods @ficmeiguess @yesiamthatwierd @kitasownworld @sensuouscactus @cyacola @justalittle47 @bunniotomia @mayal0pez @star-yawnznn @bartonsparrow25 @globetrotter28 @sebastians-love @emmathefanficgal @lilysflowersworld @daiseymaisy @thelastbluecookie @daydreamgoddess14 @ria132love @vurelliex @ozwriterchick @mrsnikstan @muchwita @ruexj283 @janie57 @iyskgd @sweetserendipity65 @overwintering-soldier @barnesgirlx @thecozybookworm13 @imanidiotsimpforhotmen @winterwomansblog @cassity357 @buckybarneswife08 @fictionalmensexual101 @delusionalwomsn @mindpalace1995 @staley83 @boomyoulookingforthis @peanutbutt3rcup @alex-cheraya @the-once-and-future-bitch @werewolfgirl1995 @phoenix-in-writing @mariamorales1998 @morphoportis @pattiemac1 

[godmadeaterribleerror]

lover

✦Read on aO3! - Masterlist - Dean Masterlist✦

✦summary: dean learns, slowly, that he's actually pretty good at being boyfriend material. it would be nice if you'd stop pining after him long enough to notice✦

✦warnings/tags: Dean Winchester x female!reader, no use of y/n, no description of reader, friends with benefits to lovers, age gap (20s - 40s), angst, overprotective, bad at feelings dean, pining, idiots in love because it's the best way to be, dean's down so bad, shameless smut (facesitting, praise kink, big dick dean, fingering, pussy spanking, teasing, dean's dirty talk, spanking, fingering, stripping, body worship, degredation kink, soft!dom Dean, size kink, begging, soft and rough sex, messy, creampie, mean dean, dean has an orgasm rule and you. benefit. dumbification), love confessions, fluff✦

✦wc: 12.5k✦

✦author's note: request! super normal about this one✦

You tell yourself, over and over again, that this is going to be the last time. It’s not something that’s meant to be held onto, so you can just… let go.

But then you find yourself here. Between tangled sheets with your legs spread wide, your nails digging into Dean’s bicep and his cock dragging through your wet, sensitive cunt.

“There you go,” he coos in your ear, every thrust deep and rough. “That’s my girl, takin’ me so good, so- Good-“

Dean moans, pressing up against the soft, gummy spot inside of you, and your eyes roll back in your head.

He always does this. He knocks on your door and grabs your face between big hands, and suddenly all that resolve and determination—never again—dissolves with your willpower. His hands are rough  and calloused, but trace your hips and hold you down so gently, you can almost pretend he cares if you break. His cock is thick and impossibly long, and he always drags it between your soaked heat and bumps it against your clit before pushing himself in just right. His lips are chapped and soft, sucking possessive marks into your neck that he has no right to claim, but that doesn’t stop you from running your fingers through his hair and holding him right where he is. He wouldn’t dare to leave. Not in the middle of this. Not before you’ve both gotten what you want.

What Dean wants. You don’t let yourself pretend that this is everything you need anymore. It’s the only hope you have of one day telling him no, because the rest of you control rests on a thin rope, and it always slips from your hands the moment Dean touches you like you matter.

You never walk away from him with an aching, unsatisfied body. A few nights ago he put you on his face and made you ride until your thighs were shaking and tears were springing into your eyes. Before this, he spit on your cunt and scissored you open with thick, careful finger, kissing and nipping at your thighs as your greedy pussy swallowed him right up to the knuckle. Even now, as every roll of his hips becomes smaller—as his face twists in concentration and his mouth against your jaw becomes desperate—Dean’s thumbing at your clit, trying to get you over the edge with him.

“C’mon, baby, c’mon-“ He pushes himself up to his knees, forcing a deeper, rougher angle. “Show me what you’ve got, I know you can do it, come on-

You whimper, staring up at him under lidded, glazed eyes. The whole world is just a blur of color at this point, but Dean is bright and clear. The heave of his broad shoulder and chest, every muscle in his arm as he wraps it around your waist and makes you arch your back, the flex of his abdomen as he ruts forward like a feral dog. The sharp, unforgiving thrusts are making your head spin with pleasure, turning you into a boneless wreck of need. You grab his arm, trying to steady yourself against something, and Dean’s attention rips up.

He says he likes to watch himself fuck you, and you’ve never doubted that for a second. He’s spent whole sessions just staring at his cock or fingers splitting your cunt open. He likes putting you on his face because he can watch you react. You like it better like that, usually. The eye contact is too close. Too intimate. Too real.

But you grab him, and he looks at you, and it’s almost like a shot. His eyes are blown-out and so strangely soft, staring at your wrecked, open expression with too much, too much, too much-

“De- Deeean-“ You cry it out like a pray, because it is. Dean grunts, hips snapping, the wet sound filling up the air and his eyes never leaving yours. “Dean- Dean- Fuck, please- Please-“

You’re babbling. You never do that with anyone else, but Dean is Dean, and he makes you do things you never counted yourself capable of. He groans your name, and you squeal when he drags you up, off the mattress and straddling his thighs. Your clit drags against his abdomen, his cock bullies right against your g-spot, and Dean grabs your jaw with a single, painfully gentle hand.

“Cum for me, sweet girl,” he rasps, still holding your gaze, even as your eyes start to cross. “Soak this fuckin’ cock, baby, cum-“

You almost scream as your orgasm rips through you, and Dean crashes his mouth against yours, eating every whimper and moan with harsh lips and his tongue down your throat. You press into him, pussy gushing and fluttering around his dick, and he makes that deep, rumbling sound that always comes right before-

“Shit-“ Dean gasps against your mouth, pulling you so close you can’t feel anything but the heat of his bare chest, the sensation of his cock twitching and pumping in your cunt. “Fuuck-“

Dean moans your name, and a warm, pleasant heat starts to spread through your tummy and drip between your thighs. He doesn’t stop moving until his cock is softened, and you don’t try to stop him. You’re barely more than a limp doll right now, returning his kisses with tiny mewls, eyes crossed and body limp.

For a moment after it’s done, you stay tangled together. You always do. It’s the most dangerous part of the whole thing, because it feeds that tiny little fool in your chest, who refuses to believe that this is just sex. Who takes your heartstrings and weaves grand worlds where Dean loves you back, and you’re going to be just fine.

Dean kisses your brow, and your eyes flutter closed. There’s an advantage, to being a crybaby whenever he fucks you stupid. He never once has considered that the tears might be real.

“Think you can walk?” He mutters, still buried deep inside of you, still holding you like he cares.

You shake your head, and his mouth twitches against yours.

“Alright, pretty girl. I’ve got you.”

And you press your face into the crook of his neck, letting that fool take you over. She takes his words as gospel. My girl and I’ve got you and Baby, they’re exactly what he means and nothing more, nothing less.

When the logical part of your brain wakes back up—Dean’s always had this ability to hit a button in you, sliding his hand around the back of your neck and making all your thoughts just bubblegum feelings and electric colors—you’re going to remember why you always say this has to be the last time.

He’s perfect, and he’s not yours. He makes that perfectly clear, until he pulls these little stunts and ends up buried between your thighs. You agreed that he wasn’t yours, when this arrangement started.

Safer with someone you know, he’d told you, like he hasn’t fucked his way across the entire country. Easier. Nothing to worry about, when it’s you and me.

And you’d been a starry-eyed, gooey hearted fool who just wanted whatever part of Dean he was willing to show you. The burning love you kept tended in your ribs hadn’t seen a problem with adding fuel to the wildfire, even if Dean was never going to see it. But now he’s carrying you to the bathroom like a princess, and he’s going to be gone in the morning, and that wildfire is an inferno. He doesn’t know. He can’t know. You can map out everything he’d ever say in response to your feelings, from the harsh sneer he would’ve given when he had the Mark of Cain, to the kinder let down you’d get now.

You’re too young, he’d say, like it was a consolation prize. And I like you, sweetheart, but I don’t do this kinda thing. Not with girls young enough to be my daughter. Not with kids that I hunt with. Not with you.

You press your face further into his neck. He’s always so warm and sturdy, a massive tree that’s offering you just as much shade crushing, unbearable weight and tangled roots that keep you pressed down. He smells like leather and whiskey and something perfectly, faintly spice. You want to drown in it. You want to drown in him.

“You good?” Dean asks, and his voice is too gentle. It rattles the little fool, screaming for the rest of you to listen and just accept that he loves you.

But he doesn’t. He doesn’t.

“You’re bein’ quiet, even for- Y’know-“ He chuckles, that low, insufferably charming pride crawling into his voice. “After I fuck you dumb.”

“You did not fuck me dumb,” you mumble against his skin, and you can hear his grin.

“Big words from the girl who couldn’t talk five minutes ago.”

“That was unrelated.”

“Unrelated,” he echoes, his thumb dragging a small circle against your spine. “Always forget how bratty you get after, sweetheart. Dangerous.”

You roll your eyes, and hug him tighter. He laughs, and kisses the side of your head, and he has the nerve to call you dangerous.

“You wanna watch a movie?” He asks, leaning down to run the water, still keeping you tucked so carefully against his chest, and all you can do is nod. Dean sighs. “C’mon, gimme a little more than that-“

“Yes, please,” you mumble, and he pauses.

It’s only a fraction of a second. You don’t understand it, and you don’t want to. Not when he feeds your delusions and kisses your brow again, then your cheek, then your lips. And you let him. You always let him, because you’re a foolish, stupid, lovesick idiot. You don’t want his affection, not like this. But you don’t want to lose him—it would be like ripping a vital organ out of your ribcage, even if you didn’t know you had it a year ago—and you can’t ever tell him to stop being so sweet without explaining yourself, and getting that gentle, horrible let down.

You don’t want it. You don’t want any of it. And this, this had to be the last time. 

You hold the line. You don’t know how, but you hold that line with white knuckles and grit teeth and a taste like bile in the back of your throat.

Dean knocks on the door, only two nights later, and you don’t answer. He calls your name and you sink into the mattress, praying he just thinks you’re asleep. 

“I just- Uh- I wanted to talk?” He says, and you press your face into the pillow like that can somehow shield you. “Really, that’s it. Just talking, so- If you could-“

Dean sighs. You can hear the please, hanging between every word, but Dean doesn’t really say please. He just begs with everything else in him, or gives up. And you can picture him running his hand over his face, the heavy look in his eyes, the defeated sag in his shoulders. It’s like a knife being driven through your gut, and you sit up, ready to open the door-

“Alright,” he mutters, and you freeze. “Night, baby. Sleep well.”

Footsteps retreat, and you stay there on the mattress, frozen and lost, adrift in a sea you dove into.

But you did it. You held the line.

And you keep it. It makes sweat bead and your skin burn, but you close the door and don’t open it back up. You’re done, and you’re going to keep it that way.

Dean doesn’t ask questions. You don’t know if you want him to or not, but it doesn’t matter, because you catch him staring and giving out signals, but he’s taken your no in stride, and doesn’t seem to have any plans to push back against it. When this started, you agreed to leave out a specific book on the war room table if either of you wanted something. Dean starts to leave it out every night, and you never go to his door, and one night, it vanishes.

And that’s fine. That’s exactly what you wanted.

And if it feels like you’re dying because of it, and if you spend an hour over the toilet dry heaving that night, that’s no one’s business but your own.

“Dean’s been grumpy lately,” Sam says one morning, and you blink at him over your coffee.

“Grumpy? Dean? That’s- Woah-“

“Yeah, yeah, okay.” Sam gives you a flat look. “You know what I mean. Grumpier.”

You shrug, looking back to your mug. “Maybe he needs to get laid.”

“Uh huh.”

You can feel Sam’s stare. It makes you itchy and small, and you’re not sure if you want to punch him or run. You settle for staring at your coffee harder. It’s the easiest course of action.

“Dean needs to get laid,” Sam repeats your words, something strange—almost sharp—in his tone, and you nod.

“That’s what I said.”

“Dean-“

“What’s up?” Dean walks into the kitchen, stopping right behind you, and you hunch over like you can grow a shell to protect yourself.

Even just a few feet away, he’s always so warm.

“Uh- Hey, Dean-“

“Hey,” Dean mocks back, and Sam huffs.

“Dude-“

“Shut your face-“

“I didn’t say anything- I-“ Sam says your name, and you glance up. His brow is furrowed with worry, his eyes locked on Dean behind you. “We were just-“

“Just what?” Dean snaps. “Just talking? Shooting the shit, getting real comfortable?”

Sam sighs. “Dean-“

“I got a gun, Sammy,” Dean points firmly, and you stare at his finger like a woman driven mad with thirst. “Don’t forget that.”

Sam rolls his eyes. “We all have guns, that- That threat doesn’t do anything-“

“I’ll show you doing something- Hey-“

Dean says your name, and you freeze. You’d been trying to slip out while they fought, but Dean—goddamn him—had noticed. He always notices. You love him so much it’s going to make you cave in on yourself, and maybe take the whole bunker with you, like a dying star.

He catches your arm, and you can’t stop yourself from looking at him. His brow is knit, his jaw locked, and his handsome face has deep lines you only used to see when the world was ending. There are bags under his eyes. Deeper than usual. You want to smooth the lines with your thumb and kiss his jaw until he relaxes, but that’s not your ache to soothe.

Dean doesn’t say anything. You can’t say anything. He looks exhausted, and there’s a lump forming in your throat.

“You- You hungry?” Dean rasps, and you’re starving.

“No,” you breathe before you can think, and Dean swallows.

“Well, when you’re hungry- There’s a diner in town-“

“Henry’s?”

“No, uh- A new one. I- I was wonderin’ if you wanted to go, later, or something.”

“Or something?” You tilt your head, and Dean nods.

“Whatever you want.”

God, he’s cruel. He’s perfect and cruel, and you want to vomit on his flannel and kiss him until you pass out.

“Oh- Okay,” you say, because you’re only so strong.

The lines in Dean’s face relax. His grip loosens. Then Sam coughs, and Dean lets you go.

The diner is… nice. Nice and easy, in a way you haven’t felt in longer than you want to admit. Dean insists on driving you, and paying, and sitting in one of those booths with your feet bumping under the table.

He presses his knee forward, while he orders. You swallow and don’t allow yourself to think much of it. He’s warm through his jeans, but he’s always warm, and he hasn’t tried anything in a few weeks, so you allow it. Your love for him hasn’t been flickering out, but the harsh wind of his absence has made everything feel colder. It’s okay, to indulge yourself in something so small. You’re still keeping it together. You’re still holding the line.

“So, uh-“ Dean clears his throat, turning his bottle in his hands. “How are you?”

“How- Am I?” You blink at him, and he nods tightly. “I- I’m okay. How are you?”

“Good. Great.” He frowns at the table. “You know. Same as always.”

You almost laugh. “You’re always great?”

“I focus on the positives, sweetheart-“

“No, you don’t.”

He rolls his eyes, glancing up to hold your light, amused gaze. His mouth twitches. His fingers tap against the glass, and you try not to let yourself sink too deep into the attention.

It’s okay to drown a little. A long as you don’t drop the line.

“Maybe I’m turning a new leaf,” he says, and your face splits into a full smile.

“You?”

“Yeah, me. Why’d you say it like that-“

“Because you’ve never turned a leaf in your life-“

“Ah-“ He points the head of his bottle at you with a grin. “Not true. Remember when I started learning guitar?”

“Yeah, you smashed it on a werewolf’s head after a month.”

“That was a tactical choice, I would’ve kept playing if the wolf didn’t get in the way.”

“Uh huh.” You lean back in your seat, crossing your arms. “What songs  had you learned to play?”

Dean’s nose wrinkles. “Hey, we don’t need to talk about that-“

“I think we do.”

“Nah, I mean- I only had a month-“

“You learned how to work a rocket launcher in a week.”

“That’s just buttons and triggers, sweetheart. Even you could work it.”

“Even I?” You raise your brows—trying not to let the delight shine too bright in your voice—and Dean freezes.

“I mean- uh- You’re not great with guns, and- I could teach you-“

“You could teach me.”

“Maybe? If you wanted- Or-“ Dean groans, slumping back. “Stop givin’ me that look.”

“I’m not giving you any look,” you tease, and Dean sighs.

“Will you stop if I say I’m an idiot?”

You soften slightly. “You’re not an idiot, Dean-“

“You sure?” He grumbles. “Kinda feeling like one right now.”

You laugh, but it’s gentle. You can almost see him pushing down into himself. It makes you heavy for him, like you’re trying to take that invisible weight off his shoulders, even if he can’t feel you helping the pain. “You’re a dork,” you say, bumping his knee under the table. “But you’re not an idiot.”

Dean grunts, watching you under hooded eyes, and you smile easily.

You missed this, more than you want to tell him. Just talking, without worrying that it’s going to end in world-changing, back-breaking, beautifully heart-aching sex. He feels like your friend again, closer to your fingertips than he’d been when he was balls deep inside of you.

“Wonderwall,” he grunts suddenly. “And Hallelujah.”

You blink. “What?”

“Those were the songs,” he mutters, picking at the label of his bottle. “That I got, before I smashed the guitar.”

“Oh,” you pause. “I love Hallelujah.”

“Yeah. I know.”

You stare at him, and he stares right back. A faint flush is threatening your cheeks, so you duck your head to hide it, and Dean lets out a soft laugh.

“You alright-“

“Yep. I- I’m good-“

“You look good.” Dean laughs again, when you shoot him a glare. “Don’t gimme that face, I’m saying something nice-“

“You’re being a butt,” you stick out your tongue, and his eyes dance with an easy kind of light that almost makes your heart stop.

“You’re the one who was callin’ me old earlier,” he drawls, and you roll your eyes.

“You are old.”

“Yeah, but that’s never stopped you, has it.”

Your mouth falls open, eyes going so wide it almost hurts, and Dean grins at you. If you weren’t shocked into static, you’d slap him or- or lunge across the table and kiss him-

Hold the line.

“Aged wine is supposed to be better,” you manage to say, somehow, and Dean laughs, loud and free.

“That all I am to you? Some wine?”

“No,” you smile at your plate. “You’re also very good cheese.”

“Good cheese, huh.”

“Mhm.” You point a stern finger at him. “No puns.”

Dean rolls his eyes, but dips his head. “Yes, ma’am.”

There’s the flush. You’d keep trying to hide it, if Dean didn’t start talking about something unimportant and easy, and suddenly you forgot to be embarrassed. He’s not trying to kiss you or get you back to the car. He’s just… Talking to you. Dropping that light, teasing praise like it’s nothing, then telling you a story about when he used a tuba to beat a poltergeist, grinning like a winner every time you laugh.

When lunch is over, he rests a hand lightly on your lower back, but doesn’t do much more. He kisses your cheek when you get back to the bunker, and asks if you want to watch a movie tomorrow night. You swallow, locking your hands together like they can force the line to stay firm. Dean says your name, almost panicked, and you blink up at him.

“Just a movie,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “Out in town, at- Uh- That shitty theatre next to the coffee place. Or- I can try and find a drive-in, if those still exist-“

“They do,” you say softly, and he swallows. “There’s one out in Beloit.”  

“Beloit,” Dean mutters. “Yeah- Yeah, okay. You wanna go there?”

You nod, and he grins. You smile back, and it feels… Different. Shy, in a way you haven’t been around him since he first started fucking you. Almost delicate. You weren’t supposed to let this feel like something delicate.

Dean jaw works, and you can almost see the thoughts turning behind his eyes. He lurches slightly, brow furrowed, then pulls back up. You’re seconds from asking him what’s wrong when he just leans down and… does it.

His lips graze your cheek, his hand brushing against your waist, and you almost melt right into him.

But then he stands back up, and takes a large step away. You swallow, resisting the urge to reach up and brush your fingers over where he kissed. It’s not like he’s never done that before, but again.

It just feels different.

“See you tomorrow,” he murmurs, and you nod weakly.

If you had a mind that was thinking in more than bursts of glee and songs of Dean, Dean, Dean, you’d tell him that you live together, and he’s always going to see you tomorrow. But he walks away, and you let him, and it doesn’t hurt. There’s a space that he left, but something in you seems to think he’s going to come back. You can’t tell if it’s the fool or not.

For once, you decide not to try.

The movie is nice. Dean rests his hand on your knee, but doesn’t go any higher. You lean into his side, and his arm goes around your shoulders, but there’s no kissing or dragging into the back seat, and you didn’t know there could be a better way to be close to him. Sex is great. Looking up and finding him already watching you is better.

He brushes some hair from your face, and you half expect him to kiss you. His eyes dart down to your lips like he wants to. Your fingers curl in his shirt, and his throat bobs.

“You likin’ the movie?” He whispers, and you nod.

“Good find,” you breathe, and he grins.

“Thanks. Eat the popcorn, it cost me a billion bucks.”

You roll your eyes, and throw some of the over-buttered, half-burnt popcorn at his face. He laughs, catches a kernel in his mouth, and grabs your chin between two fingers. Your breath catches. He just turns your face back to the screen, and pulls you a little closer into his side.

The movie ends the same way the diner did. Dean walks you to your bedroom door like it’s the porch of your house, kisses your cheek, then walks away.

Then, after the movie, you play mini golf. You win, but you know he let you. He buys you a snow cone and licks it off his nose when he eats it like a rabid dog. You wipe a little extra off his cheek, and he stares at you, but still doesn’t kiss you. Not fully. His hand seems to always rest on your lower back, now, but that’s all the contact you get. All that you allow.  

Hugs are on the table, too. They’re somehow more dangerous than the forehead kisses. After the hugs, he sometimes just stares at you and cups your cheek, and your heart moves into your throat until you think you’re going to spill it out all over his chest.  

You manage to keep it together. For the sake of this new, slowly growing garden of what your friendship is becoming, you swallow your love with greater ease and more bile than you ever did while you were fucking. After the mini golf you get dinner and see another movie. You convince him to go on a walk with you, and he hates it less than he pretends to. You eat together in the bunker and call when he’s on a hunt with Sam and go to a car show and it all feels like breathing.

Sometimes he still looks at your mouth, and you freeze up, unsure if you want him to kiss you or not. You know you want him, but somehow you’ve found even more to lose than before, and if it slips through your fingers, you’re not sure they’re ever going to stop shaking and groping at the empty spaces again. You can take holding his hand in the bookstore while he peers over your shoulder, pretending to be interested for no real reason other than to make you smile.

“There are so many of them,” he mutters, and you giggle.

“There’s a lot of ways to write words, Dean.”

“Yeah, but- You’d think there would be repeats or something.”

“There probably are,” you shrug, running your fingers over the spines. “But they’re still all fun.”

Dean sighs, squeezing your upper arm. “Whatever you say, sweetheart.”

You hum, leaning back to smile at him, and all his features relax.

“You want some coffee?” He brushes some hair from your face and you nod.

“There’s a shop next door, could you get me-“

“Hey,” Dean flicks your nose, grinning roguishly. “Trust me, I know what you want.”

You nod a little stupidly, and his smile falters. He looks to your lips again, then almost shakes himself, taking a small step.

“Don’t move,” he squeezes your arm again, then backs away. You watch him go, unable to help yourself, and smile when he looks back. He does that all the time now. And he always smiles back.

You turn back to the shelf, looking at the books without actually looking. You already miss him, and he told you not to move, but that can’t count if you’re going to stand next to him in the coffee line, can it-

“Hey.”

You fumble slightly, turning to find a man leaning against the shelf and smirking at you. You blink, and his smirk widens.

“What’s girl like you doin’ in a place like this?”

“The… Bookstore?” You frown, and he laughs. You don’t think you said anything all that funny.

“Look, I just- I saw you from over there,” he nods vaguely, and you frown. “And I thought you were cute. Can I get you some coffee or something?”

“My- My friend is already getting me coffee,” you say, and your voice sounds strangely far away.

The man nods, but doesn’t retreat. “Alright, then can I get your number? Maybe beat your friend to coffee next time?”

And you don’t want to say yes, but this is a chance. To hold onto this new friendship with Dean while also getting over him at the same time. This man isn’t ugly. Compared to Dean, no one really stands a chance anyway, and you have to get over him eventually.

So you give him your number, and try not to feel like you just did something wrong.

Dean clears his throat from behind you, and you spin around on your heels, a sour guilt twisting in your gut.

“You- You’re back,” you say, and he grunts.

He’s not look at you. He’s glaring at the man with the same, deadly glint that he gives monsters and demons before he cuts them in half. You touch his arm lightly, and he tenses. You feel sick.

“Hey, buddy,” he snaps at the man, who—not seeming to understand the gravity of Dean’s glare—grins back.

“Hey.” He winks at you, slowly backing away. “Have fun with your friend.”

Dean’s coffee spills over the top of it’s lid. He doesn’t look away from the man when he leaves the store. He shoves your drink into your hand, not meeting your gaze.

“Dean-“

“I’m gonna go wait in the car,” he mutters, and you swallow.

“Oh- Okay.”

Your arm wraps around your stomach, and you press a little away from him, from the wrath seeming to wave off his body like a volcano. He glances down, jaw tight and a vein in his brow ticking. You stare at his neck, unable to hold the weight of his gaze. He lets out a sharp breath, and shakes his head.

“Get your book.”

You shake you head. “No- It- It’s okay-“

Dean says your name, and your mouth snaps shut. “Just- Get the damn book.”

He looks like he’s in pain, and you don’t know how to fix it, so you do as he says. You get a cheap one, that worm of guilt burrowing deeper and deeper into your gut until you can’t even drink your coffee without feeling like it’s going to come back up.

Dean’s fingers dig into your back, when he guides you out the door. He starts the engine by almost punching in the keys, and holds Baby’s wheel like he’s trying to strangle it. You can see all the anger brimming under the surface of his skin, and worried you’re just going to make it worse. You don’t even know where it came from. It’s not like you’re together, or the guy said something rude. You open and close your mouth too many times to count, then give up, shrinking back into your seat.

Dean looks over at you. You try to look out the window, and nowhere else.

A loud, sharp breath escapes him. “Son of a- Alright.”

You look over with a frown, then squeak when he yanks the wheel off to the side.

“Shit- Dean-“

“Just- Fuck-“ He bows he head, glaring down at his legs, and you swallow.

You fidget with your fingers, watching him nervously, waiting for him to break the silence. It takes while. So long you think about just getting out of the car to give him space.

But then he looks up, and your heart gets cleaved open. His face is twisted in pain, his lips parted and his voice quieter than you’ve ever heard.

“What-“ He takes a deep breath, scanning over your openly confused features. “What else am I supposed to be doin’?”

You blink at him, fingers curling in your lap. “What?” You ask softly, and his throat bobs.

“I- I’m really trying,” he mutters, looking back to his hands. “I swear to god, baby, I’m tryin’ my best, and- I know I ain’t amazing at this but- If you could throw a guy a rope when he’s never- I’ve never done this, alright.” He waves between your bodies, jaw clenched tight. “And I’m really givin’ it my best shot, but I’m still not allowed to kiss you, and you’re takin’ numbers right- Right in front of me- So just- Something.” He gives you a pleading, broken look, eyes shining on yours in the dark. “Anything.”

You open your mouth, but you can’t even figure out what the fuck you’re supposed to say. You know all the words he’s saying, but it’s like he’s speaking a language you never learned, spitting out a code you’re just supposed to magically understand. Dean’s jaw ticks, when you don’t answer, and you try to sputter out an answer, but he’s too loud to hear your confused whimper.

“Look, just- Whatever the hell you do need me to do, I’ll do it, I swear I’ll do it, but- You gotta tell me, sweetheart-“

“Tell you what?!” You almost shout, and Dean leans back in surprise. “Dean, I- I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Dean huffs a low laugh, looking back out to the road. “Yeah. Alright,” he grabs the keys, voice rough and pained. “Sure. Whatever-“

“No.” You grab his wrist before he can start to the engine. “Tell me what you’re talking about.”

“It doesn’t matter-“

“Yes, it does-“

“Nah.”

“Dean-“

“You wanna call that guy, call ‘im.” There’s an almost toxically bitter sound to the words, and Dean’s making a face like he just got shot. “Whatever. See if I care.”

Your nails dig into his wrist, when he tries to yank it away. He shoots you a glare, the bags—gone, after months of ease—already starting to form.

“C’mon, kid, just- let go-“

“Would you care?”

Your question is small, but it makes Dean recoil like it burned. He scoffs, but it’s too loud, and you hold him tighter.

“Would you care-“

“No, I fuckin’ love watching douchebags parade around with my girl, who would care about something like that?”

Something snaps, right at the base of your spine. You sit so tall you’d think someone is dragging you by the nape of your neck, and Dean blinks in something close to surprise.

“What-“

“Your girl,” you whisper. “That’s- I’m- Why would you say that?”

Dean blinks. “Why wouldn’t I say that?”

“Because you and I- We’re not- That’s-“ You lean back, letting go of his wrist, and when you look down, you’ve left little crescent marks in the skin. “No- No- You didn’t- You said no- No strings-“

“Yeah, and then you stopped fuckin’ me, and I-“ Dean says your name as you press back against the window, brow furrowed in worry. “Baby, it’s- It’s alright, I’m not that pissed-“

“You were yelling,” you choke out, and he swallow.

“Well, I was- Just- C’mere.”

He reaches out, cupping your cheek with the same gentle touch he used to use, right before he kissed you. You gape at him, head spinning, panting like you just ran a marathon.

“I’m not mad,” he rasps, almost pleading, and you shake your head.

“You were-“

“Sweetheart-“

“Why?” You whisper, grabbing his wrist, your nails sinking back into the marks. “Why- Why would you care?”

Dean swallows. He shakes his head, looks out the window, and chuckles.

“Dean-“

“I don’t want you goin’ out with him. And- Call it possessive, or stupid man shit, or- Whatever the hell you want,” he drags his thumb over your cheekbone, voice dropping to something tender, something soft. “You’re my girl. And I want you here, telling me what to do, how to- To be what you need.” His voice cracks. “Come on, baby. Just- Tell me what to be.”

You stare at him, a lot of pieces colliding into each other at once in your head. The diner and the movie and the touching and the caution and-

“Are we dating?” You choke out, and Dean frowns.

“What’d you mean, are we dating?”

“I mean are we dating, Dean, are you- Are you my boyfriend?”

“Uh- Boyfriend kinda makes it sound like we’re sixteen and necking-“

“What the fuck is necking?”

Dean groans, dropping his head. “Don’t say that, sweetheart. Makes me feel fuckin’ fifty.”

Your lips twitch. “You are almost fifty,” you say, and he chuckles.

“Yeah. Guess I am.” He looks back up to you, caution lining his features. “You always seemed to like it.”

You swallow. You did. You’d never been sure if it was the older thing itself, or the fact that it was just Dean, but you’d liked it. You always liked all of him, from the uglier wounds to the beautiful, glowing heart that almost managed to peak through, no matter how thick his steel and iron walls became.

He glides his thumb back and forth over your cheekbone, and your breath hitches. He swallows, closes his eyes, and mutters your name.

“Did you… Not think we were dating?”

You shake your head, and Dean snorts dryly.

“Huh,” his mouth curves into a tight smirk. “Makes sense why you wouldn’t kiss me, I guess.”

“You guess?” You squeak, and Dean nods.

“Yeah, makes a lotta sense, actually-“

“How long have we been dating?!” You almost shriek, and he gives you an amused look.

“’Bout three months.”

“Three months?!”

“That’s what I said, baby-“

“Shut- Shut up-“ You plant a hand over his mouth, and he raises his brows. “Why the fuck wouldn’t you tell me we were dating, you- You butt?!”

Dean’s eyes sparkle, looking pointedly down to your hand, and you release him with a scowl. He rubs his jaw, grinning at you like you’re some cute bunny, and you lean back in your seat with a huff.

“Sweetheart,” he says gently. “I thought you knew.”

“How would I have known-“

“’Cause I asked you on a date? And you said yes?”

“That- That never happened.” You snap, and Dean frowns.

“Yes, it did. Sammy- He was there-“

“Sam was there-“

“Yeah, and- I said there was a new diner in town, and you said you’d go with me, and we started dating!”

You stare at him, mouth hanging open. Dean stares pointedly back, and you can’t help yourself. You bark out a loud, sharp laugh.

“That was not asking me on a date, you fucking- Oh my god!” You shake your head, and Dean’s frown becomes almost puppy like.

“Yes, it was-“

“You have to actually say it’s a date, Dean! You can’t just- Just ask me to do something, I thought we were just hanging out! As friends.”

He’s pouting now. If you weren’t pissed, it would be adorable. “I- Uh- I paid for everything. And got you gifts.”

“Friends do that-“

“Do friends kiss your face all the time?” Dean twists to fully glare at you, and you pause.

“Um- Maybe?”

Dean snorts. “No, they don’t-“

“But I thought that was just you!” You protest. “You- You’re always- You know-“

“I know?” He mocks, and you scowl.

“We were fucking for a year, Dean,” you snap, tipping up your chin. “I thought you were comfortable with me.”

“I am comfortable with you,” Dean shrugs, leaning slightly forward. “Real comfortable.”

Your nose twitches. He’s too close, now. Consuming your vision, making your vision all stupid and fuzzy. “You’re comfortable with everyone,” you sniff, and he laughs.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he drawls, running a hand slowly up your thigh. “We both know that ain’t true.”

You make a tiny, involuntary sound when his fingers dip under your skirt, teasing sensitive, neglected skin. He hasn’t touched you there in so long. Too long. You have to hug yourself to stop your body from flying at him.

“I haven’t fucked anyone else in eighteen damn months,” Dean mutters, holding your gaze. “I’ve been waiting around for you for months, wondering what the hell I was doin’ wrong, and you thought I was just being nice?!”

You swallow, your voice suddenly small. “You are nice,” you whisper, and Dean snorts.

“No, I’m not.”

“You’re nice to me-“

“Because I-“ He cuts himself off, fingers pressing into the soft skin of your thigh. You grab his hand, holding it against you, and his eyes dart down. He heaves a long breath, squeezes his eyes shut, and bows his head.

“Dean?” You whisper, and he shakes his head. “Dean, I- I’m sorry I didn’t- You said we were just going to be casual-“

“I know what I said,” he grunts, glaring at your hands. “But I- I didn’t- I thought it would help me.”

You swallow. “Help you?”

“Yeah.”

“With what-“

“You know what.” He finally looks at you, and you’ve never seen him this vulnerable. Almost bowing before you, holding onto your hand like it’s the last thing keeping him alive. “And I can’t- I don’t know how to-“ He takes another ragged breath, gives you another pleading look. “You stopped letting me pretend, you started- You started telling me no, and I couldn’t- I couldn’t.” He swallows. “I’m tryin’ to do this right, baby.” He squeezes your hand, leaning a little closer. “Please let me do this right.”

You blink at him, tears watering in your own eyes, and nod. Dean’s shoulders shudder, and he holds your hand so tight you think he’s trying to just mold you together. He glances at your lips, but doesn’t move. So you do it for him.

Dean stares at you, completely still as you lean forward, his chest so still you’re worried he’s not breathing. You rest your hand lightly on his chest and press the lightest kiss you can to his parted lips. He shakes, one hand flying to your waist, his touch still heartbreakingly delicate. You kiss him again, a little harder, and a low rumble starts in his chest.

You pull back, pressing your brows tight together. Dean stares at you, eyes glossy and blown out, the restraint ticking in his jaw, and you smile softly.

“I love you,” you breathe. “And I- I know you can’t- You know, say it back, but- I love you, Dean.”

His breathing his ragged, and he’s still gaping. You laugh nervously, looking down to your fingers, fiddling with the collar of his shirt.

“If- If you could say something, though, that would be- Um- Nice-“

Dean grunts, and your words fall off into a squeak as Dean drags you forward into his lap.

And this. This is a real kiss. Dean’s mouth slots perfectly against yours, his arm wrapping fully around your lower back, his fingers digging into your hips and his other hand cradling the back of your head. He kisses you like he’ll die if he doesn’t, pushing his tongue down your throat and moaning against your mouth. You pull on his shirt and he gropes at your ass, dragging you further into his lap. The pressure of his thigh against your core makes your head spin, but that might just be the lack of oxygen. Neither of you seem to be willing to come up for air, taking sharp, tiny breaths between sloppy kisses.

You whimper, already going limp, and Dean leans back with darkened, shining eyes. You know that look. You used to pray for and dread it all at once. It always made you feel like something close to prey, paralyzed and unable to flee his spell.

But this time is different. This time, there’s nothing you’d rather do but fall into his charm.

Dean presses another, small kiss to your lips, dragging his thumb over the tingling swell. Your tongue flicks against the pad of the finger, and he groans, pushing it slowly between your lips.

You wrap around him, sucking lightly, giving him your best, sweetest Bambi eyes. Dean’s throat bobs, his fingers digging into your ass.

“We’re goin’ home,” he mutters. “Then I’m gonna fuck you.”

That’s a lovely plan. You smile around his thumb, and he says your name, pulling his thumb away with a small pop.

“Jesus, you- You gotta tell me yes-“

“Just fuck me here,” you whisper, pulling on the collar of his shirt.

Dean glances to the backseat, then to you. “Uh- I mean- That’s- If you’re sure-“

“Please,” you push a little further forward, dropping your hand to press against the bulge in his jeans. “I need you, Dean. Now.”

And for a second, you think he’s going to demand going all the way back home. Say something about you deserving a soft bed and gentle loving, when you just want him, filthy and raw and yours. You’re so busy giving him doe eyes, you don’t notice his hand dragging down your spine and your ass, right up until it dips under your skirt, and cups your pussy through your panties.

You gasp, and Dean smirks, slowly rubbing his hand back and forth.

“Need me?” He drawls, pushing his thumb against your clit. “Like this, baby? This how you need me?”

“Ye- yes-“ Your lips brush over his, your hips starting to grind down as he drags his thumb in tiny circle, his hand still rocking back and forth. “Just- Just like that, Dean- Shit-“

You push down, kissing him with a sloppy, uncontrolled mouth. Dean grunts, splaying his free hand against your neck and pushing you down. He’s massive and warm, the hand working your pussy offering just enough friction to work you up, but nothing more. You wrap your arms around his neck, panting against his lips and moving you hips to chase more friction.

“That feels good, doesn’t it,” he mutters, kissing you between every word.

You coo, trying to kiss over his face, and Dean slaps your pussy once, leaning back with a stern glare.

“Doesn’t it?”

“Yes,” you answer immediately, already getting heavy-eyed and dazed. “So- So good, Dean, feels so good, just- More-“ You claw at his shoulders, trying to at least get to some bare skin, and settle for pressing your mouth back over his. “More- Need some more, De, now-“

Dean silences you with a deep, rough kiss, and taps his thumb against your clit in quick, harsh movements, pushing his palm down hard against your aching pussy. You cry out, trying to force your hips further down against him, and Dean squeezes that back of your neck.

“Look at  you,” he mutters, almost in awe. “Few months without some cock and you get bossy, don’t you.”

“No- No,” you manage to protest. “You’re just- You’re being slow-“

“I’m being slow?” He mocks, running his fingers over the line of your panties. “Baby, I’ve barely fuckin’ started.”

You try to roll your eyes at him, but he uses his hold on your neck to turn your head, forcing your gaze back down to his. Your eyes widen, and he smirks slightly, raising his brows.

“You gonna break out some manners for me?” He asks, slowly dragging your panties to the side. “Or am I gonna need to teach you again?”

“Te- Teach me?” You choke out, and Dean hums.

His thumb drags down from your clit, parting the lips of your pussy and smearing your arousal. Your heart is trying to hammer out of your chest, every nerve in your body seeming to respond to the mockingly sweet touch.

“Dean,” you press your hands against his chest, unsure if you want to push him away or drag him closer. “Don’t- Don’t be mean-“

“I’m not bein’ mean,” he hum, the gleam in his eyes something else all together. “I’m giving my girl exactly what she wants, how she wants it.”

You blink at him hopelessly, and he chuckles, pulling you down into a long, slow kiss. It would be romantic and loving, if it wasn’t for his thumb pushing at your weeping entrance, refusing to dip even a fraction of the way inside.

“Remember how you used to beg for me?” He mutters, and your face burns with a mix of arousal and shame. “I sure as shit do. Spent hours thinkin’ about it lately, planning how I was gonna take you when you let me again. But,” he switches out his thumb for the very tips of his fingers, yanking slightly on your hair when you try to look down. “Jesus, baby, I’m worried I’m gonna break you.”

You shake your head frantically, and Dean raises his brows.

“Words, pretty girl,” he reminds you, pushing his fingers just a little big deeper. “I know it’s hard, but you’ve got it, talk to me-“

“I can take it,” you breathe out, watching him under fluttering lashes. “I- I can take it. I promise.”

Dean works his jaw, his grip on your hair tightening. “Sweetheart-“

“Please,” you breathe, leaning down until your noses bump. “I need it. I need you.”

Those are the magic words. Dean stops trying to play noble, stops trying to hold back for the sake of romance. You loved him when he fucked you like a whore and gave you nothing soft, and you’re going to love him even more when he treats you like a toy, then kisses you everywhere after.

Dean smashes his lips against yours and eases his fingers into your waiting pussy, groaning under his breath when you clench down around him.

“So fuckin’ tight,” he mutters, scissoring them inside you. “Never gonna get over how fuckin’ tight you are, sweetheart, like you were made for me. Made to be mine.”

He almost snarls the last words against your lips, pushing himself fully up to the knuckle. You mewl as he finds your g-spot with that precision that makes it look easy, that’s always made you sure you couldn’t ever enjoy someone else if you tried.

Dean pumps his fingers slowly, crooking them so they drag against that spot, and pulls you back to watch your face contort with pleasure.

“That’s it,” he grunts, pulling almost all the way out before slamming them right back in and twisting to bully against that sensitive spot. “That’s just how you like it, huh? Already gettin’ like this from just my fingers,” he chuckles, grinding his hips up against your thighs. “Imagine how you’re gonna be on my cock, sweet girl, if you can barely fuckin’ take this?”

“That- That’s not fair-“ You choke out, every word breathy and weak, and Dean just smirks.

“Isn’t it?”

You try to protest, but Dean pushes your head back down, and his kiss knocks almost every thought from your head. It’s all just the familiar, perfect way his mouth moves against yours, rememorizing something that never stopped being his. The wet sound of his fingers working you open fills the car, and your whole body burns with desire and shame. He’s right. You’re already soaked and ready for him, your cunt clenching down and still begging for more. You need that full, impossible split of him. After months of nothing, you’re worried his cock is the only thing that’s going to be able to do it.

But Dean seems to like proving you wrong today. A coil, tight in your stomach, starts to wind tighter and tighter. He drops his grip on your hair for a second to push down on the base of your spine, forcing your cunt almost right over his bulge. He reangles his hand, forcing in another finger, and you make a strangled sound.

“De- Dean-“

“We’re gonna get you relaxed, baby,” he mutters, twisting his wrist so the drag against your g-spot almost rips through your body. “Nice and relaxed ‘f me, you can do it.”

You let out a shaky breath, trying to listen, and your clit pushes down against Dean’s cock, still tight in his jeans. The pressure is perfect, combined with the brutal thrusts of Dean’s hand, and you press your cheek to his.

“That- That’s good,” you pant, clinging to the hem of his shirt. “So- Soo good-“

You whimper, and Dean hums. He’s rubbing your back, and that’s somehow almost as good as the hand obliterating your cunt. “There she is,” he mutters. “Always so good at listening when I got my hands on you, aren’t you sweetheart.” He kisses the side of your head. “That’s my girl.”

That’s what does it. My girl.

The coil snaps, and your orgasm rips through you, making your eyes cross and your body curl limply into Dean’s arms. His hand coaxes you through it, his palm rubbing against your pussy as you mewl and clench around nothing, the light pressure helping you ride it like a long, easy wave.

Dean kisses your cheek when it’s done, then right under your eye, then your nose.

“That’s one,” he mutters, and you whine. He chuckles, hiking your skirt up with light touches. “Come on, you know the rule.”

“Stupid rule,” you grumble. “Never agreed to it.”

“Never heard you complaining before,” he points out, peeling your dress off, and you stick out your tongue.

“That’s because I always forget- Dean!”

He smacks your ass, and you squeak, pussy clenching around nothing. He’s forming a tent in his jeans as he looks up at you, and you narrow your eyes. You fingers brush against the head of him, and his groan falters, his head tipping back against the bench.

You smile, pushing your hand down against his cock, and he catches your wrist, shooting you a stern glare.

“Not at young as I used to be,” he warns, and you giggle.

“But I want to,” you try to pull your hand free, and roll you eyes when he won’t let you. “Oh- Come on-“

“Nope,” he grunts, even as his dick jumps against the fabric. “You know the rule-“

“Dean-“

“Three to one,” he mutters, a dare gleaming in his eyes. “You give me one, I give you six. That’s the fuckin’ deal.”

You laugh, but his mouth doesn’t even twitch, and slowly, your smile falls into something more serious. More determined.

Damn this stubborn beautiful man and his orgasm rules. Damn you, for thinking he ever wouldn’t want to fuck you when he made you orgasm rules that weren’t proportional or fair at all.

You yank your wrist away, stick out your tongue again, and pull your underwear fully off. Dean watches you with his hands tight on your waist, eyes shining with curiosity, but patient.

And you’ve never been good at riding him, but you’ve always been good at this. You climb over Dean’s lap so your ass is near his shoulder and your face in his crotch, your back arched like some animal in heat, your pussy bare and on full display.

Dean’s never been able to help himself. One hand immediately slides around the arch of your back, then the curve of your ass, then settles back against your pussy. The other slides in your hair, petting your hair while you fumble with his belt. He chokes out your name, and you shoot him a glare, pulling out his cock with light, careful hands.

He’s so hard you’re worried he’s going to hurt himself. Pre-cum is beading around his tip, his veins throbbing like a porno. You stroke him slowly, and he lets out a sharp breath between his teeth.

“I’m serious, baby-“

“Prove it,” you say, before licking a slow, teasing stripe up his shaft.

And you know how this game ends. You’ve played it a million times before. The beautiful thing about it is that—especially when Dean thinks he’s winning—you can never lose.

You take him into his mouth, and the sound that he makes is sinful. It’s a choked, rough version of your name that sounds holy from his mouth, and comes with his fingers dipping into your heat like it’s a comfort toy. You take him until he bumps against the back of your throat and hum, swirling your tongue. Dean grunts, and pushes your head a little further down. You wiggle your ass, pussy cold and throbbing, and Dean groans.

“Jesus, woman- Gonna kill me- Fuuuuck-“

You start to bob up and down, sucking with that perfect pressure you know he likes, getting what can’t fit in your mouth in your hand. You can take him better and better with every second, letting his push against your gag reflex, and you drop that hand to play with his balls. Dean’s already giving shallow uncontrolled microthrusts, repeating your name over and over until it’s more of a choked moan.

“Can’t- Shit, baby, I can’t- That damn mouth, you’re gonna- Shit-“

You squeeze his balls and suck as hard as you can, and Dean almost roars your name, his cock jumping as he shoots thick, white ropes of cum down your throat. You swallow every drop, licking the rest off your fingers as you rise back up. There’s going to be a handprint on your ass, from where he was holding onto you. You hope you feel it in the morning.

And when you smile at Dean, you know you’re in trouble. Naked and wet for him, crawling forward so your tits press into his face and kissing him as sweetly as possible. Dean grunts, one hand shooting up to cradle the back of your head, and his responding kiss is deceptively gentle. He lets you lead it, groaning when your tongues press together, tasting himself on your lips. He lets you pull his shirt over his head and lets you trace over the lines of his muscles. You smile against his lips and lean back, and there’s that predatory glint again.

Dean’s hand twitches on your back. He wipes your chin, gathering some stray cum and slowly pressing his against your lips. You clean it off obediently, and his jaw ticks.

“Back seat,” he grunts. “Now.”

You almost scramble to listen. Rolling off of him and trying to climb over, making it halfway before you feel massive hands wrapping around your waist, holding you in place. You swallow, trying to twist over your shoulder to look at him, but Dean blows a sharp breath over your clit, and you double over with a squeak.

“De- Dean-“ You plant your hand on the bench, blood rushing to your cheeks. “Dean- wait-“

“Hmmm.” He kisses one curve of your ass, then the other. “Wait for what?”

You’re not really sure. “This- I- I can’t hold myself up,” you fumble, and he chuckles, kissing right over your clit.

“That gonna be a problem?” He teases, pressing smaller, faster kisses over the sensitive button. “Or,” he spreads your ass cheeks, humming against your heat. “Do dirty girls get what they asked for?”

Shit. “It’s uncomfortable,” you whisper, and Dean pauses.

He sighs, then kisses your clit again. You squeak when he drags you back down, and melt into his chest as he kisses all over your face, rocking you back and forth in his arms.

“’S why I wanted the bed,” he mutters, and you sigh.

“’M sorry-“

“No,” he kisses the corner of your mouth, massaging your hips with steady hands. “I’ve got it, just- uh-“

He glances up, and you watch him frown around the car with an openly adoring expression. The work of his jaw and furrow of his brow as he thinks, how he holds you so tight in his arms, it’s impossible to not love him.

“Got it,” he mutters. “Trust me?”

You nod easily, and he glances back down. His eyes soften when they meet yours, and this kiss isn’t feral or brutal. It’s just… slow. Adoring, a silent promise of what you’ve sort of always known.

Dean is going to take care of you.

He lays you out in the backseat, rubbing your thighs as you settle into the cushioned bench. You watch him with your heart in your throat, arms wrapped tight around your stomach. Sometimes, under his attention, you’re not sure what to do with yourself. He’s too pretty, too big, too much in the best possible way.

“Getting’ shy on me?” He teases, pushing up your knee, and you flush.

“N- No.”

“Hm,” Dean pins your leg against the bench, guiding the other one so it hooks over his shoulders. “Sounds like you’re gettin’ shy.”

You swallow, hugging yourself tighter, and he chuckles.

“All that work to make you relax,” he mutters, kissing his way up your thigh. “And you’re already wound back up.”

“You took too long,” you whisper, and Dean laughs.

“Sorry, sweetheart.” He kisses just the side of your cunt, and your breath hitches as he sucks a small, firm bruise into the skin. “You know I’m gonna make it up to you, yeah?”

You nod weakly, then blurt, “Yes!”

Dean’s mouth twitches, and he grabs one of your wrists, guiding it down to his hair. You weave it between your fingers, your breathing already ragged, your whole body lit up with anticipation.

“Easy,” Dean murmurs, kissing the other side of your cunt, massaging your thigh and pushing your leg a little higher. “Nice and easy, pretty girl.” He kisses you pussy, open-mouthed and wet, and you let out a high, shameless sound.

His mouth should be classified as a sex toy or something. It moves and works against you like a machine, kissing you with so much fervor you already start to see stars. You had some recovery from the fingering, but Dean’s already stripping it away with sharp, unrelenting kisses and grazes of his teeth against your clit.

“Taste so fuckin’ good,” he groans against you, the word vibrating through your body. “Never wanna live without this pussy again, baby girl, shit-“

He groans and dives back down, starting to work you open like a man starved. You push on his head, silently begging for more, afraid to open your mouth. The sounds that leave you will be embarrassing, and you’re already too far gone for them.

But Dean likes you loud, and he won’t let you hold back. He hooks his arm fully around your leg, dragging you further down, giving him a better against your pussy. You mewl when he wraps his lips around your clit, sucking impossibly hard, and Dean laughs against your cunt.

“Fuck- Fuck-“ You grab at the front bench, yanking mindlessly on his short hair. “De- Dean- Oh my god-“

He groans, pushing his face impossibly further. His tongue is deliberate and thick, pumping in and out of your cunt before pressing flat on your clit and dragging back and forth. It’s enough to drive you mad, making the coil in your stomach burn and burn and burn until your whole body is shaking with the sensation.

“De- Dean-“ You whimper. “You- Fuck-“

He nips at your clit, dragging a long, slow stripe up your pussy. Your eyes lock, and you swallow, a broken moan falling from your lips. The first time he did this, he told you that he loved it. That there was nothing better than a woman, right on his face, dripping and sweet for him. It didn’t take you long to believe him.

Here, he looks at you like you’re some kind of heaven he’s been allowed to touch. His mouth never stops moving against you, his eyes lidded and almost drunk, and your arousal shining on his face whenever he reangles it to devour you a new way. It’s a sight that could knock you off your feet, if you had any left to stand on. Dean on his knees, his broad, freckled shoulders forcing your knees apart, his attention a drug you never want to bother being clean from again.

You start to shake, your stomach seizing up as you fight off your orgasm, but Dean doesn’t tolerate that either. His mouth goes back against your clit, his tongue darting up and down and back and forth in tiny motions, almost tickling it, making the little nerves light up and-

You cum with a loud, choked sound that’s really supposed to be Dean’s name, and push at his head. You expect him to stop, and finally get on top of you.

But you forgot about his stupid orgasm rule, and he doesn’t stop. His grip tightens and he starts to make out with your overstimulated pussy. You squeak, pushing weakly at his head, and his eyes gleam.

“De- Dean- Fuuuuck- That’s-“ Your eyes roll back, your body seizing up again, almost unable to take so much. “Oh- Oh my gooood-”

Dean groans against you again, and it’s worse than a vibrator. It’s warm and deep and Dean, mixed with his filthy mouth and stubble, scraping against soft skin.Your thighs lock around his head and he lets them, his eyes never leaving yours as he slowly pulls you fully onto your back, pushing himself up onto his knees. His cock bounces against his stomach but he ignores it, using his now free hand to grope at your breast. You moan, clenching around nothing as he laps at your clit and pussy.

“I- I can’t-“ Tears spring at your eyes. “Dean- Please-“

He hums, rolling your nipple between deft fingers, and you throw your head back with a broken moan.

Warm, thick fingers weave through yours, and  you blink at him under watery lashes. He’s let go of your breast to hold your hand. His thumb is dragging slowly back and forth, and his mouth isn’t slowing down, but you don’t want it to. You can see the challenge shining in his eyes. You take a ragged breath, give him the smallest nod, and he smiles against your pussy.

You didn’t know the human tongue could move that fast. You’re sure it’s not supposed to, but Dean’s never cared about things like that. He drinks you up like wine, rapidly toying with your clit—swirling and kissing and flicking and sucking like it’s candy—and your eyes roll back in your head as your third orgasm springs through your body like a geyser.

Dean lowers you down slowly, pressing one last kiss to your swollen kiss before rising back up, wiping his chin of your release and cleaning it off his fingers with a smug grin. His cock is at attention, and your mouth waters. He always gets it in. You’re a little afraid of it right now.

“Six?” You breathe out, and Dean snorts.

“You’re the one who pushed for it, princess.”

“It- It’s your stupid rule-“

“You love it,” he shrugs, slowly settling himself back between your legs. “And you’re gonna take it, aren’t you, baby.”

You wrinkle your nose, and Dean gives you a stern, amused look.

“Aren’t you?” He taps the head of his cock against your cunt, and you squeak.

“Dean-“

“You’re the one who got bratty and cocky, sweetheart,” he drawls, pushing your leg back down. “So you’re gonna take it, ‘cause I know you can.”

You swallow, giving him your best doe-eyes, and he just chuckles. Dean lowers himself down, presses a gentle kiss to your brow, and murmurs against your skin.

“That ain’t gettin’ you out of this.”

You press your face into the crook of his neck, and Dean smiles, kissing the side of your head.

“All shy again,” he mutters, dragging that massive cock between the lips of your pussy. “Let’s take care of that, huh?”

You cling to him as he rolls you both over, guiding your legs to straddle his torso and lining up his cock with your weeping, abused pussy. He pulls you gently up, rubbing your side and watching you a painfully adoring gaze. You try to cover yourself again, and he catches your hand, shaking his head.

“Come on,” he mutters, weaving your fingers together. “Let me see you.”

And damn him for being so soft and sweet, you don’t think you could tell him no if you wanted.

“Take it easy,” he says, wrapping both of his hands around your waist. “All you, baby. Show me what you want.”

“I- I can’t-“

“Yes, you can.”

You believe him, in a way you’d never believe anyone else. It might be how he looks at you. Like you’re an angel over him, like you’re really, truly letting him enter paradise as you sink down onto his cock.

He grunts, his fingers tightening against your body as his cock slowly splits you open. Even with how much he’s worked you open—your pussy so wet it’s already dripping onto his thighs—it’s a tight fit. You can feel every vein dragging inside of you, the hard curve pressing right into your g-spot and making you flutter around him.

Dean jerks his head up, squeezing his eyes shut, and you swallow.

“Sorry-“

“’S- ‘S alright,” he exhales sharply, relaxing back into the seat. “Don’t worry ‘bout me, baby. I’m good.”

A smile ghosts over your lips, even as you start to only breathe through your nose. “You look it,” you tease, and Dean gives you a half annoyed, half impressed look.

“You’re tight,” he grunts, and your smile widens.

“You’re big.”

He groans, throwing his head further back, and you giggle again. He’s sitting just right again, his chest rippling under your hands, and you feel like that angel. You feel like a goddess, with how his hands are dragging over your body, how your name falls from his lips.

“So fuckin’ perfect,” he mutters, eyes raking over your body. “So perfect.”

You take a deep breath, and start to grind down onto his cock. Dean groans, one hand dragging down to squeeze your ass, but he doesn’t move. He won’t unless you beg him, and you’re determined not to. You can ride him until your thighs give out. His cock bumps against your g-spot, and his abdomen drags near your clit, and it feels good. You rock back and forth a little faster, your breath catching, and Dean groans.

“Look at you,” he mutters, almost to himself. “Pretty fuckin’ girl, riding my cock like the needy little thing you are, aren’t you. So fuckin’ wet for me, baby, so- so tight-“

He groans, and you push down on his chest, picking up your pace.

“So big, Dean,” you moan, pushing up your chest like a pornstar, trying to make him break first. “You’re so big, feels so- so good-“

You moan, tossing your hair, and Dean makes an almost feral sound.

But he doesn’t break. The bastard never breaks, and you’ve never been good at riding him. Your thighs are already sore, and they quickly start to ache, making your movements smaller and weaker. Dean watches you start to whine, your brow furrowing in concentration, and just smiles. You both know what he’s waiting for. You don’t want to give in.

“So quiet, sweetheart,” he coos, running his hand up to palm at your breast. “Someone drove by, they’d think I wasn’t fuckin’ you properly.”

You glare at him, unable to even speak, and he chuckles.

“You know what you gotta do, baby girl.”

“Fu- Fuck you-“

“I will,” he winks. “If my girl says please.”

Your eyes narrow. His grin widens, and you think you might be about to fly apart with how bad you need it. Fuck him. Fuck him and his stupid face that you love and his big cock that makes you all jelly and dazed thoughts and useless.

“Please-“

The word barely leaves your mouth before Dean moves. A single, well-aimed thrust up into your cunt that makes you fall apart. You fall forward onto his chest with a scream, and Dean groans, giving shallower, gentle thrusts to work you through the orgasm.

“I know,” he murmurs in you ear, his words painfully soft in comparison to the pleasure wracking your body. “I know, princess. Two more to go.”

You don’t think you can take two more. Four has been your max for a very long time, and that was with a lot more prep time and space between orgasms. But Dean doesn’t seem like he’s going to give you much of a choice.

You’re a doll in his arms again, when he hauls you up into his lap. His cock leaves you for a single second, just for the adjustment, and you whimper at the loss.

Dean hums, kissing all over your face as he slides back in.

“That’s my girl,” he starts to rock your hips back and forth with steady hands, picking you up then dropping your back down so his dick drags through every inch of your heat. “Takin’ me so good. Just like that, feel that, baby-“ He pushes on your lower back, making his cock slam against your g-spot, and you sob against his neck. “Feel how fuckin’ good we fit together, my girl.”

Dean’s voice is lined with something darker now. More possessive and hungry. He fucks up into your like an animal, dips drilling forward and mouth attached to your neck. All you can do is take it, over and over until your eyes are crossing and the only words you can remember are babbles of Dean and please.

The neck orgasm is slow, blooming from where he’s slamming against your cervix and spreading pleasantly through your body. Dean moans against your skin, mouthing at your jaw and neck, his tongue dragging and kisses messy. When you try to kiss him back, it’s mostly with a mewl and lips that follow his lead. Everything is humid and light in your body, everything is Dean around you, and there’s a new, strangely hot sensation in your core that’s demanding all of your attention.

It’s tighter than the usual coil, and gets hotter and hotter with every thrust of Dean’s cock. He’s getting uneven now, his own words falling into pants and moans, his balls slapping against your ass and hands leaving prints as he folds you fully over his chest.

“One- One more-“ His voice is gravelly, almost as wrecked as you feel. “Milk my fuckin’ cock, baby girl, cum for me-“

You open your mouth to warn him about the strange feeling, but it’s too late. Dean slams home, crashing his mouth against yours, and you cum with a hoarse scream. Hot cum shoots into your cunt, right as something gushes out of you in wet, burning waves. It feels good, so good you can’t think, so good your mouth hangs open and your moans turn into pathetic, weak babbles.

“Fuck- Fuck-“ Dean groans against your mouth. “Fuckin’- Yes-“

Your body seizes and twitches around him, but even when he’s done, Dean doesn’t pull out. The last of your release pushes itself out and her collapses backward, rubbing your back and craning his neck to grin at your cockdrunk expression.

“Gettin’ stupid?” He teases, and you can’t manage to raise an arm, so you just bite his nose. He laughs, leaning up to steal another, quick kiss from your lips before settling back down.

You curl over him, resting your head against his shoulder while he pets your head, both of you still panting and coming back down. You might be there for a hundred years, or just an hour. It doesn’t matter. The car is going to reek of sex for maybe a year. Sam might never agree to ride in it again. But it was worth it. More than worth it, when you look up at Dean, and find him—just as always—already looking back.

“We’re still dating, right?” You whisper, because you have to be sure.

Dean grins, and kisses you slowly. You hum, letting your eyes flutter shut. Letting him carry you, whenever he thinks is safe to go.

“Yeah,” he mutters, and you can hear it in his voice. All the love he’s been trying to show you, for who knows how long. “We are."

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[warmfrequency]

john price x fem!reader, mdni, angst, smut, hurt/no comfort, 1.8k

from the generous mind of @beebymoonlight

‘…a fwb situation with price who keeps you at arm's length because he has a job to do, and he knows he'll have something to make him hesitate if he gives you 100%’

You don’t know what you expected to feel — maybe nothing, like how it was in the beginning when this all felt simple. When it was just release and a little bit of fun.

It used to be really fun, actually.

But when you open your door and he’s standing there, taking up the frame, your chest does that thing it’s been doing lately, and it tightens like a coil wound two turns too tight.

John looks the same as he always does, though.

You notice the breadth of him first, shoulders solid beneath his coat. Then his tired face, the lines at the corners of his saxe eyes cut a little deeper, beard grown out soft. You can tell he’s sapped to the bone, but he’s perfectly composed anyway, the way he’s been built to be, conditioned over twenty years to be.

And you’re looking at him the way you shouldn’t be — you know that even as you’re doing it.

He steps in and drops his coat over the back of your armchair without asking. He stopped asking a while ago and you stopped minding around the same time. It didn’t really feel like anything then, but it feels like something now.

You put the kettle on because the distraction of it gives you somewhere to look that isn’t him. He settles against the counter beside you, watching you move through the small space. You can feel his gaze on the back of your neck like the sun in the middle of July.

“You didn’t say you were coming by,” you tell him lightly, eyes still on the kettle.

“I didn’t know that I was until I was,” he replies plainly, low and raspy, voice a vibration in the air.

And just as quickly as he answered, his hands find your hips from behind and his mouth opens hot against the curve of your neck, pressing to the soft thin-skinned place just below your ear that he learned early on makes your skin pebble and has never forgotten. Your fingers tighten around the lip of the counter, eyes falling shut as his tongue laps are your skin.

And there it is.

That pull, that loosening at the center of you that happens every single time no matter how hard you’ve talked yourself out of feeling it. You turn into him because you always do, hands moving flat to his chest.

His hands slide from your hips to your waist and he turns your bodies, starts walking you back slowly. He kisses you, pulling your bottom lip between his teeth, sliding his tongue into the heat of your mouth until you’re swallowing his breaths and he’s eating yours.

Your back finds the wall and he presses in close, knee slotting between your legs, and the want for him, for more, blooms achingly as you bear down against his thigh. His fingers find the hem of your shirt, lifting it over your head and dropping it to the kitchen floor. His calloused palms slide around your waist, your ribs, your back. Thumbs brushing beneath your breasts, pushing up into the weight of them.

You’re warm everywhere he touches, warmer still in the spaces he hasn’t.

He knows your body. That’s the thing. That’s been the thing for a long time now, the thing you keep returning to in the night when you shouldn’t be thinking of him at all. He knows where to put his hands, his mouth. Knows the sound you make when he drags along your throat, the short exhale that escapes you when his teeth scrape your collarbone. He’s learned every inch of you and keeps every note for himself, giving you so little of himself in return.

When you both inevitably end up in your bed, he mouths at your jaw, your collar, follows a warm path downward over your nipples, your sternum, until he’s at your hip, fingers curling into the cotton of your underwear. He sits back on his heels just long enough to drag them down the length of you, hand gentle on your ankle as he pushes your leg to bend.

And he always starts this way; with his warm tongue lapping and sucking at your sensitive cunt. Until your thoughts have thinned to nothing and your thighs are trembling and you’ve completely lost the thread of this reality. His hands are firm at your hips, steadying you, fingers bruising into the fat there as he tilts your core impossibly closer. You fist your sheets and buck into it.

When he finally moves over you, he notches the thick head of his cock at your well, and the slow, full press of him pushing in makes you gasp. The burn as he fills you is always overwhelming, your body yielding to his stretch as he sheathes himself inside with one smooth stroke until he’s fully seated. That first long exhale is warm against your neck, and the way he settles into you feels dangerously like something slotting into place — you feel it in your chest as much as anywhere else.

But then he moves, pulling out until just the tip remains before driving back into you, and the thought dissolves.

He sets a rhythm that starts slow and deepens, his hips snapping forward with a force that steals the air from your lungs. His forearms are bracketing your head, his face close enough that you feel the warmth of every huff against your cheek, close enough that if you turned your head your mouths would meet. But his eyes and mouth seldom meet yours once he’s inside of you.

His breathing is rough and uneven at your temple, and your own voice is embarrassingly unguarded, moaning out with each deep thrust, fingernails biting into the muscle of his arms. His hand slides beneath the small of your back and the angle shifts, his cock dragging relentlessly against the spongy spot that makes your toes curl, and you stop thinking entirely.

So you let yourself have it.

You let yourself sink into the aching fantasy that this means what it feels like it means, that the way he groans your name low against your jaw is something he can’t help, that every thrust is because you are his and he is yours and that this room harbors something real.

You let yourself live inside that for a little while.

It’s easier to imagine when he turns you over and your face pushes into the soft of your pillow. You don’t have to fight for his eyes. You can just close yours and imagine them.

Afterward, the room settles into something still, his breath slowing and evening out beside you. He’s on his back, one arm folded behind his head, your sheets draped heavy with heat over his hips. You're on your side, facing him, a foot of cold space between your bodies.

You’ve learned not to touch after.

“I’m out Thursday,” he says to the ceiling, in the same tone he’d use to mention the weather or a match he caught at the pub.

“Yeah?” Your voice comes out even and you’re secretly proud of that.

“For a few weeks.”

He turns his head then, and his eyes move over your face the way they sometimes do, like he’s memorizing something he won’t let his brain keep before he looks back at the ceiling.

You’re not sure when you stopped being careful about the way you look at him, but you are and you can’t seem to stop. Tracing the bearded line of his jaw, the slow rise and fall of his toned hair-smattered chest.

He feels it — your gaze — and his eyes cut to yours. And the sudden attention pushes his name from your throat like a reflux of acid.

“John,” you choke.

He looks at you for a long moment and you watch it happen, watch him read your face in that way he can’t shut off. You know the exact second he finds what he’s looking for because something in his expression shifts to a close.

He sits up before you can say anything else, sheets pulling with him, dragging over your flesh. You push yourself onto one elbow and watch him set his own on his knees, head bowing briefly before he exhales loudly through his nose.

“John,” you say again, voice cracking.

“I knew it,” he replies, low and quiet, the voice he uses when he’s already made up his mind about something. “I could see it… a few times back, maybe more.” He pauses, jaw pulsing once at the hinge. “The way you’d look at me. The way you…” he stops and doesn’t finish. “I should’ve said something sooner.”

The walls of your room begin to cave.

“So say something now,” you murmur, the faintest tremor underneath.

He turns his head over his shoulder and looks at you then and there’s something in his face that might almost be sorry if you stared at it long enough.

“This isn’t… that,” he says. “It can’t be.”

“You don’t know what I was gonna say,” you shift closer.

“Don’t I?”

Your lip wobbles so you look away first, which feels like losing something.

“I have people out there,” he says after a moment, and you force your eyes back onto him, “whose lives sit in my hands and I can’t—” he takes a breath, “I can’t have somethin’ in here that pulls at me when I’m out there.” He turns forward again, looking down at the floor. “You know that,” he adds.

You don’t say anything because it would only spring tears. Because you do know that.

“I let this go on too long, love,” he says. “N’that’s on me.”

“I— I wasn’t gonna ask you for anythin’,” you say finally, tongue dry and sticky.

“I know you weren’t,” he replies gently. “That’s not the point though, is it?”

He reaches for his shirt then and each quiet movement of him dressing may as well be a gun shot beside your ear — the soft drag of fabric over his head, the jingle of his buckle settling into place, the tread of his boots.

Boom. Boom. Boom.

You lie back and have your turn to watch the ceiling. Your belly is sour, the wanting curdling slowly into something far heavier.

When he stands, he pauses at the foot of the bed and you look at him.

“M’sorry,” he says. And he means it, you can hear that he means it, but it doesn't help. He walks out of the room, boots down the hall until your front door opens and closes and his copied key turns from the outside.

You lie there in the ruined quiet of your own flat and you feel it all of it at once like a fucking avalanche — the wanting and the grief of it and the humiliation of having been seen like that by him.

That coil winds for a third turn anyway.

[warmfrequency]

hinge

captain john price x fem!reader

summary: the lads make john a hinge profile against his will, and to everyone’s surprise, he matches with you within ninety seconds

cw: mdni, fem!reader, age gap (30/43), idk how hinge actually works tbh, john price the feminist, alcohol, insecurities, fluff, smut, oral f rec, piv (14.4k)

John has been irritable for months and it's getting worse.

He knows it the way you know a tooth is starting to rot from the inside, tongue prodding at it every hour. 

On Wednesday, he reamed Johnny out for being three minutes late to the briefing. It was the kind of reaming that had everyone's eyes turned down into their coffees and files while Johnny stood in front at attention, toes squared, ears hot.

John went on and on, red-faced, telling him that his 'admin's a disgrace', and that he'd better 'get a fuckin' grip before you're explaining your timings to your old CO'.

Somewhere in the middle of it — around ‘disgrace’ — John heard himself.

He finished the dress-down anyway. Ending on a firm threat of a year-long inventory assignment.

It was rough enough to watch that when the room cleared out, Simon hung back. He stayed in his seat, leaning back with his arms folded, eyes following John as he aggressively organized his paperwork at the front of the room,squaring stacks that were already square.

"You need somethin', Riley?" John asked, never looking up.

Simon's mouth was twisted beneath his balaclava as he weighed his options. He wasn't especially eager to be John's second victim of the day, but it'd been miserable for weeks with no stop in sight. In the end, he decided to be straight—

"Y'need'a get laid, boss."

John's hands immediately froze.

That unyielding anger came up his chest right on schedule — insubordinate, out of line — and then couldn't quite find his footing in it because the truth was a trapdoor just under him.

His eyes flicked up and across the room, ears warming up just like Johnny's had an hour ago.

"Bloody ornery, you are," Simon went on. "'ave been."

Simon wasn't wrong, John knew that.

The work winds them all too tight — adrenaline that can't be spent, images that don't erase, choices made under duress that keep them questioning at three in the morning. And everyone's got a valve that lets the steam out. Johnny shouts his out at the football. Kyle has somewhere to be lately that he's cagey about, and Simon has whatever Simon has, no one asks.

And John drives home, shuts the door, and the house is quiet, his walls holding all the built-up pressure.

Ten months since his usual I'm-Home-Hookup found herself a steady bloke and stopped answering his calls. He'd told himself the whole time it was casual right up until it ended, when he learned it had actually been load-bearing.

And was that affecting his mood? Maybe.

His eyes narrowed on Simon and his jaw ticked at the hinge. He threw his chin toward the open door.

"Fuck off out've my briefin' room, Lieutenant."

Simon's chair scraped across the linoleum when he stood, sighing through the cloth over his face.

"I jus' think—"

"OUT."

The door clicked shut behind him, and John stood in the silence for a moment.

Then he squared the stacks again.

——

Johnny never volunteers to bring the beer, yet here he is at half seven with a box of glass bottles rattling on his shoulder, grinning under the porch light. Behind him, the headcount runs long by one. Three men when John only agreed to two. Kyle with a canvas bag full of crisps. Simon at the back, hands sunk in his pockets.

"Thought it was just you and Garrick?"

"Aye, well." Johnny shoulders past him into the hall, close enough that their shirts drag. "Simon heard there was football."

"Simon doesn't care about football," John retorts as the rest of them push their way inside.

"I care 'bout football," Simon lies through a simper no one can see, wiping his boots on the mat.

Unfortunately for John, his team is undoubtedly adept at what they've trained in and he doesn’t always catch when there’s fuckery afoot.

Under his nose, in his very own home, Johnny distracts him with talk about the match while Kyle lifts his phone from the side table just beside his elbow. Simon waits an appropriate amount of time before slipping away to the kitchen to guess the passcode, which he manages in one go.

"Gonna have to talk to him 'bout that…" Kyle mumbles as he swipes to the App Store.

"He textin' anyone?" Simon cranes his neck over Kyle's shoulder. "He used t’see tha’ one bird… wot was her name…?"

"Leah," Kyle answers flatly. "Laura?" he second-guesses as he thumbs in the passcode again to approve the install: Hinge Dating App. "M'not lookin' at his texts, mate. Be lucky he doesn't RTU us just for this. Plus, I think he said she started seeing some—"

"—y'know, Cap," Johnny's voice cuts through, a warning for the men in the kitchen. "I can get ye another beer, y'don't have…"

Simon and Kyle glance up from where they've leaned against the counter and freeze when John appears in the doorway, face screwed with suspicion. His eyes flick between the phone in Kyle's grasp and the faces lit behind it.

His initial thought is that the phone's got a nice, durable case, proper practical. His second thought is to start patting down his pockets with his free hand — which all turn up empty.

The room's gone still, a collective held breath to see which way the tension'll break.

"That's my phone."

"It is," Kyle agrees carefully.

Johnny appears at John's shoulder, squeezing past into the kitchen. "Cap, before you start—"

"When'd you nick it?" His eyes accurately settle on Kyle, the slickest of the bunch.

"Doesn't matter when, sir. We just—"

"It matters to me." John puts his empty beer bottle on the table and uses both hands now to pat down his pockets a second time, not quite believing his own team got the drop on him. "Professionally speakin',” he mumbles. 

"Wot really needs addressin' is your passcode," Simon grumbles. "0-0-0-6?"

"Christ," Johnny snickers.

John chooses to ignore them and holds his hand out, palm up. But Kyle doesn't fork it over. Instead, he looks back at the screen and watches the progress ring around the icon close in on itself.

"What're we doin' right now?" John presses, stepping closer.

"Jus' take a seat, boss," Simon suggests, gesturing to the kitchen table just as Johnny yanks a chair out, beaming something mischievous.

John looks at the chair, then looks at Johnny.

"Think I'll stand."

"Suit yourself," Johnny spins the chair around and drops into it, arms folding over the back.

Kyle checks the screen one more time before turning it around. A new little white icon sits on John's home screen, Kyle points at it. John squints to read the little letters beneath it.

"What's Hinge?"

"It's a dating app," Kyle answers and places the phone on the table.

A dating app….

Grown adults sorting through each other like they're shopping. Swipe, tap, Add to Cart. He's heard the lads chat about it for years — the 'ghosting', the games — and always thought: thank god that's not me.

Under the simmering contempt, the idea of typing hello to a stranger who might simply never reply (left on read, whatever ungodly hour of the soul that phrase was invented in) shoots something cold through him.

There's a beat of hesitation before his eyes snap to Simon, the scowl on his face carrying the weight of Wednesday's interaction.

"This is you, then?"

"Team effort," Simon corrects without a flicker of shame.

"It's no' the dodgy kind of app, it's for relationships," Johnny explains. "Says so in their slogan: 'designed to be deleted'. You make a profile, upload a few pics, answer some—"

"I know how online dating works, MacTavish."

Johnny squints. "Do ye, though?"

"You've been rank for months, sir." Kyle tells it plainly. "Whole teams sayin' it."

John feels like he’s been put on a rinse cycle in the wash. His nostrils flare as he snuffs his irritation back down his chest lest he prove them right in his own kitchen. 

"So that's what all this is? A Friday night welfare check?"

"It's no' a welfare check," Johnny defends poorly, voice cracking at a pitch too high.

"It's a bit of a welfare check," Kyle shrugs.

"Right." John reaches for his phone. "Well, thanks for the concern, lads. Truly. Warms the heart."

Kyle slides it just out of reach. "Just give it a shot, sir," he implores. "Try it for the weekend. If you still hate it, I'll delete it and we'll never bring it up again."

John's chin tucks to his chest and he glowers at him from under his deeply furrowed brow. "You'll delete it now," he orders, except these men have never listened to him off the field.

"I could," he agrees, wrestling a smirk. "And you can keep spending your Friday nights with us."

It's meant as a joke. It doesn't land as one.

Because John looks around at the three of them and knows in a few hours their engines will fade down the street and that hulking quiet will pour back in, the one he keeps calling peace. 

So… he pulls out a chair.

Simon pushes off the counter and Johnny's grin pulls wider.

"Go on," John surrenders, falling into the seat with a sigh. He does not look at any of their faces because whatever's on them’s going to make him cross. 

Chairs scrape and Kyle settles down at John’s arm, Simon looms over them from behind, all crowded around the one screen.

The basics go quick — name, age, pronouns. Kyle finds his rhythm working through the questions.

"Drinks? Socially. Smokes…?" Kyle seesaws his head a bit. "We'll say no."

"I smoke cigars," John protests.

"That's a personality trait, not a habit." Kyle scrolls. "Height?"

"Six-two," Johnny says immediately.

"He's six-foot," Simon corrects.

"Aye, and on the app he's six-two."

Kyle selects 6'. "Occupation?"

That one hangs in the air a bit longer than the rest, and John doesn't quite know why. His hands turn palm-up on the table with the question.

"Consultant," Simon offers.

"Civil servant," Kyle tries.

"Military," John answers irritably off the edge of a scoff.

Three sets of eyes come up off the phone — Johnny's eyebrows go high, Kyle's mouth opens to argue, Simon tilts his head just enough, as if to say: if you say so.

"It's not a state secret that I serve," John says, eyebrows pulling close with confusion.

Kyle types it despite whatever he's got hanging on the tip of his tongue. And in the little silence afterward, the obvious question finally comes to mind.

"What've you lot got on yours, then?"

The simple question sends a tidal wave of overlapping chatter and excuses over the table.

"Ah, well—" Johnny starts.

"I actually—" Kyle says, at the same time.

"Different app," Simon adds, under both of them.

"—see, it depends," Johnny goes on, trying to gain volume over the others, "I like to keep the profile fresh. Rotate the pics, the bio—"

"—don't have one," Kyle is saying over the top of him, "because me and Amara are— well, it's not official-official, but it's a thing, so—"

"Been usin' Feeld," Simon finishes.

When the wave recedes, the full picture comes into view: Johnny reinvents himself on a cycle, Kyle has Amara, mentioned now for the first time ever. And Simon—

"What's Feeld?" John asks.

"No," Kyle says before the question has its punctuation, quick and stern, head whipping back and forth. “Absolutely not. We'll talk about that another time."

"It's not for you," Simon adds.

"Right," he mumbles, taking a pull of his beer, settling back against the chair. He inhales and looks off at the window. "M'glad it's amateurs running my love life."

"Enthusiasts," Johnny corrects.

The rest goes quicker.

"What kind of connection?" Kyle reads. "Options are: Long-term. Short-term. Short-term, open to long. Long-term, open to short."

"Short, open to long," John answers without hesitation.

Johnny opens his mouth but Simon glares at him just as quickly through his ragged eyeholes, and he closes it without a word.

His profile photos have to come off the lads' phones since John's camera roll offers nothing but screenshots of maps, car parts, and three random pictures of the K9, Xena, from another unit on base (he’s been trying to snatch her for his own team for months).

He watches the photos of himself go by and it's a strange census, seeing a year of himself entirely through other people's eyes. Makes him queasy, so he takes another bitter gulp to wash the feeling out. 

There's a short argument about the proper order the pictures should be presented, Johnny wins.

After, Kyle starts explaining what a good prompt does, how to choose one. He hardly gets any words out before John's holding his hand out the same way he did half an hour ago.

"I'll do these myself."

This time, Kyle hands the phone over.

The lads drift to the far end of the table to finally give John the space they've neglected to all night. 

Fresh beers are cracked open and a bag of crisps demolished as they fold into their own conversations. The match they’ve been ignoring comes first, then Amara, whom Kyle spends five minutes refusing to elaborate on, and somewhere in there Simon mentions an oddities shop he’s been meaning to stop by.

John sits with his reading glasses on, typing slowly, brows low in concentration.

When he finally sets the phone down, all three of them quickly move behind him.

"So, their profile comes up on screen," Kyle reaches over to demonstrate. "Have a look, read the bio. If you wanna chat to her, tap the heart. If you don't, hit the X, and you'll never see her again. Simple."

The first woman is on a beach holding a cocktail the size of a fishbowl. X.

"Okaay," Kyle drawls, mouth pulling straight. "Sure. Was there a reason, or…"

"No."

The next woman is at a festival covered in glitter and feathers. X.

So is the one after. X.

A woman in her work scrubs. X.

A woman holding a child. X.

A woman in a bikini on a lake (his eyes linger). X.

It's not that they're not lovely. Some of them probably are. But every picture is a performance — arms out, teeth out, look how much fun I am. Advertisements.

"The fish," Johnny mourns as another goes down, a woman on a small boat holding a big trout up. "Cap, she was fishin'. You love fishin'!"

"Wasn't her fish," he grumbles under his breath.

"Whose fish d'you reckon, then?"

"Bloke she cropped out," Simon says, and John tips the neck of his beer toward him.

"Give me criteria," Kyle pleads, both hands on the back of John's chair, gripping with restraint. "I can work with criteria."

"He's calibratin'," Simon says. "Let 'im work it out."

Simon's giving him too much credit. He's not calibrating. He's not reading these women, he's not even really looking at them. Each X is just the whole premise being declined, proof accumulating that he was right about the app all along, and if the profiles run out, well, he tried. Right? The lads witnessed it. He can get back to his peace with a clear—

His thumb stops and hovers, then pulls back to the outer edge of the phone case.

Huh. 

There you are.

Up a trail somewhere, hills of green grass rolling behind you, hood half-blown off, one hand trying to catch it. You're laughing at whoever's taking the picture, smile wide.

John's not sure he's ever seen eyes twinkle before, but that must be what yours are doing, shimmering even under overcast.

You're very pretty.

For the first time, John taps the profile open.

30. Executive Assistant. 4 Miles Away. Short-Term, Open to Long-Term.

Executive Assistant, so you likely work too much. That's familiar to him, something he understands inside-out. 

There's a photo of you in office clothes at what looks like a retirement party, smile an edge more saccharine than the one on the hill.

Another of you criss-cross on the floor, a black and caramel cat stretched out and content in your lap, belly-up. Shirt low cut, cleavage to feast on. He is sixty percent gentleman about how long he looks at it.

And at the bottom:

The best way to ask me out is by: using words.

I recently discovered that: I'm better in person than I am on here.

John huffs an amusement through his nose. He spent more time on his profile than he thinks you spent on yours. Seems like you're tired of the same things he's already tired of, one night in.

Behind him, the lads have gone silent, holding their breath.

John taps the heart and his screen goes bright with a wash of confetti, both your photos ringed together:

IT'S A MATCH!

"Oh, shit, she already matched with you," Kyle cranes his neck closer to inspect.

"Gimme that." Johnny plucks the phone from John's hand. "No way," he scoffs. "Fuckin' fit. A bit young for you, Cap, aye?" He looks at John, then back at the screen like the two won't reconcile in his brain.

"Careful," John warns mildly.

Johnny hands the phone back, muttering something in Scots only Simon could translate.

John doesn't hear much of it anyway. He's already looking at your photo again.

Better in person.

Yeah. He'd bet you are.

"Right, sir," Kyle says. "Now we wait. Midday tomorrow the earliest. Message her any sooner and it reads keen."

"It'd be accurate," he deadpans.

"There's rules, Cap," Johnny says. "No messagin' straight away, no double-textin', keep a wee bit of mystery."

John turns in his chair with a scowl to look up at the three of them.

"So, you're tellin' me a woman says she's interested in you and you… make her wait?"

Silence.

"I mean, when you put it like that…"

"Yeah, s'a bit fuckin' rude, innit?" John derides, turning back around.

He's already typing, screen tipped away.

"Sir," Kyle pleads. "At least let us read it."

"This is a two person conversation, not a five piece."

He presses send and quickly pockets the phone.

——

Four miles away, a phone lights up…

——

Your windows are open to the last of a long evening, warm air breezing through the sheer curtains. You’re finally on the couch. Shower taken, its heat still damp in your skin. A glass of off-dry riesling teeters precariously on the arm, cold from the fridge and sweating through its stemless glass.

Twix is a puddled tortoiseshell furnace against your thigh, one paw twitching through a dream, her purr winding down as she drops deeper. And on the telly, Last Christmas is on. You've seen it a dozen times, that's why you leave it — it's mindless.

The second glass goes down easier than the first, tart on your tongue, blooming warm in your belly and over your cheeks.

Somewhere in the lull, your thumb opens Hinge, a reflex to being bored. You don't really expect anything from it anymore. 

A man holding a fish, sunglasses on. X.

A man whose photos are all group shots. X.

A man who is 6'2" and it's his entire personality. X.

Your thumb knows the rhythm without you.

The next profile slides into view and you pause, thumb hovering.

He's handsome in that sort of rugged, classic way. His beard is salted at the edges, lines beside his eyes creased deep, cheeks faintly rosy. He's mid-laugh at what looks like a Christmas party, red and green tinsel drooping off the beams behind him; head slightly tipped, one heavy hand flat on the table. He's not cackling, you can tell it's more reserved, but it's probably still more than he usually offers.

John. 43. Military. Four miles away. Short-Term, Open to Long-Term.

The one thing you should know about me is: I'm gone a lot for work. But when I'm home, I'm home.

Most men bury the catch in the fine print, but he's leading with it.

You don't know yet whether that's honesty or efficiency. You suspect that with him they might be the same thing.

His second photo is of him on the tailgate of some enormous vehicle, fatigues taut over his thighs, thumbs hooked through his bulky khaki plate carrier, looking up from under the brim of his hat.

Two truths and a lie: I've never seen Star Wars. I have a lie-in every Sunday. I've had tea with a warlord.

The sky is pink with the morning in his third picture. He's thigh-deep in a lake, turned away from the camera entirely. (You're noticing it's a common theme that he does not look at the camera for any photo.) The sunlight catches the breadth of his back and shoulders, cotton molded around muscle.

Don't hate me if I: call instead of text. It's quicker.

You giggle just enough that Twix's ear rotates toward you in reproach.

It's kinda cute when older men put more effort into their profiles.

But the alarm is already going off somewhere in the back of your skull — too good, probably old photos, probably has a wife — it has never once failed to ring. But you're two glasses in, and the heart really costs nothing even if the conversation seems off.

You tap it, and put the phone facedown on your thigh.

On the telly, Emilia Clarke is busy falling for a man you happen to know has been dead the entire film. You mouth one of his lines along with him, not really invested, wine warm in your chest, Twix breathing slow against your leg.

Then your phone buzzes against you once, and you ignore it, because you have rules about lunging for male attention. But then it buzzes again, and, well, you just turn it over to have a look. Maybe it's your mum, you don't know!

HINGE: You and John matched!

HINGE: 1 New Message

You open it.

Evening. Not much good at using the app, but I really wanted to chat to you. How's your Friday night?

You hum to yourself curiously. Not an innuendo or emoji in sight.

i actually volunteer helping the elderly with technology, happy to walk you through it.

friday's been average. wine and a movie on the couch. how's yours?

You put the phone back down and focus on the film, but his reply comes within the minute.

Ouch. Friday's alright. The lads invited themselves round for the match. Still here, unfortunately.

you're messaging me with guests in the house? terrible host.

They invited themselves. Hosting rules don't apply.

What movie are you watching?

You glance at the telly where a dead man is mid-song and weigh lying about it.

You could be watching anything. You could pick something more interesting, something with a deep lesson, educational, historical, something niche to come off cool and worldly.

you're not allowed to judge me.

Judging is sort of my life's work, but I'll do my best.

You snort. Twix relocates to the far cushion in protest.

it's called 'last christmas'. i don't know why it's on in july, but i've probably seen it twelve times. it's good background noise.

The reply takes slightly longer this time. You picture him all big hands, small phone, and then stop picturing him, because that's how it starts.

Twelve times? Must be decent.

it's objectively not. the love interest is dead the entire film lol

Dead?

it's a twist. it's festive!

You and I have very different definitions for "festive". I've got a few questions. But I'll save them.

You smile.

so, your lake photo. did you catch anything that day?

Not a thing.

hours in freezing water for zero fish?!

The fish aren't the point.

do tell, what's the point?

The mist off the water. The quiet. The no one expecting anything from you.

It's the first real answer a man has given you on this app in, like, six months. 

You feel oddly like you've been handed something and should keep your hands still so it doesn't spook.

that actually sounds really peaceful.

i've never been fishing, but i do love nature in the mornings. i have a trail by me that i like to trek early on weekends.

That the trail from your photo?

it is! my best friend actually made me go that day, i wasn't in the mood. complained the whole way.

Doesn't show.

Good photo of you.

Beautiful, actually.

You stare at the screen and feel warmth tickling your nape, sliding lower, molten and slow. 

Every instinct you have reaches for deflection.

oh! thank you. the wind did most of the work lol

No it didn't.

— and he just takes the deflection off you, like being returned something you've dropped. You press the cool curve of the wine glass against your cheek and remind yourself, sternly, that this is a stranger on the internet.

well, for the record your photo's not bad either. handsome smile.

Somewhere past ten, you notice the conversation keeps not ending. 

how long have you been on hinge?

It's my first night, actually.

first night???

Profile's about two hours old.

yikes, so i'm just the practice woman then, huh?

Practice implies I'm planning to do this again.

——

John's still at the kitchen table, reading glasses pushed up into his hair now, beer gone warm at his elbow. The lads have migrated to the living room doorway — close enough to monitor, far enough to pretend they aren't.

He knows they're watching, and he's been watched by better.

What he can't seem to manage is his fuckin' face — it keeps doing things beyond his control, and every time your reply comes he has to reel it back to neutral, and he can tell by the quality of the silence behind him that he's not reeling nearly fast enough.

"He's smilin' again," Johnny murmurs, elbowing Simon in the ribs.

"Shameless," John mumbles, without looking up. "All of you."

He's typing when the floor creaks jus to his left. When he glances up, Johnny has drifted to his shoulder under the pretense of collecting empties.

"Need another, Cap?"

"I need you three feet back, MacTavish," he replies, thumbs tapping away.

A minute later it's Kyle from the doorway, "If she asks about hobbies, don't lead with the cigars. They poll badly amongst females."

"'Females'?" John grimaces, face down, thumbs still at it. "Say it with me Garrick, 'women'."

Then Simon, who hasn't moved or spoken in twenty minutes, asks, "Wot's she sayin', then?"

John rolls his eyes and sets the phone face-down, pushing himself up out of the chair.

"Time to go, lads," he says with an obviously fake smile, gesturing his arm out towards his front door. "Goodnight."

"It's no' even eleven oclock!" Johnny complains.

"Then the night's still young. Go on, fuck off."

They go — bottles gathered, snacks cleaned up, Simon herding Johnny down the hall as he’s still negotiating.

Then their engines fade down the street, and the quiet pours back in, right on schedule. Except tonight it arrives and there's a phone lit on his kitchen table with your name on it, and the quiet — for the first time in a long while — has to wait.

He locks up, kills the TV, then drops into his armchair with the phone already unlocked.

did the football finish? who won?

He glances at the dead telly. Hasn't a clue. 

Couldn't tell you.

omg lol you had ONE reason for guests tonight!

I got distracted.

by what? 😇

I think you know by what.

Nothing comes back for a minute. He pictures you on your couch, that cat beside you, deciding what to do with it — and it occurs to him, mildly horrifying, that he's enjoying this. The wait. The little emoji with the halo, transparently unrepentant. He finds himself smiling at the ceiling like there's something written on it.

anyway!

Anyway.

He'll allow it: retreat granted. There's no rush.

The cat in your photo. Yours?

yes! that’s twix. she's a menace.

Good name.

she prefers men that ignore her.

Then we'd get on fine. I'm very good at ignoring cats.

It goes on just like that: easy.

You ask if he's a morning person and learn he's up at five most days by choice; he learns you consider five the middle of the night.

He talks about the Brecon Beacons — the actual Beacons, the ones he loves, not the ones that nearly killed him at twenty-two. You tell him you've always wanted to go, and he catches himself already planning the route he'd take you. Then quickly chastises himself. 

How's the average Friday held up?

certainly improved

Mine too.

He puts the phone on the arm of the chair and sits in his quiet house, and for once it doesn’t feel so desolate.

——

The following morning he's up at five. He starts drinking his coffee at the counter, looking out the window over the sink, the sorbet summer sky bleeding morning.

He thinks of you before he can stop himself. Asleep, presumably, five being the middle of the night and all. Then he takes the coffee out to his back step for some fresh air.

He wonders if he was any good with the messaging last night. It's the longest he's ever sat with his phone in his hand, period. Let alone chatting with someone. There's no debrief for it, that's the trouble. No one to tell him whether ‘I got distracted.’ read as charming or desperate.

He runs the entire two-hour exchange back over and over and finds no actionable errors, but remains unconvinced.

He goes for his run at six. The route climbs uphill around klick seven, and somewhere on the hill he thinks about your photo, your smile, your mouth. He wonders what you smell like, what you sound like when you're being sarcastic. 

By noon he's under the Land Rover draining the old oil, and he catches himself pondering what you might do on a Saturday. Whether you slept in properly. Whether the cat allows it; he grew up with one himself and knows how demanding they can be when they're ready for a feeding.

He hasn't messaged yet and neither have you.

He couldn't say exactly why he's held off. Something the lads said about being keen, and rules, and mystery lodged somewhere he can't reach to dig it out. He's not normally a man that takes doctrine from Johnny MacTavish, and yet… here he is. 

It's a stupid fuckin' rule.

The afternoon goes long and gets quiet in the old way.

The house at four o'clock has a particular acoustic he knows down to the plumbing, and today, for the first time, he notices himself noticing it. It never used to be so obvious. Years of Saturdays like this one and it took his phone going quiet for half a day to show him the loneliness so plainly.

By the evening he's got Chinese takeaway at the kitchen table, eating it straight from the carton, chopsticks shoveling fried noodles down his gullet while he does the crossword from the morning paper in his head.

That's when his phone lights up for the first time all day, buzzing three times in succession — he absolutely hates how quickly it's in his hand.

spent six hours wedding dress shopping with my best friend. i need a glass of wine and a lie down.

thought of you on the tube home

He reads the second message again.

Thought of you. 

He’d been drafting the same admission since noon and something in his chest going catastrophically hot.

are you still up? i know sundown is bedtime for your generation.

And there's the sarcasm. 

Outside the window, the sun is — he checks — still up. Barely. He's got that going for him, at least.

Just in time. Was about to take my dentures out.

Thought about you as well.

He types the second line fast before he can be a coward about it. If you can say it, he can say it. Fair's fair.

I do have a question now though. It's not your wedding we're shopping for, is it? That'd be proper inconvenient for me.

lol no! maid of honor. today was purely supervisory.

don't really see myself getting married anyway.

the dresses were stunning though!

He’s picking up on a pattern. Three messages arriving like one exhale — the vulnerable thing said flanked with distraction. 

Nothing wrong with that.

Successful trip then? Or is there another six hours coming?

successful! she found it. there were tears and champagne.

what about you, how was your saturday?

He’s had a day spent purposefully not doing the one thing he wanted to do.

Quiet. Nothing worth typing.

hm. sounds like you should ring me then…

He looks at that one for a moment and blinks, the inside of his cheek finds itself between his teeth.

For all their blabbering, the lads did not warn him about this bit. Not that he can't speak on the phone, he prefers it. You're essentially quoting his profile back at him. But he's been thinking about something since roughly the fourth time you crossed his mind today, and a phone call isn't the ask he's been building up to.

Could do.

Truthfully, though. I was just working up the courage to ask you for a drink.

Courage. He's used that word in citations, for men who ran toward gunfire, heroes. Now he’s using it to describe the act of asking a woman on a date, and the genuinely undignified part is that it's regrettably accurate.

Your reply takes a minute. He watches the dots start and stop, and start again. God, he's been shot at with less suspense.

Then your message comes through and it's just a number. Ten digits. It buzzes in his hand once more.

for logistics.

He stares at it for a beat and then he's up out of his seat. Takeaway abandoned, at the fridge with his phone still in one hand, snapping the cap off a beer on the lip of the counter, and then he's out the back door into the garden where the evening's gone navy and the air’s still warm from the day.

He saves your number first. Then he stands there a moment, beer sweating in one hand, thumb over the call button in the other.

——

You’ve just tipped the bottle over your glass when the phone starts buzzing against the counter.

Unknown Number. Local.

“John?”

“Evenin’.”

Fuck. 

His voice lands an octave lower than you were braced for. A honeyed gravel that seeps into your ear and slides thick over your spine, pooling somewhere behind your ribs.

You set the bottle down before you drop it.

“So you actually do ring,” you manage.

“Said so on the profile, I think.”

“I half thought it was a bit.”

“I don’t really do bits.”

“No,” you say through a grin, picking up your glass and drifting toward the couch. You drop your voice into a gravelly impression of him: “You’re a very serious man.”

The laugh that comes down the line is quiet — more breath than sound, warm at the bottom of it, like you’ve caught him somewhere he doesn’t usually go.

“That meant to be me?”

“It’s uncanny, I know.”

The line goes quiet a moment — the good kind, neither of you rushing to fill it — and in it you catch the sounds of his side: a whirl of breeze, the faint ring of a glass set down on iron. He’s outside. You picture a tidy yard with tall dark hedges, a big man pacing slowly with a beer.

“Am I interruptin’ the wine?”

“The wine and I are happy to share the time.”

“Good.” There's a pause that you can hear his smile in. “I have a beer out here. Seemed only fair we’re both suffering the same.”

“Are we having our drink right now? Is this it?”

“No,” he says immediately, unamused even — which is very amusing for you. “This one doesn’t count.”

The speed of his reply sends something fizzing under your sternum. You tuck your feet up under yourself and take a slow sip.

“No?” you tease.

“I had imagined I’d see your face.”

“Been imagining, have you?”

You are very glad he cannot see your face right now. Cheeks warm and strained, you press the cool of the wine glass briefly against them in turns

“Nothin’ mucky if that’s what you’re gettin’ at.”

“Mm, no, 'course not. You’ve been a proper gentleman. Haven’t even thrown me a cheeky pick-up line.”

“I could workshop somethin’ for you if you’d like.”

“No thanks,” you giggle into your glass. “It was a relief when I opened your first message and it wasn’t a riddles-three about your dick.”

You can hear his scoff and recoil on the other end.

“Is that what it’s come to?”

“Unfortunately.”

There’s a short silence you’d swear is him coming to terms with the modern world, and you bite down on a smile.

“Right,” he says, and there's a controlled shift in his voice. “My question...”

Your stomach does a free-fall, nauseating and fluttery, fifteen again on the Detonator at Thorpe Park.

“Mm?” you hum around a sip, deeply casual, a woman entirely unbothered, curled so tight around the phone that Twix doesn’t have a leg to lie on.

“There’s a pub about halfway between us, Lamb & Flag. I’d like to take you for that drink tomorrow. Will you come?”

Then you remember what tomorrow is and sigh, immediately irritated with your whole family.

“Ugh, I want to say yes,” you sulk. “But I’ve got Sunday dinner with my family tomorrow. My mum would hunt me for sport if I flaked.”

“Fair. Wouldn’t want that on my conscience.”

“I could do a weeknight? After work?”

There’s a pause on his end.

“I’d rather not promise you a weeknight,” he admits. “I rarely get away on time, and I’m not startin’ this by standin' you up.”

You go quiet for a beat, you were ready for the usual ‘ahh, well, we’ll figure something out’. But instead got a man mindful of your time; a unicorn, really.

“Also fair. And— and thoughtful.”

“Friday, then?” he tries hopefully, you catch the small lean in his voice.

“Friday’s perfect,” you agree. “It’s a date!”

“It is,” he agrees, smiling.

The conversation should end there but it doesn't.

You learn things no profile has a field for; that he talks slower than he types, that he hm's real low in his throat when he’s considering something, that when you make him laugh it rumbles, so rough at the bottom that you feel at the back of your knees.

Somewhere past the hour mark you stop scrutinizing the call for red flags and just talk, and you only notice you’ve stopped when Twix jumps onto the couch and you realize you’ve been lying down for a while, phone balanced on your ear like you’re seventeen.

Eventually, you yawn.

“Right,” he says, and you can hear him moving, standing up by the way he tries to muffle a stiff groan. “That’s my cue.”

“Aw, no! I’m fine, really.”

“It’s late, love. And you’ve got your family tomorrow.”

“True. And you’ve got… whatever it is old men do on Sundays.”

“Lie-in, according to my profile.”

“Ha!” you bark, vindicated alone in your living room, having forgot about his little 'two truths and a lie'. “That’s the lie, I bet. I don’t think you’ve ever had a lie-in in your life.”

A low sound of amusement rolls down the line. “Goodnight,” he says, declining to confirm.

“Night, John.”

You sit a minute in the amber shine of your lamp after the line goes dead, phone loose in your hand.

——

Sunday morning, you text him at 8:12 AM.

good morning. how was the lie-in?

Wouldn’t know. Been up since five.

the lie confirmed!

He doesn’t dignify it. You don’t expect him to. You grin at your phone while you wait for the kettle to boil.

Your mum will later describe you, over dinner, as ‘suspiciously cheerful’.

The day swallows you — the drive, the roast, your mum’s questions, your brother’s kids. It’s near ten when you’re finally home, shoes off, replying to the last thing he’d sent that morning.

survived. my mum sends her regards to whoever put me in a good mood. her words.

Regards received. Sleep well.

——

Monday morning, John’s at his desk with his coffee going cold because somewhere between the canteen and the walk to his office, his phone buzzed, and it was you and he hasn’t stopped looking at it. 

good morning :) big meeting today. does this say “promote me” or “she tried”?

[ PHOTO ATTACHMENT ]

You, in your hallway mirror — chin tipped, black short-sleeve blouse with a wide collar exposing the smooth skin of your upper chest and collar, grey pencil skirt stretched over the curve of your hips and thighs, one knee bent like you’d just been lowering your foot from fitting on your heel.

His eyes are stuck on the soft-looking flesh just above and between your knees when a rap lands on his door and forces a cough from his throat.

Johnny eases it open with Kyle behind him holding a folder, Simon's behind them both, holding nothing, not even a pretense.

His phone goes face-down on the desk at a compromising speed, shifting to sit up straigher.

Simon’s eyes go to John’s hand over the phone, then to his face before he leans in the doorway with his arms folded.

“Mornin’, Cap. Good weekend?” Johnny asks, falling into the side chair in front of the desk with a theatrical groan.

“Fine.”

“Aye? Do anythin'?” He smiles, waggling his eyebrows. “Anyone?”

“You’ve got thirty seconds to develop a work reason for being in my office, Sergeant.”

It's an empty threat and everyone in the room knows it.

Kyle sets the (empty) folder down and steps back behind Johnny. “How’s it going, sir? Did you have any luck with Hinge?”

John could make them work for it. He’d planned to. But all three of them are standing in front of him trying so hard to look casual it’s a wonder none of them have pulled something.

"Have a date Friday. Drinks."

Johnny is ready to blast out of his seat, but Kyle shoves him back down by the shoulders, digging his fingers into the pressure points on either side of his neck until he relents with a hiss.

"That's great. Same woman or…?"

"The same."

“Good, good, good,” Johnny says, and means it — John can hear that he means it, he can also hear the restraint he's keeping from unloading shite advice.

“We'll stop buy Saturday for the debrief,” Simon says, already turning around, and Kyle picks the folder back up like it had a purpose all along, and they file out the way they came.

"I'm not debriefing you on my date. Don't come!" John calls to them half-heartedly, but the door's already shutting on top of his words. 

He turns the phone back over.

Promote you, he types.

You look lovely.

Your reply comes before he’s picked his pen back up.

well now the meeting feels easy. thank you x

He gets on with his morning, but by noon he suspects he's looked at that damn photo a dozen times.

——

The rest of the week goes standard. Your Tuesday runs long and his Wednesday runs longer, and the messages carry throughout it all. His texts arrive before your morning alarm even sounds, your replies go mid-commute — nothing heavy, just remaining in each other's orbit of interest as Friday chugs slowly into view.

Thursday night, near nine, he rings you, having first texted to ask if he could, which you’re beginning to understand is just how he’s built. It’s a short call by your new standards with him. He only wanted to confirm you’re still on for the pub, but he had you grinning into your pillow until you fell asleep.

———

You leave work at five on the dot, and you’re in front of your open wardrobe by six.

The little black dress comes off the rail first. Goes back. Comes off again. Back. The floral one gets as far as your shoulders before you pull it off over your head and drop it on the bed, where Twix immediately sits on it.

The silky baby blue halter’s been hanging on the door since you bought it. You put it on like you hadn’t already decided and do the tie at the back of your neck twice before the bow sits flat and neat. You pull on some jeans and rummage the closet for your chunky heels. 

You press some strawberry perfume to your throat in the mirror and try to comfort the nerve-ridden woman in the reflection.

“It’s just a pub,” you tell her. 

She doesn’t seem convinced. 

———

The pub is exactly the kind of place you imagine he'd frequent — quiet, all old mahogany and low brass lamps, no telly anywhere. You claim a stool, hook your heel over the rung, and decide not to order anything yet simply because it just feels polite to wait.

You're fifteen minutes early which means you're left alone with your anxieties. 

The last of the sun lies across the bar top in warm stripes, and you trace one with a finger while you wait. 

You’ve done this before, and it almost never goes how the phone promises. There was the guy whose photos were six years out of date. The one who spent both drinks talking about his ex and then sent a payment request for half the tab. The one who, two hours in, hadn’t asked you a single question about yourself. And John has been too good to be true for a week, and you know how that saying ends. Tonight is where you find out how, find out he really is just a man between deployments looking for entertainment and a shag.

It felt good, though. All week. Being excited about something. You’d forgotten the feeling. 

You pick at the hangnail on your thumb until it stings.

You don’t have to wait much longer for him. 

He casts a shadow when he comes through the door. Broad. Tall. Smart olive polo fighting for its stitching across his chest and where it grips into his biceps. He’s tidied his beard in comparison to his photos, hair less kempt in a purposeful way.

He scans the whole room before he finds you and stops looking anywhere else. He smiles tight and restrained, pleasant, but like he’s pacing himself, and by the time he crosses to you, your tongue has gone dry and whatever you’d planned to open with has shriveled away.

“Hey,” he says.

“Hi,” you smile.

He smells clean, a bit like pine and amber, and faintly like there’s tobacco somewhere on his collar.

“You’re early,” he adds, almost pleased.

“So are you.”

“I’m always early.” His eyes drop to the empty bar top in front of you, then come back. “You haven’t ordered?”

You shake your head once, legs shifting to cross. “I wanted— I was waiting for you.”

The lines beside his eyes deepen and he holds out his hand, says your name for the first time, and his hand swallows yours — big and dry and calloused across the palm where yours is soft — and you hold on a beat too long. He doesn’t mention it. You add that to the list of things you like about him, which is getting embarrassing for something four minutes old.

“What’ll you have?”

“Uhm, whatever you’re having,” you decide.

He signals the bartender with two fingers and opens his mouth — and there’s a brief second where he looks at you first, and you notice for the first time that his eyes are blue, and you get stuck, and it seems so does he. By the time he looks back, he’s lost the name of the beer he’s drunk here a dozen times.

“Two of the, uh— the local,” he manages.

You pretend not to notice. He knows you did.

He pulls out the stool beside you, and more of his cologne wafts around you as he sits, turned to face you, legs spread, one knee pointing between yours.

The pints arrive wet from the tap, and for a second neither of you says anything at all. You trace a bead of condensation down your glass.

“Funny, isn’t it,” you offer, sheepish. “We’ve talked every day for a week, and the second we’re actually in front of each other…” You trail off, cheeks warming, eyes fixed on the fizz jumping over the rim of your beer.

“You’re nervous?” he asks, a cheeky lilt on it.

“A bit, yeah. Aren’t you?”

“Not at all.”

You squint at him. “I don’t know if I buy that.”

“Hm.” He takes a sip that lasts a little too long, and the tips of his ears have gone pink.

Your cheeks are doing about the same. You drink your beer — cold, hop-bitter, helping — and let him have his lie. It’s a generous lie anyway. It’s a lie shaped like a man trying, and you’ve been handed far worse shapes.

“So,” you start. “I haven’t asked why you’re even on Hinge. You don’t seem the type.”

“I’m not,” he chuckles, and offers nothing beyond it.

You wait. He just sips his beer. You hike a brow.

“That’s it? That’s your answer?”

“Well, it wasn’t my idea. The lads put me on it.”

“The lads — your guys from work?”

“Yeah.”

“They what, talked you into it?”

“No.” He turns his glass a degree. “They nicked my phone and made the profile behind my back.”

“And what made them do that?”

He takes a moment with that one. He could give you a cover story — you can almost watch him weigh one — but then he doesn’t.

“Their assessment,” he laughs to himself, “was that I’d been… cranky. Needed gettin’ out of the house.”

“Cranky?” you repeat, delighted.

“Their exact words were a bit different.”

“Hm.” You look at him — at ease, half a smile living in his beard, one arm resting along the bar. “You don’t seem cranky to me.”

“Yeah, well. Guess they were right, then.”

Your neck goes hot and you have to look away from him. “Well,” you manage. “They do good work, your committee.”

He huffs into his pint, and lets you recover.

“Okay, next one, then. Military.” You tip your glass toward him. “What do you actually do?”

He sets his beer down and you can see him carefully choosing which door to open. “What d’you want to know?”

“I don’t know. What’s your day look like?”

“Depends on the day. Paperwork, mostly. Meetings.” A beat. “Sometimes we go away.”

“Away?”

“Away.”

“For how long?”

“As long as it takes.”

“Doing…?”

“Whatever they need me to,” he says easily. “S’not me being mysterious. I’d tell you if I could.”

“That must be so strange, though. Having this whole— like, most of your life you can’t talk about.”

“You get used to it.” Then, because you’re still looking at him expectantly, not filling the space the way people usually do: “There’s loads I can say. Ask me what six weeks of rain in a jungle smells like. Or what a month in the desert does to your skin.”

“What’s a month in the desert do to your skin?”

“Nothing good, love,” he answers, shifting to face you better. “The beard’s load-bearing.”

You laugh into your beer, and it makes the next one easier to ask.

“Do you like it? Like, the whole life of it?”

He goes quiet on that one. Longer than he’s gone quiet on anything else you’ve asked. You can see him thinking on it. 

“It’s what I’m best at,” he says finally. And then, mostly to his glass: “It’s all I’ve known, really. Been doin’ it since sixteen.”

You turn that over. There’s a whole life folded up in that sentence and you notice you want to ask about all of it, which is not a thing you’ve wanted to do with a man in a very long time.

The second beers arrive, and the conversation stops keeping to lanes — his lads and your best friend, the wedding in October, the neighbor whose bins are apparently a whole saga. You’re midway through the story of your work feud when a birthday party arrives loud and glittering behind you, and John, without so much as glancing down, reaches down and hooks his hand under the edge of your stool, and pulls.

The whole thing drags six inches across the floor with you on it, your knee sliding neatly between his, close enough now that his voice drops to match the new distance. You’re looking up at him, pulse tapping somewhere that has your thighs pressing together. 

“Go on,” he encourages. “She said what?”

It takes you a moment to find your place, but you go on.

The bar only gets louder from there, the birthday table multiplying, and when a booth opens up in the back corner, John tips his chin at it.

“Go grab that,” he says, turning back to the bar. “I’ll get another round. Want the same?”

“Actually—” and you hesitate out of nothing but habit, out of years of a man’s face going tight when you complicate an order, “—could I do a vodka cranberry this time? I could get the round—”

His brows furrow with something akin to bafflement, brief and genuine. “You can have whatever you’d like,” he says, and suddenly you feel silly, your hand crossing to grip your elbow.

“No—I know. I just—”

“Whatever you’d like,” he repeats, gentler. “And—” he grimaces, like what he’s about to say pains him deeply. “Don’t ever offer to pay on a date with me again. Properly wind me up, that will.”

“S-sorry,” you shake your head, like you can rattle the habit loose.

“None of that either,” his eyes have gone crinkled at the corners, warm all the way through, and he raps two knuckles soft on the bar top like the matter’s settled. “Vodka cranberry. Go, sit.”

“Actually— I’m gonna go freshen up quickly. Two minutes.”

And you go, biting down on a smile, ears hot — embarrassed and looked after all at once, which is apparently a combination that works on you.

The bathroom is cooler than the bar and a quiet that leaves your ears ringing. You reapply some lipgloss and wash your hands and look at yourself in the dirty mirror, buzzing warm at the collarbones, eyes shiny, mouth half-curved.

It’s going well.

It’s going suspiciously well.

And every time it’s gone well before, this is exactly when you started hunting for the catch. So you dry your hands on the rough paper towel and leave before you can start.

He’s in the booth when you come back, settled against the wall side, the last of the evening gone from the windows and the lamp above him glowing gold over the table. Your drink is waiting — pink, iced, a lime wedged on the rim — set neatly across the table at the seat opposite.

You look at the seat opposite.

Then you slide in beside him instead. Your thigh a heated inch from his, reaching across to relocate your drink.

You don’t look at him, but you can tell John’s a bit curious of the arrangement. His arm comes up and settles along the back of the booth behind you, and it oddly feels like it was always going to end up here, his thumb grazing the bare skin of your shoulder. He picks up his beer with the other hand.

“Comfortable?” he asks, low, and with entirely too much satisfaction.

“I am,” you say, and the first sip of the vodka cranberry is cold and tart and sweet all the way down, blooming behind your sternum right where his voice has been landing all night.

The booth is easier than the bar, somehow — closer, quieter, the birthday party more muted — and the talk drifts wherever it wants, his low laugh arriving against your shoulder through the arm behind you. At some point the lull comes; ice softening in your glass, his thumb resting an inch from your shoulder. And maybe it’s the vodka, or the arm, or the running list of things you like about him that you’d need both hands to count now—

“How long ago was your last relationship? Like a real one.”

He takes a deep breath before answering. “Honest answer?”

“Preferably,” you giggle softly, and he smiles — most of it lost in the beard, enough that you wonder if there are dimples under there.

“Longer than what sounds good out loud,” he admits through the pull of it. 

“Say it out loud anyway.”

“I was thirty-two. So, almost ten years ago.”

“Ten.”

“Mm.”

“A whole decade.”

“You can stop countin’ the years to me at any time, love.”

“Sorry, sorry.” You’re grinning. He is too. “It’s just, quite the gap in romance.”

“It went quick,” he says, and it’s a joke, and it’s also not. “What about you?”

“Ended about a year ago, we were together four.”

“Mm.”

“It was fine. Amicable— mostly,” you shrug. 

“Mostly,” he repeats — not pushing, just setting the word down where you can see he heard it.

“Mostly,” you confirm, and leave it there.

The ice ticks in your glass. And the next question’s been sitting in your chest, so you take it out while you’re brave.

“Can I ask something and you not be offended?”

“Startin’ well,” he says, nodding on for you to continue. 

You settle further into the booth and your shoulders press against his warm arm behind you, his fingers brushing over your shoulder. You lean your head back, turned to his face. 

“What’s changed? Between thirty-two and now that you’re trying dating?” You mean just to ask the question, but you find yourself rambling on. “Because if the honest answer is nothing, and this is just— a-a hookup with, like, really good manners, that’s fine. Genuinely. I’d just rather know now.”

“Fair,” he says. “Asked myself the same thing this week.”

“Yeah? And what was the answer?”

“I’m tired of the quiet,” he starts, pausing as his eyes drift away in thought. They come back to you just as quick. “Used to come home to it like a reward. Now it just feels… empty.”

Something in your chest slides sideways.

“So, no. Not a hookup,” he continues with a breath. “But I can’t promise you’d be happy with the alternative either. I can be gone longer than I’m home.” His thumb brushes along your shoulder, once, like an apology.

“Guess I wouldn’t know unless I gave it a go.”

You say it lightly, and the exhale he lets out has a smile riding on it — and something in his shoulders comes down, some held thing you didn’t notice until it let go.

“No,” he agrees, low. “You wouldn’t.”

You’re suddenly aware of the distance between you — or the lack of it. Somewhere between sitting down and the vodka you’ve ended up awfully close: near enough to count the grey threaded through his beard, to catch the beer on his breath, near enough that the light between you has stopped reaching the space. Near enough that you can feel the heat coming off him, and your heartrate has picked up on it before the rest of you has.

His eyes flick down to your mouth. Quick — half a second, there and back — but you catch it, and it lands low in your stomach and stays.

Neither of you leans back.

And the pub carries on behind you — glasses clinking, the birthday table shouting, a till drawer slamming — all of it arriving from somewhere far off and dreamlike.

You move closer. Barely. Imperceptible. Your pulse is in your ears now, drumming out the last of your sense—

“You know,” you say, quiet, pitched for the six inches between you and nobody else, “you can kiss me. If you’d like.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Mhm,” you grin.

“Well,” he says, matching your volume, low enough that it lands somewhere below hearing, “I was going to be a gentleman about it. Wait til I walked you out.” His gaze drops to your mouth again, slower this time, no secret. “But if you’d rather have it here in the booth, I won’t argue.”

“I suppose I could be patient.”

“Mm,” he says, and doesn’t move.

Somewhere in the world, presumably, time is passing.

His jaw shifts. 

“I’ll go pay the tab,” he decides.

And you’re both up and out of the booth quick, and you watch him stand at the bar with his back to you, shoulders set, and you press one cool knuckle to your own cheek and find it burning.

You two make it out the door.

The night’s gone hazy and July-thick, and you get maybe four steps down the side of the pub with his hand a light at the small of your back before you glance up at him and he glances down.

Whatever was left of patient dies right there on the pavement.

He moves you.

One hand finding your hip, the other your jaw, and then your back meets brick, warm through the thin of your blouse and against your bare shoulders, and his mouth is on yours.

Whatever mindful version he’d planned for the end of his gentlemanly walk out must have been spent in the booth — this is the interest. The kiss opens on a low rumble out of his chest, one you feel travel through his ribs into yours, and his tongue slides against yours, all beer and him, and you grip the front of his shirt with both fists just incase the wall behind you vanishes.

He kisses you thoroughly, his beard catching along your chin, a chafe you know you’ll feel tomorrow. A thigh slots half between yours, not pushing, not touching, but it’s not any less inviting. You could bare down on it, get the friction your body is craving, he’d let you, but you restrain yourself. His thumb strokes a slow line along your jaw in obscene contrast to what his mouth is doing — and it blooms down through you, fervid, liquescent.

He pulls back just far enough to breathe — forehead near yours, both of you loud with catching your breath — and when you open your eyes his are dark.

“Very gentlemanly,” you croon.

“I walked you out first, yeah?” he says, unrepentant.

You giggle against his mouth, and he claims it for himself with one more gentle kiss, and then he steps back a seemly distance, hand smoothing once down over his beard, shoulders resetting, breath evening out, everything going back in its place except his eyes.

“Walk me home?” you ask.

“I drove. I’ll give you a lift.”

You look up at him, all vodka-warm and enjoying yourself. “Well, just so you know, I share my location with my best friend and she knows exactly what pub I’m at, and has your name and photo, so—”

“Good,” he replies, no hesitation. “Smart girl. Keep it that way.” He finds his keys, fishing them out of his pocket. “I’m taking you straight home. You have my word.”

He draws an X over his heart, your lipgloss shining at the corner of his crooked mouth. 

——

The car smells like-new — clean upholstery and faintly of engine oil, everything squared away, nothing rolling around in the footwells.

The drive is short. The radio murmurs. His hand rests easy on the gearstick a few inches from your knee — close enough that you spend two full streets aware of nothing else — and the streetlights slide over him in slow bars, catching the grey at his temple and the small satisfied set of his mouth. 

The kiss is still thrumming under your skin like a struck glass, low in your belly, at the back of your knees — and you catch yourself doing the thing you swore off doing: imagining forward. Him in your doorway. Him in your kitchen on the weekend. Him coming home from wherever away is and it being your door he— 

You look out the window. Four miles has never taken so long.

He pulls up outside your building and sets the handbrake, and the engine idles, and neither of you move.

The dashboard glow makes everything blue. 

You want to ask him up. That's not the question; that got settled somewhere around the second kiss in the alley, possibly earlier, possibly around the moment he walked into the pub, or whatever. But there's the other thing you can't evict from your head: do you really want to sleep with him on the first date?

"So," you say.

"So…”

You look at him — streetlight in the grey of his beard, arm along the wheel, he’s in absolutely no hurry to resolve you.

"Did you have a good time tonight?"

His head turns. There's a beat where he just looks at you, and you watch him physically decide not to make a joke of it.

"Yes. Best night I've had in a while," he says. 

"Would you—" and god, you're thirty years old and your heart is doing this anyway, "—want to see me again? Like this?"

"Was already plannin' to ask you to dinner." A small crease starts at the corner of his eye. "Was workin' out whether to do it now or ring you tomorrow, so I didn't seem overly—"

"Keen?"

"Keen," he confirms, gravely, like the word's been a burden to him all week.

And that lands warm and the relief does something reckless to your mouth, which is that it stops guarding it.

"Okay. Then I'm going to say something, but you can't look at me while I say it."

“Right.” He scrubs a hand over his twitching lips and looks out the windshield, obedient.

"I want to ask you up."

"Mm."

"And I'm having a whole debate about it."

"I can hear it," he says. "Been losin' to the engine for about a minute now."

"Just—,” you sigh, “—shut up." But you're smiling at the dashboard. "It's just— I spent all week wondering if this was a hookup thing for you. And you answered that, and I believe you, I do. But there's this small, paranoid part of me that's like, well, that's exactly what a man would say at the pub, isn't it? And then there's this other, stupider part that thinks if you come up, you'll—" you take a deep breath, your fingers hooking into each other on your lap, and make yourself finish it, "—think less of me. First date and all."

He's quiet for a second, lips pursing. 

“Can I look at you now?” he tries.

“Yeah.”

"You want to know where I'm actually at?"

"Truly just desperate for a man to be honest so I know what headspace to put myself in."

“Alright.” He shifts to face you, wrist still hanging over the wheel. “I want to come up. Badly, if you want some extra honesty.”

The badly goes straight between your thighs.

“Okay,” you manage. “Noted.”

“I haven’t lied to you once tonight. And I’m takin’ you to dinner whether I come up or not.”

“And, like— you wouldn’t think—”

“Think less of you?” He frowns, like the math’s not mathing. “For doin’ the same thing I’d be doing? Together?”

“When you put it like that…”

“For what it’s worth, I’m sat here havin’ a version of the same debate. Been out of this a long time. Didn’t want you thinkin’ that’s all I came for. So if you’d rather I kiss you at the door and drive home, I’ll do that and consider it a perfect evening.”

And maybe it’s the ease of him, the total absence of pressure you’re always braced for on nights like this, that settles it for you. 

“Would you like to come up?”

——

The stairwell smells of somebody's late dinner and warm dust, the day's heat still trapped in it, and you take the stairs ahead of him to the second floor.

John is a gentleman.

John has been a gentleman all night.

John gives himself the length of one flight of stairs off the clock — the sway of you in those jeans, the shift and give of you with every step, the smooth line of your bare shoulders under the halter's little bow — and by the landing he's a gentleman again, and if you felt his eyes like a brand on you, and by the half-smirk you throw over your shoulder you did, neither of you says a word about it.

Your flat smells like you — the perfume he got to know at the pub, but underneath it, clean laundry, a candle burned down sometime this week — and a blur of black-and-caramel bolts across the living room and vanishes down the hall before he can so much as get a look at her.

"That was Twix," you say, her paws still pattering away. "She'll start her background check and circle back."

"Sensible."

And then the two of you are standing in your living room with the whole car’s worth of honesty sitting in the middle of the floor, and you look at him, and look at the kitchen, and say:

"Do you want a drink? I have wine. Or, um. Tea? I might have a beer from—"

"I'm alright," his mouth pulls at one side. 

"Water? I'm gonna have water."

"Then I'll have water," he says like he’s surrendering. 

He watches you go — and he could laugh, not at you, but because he knows exactly what he’s looking at. The two of you agreed in plain English on why he’s standing here, and now you’re in your kitchen filling glasses neither of you want, and wiping down a counter that, from where he’s stood, was already clean. 

So he gives you room. Settles against the arm of the couch, takes a slow lap of your shelf with his eyes — you and a woman he guesses is the October bride, you on a hike somewhere sunny, you and Twix bravely on the balcony — and he wants you the whole time, low and patient, in his back teeth, but doesn’t move on it.

 Your pace. Your move.

You come back with the waters, and hand him his, and hold your own in both hands like you might drop it. He takes a sip, looks at you over the rim of it.

“You’re nervous,” he says.

“Not at all.”

“Mm.” He nods slowly, deeply unconvinced and taking a page from your own book. “Don’t know if I buy that.”

He watches it land, watches the laugh come up out of you before you can stop it, head tipping back, throat bare, and half your nerves seem to leave with it.

He likes that. 

He sets his glass down. Then, gently, he takes yours out of your mid-fidget hands and sets it down too — he tips your chin up with one knuckle, and kisses you.

Easy-like, cold from the water, cranberry still faint on your tongue, your breath catches once against his mouth and then lets go. Your hands slide flat up his chest and stop over his heart — which is going quicker than he’d care to admit, and he feels the exact moment you find it out, the little hum of discovery you make.

When you pull back to look at him, whatever nerves were left in you are gone from your eyes, and they’re twinkly a lot like the first photo he ever saw of you. 

You take his hand off your waist, lace it through yours, and guide him backward toward the short hall.

In your bedroom he finds the tie of your halter at the back of your neck and pauses with the ends between his fingers, silk warm from your body. One pull and it gives, the fabric sighing loose, and he follows it slide down with his eyes first, then his mouth — the slope of your throat, over your shoulder, then the soft skin below your ear that tastes of strawberry perfume and salt. His beard drags over your neck and a shiver flows through you so he does it again, slower. You shiver harder, fingers curling into the front of his polo.

Good.

You tug the hem of his shirt up and he reaches back, pulls it off over his head one-handed, and drops it somewhere he’ll look for later. He unhooks your bra just as easily, and when your palms spread into the coarse hair over his bare chest and down his toned stomach, the muscle jumps under your fingertips, he hears his own breath go rough.

“Okay,” you say, a little wonder in it. “Wow, yeah, that’s….”

“Mm?”

“Nothing. Just— I knew military, just didn’t realize… this much military.”

“Lodging a complaint?” he askes, amused.

“Definitely not.”

The rest goes gradually — his belt, your jeans peeled down warm thighs with his calloused palms flat against your skin the whole way, a hop and a giggle when the denim catches your ankle and he steadies you by the elbow — and then you’re bare in front of him, lamplight pooling gold along your shoulder, your hip, the soft curve of your stomach. He stops with his hands at your waist and looks.

“Say something,” you murmur, half a laugh, shy at last under the attention. “You’re oggling.”

“I am.” His thumbs press slow arcs into your hips. “Give me a minute. Been picturin’ this since Tuesday and I did you no justice.”

You pull him down onto the bed by way of an answer, and the mattress sinks with a soft complaint, and then it’s just skin — so much warm skin, soft everywhere he’s hard, giving under his hands, smelling of perfume and the clean sweat July dampens into everyone.

He stretches out alongside you, one heavy thigh over yours, and takes his time. The curve of your waist. The full weight of your breast, thumb dragging over your nipple until it peaks and your breath stutters. The inside of your thigh, where the skin is finest and the heat pools. You move under his touch the whole time, restless and rising, fingers in his hair, at his shoulders, and the small sounds you make land somewhere at the base of his neck and prickle there.

Then he shifts down the bed, kisses the soft of your stomach, the plush crease of your hip, and looks up the length of you.

“Can I?”

“You— yes,” you breathe, trembling feebly. “Yes, obviously, you don’t have to a—”

His mouth is on you before the sentence ends.

You’re sweet and slick against his tongue, already so wet the first slow lick slides easy, and the sound you make is high and caught somewhere low, thigh twitching against his ear, one hand flying to his hair. He hums — feels you feel it — and settles in. No rush. Long soft strokes of his tongue until your hips learn the rhythm and rise to meet it, then his lips close warm around your clit, sucking gently, and your whole body pulls tight.

“Oh my god— okay— okay—”

“Mm.”

“Don’t be smug—” and your voice climbs off the end of the sentence as he slides two thick fingers into you, curling them, tongue still working, and whatever the rest of that scolding was, he never learns it.

“Could do this all night, sweetheart,” he murmurs against you, and feels the words land in a shudder. Your breathing changes. Your thighs start trembling, your hand fists in the sheets — and he keeps the pace exactly the same until you’re pulling at him. Hair, arm, anything you can reach.

“John— John— come— I want you. Now,” you whine, “Please.”

He comes up the length of you slow, mouth mapping stomach and sternum and throat on the way, and settles over you on one forearm—

"I should've said this in the car," he starts, eyes on yours. "I don't have a condom. Wasn't assuming tonight would end up here."

"I don't have any either. I actually checked the drawer before I left tonight." You push his dampening hair back off his forehead. "I'm on the pill, and I trust you. But I'd still feel better if you pull out. Is that okay?"

He nods assuredly. "Then I'll pull out," he says flat and plain. "You have my word."

"You and your word—" but you're smiling, and then you're not smiling, because he's already moved and taken himself in hand and dragged the head of his cock through your folds, coating himself in you, and notched against your entrance, and the smile falls open into something much, much better.

He pushes in slow, watches your face the entire way — he couldn't look elsewhere if a grenade went off — your brows drawing up, your lips parting around a breath that doesn't finish, your nails biting little crescents into his forearms — and fuck, the feel of you: scalding, soaked, tight enough that he has to stop twice, jaw clenched, sweat sliding at his temple, feeding you his cock an inch at a time and pulling back, then giving you more; the slick easy give of you around him unspooling something in his stomach.

"Talk to me," he murmurs, gravel-low. "Alright?"

"Yes." Your voice has gone breathless and small and blissed. "You're— god—"

"Christ, you’re snug," he exhales shakily, eyes finding yours. “Relax for me, baby. Breathe.”

"I am breath—oh. Oh—shhit—"

John’s seated all the way, hips flush to your backside, and both of you go quiet — a shared beat of stillness, you fluttering around him hot and full, his body coming down, forehead dropping to yours, ten months of silence pulling a sound up out of his chest that he couldn't have stopped if he knew it was coming.

Then you shift your hips, experimental, a slow grind up against him, and that stillness is over.

He moves slowly; long level strokes dragging all the way out so you both feel every hot stretch of the return, your breasts pressing soft against his hairy chest. Your heels slide up the back of his thighs and he budges his hips closer, holding deep and pressing the head of his cock into your furthest wall. Your hands squeeze the meat between his shoulders and his neck as he pushes a small squeal out of you. 

"Right there—right there—right there, don't—"

"I won’t," he murmurs against your jaw. “I won’t move.”

"—okay maybe move a little—"

He breathes something restrained through a smile. "Make your mind up, darling," he grunts. 

“It’s hard to— mmm—think like this,” you half-moan against his cheek. 

“Don’t think, then.”

It’s all your talking that undoes him more than anything, he realizes distantly. He’d forgotten there was a version of this with laughing in it; a version with a woman eagerly gripping him and grinning against his cheek in the second before a moan carries her voice away — and every time you say his name, breathed and broken, something in his chest cinches another notch tighter.

He draws back and drives home again, and whatever you’d been about to answer with comes out as a punched huff.

You don’t think.

He feels the difference in you immediately — your body dropping the manners, hips rising to meet him harder than he’s giving it, heels dragging him in by the thighs on every stroke, a low frustrated sound building in your throat when he keeps the same controlled pace. You’re not asking for anything. You’re taking it in inches, greedy and unaware of yourself, nails dragging down the small of his back, pulling—

“Harder?” he asks against your ear. 

"Yes, please."

He hooks your knee up over his hip and opens you wider—“So polite.”—and gives it to you deeper, his weight behind it, your headboard cracking against the wall. You go loud and lovely underneath him, clutching, slick heat and plush skin and your nails scoring lines down his back that he hopes, viciously, will last long enough to admire.

He works a hand between your bodies, thumb finding your clit, riding the motion you’ve bkth created.

"That's— John— You’re gonna make me come," you sob. 

"I know. I feel you. Squeezin' me like— Christ. Go on—fuck."

He watches it arrive before you do, a shiver running ahead of the wave; your spine arches up off the bed, your cunt clenches around him in long pulsing, aching, waves —  it takes you under, and you pull him with you.  

He holds you, murmuring filth and praise in equal measure against your ear—

How good—

How gorgeous—

You’re mine now, you know that? Hm?—

It’s watching you eagerly nod along with his babbling that finishes him. He lasts maybe ten more strokes on borrowed time, heat gathering alacritous and irrevocable at the base of his groin — and he rears back onto his knees, pulling out of you with a growl that tumbles from his throat, fist working his cock over, soaked with you, spilling hot across your stomach and hip in thick ropes, head hanging, shoulders heaving, your thighs still bracketing his knees.

When he lifts his head, you’re already looking at him.

Glowing down to your chest, lips parted and kiss-swollen, wearing him low on your stomach — and neither of you says anything. Neither of you looks away either. His chest is still heaving. Your knee presses in against his side, and the corner of your mouth starts to curl, and his does too, helpless about it.

He comes down on his side, careful of the mess he’s made of you, one arm heavy across the pillow above your head. The curtain breathes at the window beside the bed and the night comes in and cools the sweat on his back, and he can see your heartbeat going hard at your throat, the rise and fall of your stomach not yet settled. He gently fits his thumb against your pulse, just to feel it going. 

He kisses you, your mouth lazy under his, and then your temple, and the crown of your head, and you make a low, boneless sound and turn your face into his hot neck, and the two of you just lie there breathing each other in, tangled and settling, your finger drawing slow shapes on his forearm.

"John?" Small, against his throat.

"Mm?"

"Would you mind grabbing me a cloth? Bathroom's just across the hall."

He's up before the sentence finishes, annoyed at his own carcass the whole three steps to the door, ten months out of practice and it shows, he used to know this part, the part where he takes care of you before you have to ask.

You bathroom is small and smells of your shampoo, fruity, herbal. He runs a flannel under the warm tap, wrings it out, catches his own eyes in the mirror over the sink — wrecked hair, beard ruined and shiny with your lipgloss. He turns, craning his neck spotting a blooming red scratch coming up nicely at his shoulder.

He comes back and cleans you up properly, kneeling on the edge of the bed, one hand steady at your hip while the warm cloth moves over your stomach — thorough about it, frowning slightly the way he does when he’s concentrating — and you watch him do it propped up on your elbows with an expression he can't quite read and doesn't need to. It's warm, whatever it is. And it’s aimed at him, so.

"You're staring," he says, not looking up. 

"You're tidying me."

"Should've done it before you asked." He folds the cloth, sets it on the nightstand, and stretches out beside you again, this time gathering you into his chest. "Out of practice."

"I'll allow it," you say, magnanimous, settling your cheek against his pec. "The rest was very in-practice."

He huffs into your hair.

Your fingers trail idle through the hair on his chest, down over old pinked scars, and you ask him about them — whether the jagged line at his shoulder hurt, what caused the puckered one under his ribs — and he answers more honestly than he means to, your weight settling heavier against him as the adrenaline drains.

There's a soft thump from the hallway, then, and a moment later a small shape appears in the doorway — sits, tail wrapping her feet, and surveys the wreckage: the trail of clothes, the stranger man in the bed, you draped over his ribs.

She stares at John.

John stares back.

"We have an audience," he says.

You look over him to see your cat, "Twix, John. John, Twix."

Twix holds his gaze a moment longer, supremely unimpressed, then steps delicately over his discarded shirt and exits the way she came and he feels you giggling before he hears it, the shake of it against his chest.

"That went well," you say, overly pleased. 

“Yeah?”

“Mhm.”

"Well, consider me chuffed."

Some comfortable minutes later he feels you surface a little out of the drowse, feels your breathing change, going careful; feels your face arrange itself against his skin before you speak. 

"You don't have to stay, by the way." Light. Smooth as eroded stone, polished by use, he imagines. "If you'd sleep better in your own bed. No pressure either way."

And there it is — the same maneuver from your texts, the honest thing dressed up so you can't be caught caring — except this time he can feel your heartbeat while you run it, quick against his ribs, betraying the whole performance from inside. 

He keeps his hand moving on your arm, slow, so you know nothing's landed wrong.

"I'll head home," he says. "Not because I want to," he clarifies.

“No?” you ask. 

"Believe me. This is about the last place I want to leave." His hand doesn't stop, slow up, slow down, steadying you through it. "I'd like at least one proper dinner between us before I go makin' a habit of your bed."

You lift your head off his chest and look at him — hair wrecked, eyes searching his face for the trick — and he lets you look as long as you need to because there's no trick to be found. He meant it. 

“Alright," you agree. 

“Yeah?”

“Yes. Dinner sounds nice.”

"Mm," he hums, contented. He presses a kiss into your hair and untangles himself, face scrunched with visible reluctance, and dresses while you watch from the bed with the sheet gathered loose around you.

At the door he stops. 

"C'mere."

You come to him in the sheet, and he kisses you properly, one hand cupping your face, thumb at your cheek. You go languid against him. He takes his time. Long past politeness. Long enough that leaving starts to look renegotiable, and he breaks away before he starts. 

"G’night," he says, low, still holding your face.

"Goodnight."

"I'll ring you about dinner tomorrow."

——

The flat is quiet. But it's a different quiet than the one you left this morning and you stand in the middle of it grinning.

Twix reappears at the edge of the counter and stares. 

“I don’t need the lecture, I’m grown,” you tell her and start walking back to the bedroom, you hear her little jump to the floor and her feather steps catching up with you, “I can have sex. I deserve it, even.” You drop into your bed with a sigh. “You’d understand if you still had ovaries.”

[mirrormauve]

drag path

simon 'ghost' riley x f!reader | soulmate!au | 12.8k (oops)

Just because you were bonded, Ghost was all too aware, didn't mean you would stay together.

this is part 2 to faultlines in which Ghost didn’t want a soulmate, and he was sure, if they existed, that they didn’t want him either.

cw; soulmate!au in which soulmates share scars, abandonment issues, loneliness, references to self-harm, lots of talk about scars, angst, fluff, references to domestic abuse and past violence, references to simon's past, descriptions of pain, description of torture, canon typical violence, military inaccuracies, miscommunication, touch aversion, reallllly slow slowburn, ghost being sort of really bad and weird at affection and communication, making out, two people being so weird and intense about each other

Simon was not familiar with comfort.

It was unsettling, to be sat among cushions and piles of blankets, soft white light from the lamp he’d flicked on for you hours ago. Outside, the sun was beginning to rise, a spill of dusky, deep purple lightening the horizon, like someone had overturned a paint can.  

His hands were curled into fists; his mask lay abandoned on the arm of your sofa. There was a basket of knitting to his left, a sweater sleeve unfurled over the side. Books lined several shelves, plants were gathered in the same terracotta pots as the ones in your office, in a neat fist beneath the window that overlooked the street. 

It looked and felt like a home. 

Simon couldn’t remember the last time he felt truly at home somewhere. He stayed on base when he could; his flat was little more than a bed and a kettle. 

He was watching the front door and listening to the domestic sounds of you puttering around the kitchen one room over. 

“Please,” you had said when he started to stand to follow you, fingers careful against his jaw, cradling his face as though he were something that deserved to be cradled. “You’re exhausted. Just stay here.” 

So he did. So he was. 

Patiently waiting for you to return, replaying the last few hours. Unwilling to admit it was with anxiety. 

Your presence was a tug behind his navel, an urging to relocate closer to you, a glowing point of light he needed to seek out, swallow. 

Simon wished things had gone differently. His own fucking fault for leaving things as they were, for thinking he could remain close to you, deal with the ancient pain in his chest because it was just another ache to add to the collection, with you never the wiser. 

It wasn’t fair to you. 

He had never particularly cared about fair before.

He wondered what it felt like to you. 

He couldn’t imagine you felt warmth. 

Ghost was a lot of things. Warm was not one of them. 

But he had spent the last several hours with you in his arms, your lips against his, tracing scar for scar, memorizing each of the marks you had given him somewhere in the chaos of his own.

Simon might not remember where every scar on his body originated, but he was going to know all of yours. He wanted to know where you laid on his skin, every mark he’d ever overlooked. He would have a perfect catalogue of knowledge. 

It was odd to be touched, and not exactly comfortable, not after so many years of covering his skin, insulating himself from any touch. 

Touch meant harm. 

It was a fact he’d learned very young, a lesson learned again and again, only compounded by life in the military where even friendly touch was tinged with roughness out of necessity. 

Your hands on his skin felt like being peeled apart, unzipped, insides poked at. He didn’t mind. 

Nothing could have made him pull away from you. 

Your fingers had traced the back of his neck, the soft, vulnerable space behind his ear. The touch was tentative. If he shifted even a little, you had retracted your hand. 

A floorboard creaked, he glanced up as you appeared in the doorway. 

“Simon?” 

You held out a hand. 

He stood and took it before his brain could catch up, all instinct. 

He had meant it, when he said you deserved better. But it was a commitment, a promise, too, when he said he was all you got. 

.

.

.

Captain John Price was standing in your office. 

You halted in the doorway with a cup of coffee, hot ceramic searing into your fingers. “Captain Price,” you said. “Good morning, sir.” 

“G’morning,” he answered with a nod. 

“Is there something I can help you with?” You asked, crossing the room to deposit your cup at the edge of your desk. “Would you like a cup of tea? Coffee?” 

He shook his head, “Thank you. Take a seat.” 

It felt wrong to sit behind your desk, so you dropped into Simon’s usual seat, tugging the black and blue blanket you’d knitted for him months ago into your lap. Price took the opposite chair. It had so often gone unused, aside from the odd analyst debriefing a too long meeting, until Kyle and Johnny began frequenting your office too. 

Price didn’t say anything for a moment, brows lowered, mouth a considering line. You fidgeted beneath his piercing stare. 

“Ghost told you,” you guessed after a few beats of painful, weighted silence. 

He nodded after another long moment. “We knew,” he admitted, eyes finally flicking away as he adjusted in the chair. 

“I guessed as much.”

“But,” he continued, sitting forward. “Now you know.”

You felt, suddenly, as though you were about to receive a lecture or a reprimand. You swallowed thickly, and nodded, chewing your lower lip. “It’s not ideal,” you acknowledged. “I know how bad it is.” 

He was quiet again, watching you. You shifted, uncomfortable under his scrutiny, not sure what you were being evaluated for or how to pass muster. “He had to tell you,” Price said eventually, not unkindly, “It was only a matter of time.” 

The words had to landed perhaps harder than Price meant them to. It had only been a few days since you saw Simon’s face, since you bonded, and you still felt wrong about how it had happened. You weren’t sure if you ever wouldn’t feel wrong about how it happened. You shouldn’t have kissed him; you should have been able to let him go. 

The knowledge hung like an invisible weight around your neck, that you were not something Simon wanted, but an unwelcome inevitability. 

The memory of his touch, his extended presence in your apartment that weekend, made you feel a little ill on reflection. You should not have touched him, shouldn’t have kissed him, probably should not have seen his face at all. It all felt like a choice he wasn’t allowed to make. 

You weren’t quite sure where you and Simon stood now. Inextricably linked but to what end? What were you to him but something to manage?

I didn’t want to tell you. I never wanted you to know. 

Your belly clenched at the memory of the words, the heavy weight of the admission in his mouth. 

Maybe that was all soulmates ever were, an inescapable obligation and nothing more. Maybe the whole thing had been romanticized to the point of becoming something amorphous and unrecognizable. 

But when you thought of what he was to you—

Mine, you thought immediately and unhelpfully, possessively.

It stung like salt in a wound.  

He was anything but. 

The warm glow of the newly stitched bond in your chest was accompanied by a different ache, a more mundane one. A bleak cloud of heartache.  

The cruelty of it, the unfairness, smarted. You’d always assumed that discovery would mean an end to the lonely isolation you’d felt your whole life, not an evolution of it. There was still nowhere for you to go, no safe place for you to settle, no person that wanted and accepted you. 

You thought of the torment of the untethered bond. It had been excruciatingly painful, and you had only bore it for a few hours. And Simon had hidden it from you for months. His dedication to keeping you out, at a distance, spoke louder than any words could. 

It was akin to sitting next to a muzzled dog. He was chained to you. On a leash he could never escape. 

But you’d gladly keep your loneliness, if it meant he wasn’t in pain. You just wished you didn’t have to; you wished you belonged. 

Maybe he’d left the bond too long and it had corroded, shorn down into a jagged point. It could never cause anything but agony between you. 

You pinched your palm. “Yeah,” you agreed. “He had to.”

Price cleared his throat, sighed. “It’s not just Simon,” he said, “that has to worry about you now. You’re a vulnerability to all of us, to my team.” 

“I know,” you said again, because it had already occurred to you. That you now knew exceedingly dangerous information, how easy it would be for someone to make the leap of logic that you were important. 

“Better, for now, that it stays between us.” His eyes met yours, intense, serious and steady. 

Though you knew he was right, though you’d already had a similar conversation with Simon, it still hurt somehow, still felt like what you imagined having a knife stuck through your ribs must feel like. 

The discovery of a soulmate was supposed to be something that was celebrated. Announced to family and friends, parties thrown, congratulations given. 

It was also, by nature of the rarity, something to fixate on. It had led to pairs being featured in the news, followed by throngs of people convinced that their proximity to a bonded pair alone would aid their chances of finding their own. 

You did not want that, but it would be nice to tell your cross hall neighbor that had become a friend, or your sister. It would be nice to be able to tell anyone. The pride you should feel was replaced instead with something closer to shame. 

You would only ever be a liability. Something to manage, something to hide. Not just for Simon, but for his team as well. 

You were holding something so rare, something most people searched for their whole lives, and instead of letting it lie in the palm of your hand like the extraordinary sun soaked pearl it was, you had to close your fingers around it, relegate it to the dark cave of your fist. 

“I understand, sir. I haven’t told anyone. I won’t tell anyone.” 

Price relaxed a little then, leaning back in his chair. “Good.”

You fiddled with the blanket in your lap, calmer for the scent that lingered in the fibers and sloughed off it in waves from all the time it spent behind Simon’s shoulders, tea and tobacco, the faintest hint of summer grass lingering between. All those times you’d laid on it in the sun, inhaling his scent blooming in the air around you, soothed, flashed through your mind. 

Those summer months seemed a lifetime ago. A different you. A different Ghost. 

You glanced out the window. 

The world beyond the glass was gray with autumn drizzle; the bright red and orange fan of changing leaves raked at low hanging clouds. The air was chilly, and already threatening a cutting, winter iciness. With luck, you wouldn’t be stationed in England for much longer, and then none of you would have to worry about your inconvenient bond. 

“If the lads haven’t said yet,” Price began as he stood, one broad hand landing on your shoulder heavily, “Congratulations. Glad Simon finally pulled his head out of his arse. I was beginning to worry.” 

You glanced up in surprise, lips parted. The small smile on Price’s face faded. “Simon. . .” he started, then stopped. He contemplated his next words carefully before he continued. “Simon is more sensitive than he appears. You’ll take care of him.” 

The notion of Simon needing anyone for anything, should have been a laughable one, but coming from Price, it felt like the world tilting onto your shoulders. The 141 were a strange little family in their own right, one you were now an unfortunate interloper of. 

They looked out for each other, now you were being tasked with the same. 

Price wasn’t asking a question. 

You answered anyway. 

“Of course I will.” 

He squeezed your shoulder once and let his hand fall away. 

Ten minutes later, your coffee cold and abandoned at the corner of your desk, you were still sitting in Simon’s chair, picking at the blanket and anxiously worrying at your bottom lip.  

It had just started to bleed, the tang of copper dripping onto your tongue, when Johnny and Kyle appeared at your door, Simon looming large and imposing behind them with Price in tow. 

You stood, wondering if you’d been that lost in your thoughts that you hadn’t noticed the hall outside lurching into motion around an op, when you noticed the cake box in Johnny’s hands. 

You frowned, glancing from the sergeants’ open faces to the box in Soap’s hands.

“What’s going on?” 

“Think we wouldn’t congratulate the pair of ye, lass?” Johnny said. 

He slid the box onto your desk and opened his arms which you found yourself readily stepping into. 

Your throat closed, a heavy knot choking you suddenly. You didn’t look at Ghost over Johnny’s shoulder, couldn’t. “Oh, well—that’s not—you didn’t have to—” 

“It’s not nearly enough,” Kyle interrupted, “But it’s the best we can do. Considering.” 

You had to blink back tears as Soap released you and guided you forward to flip open the lid. The cake was lavender, like your headphones and blanket. Words were scrawled with dark icing, along with misshapen blobs you supposed were meant to be flowers. The words were an illegible heap but it didn’t matter what it said; it mattered they’d gotten it, even if it was bittersweet. 

Perhaps you were being afforded a little celebration after all. 

“Had to do the writin’ ourselves, yeah? It—”

“It’s perfect.” 

You felt small, safe. 

It was not a bad feeling, even if it was a false one.  

You still didn’t look at Simon, afraid to know how he felt about it as he stepped into the room after Price.

“Their idea,” he would tell you later, softly, when half the cake was gone and all but Simon had departed your office.  

You could only nod, and wonder if that meant he hadn’t wanted it acknowledged at all. 

You didn’t ask, the answer would probably shatter your feeble feelings. 

Soulmates, ultimately, were supposed to be the thing their pair needed most, be it romantic, platonic, familial, even adversarial, in rare instances. There was no guidebook on figuring out which, or what came after, or what you were supposed to be. 

For so long, you had held onto hope. A romantic, dramatic hope that you would find your soulmate and be granted that. Understanding. Feeling like there was one place you actually belonged. Someone who could see past the scars that kept everyone else at an arm’s length, that made them believe they could never fit into your life. 

Not even, really, you thought, were you hoping to find that feeling with your soulmate. You hadn’t been delusional enough to think you would ever really find them. 

You had just—wanted someone who saw you, looked past the scars and decided you could be home, anyway. The many failed dates you went on were proof enough of that, proof of your hope and longing. 

But maybe this was why fate had stuck you and Simon together—your ability to understand that what he needed most was to be left alone. And you were already so good at being alone. 

You could give him the security of someone who needed nothing from him, of letting the bond lie dormant and cold, maintain his anonymity and the walls he’d built so carefully around himself.  

A sentinel fate, a sword of his name. 

You could give him that peace. 

Your fate, it seemed, was as you’d once guessed. 

You were meant to be alone.  

.

.

.

Simon adjusted your hips with a sharp jerk and then pushed his palm between your shoulderblades until you tilted them into an angle he was satisfied with. 

“Eyes forward,” he grunted. 

But you were giggling again, glancing over your shoulder with bright eyes and a genuine smile. A rare sight recently.

Had been since—

“Am I holding it right?” 

He glanced at your grip on the blade in your hand, and nodded. You turned back toward the target—a thick plastic training dummy littered with stab wounds. You had made steady progress over the last few months. 

Simon liked training you, it settled some latent anxiety he’d never admit to, to know that you could hold your own, at least temporarily. Just long enough, as he always stressed to you, to escape danger, not face it. 

But you were proving yourself to be surprisingly adept at sparring. 

You were fast, and seemed to enjoy running. Cardio didn’t seem to burn you out. He wasn’t sure he’d ever seen anyone do as many jumping jacks in a row as he’d seen you do, seemingly just to do it. 

You took quickly to instruction, minor adjustments in form. 

You could wriggle out of ropes and zip ties. You could effectively parry, knew where the major arteries were and how to sever them. 

And, after a few failed attempts earlier in the week, you’d learned to compensate for the weight and balance of the blade, and seemed to be comfortable with throwing knives too. 

“Won’t have this much time to aim, bird,” he reprimanded when you only stood there, unmoving, your eyes sweeping over his face, brows knitted and serious. 

Your skin shimmered faintly with the dew of sweat. A faint gossamer sheen. He wanted to slide his fingers over the pulse in your throat, just to feel it kick. Maybe his teeth, too, to carve it out, hold the thread of your vein in his mouth. 

The soft murmur of your lips against his skin, babbling nonsense. 

The space between your shoulder blades was bare, the delicate lacing of a tattoo scrawled there. You didn’t share tattoos, that pain must not count as scars in the cosmic bind of the universe. 

The memory of that weekend together haunted him. How easily you’d fallen into each other, just to have it wiped away as soon as it was done. You bare legs in the kitchen, making tea, leaning against him as though it were natural, where you belonged. You stripped down to almost nothing, letting look at your scars as you carefully wiped the eyeblack from his skin, hands cradling his face. 

He was perhaps plagued by those moments when he wasn’t with you, the soft give of your body beneath his on your bed for two blissful nights, beneath him on the sparring mat, something of a distraction, something to sink his teeth into when sleep invariably would not find him. The memory of your safe touch. 

He still wasn’t used to being looked at so openly, directly, didn’t understand what you got out of it anyway. He couldn’t imagine what you saw, when you stared like you were trying desperately to preserve something as vital to you as air. He was right there, within reach and not moving away for once in his life. Not going anywhere. Never. 

This, bound to you, was where he belonged. 

But you seemed to keep skirting away. Pulling away from his hands, from him. 

He wasn’t built for this, relationships and emotions, for things that required a gentle touch and not the cold metal of a gun. 

Wasn’t good at it. He didn’t know if he had done something wrong, crossed some invisible line, and didn’t know how to ask either. 

Was this another thing he had to figure out how to earn? Was this just another thing he was destined to lose, had already?

The stiff concentration melted from your face, replaced with a smile, amusement he missed seeing the last few weeks sweeping over your face, softening your features. “But I have time now,” you said, before you suddenly pivoted and flung the knife, all in one fluid motion. Just as he’d taught you. 

The blade buried itself deep into the throat of the target. 

He raised a brow. “What were you aimin’ for, sweet’eart?” 

“The head,” you admitted, sounding surprised yourself. 

“Not bad, that.” 

“Thank you, LT,” you said sweetly. “Maybe one day I’ll be able to take you on.”  

He grunted, pressed another throwing knife into your hand and lifted your arm into position, cupped your elbow and drew it down a little. 

You were liquid gold in his arms, warm and trusting, allowing him to adjust the angles of your body without complaint. He could feel you breathing; not just the physical rise and fall of your lungs, though he could feel that too. Ghost could feel the tight, corded line of your soul stitched to his, the warm voracity of it like a glowing line of light, a thin strip of aurora borealis. This close to you, he could feel the softness of your breath, the delicate beat of your heart through it. 

He would probably never admit it to you, but Ghost missed the pain. He missed the watery, drowning ache in his lungs that meant you were on the other side of the glass, alive, waiting. The pain had been a constant reminder of your continued life. Being alive hurt, it only made sense, then, that the bond ached with your life. 

The warm glow it had transformed into was nice, but it was placating, an illusion that things would always be all right. The comfort and safety of it itched, made his fingers curl with the urge to peel up his skin, pinch the pain alive again with his own bloodied fingers just so he was sure you were there. 

You leaned back into his chest, the length of your spine laid against the bow of his body. Simon folded his fingers around yours, adjusted your grip on the handle, angled your wrist down a fraction. 

Your hand was small in his, the fragile bones of your wrist like a bird's hollow wing. He thumbed at your pulse, wished he had taken his gloves off. 

His nose brushed the shell of your ear, inhaling the sweet scent of your skin lavender and oak moss threaded with the animal salt of your skin. 

You shivered. 

“Not in this life or the next.” 

You laughed, a breathless catch in your throat. The vibrations of it again his chest like a half remembered song stuffed between his ribs. You turned your head and pushed your forehead against his jaw gently. He felt the shush of your breath against his throat. He wondered, not for the first time, why it couldn’t always be like this. Why had things felt like one stumbling block after another since you saw his face?

Wasn't it supposed to be easy? Wasn’t that the one thing soulmates were promised?  

He’s not particularly good at wanting things. Wanting meant asking for something he could lose, and he’d lost too much. 

But now he had you, he wouldn’t let go. 

The half completed residency paperwork in his, until now, underutilized office, was proof enough of that. It had been almost a year. You and Laswell had promised a year. A contingency, a plan for you to stay. 

You would stay. 

He wasn’t sure you would stay. 

Probably, he should talk to you about it. 

Simon wasn’t good at this.  

How hard could it be to ask his bloody soulmate to stay in the same country as him? 

Very, apparently. 

He’d rather almost anything else. 

He’d rather present you with the residence permit like a cat with a dead mouse, wordless and hopeful.

Unfortunately, there was a lot of red tape that required him and you to go through, not limited to slicing his skin open in a court to prove his scars showed up on you.  

All the fucking ones he’d already given you, wouldn’t count. 

Just because you were bonded, he was all too aware, didn't mean you would stay together. You could leave, die. Simon was the one to endure, he knew which of you would remain. 

The closer he got, the further you seemed to drift away, something tender and self actualizing in your gaze. But he’d had a year to come to terms with it. 

Maybe you just needed time to adjust to the idea of your soulmate being him. He wasn’t the kind of person anyone hoped for. 

“You wouldn’t let me win?” 

Simon didn’t want to imagine a world where you were on the opposing side of anything, where winning mattered. 

“Together this time, yeah?” He said instead, squeezing your wrist. 

“Not like I’ve got much of a choice.” 

“Want me to let go?” 

“No,” you answered quickly. “No.”  

“Aimin’ for the head again?” 

“The eye,” you clarified. 

He raised a brow. “Ambitious, that.” 

You nudged your temple against his cheek again, the flicker of your lashes through his balaclava like the delicate, furred wings of a moth. “I’m trying to be the best.” 

“Average might be a more achievable goal,” he said wryly. 

Your laugh echoed inside him again. “Affirmative,” you grumbled in a poor imitation of his accent. 

He squeezed your hip in slight reprimand. 

“But I think I can do it,” you continued in your own voice, leaning into his hand. “I just need practice.” 

“Mm.” He rubbed your wrist again, felt the steady flutter of your pulse against his fingers. “Just aim at something you can hit if you ever have to, yeah?”

Something you’d been over plenty, he still felt the need to repeat it. What do you imagine is going to happen to me? You’d asked once. A question with far too many answers. Bad things happened to people he cared for. 

“Promise,” you said easily. “I know where all the important arteries are, after all,” you murmur, teasing. 

He grunted, unimpressed. “Lot of good that’ll do if you’re aimin’ at the eyes.” 

You rolled your eyes and settled back into him, but you were laughing, reciting the names of said arteries under your breath. “All right, enough of tha’,” he muttered as he moved your arm through the motion once, before you swung hard and released the knife on the second pass. 

This time it was at the right height, but off center. It hurtled by the target’s ear and clattered to the floor. 

“You’ll be turning enemy combatants into regular Van Goghs,” he said. 

“Very funny,” you nipped, digging an elbow into his ribs, but you were giggling again. “It was close.” 

“Was. Nice work.” 

You made a soft, self-satisfied noise, something near a purr in your throat. “Thank you, Ghost.” 

He nodded as he released you and stepped away to retrieve the fallen blade. Cold seeped in as he did, a bone deep chill where you had been touching him. A thready, pulsing warning to stay near. 

Moving away from you was no longer painful, but not exactly comfortable either. It was nice to be within the warm bubble your soulmate provided. 

He felt it now, the retraction of that pulsing sweetness, like the petals of a flower furling closed. The bond was dynamic now, malleable and yielding, nothing like the taut, fragile, painful thing it had been for so long.  

Simon felt it stretch, loop slippery coils around him as the tension popped like stiff joints. 

When he turned, you were across the room, sitting on a weight bench as you pulled on a hoodie and kicked off your trainers. Not his hoodie, though he’d left one at your flat, thinking, maybe, you might want something of his, the way you had given him the blanket. 

Done for the evening, then. The tightening in his chest he felt now had nothing to do with the bond; he could admit that. 

You were no longer smiling, and the permanent stitch that had sown itself between your brows shortly after you bonded, had appeared yet again.  

He collected the knives, approached you slowly, out of your sight line, watching the slant of your scarred cheek, the downward tilt of your mouth. You had been worrying at your lower lip with your teeth recently, and the crease in the middle of the plush bottom curve of broken skin was wet with the tiniest well of blood. 

Simon remembered what it had felt like to touch that soft flesh, kiss you, lick into your mouth. It had felt like—he couldn’t say what it had felt like. He didn’t have the vocabulary, the understanding of the tangled mess of emotions in his chest, snarled and guarded as a nest of snakes. Unraveling it seemed unwise, a fool’s errand. 

All he knew was that it hadn’t happened, that he had been safe with you, whether he could name the emotions or not. He also knew that it had not happened again, and didn’t know why. 

And wanted it to happen again—for you to stick your hands beneath the edge of his mask or shirt or anywhere at all and ask can I? 

He wanted you, he thought numbly, stupidly, to hold his fucking hand. 

It was sort of like being a lovesick teenager, only Simon wasn’t sure he’d ever been that. It was all new.  

If he could feel the weight of your proximity, you were able to feel the heft of his. But you didn’t turn as he approached, head bowed over the laces of your shoes as you coiled them around your fingers and tucked them under the tongue. 

The space beneath your eyes was swollen, discolored with sleeplessness. There was a bruise beneath the edge of your hoodie collar, more on your forearms and the sides of your knees. Defensive marks, sparring marks. 

To see them brought him a kind of fucked up satisfaction. 

Simon pulled off his gloves, slipped his hand into place on the back of your neck. 

You flinched just a little, and then settled. 

The memory of you lying in the grass behind the barracks in the summer sun surfaces quickly. How badly he had wanted to reach down and touch you then, touch his own faint, paper thin scars on your skin, the side of your throat, the hook of your collarbone, all those shining little reminders.

Now he could, he did, and you still felt far away, like there would always be something holding you at a distance. As though you were behind unbreachable glass, seen, but not heard, not touched. 

What had Johnny called all that pain? 

Bond corrosion. Erosion. 

Maybe he’d let it go on for too long, really had damaged something vital, by denying it for so long. Maybe Ghost had inadvertently taken the one thing that was supposed to be a solace to you, and twisted it beyond repair. Maybe there was no comfort on your side, just a rusted lock that could never be pried opened again. 

You tilted into his palm. 

He hoped it was voluntary. 

“Ghost,” you said softly. 

“Bird,” he answered, drawing the word out lazily, letting his hand slide away. 

Your mouth twitched into a half smile. “Hey,” you caught his hand and tucked it instead between your palms. 

He sat next to you, pushed his shoulder against yours. You fell against his side slowly, almost reluctantly. You laced your fingers with his.  

Maybe you were just disappointed. Once the shock of finding your soulmate faded, once that restless, prodding first night together was over—he wondered if you felt cheated, let down. Maybe the distance was protective. 

Maybe he should just ask. 

You sat together quietly, fingers threaded. He waited, hoping that if he waited long enough you would look up and smile and talk to him. 

But the well of your incessant chatter over the last year seemed to have finally run dry. 

Not only were you quiet, it was like you were lost, unsteady. “All right?” 

When you met his eyes, your features softened. “You’re not a bad teacher.” 

“Reckon that’s a compliment, yeah?” 

You smiled, settled more firmly against his side. Yours was a warm, welcome weight. He’d not relished the thought of anyone’s touch in a very long time, maybe hadn’t ever. Kind touch was never something in high supply. But if you never let go, it’d probably be all right, that. 

“Yes,” you agreed. “Very generous with compliments.” 

Ghost wasn’t sure those words, in that order or otherwise, had ever been applied to him before. 

He palmed your cheek, tilted your face toward his, peering into your eyes like he was examining you for injury. “You hit your head?” 

“Like you wouldn’t have noticed.” 

“Mm.” 

“Simon,” you said, his name careful and curling in your mouth, safe there. Your fingers were at the edge of his sleeve, the soft pads of your fingers against his bare wrist, sliding over the scars on his palms, defensive wounds that his mind refused to remember earning. 

He nodded and you pushed his sleeve up. 

“I think I found another,” you said. “Can I show you?” 

Simon didn’t remember how he got every scar on his body, but he was trying to become familiar with all of yours. You’d had trouble, though, deciding which actually belonged to you. Some of your scars were buried beneath his own, others were scoured so deeply on Ghost, that they appeared as though they could be yours on your skin. 

It was odd to be touched, and not exactly comfortable, not yet, but he held still and let you have your fill, because he wanted you to. His body wasn’t his in these moments, but belonging to you was all right.

Your fingers traced his forearm, sending skittering sparks of warmth along his skin, curled like shaved gold into his stomach. It was horrifying, really, the way you made him feel. Not like himself, too much like himself, or someone he should have been. 

The touch was curious, and cautious. 

“Here,” you pushed a finger into the middle of his forearm. The scar was barely visible on his skin, and buried beneath the black of tattoo ink. “I think I burned myself taking something out of the oven. It probably wouldn’t have scarred but I kept picking at it.” You held your arm alongside his. The mark on your arm was deeper, puckered where his was flat. But they matched. 

Your fingers wriggled inside his rolled sleeve and you traced a particularly deep gouge along the side of his bicep. 

Shrapnel, he thought, but you didn’t ask. 

He waited for you to ask. 

You both sat there cloaked in silence. 

He watched the side of your face, the way your mouth twisted to the side, the downward sweep of your lashes fluttering against your scarred cheek. 

“Anymore?” 

You shook your head and slid your hand up his chest instead, to the base of his throat. “Can—?”

The word hasn’t even left your mouth yet. Pathetic, he thinks, as he yanks the fabric over his head. He smelled of desperation, a deep need to be kept. 

You smiled, touched his cheek, his ear. Your fingers scraped over the close cropped sides of his head into the longer hair at the top. 

When your face tilted up, lashes fluttering closed, he met you halfway, tasted blood on your mouth. It was like coming home. Simon could feel his scar on your mouth, like you were echoes of each other, calling across something vast, receiving an answer anyway. 

His tongue slipped into your mouth as your hands fisted in his hoodie. You groaned quietly when he threaded an arm behind your back, pulled you into his chest. 

“Simon,” you mumbled, mouth traveling from his down his jaw and back, nails digging into his bicep. He’d never get tired of his name, known and coveted, in your voice. You made it sound real, almost sweet. 

He touched your jaw, your soft skin so different to his, the small of your back beneath your shirt. 

The knot in his chest seemed to unravel, flatten out like a dog showing its belly, deeply satisfied, asking to be picked—

You pulled back suddenly and sucked in a sharp, awful breath. “Jesus, I’m sorry,” you said. “I—“ 

Simon shook his head, cupped the back of your skull to bring your forehead to him. You breathed, eyes closed, for a long time. 

Eventually you blinked and met his eyes, searched until you found something that made your gaze close. A door shut in his face. 

“Well,” you said, retracting your touch slowly, fingertips drawing down his jaw. He told himself it was reluctance, even if he knew better. “It’s late. I should probably get going.” 

He wanted to hold you gently, but was afraid he might crush you instead. His unwieldy hands were not suited for this kind of work. 

“Mm. Walk you to your car.” 

Your smile flickered a little. “What if I said no?” 

Then he would follow you anyway. He would make sure you got there safely, anyway. He might not be built for care, but he was built for that. For teaching you violence, for making sure you were safe. 

“Then you go alone.” 

“Liar,” you said with a huff as you stood, bracing your hand on his shoulder. “I know your shadow now, Simon.” 

He just stood and held out a hand for your bag, tugging the mask back on with the other. He wasn’t sure how he felt about that declaration.  

You needed time, that was all, he thought again, for the disappointment to abate, for him to make himself useful to you. 

Eventually, he would see your flat again. He’d stand in your kitchen with a cup of tea and your smile would be real.  

Simon should know better, by now, than to hope for anything at all. 

.

.

.

The orders arrived one innocuous morning in November, passed to you by an administrative assistant on your way to your office, who smiled like the envelope was not essentially a live bomb. She was new to the base, her eyes bright and watchful. She had been in your office a fair few times, to pick your brain, she said. She wanted to work in intelligence some day, too, in more than a strictly secretarial role. 

You took it from her with great trepidation. 

“You alright?”

“Fine,” you smiled tightly as your stomach clenched. 

Her smile turned sympathetic. “Don’t want to leave?”

“I don’t know,” you answered honestly, flipping the envelope over in your hands. 

“Come now, I’d wager Ghost will be none too happy.” 

You furrowed your brows and glanced back up at her. 

Ghost was Ghost. You hadn’t realized any of the others noticed him in your office. They were a nosy, gossipy bunch, such were the ways of intel, and you were sure one of them would have mentioned it, even passively, at some point.  

“Don’t know what you mean.” 

She smiled and rolled her eyes as she turned back to her desk. “Sure.” 

You walked back to your office slowly, distracted, telling yourself it was something—anything—else. 

You were not being stationed elsewhere; you were not being sent home. 

You closed the door behind you and stood staring down at the all too familiar seal stamped next to your name. It didn’t feel like your name, like your hands curling around the edges of the paper, claws that were already starting to dig in, so you couldn’t be dragged howling away. 

For a long time, you could only stand there, vision tunneling, mind sluggishly trying to catch up to what your heart already knew. 

Eventually, you realized you were not drawing breath, and choked as you inhaled, the air thick with the scent of tobacco and black tea. Ghost, when you glanced around, was not there, but he had been. A cup of coffee was at the edge of your desk, steaming, still hot.

Because you still preferred coffee in the morning, despite having developed a taste for tea, and he knew that. He seemed to know everything about you.

It made you want to cry, but you crossed your office to your desk instead and sat. 

Delicately you slit the letter open along its seam, and read what you’d already known would be within. 

Home. 

Only the shape of home had long ago shifted.

Home was here. 

Home was the base and your softly lit office; it was your flat that you’d worked hard to make your own; it was tea with your coworkers and baking with your neighbor. 

Home was—

Home was—

It would be better for everyone if you went home, but the notion of leaving behind the little life you created so painstakingly over the last year tied your stomach in knots. You liked your apartment and the base and your neighbors. You liked your coworkers and hot cups of tea on rainy afternoons in chilly offices. You liked Soap and Kyle and Price. 

And Simon—

You liked having him in your life, in whatever way he let himself be. You liked when he visited you. You liked being close to someone, even if it wasn’t exactly in the way you wanted. You liked the quiet surety of your routine with him, even if it was unfair to both of you for you to be comforted by it. 

Your chest ached; your throat closed.  

It would be better for you to go. 

You did not want to go. 

You carefully pushed the letter back inside the envelope and thrust it into a desk drawer. 

It felt more like an execution notice. 

.

.

.

You managed to keep the information to yourself for two days. 

The tender bruise it left on you only seemed to deepen, that well in your chest that was meant to bring you comfort only serving to pinch. 

You wondered, again and again, if something had gone wrong. If you were not properly bonded, if Ghost had frayed the bond beyond repair like a dog chewing through its leash, if, perhaps, you had done something wrong. Maybe your disbelief has sown rot into your soul, an infected tether that poisoned both of you. 

It was raining again, a chill passing beneath the frame of your window, the lights dim and low. The last of your coworkers had long gone home and night had long ago fallen. 

You were curled in your office chair, your blanket and Simon’s tucked around your shoulders, when a gentle knock caught your attention. 

When you glanced up and found Ghost in your office doorway, you smiled, you forgot for a moment about that letter in your desk and everything it meant. 

“Ghost,” you greeted, unfolding your legs, blankets sloughing off your shoulders and into your lap. “Hey.” 

“Bird.” 

“It’s late.” 

“Is,” he agreed with a nod. 

He stepped into the room and closed the door behind him and the knowledge that you would be leaving this—him—soon clamped around you, seized something in your chest and squeezed. Fear and loss welled like twin heartaches, pooled in that hollow beneath your ribs that should only know warmth. 

He paused for only a moment before he rounded your desk, cupped your face between his ungloved palms and tilted your head up. He didn’t say anything, gaze trailing slowly over your features. 

Your chest tightened with the examination—bright, painful hope. To be the focus of your soulmate’s attention was like being buoyed, like sitting in the sun. It made you feel deeply settled. It was nectar sweet and confusing. You wanted to kiss him and felt as though you should ask for nothing and receive even less. 

And guilt. 

You felt guilty for not telling him as soon as the papers were handed to you. 

You expected the contact to be brief, but when he pushed his forehead against yours, he left it there for a long moment. 

He didn’t usually and it gave you pause. His eyes were closed when you opened yours again. You felt as though he were asking for something but you couldn’t understand the question. Exhaustion curled off him in waves. 

“Are you okay?” His eyes flickered open, confusion swirling in when he found you already looking at him. 

He tilted back and didn’t answer.

“You look tired,” you said carefully. “More tired than usual, anyway.” 

“What are you still doin’ ‘ere?” 

“Waiting for you to come make us a tea.” 

He made a soft huffing sound that you took to be a laugh. “Aye?”

“Mm.”  

He made a discontent noise and pulled away entirely. “Shite liar for someone who works in the shadows.” 

You smiled. “You just know me too well.” 

“Alright?” 

A heavy hand closed around your throat and you glanced away. “Yeah.” 

When he dropped into his usual chair, he tilted his head. You could read the words in his eyes before he said them. “Want to try that again?”

“I would actually like a cup of tea,” you said. 

“I’ll make you a cuppa if you tell me.”

You smiled, “Negotiating now?” 

“Always seem to be.”  

You frowned, not sure what he meant by that as you let your head fall back, wondering if you could put off telling him awhile longer. But Ghost’s suspicion was raised now. He looked relaxed, arms crossed over his chest, legs spread wide. His chin was tipped down, brows knitted together. You knew he was ready to go home, by the simple mask he was wearing and the dark hoodie he was swaddled in.

You thought of pushing the hood back, tugging the mask off, raking your nails through his hair as you had that day in the guy, and banished the image with a shake of your head. 

You fidgeted, plucked at the edge of your sweater with nervous fingers. He wouldn’t care, you thought, and you weren’t sure what would be worse: apathy or relief.

Simon said your name slowly, a dangerous warning hidden somewhere in the back of his throat. 

The sound seemed to take up space in your chest. 

He watched you, waiting for you to spit it out, shoulders stiffening, brows an unyielding, lowered line. 

You took a deep breath, bravely plucked the letter from its place in your desk drawer, and slid it across the tabletop toward him. 

Simon went very still, staring at the unassuming little envelope. You waited and watched him, watched his eyes and the slope of his unmoving shoulders.

Tension bled into the air so thickly you felt as though you might choke on it. You clenched your jaw so tight that pain lanced down your neck and into the top of your spine.  

Minutes passed and he didn’t so much as twitch. You weren’t sure he was breathing.

“Simon?” You said quietly, gently, as you could. “You okay?” 

He blinked, seemed to come back into himself, gaze locking onto yours as he reached for the letter with large, ungloved hands. His eyes only slid away from yours again when he pulled the letter out of its sleeve and glanced down to read it. 

“That’s all right,” he said after a moment, his voice even. 

Your belly lurched. So apathy it was, unmoved by the prospect of you leaving. 

“I know,” you said quietly. Your voice cracked under the pressure in your throat, as you willed yourself not to cry. “Nothing to make a big deal about. Just thought you should know—”

He shook his head and abruptly stood. “Ghost—?” 

He crossed your office in two strides and wrenched open the door before he disappeared through it.  

You frowned, wondering if you were meant to follow him, knowing that you never were. You settled back in your chair, tucking your legs in again, staring at the frost slowly creeping across the window glass, obscuring the fat yellow moon peeking from between parted winter clouds. 

Simon returned, to your surprise, a few minutes later, with a file folder. 

You felt a sense of dread as he dropped it on your desk. 

“What is this, Simon?” 

“I’ve already started it.” 

That did not answer your question. 

You sat forward and pulled it toward you, flipped it open and found a half completed residency application. Your fingers froze before you thumbed through the myriad pages. Forms filled in in chunky block handwriting. 

“What is this?” You asked again, attempting to quell the rising panic in your chest. “What did you do?” 

“The bond has to be officially recognized first,” he said, still not exactly answering your question. 

You swallowed. You’d heard about formal bond recognition and frowned at the last several instructional pages. Required photographic proof of bond pairing, and, an in person demonstration of proof of said bond—

You imagined it for a moment, the two of you before some faceless judge, Simon carving out another part of himself for the sake of you being able to remain when he didn’t even want you. Didn’t want you around, never wanted you to know who he was. And yet he was willing to shackle himself to you, toss the key away. 

Nausea welled, a heavy hand closing around your throat. A date was scratched in red at the bottom of the page for mid-April next year. Distantly, you realized it meant he had been working on this, thinking about it, for much longer than you had. It was. . .sweet. 

It should be sweet. 

You were suddenly aware of how much you did not know about him as you read through the pages. His birthday. His last name. If asked to fill out his half of the forms, you would not be able to. But it was all there in his own hand writing, information freely given for you when he had only given up his name by accident. He was giving up everything he kept close to the chest, that he kept from everyone. 

But your horror and revulsion won out when you turned the next page and found a scan of his military ID. His naked face stared blankly, uncomfortably out at you. 

What it all meant crashed down on you with the force of a toppled building. You saw yourself demonstrating the bond again. Simon unmasked, a wolf without its teeth, because you knew he would never let you be the one to prove the bond. He would stand there and carve himself up, wrench out a bone and lie it down as proof. 

Years of wishing you could protect the soulmate you didn’t know from further harm curled fingers through the bars of your ribs, prying loose that desperation. 

Now you could. 

His name, his face, his privacy, his sense of safety. 

You slammed the folder closed and shoved it away. “No,” you said, horrified. “No. Absolutely not.” 

His brows softened when you glanced up at him. His voice was maybe the gentlest you have ever heard. “I would do it, love—”

You made an involuntary, distressed sound. “Jesus Christ, Ghost. No.” 

All this effort was not his choice, and you couldn’t take anymore from him. It was pity and harm rolled into one. It was self flagellation; it was locking a weight around his ankle and jumping into a deep lake. 

You couldn’t keep burdening the people around you, anyway. Simon with the bond he had no interest in and was plagued and bound by, the rest of the 141 being vulnerable for it. 

Price had asked you to take care of him and you could. 

Ghost’s gaze was hard when you met his eyes. “Why not?” 

There was a dangerous edge in his voice, a fissure that said tread carefully. 

“Why would I ever want you to do this?” You fired back. 

Your voice was panicked and louder than you meant it to be. 

He shrunk away, at the same time that his shoulders seemed to widen a few centimeters. 

“I can’t do that to you,” you said, pushing the file back toward him. “I won’t do that to you.” 

“You aren’t going to try to stay.” His voice was flat and far away. 

Something lurched behind your breastbone. You rubbed at the spot but the pain didn’t fade. “I will not let you scar yourself for nothing!” You snapped. 

He was so still, his body a coiled spring. “Nothing.” His voice was hollow.   

You swallowed. “It’s easier this way, Simon,” you said after a long beat of silence. “It’s safer, if I just go.”  

He sat back, like you’d punched him and was struggling for breath. 

You watched the wall come down in his eyes, protective distance, that blank, far away, unreachable look he always used to wear when he first started visiting your office. 

“That’s what you want, yeah?”

You closed your eyes for a moment, and when you opened them again, he was gone, as though he’d never entered your life at all. 

The room seemed to reverberate with the loss of him. A warning in the still, cold air, a tragedy leaching into your lungs. 

You fucked something up, but you weren’t sure what or how. You paced circles around your office until you felt ill. You knew he wouldn’t come back, that you might have broken the fragile peace that existed between you. 

Maybe it was for the best. 

The pain didn’t recede. 

.

.

.

You used to have nightmares. 

Each night you would lie down, close your eyes, and drown for a few hours. Long, looping gray halls, faint outlines of fists knuckled into drywall. You would search, thread your way up and down staircases without end, flinging open doors that led to the same bruised walls.

You could trace the trajectory of Simon’s life through your scars. The child abuse he’d clearly endured, the abrupt way the regular tracery of pain vanished, and then slowly appeared again. In starts and fits, enough for you to know that he had endured and finally escaped, and perhaps had a dangerous job, or lifestyle. You imagined a boxer, an MMA fighter. You imagined a construction worker, a welder, a fire fighter, a soldier.  

For awhile, you were content, the dreams receded like nothing more than a bad memory. Mostly, he seemed to be safe, and that was enough. A new mark would occasionally be added to your skin, but it always seemed incidental, an accident or mishap. That you could handle. 

Then those awful months had come, where each morning there were fresh marks. Your fear was like a fist in your throat. You rarely slept, afraid of what your mind would conjure, afraid of all the ways you could never help. Your soulmate was being tortured, of that you were sure, and you could only watch. 

You would wake up—a plethora of new scars seared into your flesh, and a sense of pain, the impression of pain you should feel, lingering around you like a malignant cloud—and plead with anything, anyone that might be listening to help where you couldn’t. Your throat, chest, and back saw the most damage then. No more defensive scars on your palms, but thin circlets had formed around your wrists. No more bite marks but that awful corded scar had roped its way around your throat. 

The nightmares returned with vengeance clutched in their fists. Bloodier, more violent. 

Now, dreams of perpetual, unending silence. A life lived alone. Those same looping, gray halls filled with doors that you could hear other people behind, just out of reach, all locked. Most times, though, the dreams were more violent than that, blood on concrete, endless replays of dreams past, torture past. 

It filled you with a type of horror you thought long past you, that you thought couldn’t be felt anymore. 

But it was worse, now, knowing it was Simon that had inspired those dreams. It had been bad enough knowing only that it was the abstract concept of someone meant for you on the receiving end. 

You’re sure your dreams were only a whisper of what he experienced. 

The dreams seemed to be arbiters, harbingers of some tragedy, rewritten lines of a play long acted out. 

You missed him. 

Didn’t know how to check on him. 

How to apologize for ever having shown up in his life. 

It made you wish you’d turned down that transfer last year, that you had never gotten the one thing you always wanted. 

Soap, when he appeared in front of you, assessed your sleeplessness with an astute, bluntness you only felt numb to.  

“Ye look like shite.” 

“Thank you for that, John MacTavish,” you said, swerving around him and down the hall toward your office. “Is there something you need?” 

He followed you, situated himself as comfortably as he always did, firmly in Ghost’s chair. 

“You okay, lassie?” 

You clutched at the files as you hovered in the doorway and took a wincing breath. The pain hadn’t gone away. “Yes. Just tired.” 

“Ghost has been tired, too.” 

“It’s a good thing you aren’t a spy, Soap.” 

“Aye, but am not tryin’ to be.” 

You huffed, tightened your hold on the files and tablet. The pressure against your chest helped. “I’m getting transferred home.” You smiled but it felt awkward and false. “Good news.”

He tilted his head. “For who?”

“Simon,” you said easily. “And all of you. I’m a burden the rest of you have to bear,” you attempted to joke. 

Neither of you laughed. 

Johnny was uncharacteristically quiet, the silence like a shroud. 

“And you talked to the Ghost?” He asked after a long moment. 

“Yeah.”

Johnny frowned. “And he’s alrigh’ with tha’?”

You frowned back at him, fidgeted, plucked at the edge of your sweater with nervous fingers. “I can’t ignore orders,” you said simply, though you both knew there was a solution. The one Ghost had already thought of. 

Soap was still watching you, his head tilted to the side. “What d’ye want?” 

A strange choking feel raked up your chest, bound itself over your heart. If you could, you’d slip into Simon’s bloodstream. To be carried there, to belong. You wanted so badly to be wanted, to have somewhere safe. 

You shook your head. “I don’t think it matters what I want.” 

It was unfair, though, that it didn’t. 

That you have never mattered. 

A sudden, intense burst of anger welled up in the back of your throat. “I’m starting to think the whole fucking thing is fool’s gold.” You ground your teeth together, “I think it’s all bullshit meant to give you hope. And nothing else. It never meant anything at all.”

Johnny looked pained. “Ach, bird—”

“No,” you interrupted. “No. I’m sorry. That’s not fair of me. I think I am uniquely fucked up.” 

A burst of warmth made you whirl toward the hall but no one was there. 

.

.

.

Once, Simon, without preamble, before you knew what he was to you, had abruptly asked one afternoon if you’d ever gone through RTI training. 

“Yes. I might not do field work, but I still know too much,” you’d answered and tilted your head curiously to the side. “Why?”

He had not answered, but looked marginally more at ease. 

“Were you?” 

“What?” 

“Tortured?” 

His eyes had flicked over you. “Think you know the answer.” 

You had nodded.

“They say to compartmentalize,” you said, curious. “That you buy time instead of trying to avoid talking. But I was never good with pain. What did you think of?”

In an odd bout of truth sharing he had said, “Dead now, what I thought of.” He settled into his chair more firmly. “Don’t think of anything you care to lose.” 

And that had been that. 

.

.

.

Simon didn’t say goodbye.

You weren’t exactly speaking, anyway. 

Silence had unspooled between you and him, thick and cloying, a rope that wrapped tighter around his throat with each coil. 

Ghost still checked on you, watched from the shadows as you began moving through preparations to leave your post. Cases handed off to other intel officers, your office slowly depleted of the things that made it yours. 

The potted plants in their terracotta shells disappeared and reappeared in other offices—in the break room, on a filing cabinet in the hall. The bug lamp vanished and so did your blanket and the lavender headphones, the stack of books in the corner. Your scent faded, that oakmoss and lavender that permeated the air seemed to falter more with each passing day. 

When he peered into your office, a wraith at the edge of your life once again, you worked in total silent stillness in the cold room. You had not touched his blanket, slung over the back of the chair as it always was. 

Things were moving too fast, and he was wasting time. You would be gone by the end of the year; it was already the middle of December. He knew, when he looked in on you before they left, that it would be the last time. He would return to the base and your office would be empty, bereft. 

Soap was staring at him from across the transport plane, his brows drawn down, fists curled loosely around the straps of his vest. His sergeant looked angry. 

The air was cold. 

Simon’s skin ached. That bloody pain was under his ribs again.  

He couldn’t stop thinking of your blanket. Why would you remove it first when you needed it? You were always cold, always sun seeking. Your blanket abandoned, his hoodie you wouldn’t wear. It was like you were abandoning comfort. 

“The lass seemed—”

“That’ll do, Sergeant,” Ghost cut Soap off quietly, a warning in his voice. If Gaz and Price were listening, they didn’t show it, huddled over a tablet together at the far end of the hull. 

Soap glanced away. “Was cryin’ before we left.” 

Ghost jerked his gaze back up. 

“Enough,” he snarled, and then felt exhaustion tug his anger back down. 

He closed his eyes and leaned back, letting the heaviness of his gear fall against his body, crushing even as his spine loosened.

It was enough. 

He didn’t need to be reminded of your misery, or your rejection. 

Domestic conflict didn’t suit him. He was afraid of it, had only ever watched it end with a bruised cheek, tears, a voice like knives. He already swore that he would never be that kind of man, that he wouldn’t become his father. 

Conflict that couldn’t be swiftly ended with a gun or a blade was out of his bloody purview. 

You deserved better, and that truth had never been more apparent or that you knew it too. 

Why would I ever want you to do this?

Fair enough question.

Mapping his own fear wasn't easy. It didn’t come naturally. 

He wanted nothing more than to scoop it out with a rusty spoon, put it on offer to you. 

But you didn’t want that, and he’d known that all along. 

The plane hummed and shook like it was in the fist of a giant, shuttling them through the sky, an overgrown child with a toy. 

“Aye,” Soap said, an unusual snap in his voice. “Maybe you were right, LT.”

Ghost opened his eyes. 

It was bait. 

They both knew it. 

Ghost asked anyway, his voice low and dark. “Usually am. Care to tell me what about this time?” 

“Maybe she deserves better.” 

.

.

.

Task Force 141 was deployed on an emergency op. They left three days ago, chasing some nightmare that they had dealt with before. Intel that you had pooled and passed off to Laswell without too much thought about it, turned out to be something they’d long been searching for. 

Price checked in with you. Kyle and Soap said goodbye. 

Ghost disappeared without a word. 

You caught a glimpse of his shadow disappearing down the administration wing’s hall before they had gone, warmth fading around you, and knew he had been outside your office. His involuntary monitoring only served to make your chest ache.

You knew that you weren’t likely to see any of them again. Your apartment was a sea of boxes; your office was bereft. It was unclear how long the op would last. 

You weren’t likely to see Ghost again, anyway, who had become as good as his namesake over the past few weeks. It was terrible, the way you waited and hoped that he would come back to you, just so you could say goodbye. He was impossible to hunt down when he did not want to be found. 

As it stood, you were alone, your office was empty for all but the equipment you were given on your first day and Simon’s blanket. You weren’t sure what to do with it. It wasn’t yours but leaving it behind to be tossed in with the trash or thrown in storage somewhere to rot, festering alone, eaten by moths, seemed wrong.  

Still, you had left it over the back of his chair. Maybe he would see it when he returned and finally take it with him. 

You did, however, keep the hoodie he had left in your apartment. No one had to know that you slept in it, felt comforted just by touching something that was his. 

Were you especially pathetic, or was that something all bonded soulmates felt? You couldn’t imagine Simon feeling that way about something of yours. It was hard to imagine him being comforted by anything besides a gun, a knife, his own violent hands.  

Maybe if you weren’t so upset, maybe if things had gone differently, you would have noticed you were being followed long before it was too late to do anything about it. 

You were walking from your car to your apartment, gym and work bags slung over your shoulder, sweat still drying between your shoulder blades when the unease settled around you. You felt watched, not in the way that you had become accustomed to. 

The back of your neck prickled, some long buried sense warning you that danger was near. When you glanced over your shoulder, the street was empty and blue in the waning winter light, the barest fanning of snow shimmering, fans of yellow puddled down the sidewalk behind you. 

But you could hear footsteps.

You didn’t change your pace, slipping your hand into the front pocket of Simon's hoodie instead, feeling the comforting weight of the switchblade gifted to you all those months ago. Cold, solid metal. 

It felt a bit like safety, wrapped in Ghost's fading scent, the knife he'd given you in your palm.

All those nights you stayed late on the base, Simon waiting patiently for you to leave, eyes closed, arms crossed before he walked you to your car flicked through your mind. 

The irony struck you now, of all those careful wanderings to your car, no one had ever been there along this route. The path from your car to your front door was barren, the moment of your day that you were most alone. 

When you glanced behind you again, still no one was there.  

You told yourself it was nothing, though every instinct was telling you that wasn’t true. Cold bled between your shoulders, snaked down your spine in a warning drip. 

The footsteps faded but the watched feeling didn’t. 

Once inside you locked the door behind you and made a beeline for your bed side table drawer where you’d stored Simon’s half completed residency application. You started to shred it with your hands before you realized that would not be enough. 

A thud on the landing outside made you jump, confirmed your worst thoughts. You were on your way out, all the case files and hard drives you had been trusted with handed back over to Laswell, debriefed a million and one times. There was only one thing someone could be looking for. 

You calmly carried the documents to your kitchen and threw them in the largest pot you had. It only took a moment for it all to go up in flame after you dropped a lit match in, suffocating his name and yours, the edges of the copy of his military ID going at the corners and then swallowing his face. 

You wanted to dig your hands into it, scoop the ash into your mouth, just to keep it all safe. 

For half a moment, as smoke curled around your kitchen, you felt stupid. It was probably nothing and you’d just erased the only memory of your soulmate’s face you had been allowed. 

Then, the front door exploded inward.

You were slammed into the counter, scattered remnants of the meager combat training you had received flicking through your head. 

But your body was faster than your brain, you wriggled loose and stabbed upward with the blade suddenly in your hand. 

You both seemed surprised when you made contact, slicing a long stripe along his cheek up to the corner of his eye. The point of your knife sunk into his eye, and when you ripped it back, blood sprayed across your ceiling. 

You had been drilled not to linger though, yanking back when he released your elbow, screaming and clutching his face. 

You dodged two more men whose fingers grazed you but didn’t catch. They seemed more surprised than you were that you avoided it, that maybe Ghost had been telling the truth when he said you were unreasonably fast. 

You flung your knife at the one in the foyer, and watched it sink to the hilt into his throat. 

You didn’t pause, flew down the steps to the road and wrenched down a black street and then a tiny alley that you hoped you could lose them in, that you could get lost in. The irritated crash of voices followed you as you zigzagged through the streets of the town that had become your home, and now had turned into a maze. 

Distantly, you realized they were speaking in Russian, footsteps pounding against the pavement behind you. The wind was bitterly cold, snow burning down around you. 

Ghost’s words fanned across your mind, you just had to be fast enough to run away, to hide, that was all. You held onto his voice, the memory of him guiding you.

All you had to do was run away. 

But you turned down another street and found the narrow close ended in a brick wall that you were not tall enough to scale. 

This time when you were pushed forward, your temple connected with brick, stars bloomed across your vision. Your arms were pinned immediately to your sides. 

You threw your head back, skull connecting with a crack against someone’s nose. 

“You fucking bitch—” 

Thick fingers against the back of your neck, slamming you forward into the brick again. This time nausea crawled into your throat along with pain and a thin trickle of blood, stars blooming across your vision. 

“Easy, easy! Nothing that will scar. Not yet.” 

You were shoved harder against the wall, an uncomfortable, heavy weight bowing your spine, but your captor was careful not to let your face rasp against the brick again. 

Blood licked warmly into the corner of your mouth, dripping lovingly into your mouth. A nerve throbbed behind your eye. You grunted, air squeezed out of your lungs when the man behind you leaned harder on you. “Careful, little rabbit,” he said. 

Footsteps sounded behind the pair holding you captive, slow and measured, a brutal, unhurried pace that eventually stopped to your left. 

“I don’t have to wonder what you were burning, but I think I can guess,” he said by way of introduction. “Let’s see her face.” 

The hand on the back of your neck cupped your jaw instead, yanked your face around so violently you felt it in your neck. 

A man’s face swims into your peripheral vision. Dark, sharply intelligent eyes met yours. Predatory, like looking into the teeth of a fox. You had seen his face before. And if he was here, the op the 141 was currently on was a decoy.  

Fear swam into your gut, adrenaline sweeping down your spine. 

“Ah,” he said, reaching out to stroke the back of his pointer finger down your cheek. “You must belong to Ghost,” he said. He drew a blade slowly from his trouser pocket. It sung as he flipped it open and held it to your throat, drawing it shallowly over your flesh. “No one else has so many scars.” 

You shivered and the blade bit deeper into your skin.

You felt blood pool warmly in the hollow at the base of your neck. “Yes, I think if I had Simon Riley here, you’d match, wouldn’t you?” His eyes flicked over you, watching you closely. 

You didn’t blink, despite how irked you were that he knew Simon’s name. Didn’t acknowledge the implication of your scars. “He won’t come,” you said, voice hoarse. “If that’s what this is.”  

“He will,” he said, withdrawing the knife, wiping it clean on a handkerchief he pulled from his pocket, swiping it neatly clean. “Simon Riley,” he said again, drawing out the syllables of a name you wanted to rip out of the air, stuff in your own mouth. “He tends to have this kind of bad luck with things he cares for. Don’t you agree?” 

You didn’t move, didn’t breathe. The lancing pain in your head was growing and thinking was a failing battle. The pressure on your spine was intense, your lungs crushed beneath the weight of the man holding you in place, a mouse beneath a paw. 

You closed your eyes. “He doesn’t care about me.” 

“That is not how soulmates work.” 

You laughed, a choked horrible sound to your own ears. 

The world tasted like blood. 

Like the copper tang of a penny pressed beneath your tongue. 

You could taste it on your teeth.

“Then you don’t know Ghost very well.” You said. “He doesn’t want me.” If anyone could overcome that instinct, that taboo, it was Ghost. He would not come for you, of that you were sure. It would be easier. “He won’t come. It’s the tactical choice.” 

“I suppose we will see, will we not? We will have fun together, you and I, in the meantime.” 

He disappeared from your view, footsteps disappearing back down the close.

Panic settled hard and fast in your stomach, what you were about to endure whether they killed you eventually or not.

You squirmed as the weight eased off your back, kicked backward desperately. Your sneaker connected with a shin before you were jerked around and slapped. You lunged forward, not sure what you were about to do when a sharp pain bloomed in the side of your throat and the world went dark. 

There was one thing you were certain of, though, as your consciousness faded and your body was hauled through the dark, the thickening snow. 

Makarov was wrong.  

Simon was not coming. 

And you, as always, were alone. 

.

.

.

Ghost couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong. 

The base felt eerily silent as he tracked through it, hauling his kit, beelining for your office, the failed op like a warning bell in the back of his mind that he couldn’t ignore.  

It was your intel, Laswell said, that led them there.  

Your office was empty, dark. 

The only personal item left in the room was the blanket you had knitted for him all those months ago, left across the back of the chair he always sat in. 

He pressed gloved fingers against it and a chill curled in his gut. Your office, for so long a comfort, a warmth, a haven, felt barren, vacant. It smelled of dust, and he knew you hadn’t been there in a few days. The scent of your perfume no longer lingered in the air, your presence as faded as if you’d never been there at all. 

It did not help the feeling that something wasn’t right. 

An indescribable, irrational fear gripped him. Like talons hooked around his lungs, pulling them slowly from between his ribs. The pain had returned, settled as neatly behind his breastbone as if it had never left. 

Nausea wound tight in his throat. He pressed a hand against his chest but it didn’t ease. It lingered, seemed to pulse worse than it ever had before. He had heard you and Johnny, once, talking about the pain. There were cases where it had returned, when soulmates were separated against their will, or, if one was in danger, dying, hurt. 

Usually it meant the pair was dying, it was a warning, an easing into the snap of the bond being severed forever. 

Simon dropped his kit, kicked the door shut and yanked up his sleeves, the hem of his shirt, searching fruitlessly for a needle in a fucking haystack. 

It was faint, at first, because it was yours and not his, buried beneath pain and thick scarring and years of not taking care of those scars. 

He watched, for the first time, as a scar that wasn’t his bled into his flesh. 

A deep one, puckering the meat of his forearm in a new and disturbing way. It was not an accident. A message was being writ in your skin for him to see. 

It didn’t hurt, and that was the worst part. The ghost of pain seemed to linger in the air above it, pain he should feel and didn’t, the suggestion of torment like an electric current he desperately wanted to stick his fingers into, wrap around his wrists and yank away from you. 

An involuntary, nearly inaudible sound wrenched out of him.

It wasn’t just one. The more he stared, the more faint, flicking lines he saw, across his arms, his stomach. 

He knew what it meant. 

He didn’t know how to process what he was seeing, or the feeling that accompanied it. 

The uncertainty and fear you’d once described to him, of knowing that his soulmate was hurt but not how, of being helpless to watch, washed over him in a violent wave. 

He took a deep breath. 

Then another. 

Simon was gone. 

Price, he knew, would still be in his office. 

if you made it this far thank you for reading! I'd love to know what you thought!

[vampypandalover]

Compromised

🦾B.B. MASTERLIST

🏠BLOG HOME

C's corner: Just a soft little one shot to give me a break from the smut.

WARNINGS: fluff, mutual pining, awkward flirting, first kiss, mild mission violence, gunfire, brief mentions of Bucky’s time in hiding, Romanian used as a flirting weapon, Sam Wilson being nosy.

✍🏽WC: 3.6K+

SUMMARY: You survive gunfire without a problem. Bucky speaking Romanian? That's a different story.

The mission goes sideways in the least dramatic way possible. Not with explosions. Not with betrayal. Not with a villain monologuing in a warehouse with poor lighting and worse ventilation.

No, the mission goes sideways because James Buchanan Barnes opens his mouth and speaks Romanian.

That's it. That's the whole catastrophe.

You're crouched behind a concrete barrier in Bucharest, rain dripping from the edge of your jacket, earpiece crackling softly as Sam mutters something about the target moving south. The alley smells like wet stone, old cigarettes, and the kind of diesel fumes that make your lungs feel personally insulted.

Bucky is beside you, calm as ever, eyes tracking every shadow. He has his rifle tucked close, his hair damp at the ends, his jaw set in that unfairly sharp way that usually makes you annoyed because nobody should look that composed while being shot at.

You're fine, totally fine. Professional, even.

Then a door bangs open at the far end of the alley. A frightened older man stumbles out, hands raised, speaking too quickly for you to catch anything beyond the panic in his voice.

You tense, but Bucky steps forward before you can.

He lowers his weapon and then he says, low and steady, "Nu vă mișcați. Suntem aici să vă ajutăm."

The man freezes.

You also freeze. Not because of danger. Not because of strategy. Because Bucky's voice has gone soft and rough around the Romanian words, all warm gravel and velvet-shadowed consonants, and your brain immediately drops every file labeled mission protocol into a trash fire.

You blink.

What was that?

The man answers, still frantic. Bucky nods, listening, rain sliding down the side of his face. He responds again, smoother this time, a little faster.

"Înțeleg. Dar trebuie să intrați înapoi. Este periculos afară."

Your mouth goes dry, actually dry. Like your body has decided hydration is no longer compatible with the moment.

Sam's voice crackles through comms. "Everything good down there?"

Bucky glances your way.

You look at the wall. The wall is safe. The wall isn't speaking Romanian.

"We're good," Bucky says.

In English, a tragedy. A mercy.

The man hurries back inside. Bucky steps beside you again, brow furrowing when he catches your expression. "You okay?"

"Yes," you say too quickly.

His eyes narrow.

You nod with violent enthusiasm. "Mission. Great. Love those. Big fan."

Bucky stares at you.

You stare at the wall harder.

From the comms, Sam says, "Why did that sound weird?"

"It didn't," you snap.

"It did," Sam says. "It sounded like your soul tripped."

"My soul is agile."

Bucky tilts his head slightly. "You sure you're okay?"

You make the mistake of looking at him.

He's still damp from the rain. His lashes are wet. His mouth is set in a concerned little line. His voice is normal again, but your traitorous brain has already bookmarked the Romanian version of him.

"I'm perfect," you say.

"You don't look perfect."

"I look incredible."

Sam hums. "That part's true."

"Focus," Bucky mutters.

You nearly fold in half.

Because he mutters it under his breath, annoyed and fond, and for one horrifying second you think he might mutter something else in Romanian if the universe is feeling cruel.

Thankfully, the target chooses that exact moment to bolt from the building across the street. Gunfire cracks. The mission resumes. You throw yourself into it with the desperation of a woman fleeing not bullets, but feelings.

By the time the target is secured and you're back at the safehouse, you have made a decision. You're going to avoid Bucky Barnes until your body stops being ridiculous. This is mature This is tactical. This is self-preservation. It lasts eleven minutes.

"You're avoiding me," Bucky says.

You nearly drop your water bottle.

He's standing in the kitchen doorway, arms crossed, black Henley clinging to him in a way that feels frankly unnecessary. His hair is still damp from his shower, pushed back from his face. He looks domestic and dangerous, which should be illegal in every country you operate in.

"I'm not," you say.

His eyebrows lift. "You walked out of the room when I walked in."

You twist the cap off your water bottle and take a sip, except you're nervous, so you choke on it immediately.

Bucky steps forward. "You okay?"

You wave him off while coughing. "Fine. Water attacked me."

His mouth twitches.

You point toward the hallway. "I have to go do something."

"What?"

"Inventory."

"We already did inventory."

"Emotional inventory."

You flee.

The second you reach the living room, Sam looks up from the couch. "You look like you just saw a ghost."

"Worse," you whisper. "A bilingual man."

Sam slowly lowers his phone. His grin blooms like a terrible sunrise. "No."

"Don't."

"He spoke Romanian, didn't he?"

You glare at him. "Don't make this a thing."

"Oh, it's already a thing. It entered wearing boots and kicked the door down."

You throw a pillow at his head. He catches it. Unfortunately, Sam Wilson has reflexes and no respect for your suffering.

From the hallway, Bucky calls, "You two fighting?"

"No," Sam says, grinning at you. "She's just emotionally compromised."

You hiss, "I will put salt in your coffee."

Bucky appears in the doorway. "Compromised how?"

"No way," you say. "Absolutely not."

Sam stands, pats Bucky on the shoulder, and says, "Man, good luck." Then he leaves.

Traitor.

Bucky looks more concerned now.

You feel bad immediately.

That's the problem with Bucky. He can look like a thundercloud given human form, but the second he thinks he's hurt someone, all the storm drains out of him.

He steps closer, cautious. "Did I do something?"

Your panic skids to a stop. "What?"

"Earlier. After the alley, you got weird."

"I'm always weird."

"Different weird."

"That's rude."

"That's accurate."

You should laugh, normally you would. But his face is too serious. His eyes are too careful. He's watching you like he's already bracing for a hit, and the whole ridiculous situation folds in on itself inside your chest.

You weren't trying to hurt him. You were just trying not to combust.

"No," you say softly. "You didn't do anything wrong."

His shoulders don't relax. "Then why are you avoiding me?"

You look away. Terrible decision. There's a window beside him, and in the dark glass you can see his reflection watching you. There's no escape. There's only Bucky Barnes and your own poor life choices. "I'm not avoiding you because I'm mad," you mumble.

His head tilts. "Then why?"

You say nothing.

He waits. Bucky Barnes has many talents. Patience is one of the worst ones.

You sigh so deeply it may alter the pressure in the room. "Because," you say, "during the mission, you spoke Romanian."

His brow furrows.

You continue, each word dragging itself out like a prisoner. "And apparently my brain decided that was attractive enough to become a medical problem."

Silence.

The safehouse creaks around you. Rain taps the windows.

Bucky blinks. Once, then twice. Then his lips part slightly. "That's why?"

You cover your face. "Please don't make me repeat it."

"You've been running away from me because I spoke Romanian?"

"When you say it like that, it sounds stupid."

"It sounds..." He pauses.

You peek between your fingers.

Bucky is smiling. Small and stunned and soft at the edges, like you've handed him something fragile and unexpected. "It sounds kind of nice," he says.

You drop your hands. "Don't be sweet. I'm humiliated."

"I'm not being sweet."

"You're absolutely being sweet. Your face is doing the thing."

"What thing?"

"The dangerously tender thing."

His smile widens.

You point at him. "Stop that."

"Stop what?"

"Having a face."

He laughs then. Quiet and rough and warm, and it goes straight through you like a match struck in a dark room. "You're unbelievable," he says.

"I'm suffering."

"I can see that."

"No, you can't. You're the cause."

His expression changes. A tiny flicker. An idea landing.

You know it's bad before he says anything.

He takes one slow step closer.

Your spine hits the counter.

He's not crowding you, not really. There's space between you. Enough space to run if your dignity had legs. But he's close enough that you can see the amusement in his eyes.

Then he says, very softly, "Îmi pare rău."

Your knees nearly file a formal complaint. You grab the counter behind you. "That was deliberate."

"It means I'm sorry."

"You're not."

"No," he admits. "Not really."

"Barnes."

"Da?"

You make a strangled noise.

He looks delighted. Bucky Barnes, former Winter Soldier, current pain in your entire existence, looks absolutely delighted.

"You're enjoying this," you accuse.

"A little."

"You were worried five seconds ago."

"I'm adaptable."

"You're evil."

His gaze drops briefly to your mouth, then returns to your eyes.

The room gets very quiet. Not awkward quiet. Not dangerous quiet. Something softer. Something with teeth hidden under its tongue.

"I didn't know," he says.

"Know what?"

"That you liked hearing me speak Romanian."

"I didn't either. It attacked me in real time."

His smile settles into something warmer. "I used it a lot when I was hiding here."

That pulls you gently out of your embarrassment. Your hands loosen on the counter. "Yeah?"

He nods. "Had to. Groceries, rent, staying unnoticed. It helped."

There's an ache beneath the words, old and quiet. Bucharest wasn't just a city to him. It was survival. It was stolen peace. It was a tiny apartment, notebooks, plums in a market bag, and looking over his shoulder every day.

You soften. "I didn't mean to make it weird," you say.

"You didn't."

"I ran from you."

"That part was weird."

"Thank you."

"But not bad."

His metal hand rests on the counter beside you. Not touching, just there. An offer, a question without words.

Your fingers twitch.

Then, because apparently you have decided to continue making brave and foolish choices, you set your hand over his.

His eyes flick down. The smile fades, but only because something gentler replaces it. "You could've just told me," he says.

"You underestimate how embarrassing it is to look a man in the face and say, 'Hey, the way you told a civilian to go inside made me forget how knees work.'"

He huffs a laugh. "You liked that part?"

"Don't fish for compliments."

"I'm not."

"You are. You're standing there with your big sad blue eyes and your stupid tactical shoulders fishing."

"Tactical shoulders?"

"They're classified."

His thumb moves over your knuckles. Slow and careful. "Stai aici," he murmurs.

Your stomach flips. "What does that mean?"

"Stay here."

"See, that's the problem."

"What?"

"You can't just say things like that in that voice."

His eyes warm. "What voice?"

"The voice."

"I only have one voice."

"You absolutely do not. You have mission voice. Grumpy old man voice. I'm-going-to-pretend-I-don't-care-but-I-do voice. And now Romanian voice, which needs a warning label."

Bucky leans a little closer. "Should I stop?"

You swallow. You could say yes. He would. That's the worst part. He would stop immediately, no teasing, no pushing, no disappointment. Bucky would step back and never use it against you again.

But your heart is pounding, and his thumb is still moving over your knuckles, and he's looking at you like maybe this silly, flustered confession means more to him than you realized.

"No," you say quietly. "Just... maybe don't surprise me with it during missions unless you want me to get shot."

His face goes serious instantly. "Not funny."

"It was a little funny."

"No."

You squeeze his hand. "Okay. Not funny."

He exhales through his nose, gaze dropping again. "You scared me earlier," he admits. "Thought I crossed a line somehow."

Your chest pinches. "Bucky."

He shakes his head like he's brushing off the vulnerability, but you catch it anyway. "I know. I just..."

You step closer this time.

His eyes lift.

"I wasn't avoiding you because of anything bad," you say. "I was avoiding you because I like you, and my brain has the survival instinct of a spoon."

His mouth curves. "You like me?"

You stare at him.

He stares back.

"You know what," you say, "I take it back."

"No, you don't."

"I do. I like Sam now."

"Sam snores."

"So do you."

"I do not."

"You absolutely do. Quietly. Like a haunted lawn mower."

Bucky's face does something complicated. "Haunted lawn mower?"

"Emotionally complex machinery."

He laughs again, and this time you don't try to hide how much you like it. His hand turns under yours, fingers sliding between your fingers.

Your breath catches.

Outside, the rain keeps tapping the windows. Somewhere down the hall, Sam is probably pretending not to listen and absolutely listening with his whole nosy chest.

Bucky looks at your joined hands. Then at you. "Pot să te sărut?"

Your brain blanks. "Translation," you whisper.

His voice softens, dropping low enough that it almost disappears beneath the rain outside. "Can I kiss you?"

Your answer comes out embarrassingly fast. "Yes."

Something in his expression melts.

The corner of his mouth lifts into the smallest smile, equal parts relieved and disbelieving, like he'd been hoping for that answer but hadn't let himself expect it.

He gives you one last chance to change your mind. He doesn't rush. His flesh hand rises slowly, warm fingertips brushing your cheek with such care it sends a shiver racing down your spine. His thumb lingers just beneath your eye before tucking an escaped strand of hair behind your ear.

His forehead rests lightly against yours. "Still okay?" he murmurs.

You nod, smiling before you can stop yourself. "More than okay."

His breath catches in the smallest, quietest way. Then he closes the distance.

The first brush of his lips is impossibly gentle. It's less a kiss and more a question. As though he's memorizing the feeling instead of trying to deepen it.

You lean into him instinctively, your hand finding the front of his Henley, fingers curling into the fabric.

That's all the encouragement he needs.

The kiss deepens only slightly, still unhurried, still impossibly tender. His hand cups your cheek while the other settles lightly at your waist, holding you like you're something precious instead of something fragile.

Time seems to loosen its grip.

There's only the warmth of his lips, the steady beat of his heart beneath your fingertips, and the quiet realization that after everything he's survived, Bucky Barnes kisses like someone who's grateful he finally gets to.

When he finally pulls away, he doesn't go far. His forehead rests against yours again, both of you smiling without meaning to.

You keep your eyes closed for a second, breathing him in.

Then from somewhere behind the wall, Sam yells, "Finally!"

You both freeze.

Your eyes snap open.

Bucky closes his eyes like a man begging for strength from several gods at once.

You shout, "Wilson, I swear to God!"

"I've been emotionally invested for months!"

Bucky groans.

You bury your face in his chest, laughing so hard your shoulders shake.

His arms come around you automatically, holding you close. You feel his laugh rumble against your cheek.

"Months?" you whisper.

"Apparently."

"You knew?"

"No," he says. "I hoped."

Your laughter softens. You lift your head and he's looking at you with that tender face again, the one you told him to stop doing. He doesn't stop. Not even a little. "You hoped?" you ask.

Bucky brushes a damp strand of hair away from your temple. "Yeah."

You try not to melt. You fail with dignity. "Well," you say, "that's inconvenient."

"Why?"

"Because now I'm going to be unbearable."

His mouth twitches. "Now?"

You gasp. "Rude."

"Accurate," he says again.

You poke his chest. "Say one more thing in Romanian and see what happens."

His eyebrows lift. There's a challenge in his eyes now. A tiny spark. A flicker of playful danger.

You regret everything immediately.

He dips his head, lips brushing the shell of your ear as he murmurs, "Ești frumoasă."

Your entire skeleton tries to leave. You shove at his chest with both hands. "Nope. Absolutely not. Too powerful. Banned."

He laughs, catching your wrists gently. "You asked."

"I didn't understand the consequences."

"That means you're beautiful."

"I know what it means now, Barnes. The damage is done."

His smile goes so soft it almost hurts. "Good."

You narrow your eyes. "You're going to be a menace about this, aren't you?"

"Maybe."

"Bucky."

"Do you want me to stop?"

There it's again. The real question beneath the teasing.

You settle. Your fingers curl lightly around his wrists. "No," you say. "Just don't use it for evil."

He pretends to think about that. "Define evil."

"Making me walk into furniture."

His mouth twitches.

"Making me forget I'm armed."

A nod.

"Making me agree to things before my brain comes back online."

His expression turns innocent in a way that should terrify governments. "I would never."

"You absolutely would."

"Maybe a little."

You shake your head, smiling despite yourself.

Then Sam appears in the doorway with a bag of chips. "Are we done being emotionally constipated in here?"

Bucky turns his head slowly.

Sam pauses mid-crunch.

You step in front of Bucky, holding up one hand. "No murder in the safehouse."

Sam points at you. "Thank you."

Bucky mutters something under his breath in Romanian.

You slap a hand over your face. "That one sounded mean."

"It was."

Sam squints. "Was it about me?"

"Yes," Bucky says.

"Fair."

You look between them.

The warmth in your chest unfurls, ridiculous and bright. You had spent half the day dodging Bucky like he was a live wire, and now he's standing close enough that his hand keeps brushing yours, smiling like he has just discovered a new way to make your life difficult.

Which he has... unfortunately.

"You know," Sam says, "this explains a lot."

"No, it doesn't," you say.

"It explains the time he said your name during training and you dropped your knife."

Bucky looks at you.

You glare at Sam. "That knife was slippery."

"It was dry."

"Emotionally slippery."

Bucky's smile grows.

Sam grins. "Or the time he caught you staring, and you walked straight into the safehouse door."

You groan.

Bucky blinks. "That was because of me?"

"The door came out of nowhere."

Sam deadpans, "It's been attached to the wall for six months."

You point at the door. "Leave."

Sam holds up both hands, chips and all. "Fine. But for the record, this is great. Weird, but great."

He backs out of the room. Then pops his head back in. "Also, Barnes, please speak Romanian responsibly. She has bones made of soup."

You grab a spoon from the counter and throw it. Sam disappears before it hits the wall.

Bucky is laughing again.

You turn on him. "Don't encourage him."

"I didn't say anything."

"Your face did."

"My face has been accused of a lot today."

"And found guilty."

He reaches for you again, slower this time, giving you space to step away. His arms settle around your waist. "You gonna keep avoiding me?" he asks.

You pretend to consider it. "Depends."

"On?"

"Whether you're going to keep ambushing me with sexy vocabulary."

His cheeks tint pink, just enough.

Your entire mood lifts. "Oh," you say. "That got you?"

"No."

"It did."

"No."

"Bucky Barnes, are you blushing?"

He looks away.

You gasp softly. "You are."

"Drop it."

"Absolutely not. This is my emotional compensation."

He grumbles something again in Romanian.

You point at him. "Translation."

His eyes flick back to yours. A beat passes. Then he says, quieter, "I said you're trouble."

Your smile softens before you can stop it. "Yeah?"

His thumb traces a small line at your waist. "Yeah."

You rise onto your toes and kiss him again, quick and sweet. When you pull back, his eyes are half-lidded, expression dazed in a way that does marvelous things for your ego.

"Look at that," you whisper. "Romanian isn't the only weapon here."

Bucky's laugh comes out low. He tucks you closer. "Guess not."

You rest your cheek against his chest, listening to the steady beat beneath.

For a moment, neither of you says anything. The safehouse is still cold. The rain is still falling. There's a mission report waiting, a target to transfer, a world full of sharp edges waiting outside the walls.

But Bucky's arms are warm around you. His chin rests lightly against your hair and when he murmurs, almost too softly to hear, "Rămâi cu mine," you don't need the translation right away.

You feel it in the way he holds you.

Stay with me.

You smile against his shirt. "I think I'm going to need you to keep translating."

His eyebrows lift. "Forever?"

You look up at him. "Seems like the safest option."

His smile softens into something almost impossibly fond. "I can do that."

He kisses your forehead.

A quiet settles over the room, comfortable enough that neither of you feels the need to fill it.

Then Sam's voice drifts in from the hallway. "So... should I download Duolingo or am I just going to be excluded from conversations now?"

You laugh.

Bucky kisses your temple again. "I vote excluded."

"Rude!" Sam calls.

You grin. "He's learning."

[buckysouvenir]

not enough ⌇ "I'm giving you an out Bucky, take it"

After another date, you and Bucky found yourselves glued to each other as you made your way into your room.

You locked the door as his mouth left little kisses along your neck.

"You know, um..." you close your eyes and bite back a smile. "There's this new coffee place a block from here. We could go get breakfast there tomorrow before you head home."

He immediately stops, and you feel his body freeze behind you.

You open your eyes and turn around slowly. "What's wrong?" you ask, and start kissing him slowly.

"I don't know if that's a good idea."

"What isn't? Breakfast?" you laugh lightly, but stop when he doesn't react the same way. Your hands rise to his shoulders. "What's wrong?"

He takes a deep breath. "I guess we need to talk again."

"About what?"

"About... us."

"What about us?" you say, leaving little kisses all over his face and neck.

"It's just... I know you want things. I'm not going to give you those things." His hands are now gripping your waist.

"I don't want other things."

"Yes, you do," he says, taking your hands off his shoulders.

You groan and start pacing.

"You know, I don't understand men. When we want something more, you're all so quick to try to make us forget about it, but when we want something we know we'll never get, so we just accept whatever it is you're willing to give, apparently that's still not good enough," you sigh, crossing your arms and leaning against the wall. "Neither of us is in the mood anymore, so you should go."

You start walking toward your bed and feel his hand catch your wrist.

"Please..." he says, almost a whisper.

"I'm giving you an out, Bucky. Take it," you say, lifting his hand off your wrist and placing it on his shoulder as you press a kiss to his cheek. "Goodnight." You give him a small smile and go sit on your bed, pretending to busy yourself with the clasp of your heels.

He walks toward the door and pauses for a second as his hand reaches the handle. Soon enough, he walks out of the room and closes the door behind him.

As soon as you hear it click shut, you throw yourself onto your bed. Your eyes close as you feel a tear rising.

If this were a book or a movie, he would turn around, press his lips to yours, and tell you he'd never need an out, that he only needed you. But this isn't one of the many fantasies in your head, and he warned you about that. Hell, you knew it before he ever said a word, you thought.

But it's just easier to pretend to forget something until you actually do, and fall for it anyway.

And it had been so easy, falling for him.

[crybabycabin]

touch and go | b.b.

✮ synopsis: he's the winter soldier, and you're just you. but when your skin touches his, he becomes bucky barnes again.

(or: the soulmate fic where touch is everything and bucky barnes will fight his way back to you, one broken memory at a time.)

✮ pairing: ca:tws!bucky x soulmate!reader

✮ disclaimers: fem!reader, soulmates, violence/action sequences, graphic descriptions of torture/memory wiping, PTSD, panic attacks, dissociation, past torture, brainwashing, heavy angst, touch deprivation, references to past violence/assassinations, hurt/comfort, fluff, eventual happy ending, bucky is down horrendously bad

✮ warnings: (18+) MDNI, explicit sexual content, unprotected sex, p in v, oral (f receiving), overstimulation, multiple orgasms, soul bond sex (enhanced sensations), touch-starved bucky, possessive behavior, marking/bruising, praise kink, body worship, emotional sex, crying during sex (in a good way), size kink if you squint, bucky has a dirty filthy mouth

✮ word count: 14.3k

✮ a/n: re-uploading all my fics to this blog so i'm posting a ca:tws-era oldie but goodie (the last 4k of this is straight smut, so if that's not your cup of tea feel free to stop at the **)

bonus drabble 1 bonus drabble 2 series masterlist

The library basement feels like a crypt tonight—all dead air and fluorescent buzz that makes your molars ache.

You've been down here so long your bones have started to match the temperature of the concrete, cold seeping through your jeans where you've been sitting cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by a semi-circle of photocopied articles that all essentially say the same nothing in different ways.

3:17 AM according to your phone, which you check compulsively every twenty minutes like maybe time will take pity and skip forward to your deadline. The security guard made his last round two hours ago—Gerald? Gary? Something with a G—his whistling fading up the stairwell along with any pretense that you're not completely alone down here.

Your neck cracks when you roll it, vertebrae protesting the last six hours of hunching over sources that shouldn't be this hard to parse. But your advisor had smiled that sharp little smile when assigning this topic, the one that says let's see if you're really cut out for this, and spite is a hell of a motivator.

Even if your eyes are burning. Even if the coffee tastes like battery acid. Even if your soul bond has been aching since midnight with that peculiar emptiness you've learned to ignore.

The lights flicker—building's older than sin, held together by asbestos and prayer—but the air changes with it. Shifts. Like all the oxygen just remembered it had somewhere else to be.

Your fingers still on the keyboard mid-sentence.

Don't be stupid. It's a basement. In a library. The scariest thing down here is your browser history.

But your body knows things your mind pretends it doesn't. Every hair follicle suddenly awake, skin prickling with the kind of ancient warning that kept humans from being eaten in the dark. Your heartbeat kicks up, stuttering from normal to concerned between one breath and the next.

You turn.

He stands at the edge of the stacks like violence in human form.

Black tactical gear eats the light, makes him look like someone cut a hole in reality and taught it how to hunt. The mask covering the lower half of his face should make him less human, but somehow it's worse—forces you to focus on the eyes that track your movement with the kind of empty precision that makes your hindbrain scream predator predator predator.

"Oh." The sound punches out of you, high and strangled.

He doesn't speak. Doesn't need to. Just moves toward you with the kind of lethal economy that makes you understand, suddenly and completely, why rabbits freeze when hawks circle overhead. No wasted motion. No hesitation. Just purpose distilled into muscle and intent.

Your body tries—God, it tries. Scrambling backward, papers scattering, laptop sliding off your thighs to crack against the floor in what feels like slow motion. Three months of work fracturing into digital garbage as you crab-walk backward, palms slipping on photocopies, knee catching on your backpack hard enough to send you sprawling.

He crosses the space between you like it's nothing.

Like you're nothing.

His hand finds your throat before you've even processed standing, leather and pressure sending you backward into the wall hard enough to knock the air from your lungs. Old brick catches your hair, pulls it, but that barely registers against the feeling of being pinned like an insect, specimen for examination before disposal.

Both your hands fly to his wrist, fingernails catching on tactical fabric that won't give, won't move, won't budge. He's not crushing your windpipe—not yet—but the promise is there in the careful placement of his thumb, the calculated pressure that says I could, if I wanted to.

"Please—" It comes out thin, reedy. Your right hand abandons his wrist to push against his chest, trying to create distance that doesn't exist, will never exist. "I don't know what you—I'm nobody, I'm just—"

His head tilts. Minute. Considering. The eyes stay empty, stay cold, but something flickers there—assessment, maybe. Calculation. How long it will take. How quiet you'll be.

Your left hand keeps clawing at his grip while your right slides up his chest, finds the edge of his tactical vest, pushes uselessly at a shoulder that might as well be carved from stone. But the movement makes you stretch, makes your hand slip higher, past the collar of his gear, past the edge of the mask, until—

Your fingertips brush his jaw.

Skin against skin.

The world breaks apart.

Heat races from that point of contact like lightning seeking ground, if lightning could rewrite your DNA as it traveled. Every nerve ending lights up at once, not with pain but with recognition so profound it feels like drowning in reverse. Like every cell in your body suddenly remembers how to breathe.

His entire body locks. The hand at your throat spasms, loosens, and you hear him make a sound—sharp, bitten off, like someone just slid a knife between his ribs. Those empty eyes blow wide, pupils expanding until there's barely any gray left, and his chest heaves against your palm like he's just broken the surface after being underwater too long.

He rips the mask off with his free hand. Tears it away like it's burning him, revealing a face that makes your chest cavity feel too small. Sharp jaw, soft mouth, stubble that catches the shit fluorescent lighting and turns it into shadow. Beautiful in the way broken things can be beautiful, in the way that makes you want to cut yourself on the edges.

The leather glove at your throat disappears—he tears it off with his teeth, movements gone jerky and desperate where they were smooth before. Then his bare hand is cupping your face, thumb brushing your cheekbone with the kind of reverence reserved for holy things, impossible things, things that might disappear if you breathe wrong.

He pulls you forward, or maybe he falls into you—either way, your foreheads meet in the space between one heartbeat and the next. His breath fans across your face, ragged and hot, and you can feel him shaking. This man who moved like death incarnate thirty seconds ago is shaking.

"Oh," he breathes, and his voice—Christ, his voice is nothing like you imagined during those empty nights when the bond ached worst. Rough like he hasn't used it in years. Soft like he's afraid it'll break something. Accent pulling at the vowels in ways that make your chest hurt. "Oh, no. No, not—not like this."

You can't move. Can't think. Can't process anything beyond the electricity still racing through your veins, the place where his thumb traces your cheekbone like he's trying to memorize the architecture of your face through touch alone. Your hands are caught between you, one still fisted in his tactical vest, the other pressed flat against his chest where you can feel his heart hammering out a rhythm that matches yours.

He pulls back just enough to look at you, and the devastation in his eyes makes your throat close for reasons that have nothing to do with violence. Gray like winter mornings, like grief, like the moment before the sky breaks open.

"I'm sorry," he whispers, wrecked. His thumb catches the tear you didn't realize was sliding down your cheek, and the tenderness of it makes you want to scream. "I'm so fucking sorry, I didn't—I couldn't—"

"Who are you?" Your voice comes out destroyed, barely recognizable. The soul bond hums between you like a live wire, like coming home to a place that's on fire, and you don't know whether to run toward it or away.

His jaw works, muscles tightening and releasing like he's fighting something immense. When he speaks again, it's careful. Measured. Like each word costs him something irreplaceable.

"Someone who's going to disappear." His forehead presses against yours again, harder this time, desperate. Both hands frame your face now, holding you like something precious, something he's about to lose. "Someone who needs you to run. Now. Before—"

A sound echoes down the stairwell. Footsteps. Multiple sets.

The change in him is instant and terrible. The softness vanishes like it was never there, replaced by the same lethal efficiency that brought him here, but now there's something else in his eyes. Something that looks like anguish.

"Forgive me," he says, and before you can ask for what, his thumb finds a spot behind your jaw.

The world tilts. Your legs go liquid. But he catches you—of course he catches you—lowers you to the ground like you're made of spun glass while your vision tunnels to nothing.

The last thing you feel is his mouth pressed to your forehead, words whispered against your skin in a language you don't recognize but somehow understand.

I'll find you again.

I promise.

I'm sorry.

When security finds you four hours later, you have bruises on your throat that look like purple-black fingerprints, a concussion that makes the world swim, and no memory the EMTs will accept of how you ended up unconscious in a locked basement.

But you remember.

You remember the way his hands shook when he held your face. You remember the devastation in winter-gray eyes. You remember the electricity of recognition, the soul bond snapping into place only to be severed, leaving you with a phantom ache that feels like dying in slow motion.

There's a leather glove clutched in your fist that no one can pry from your fingers.

You tell them you don't remember where it came from.

You lie.

The world had always been divided into two types of people: those who'd found their match and those still waiting.

You'd grown up watching the found ones move through life with that particular brand of settled confidence, like they'd discovered some fundamental truth the rest of you were still stumbling toward.

Your mother used to tell the story at dinner parties, after her second glass of wine made her sentimental. How she'd been twenty-three, working at a bank in downtown Brooklyn, when a man came in to dispute an overdraft fee. Their hands touched when she passed back his paperwork. The bond snapped into place like a rubber band that had been stretched across decades, just waiting to contract.

She'd knocked over her coffee. He'd forgotten his own name for thirty seconds. They'd been married six months later.

"You just know," she'd say, fingers intertwined with your father's across the table. "It's like every cell in your body suddenly remembers what it was made for."

You'd wanted to believe her. Spent your eighteenth birthday waiting for that recognition to hit, for your body to suddenly make sense in a way it never had before.

But days turned to weeks turned to months, and all you felt was the same low-grade emptiness everyone without a bond carried—that constant, quiet ache of incompleteness.

By twenty-one, you'd stopped looking for it in every accidental touch.

By twenty-three, you'd convinced yourself you were one of the statistical anomalies. No bond. No match. Just you and your dissertation and a future that looked exactly like your present, only with better coffee and maybe tenure if you played your cards right.

The bruises have faded to sick yellow-green by the time you make it back to campus. Two weeks of medical leave that you spent staring at your apartment ceiling, trying to make sense of something that refuses to be made sensible. The official report sits in your email, cc'd to your advisor and the department head and probably half the university's legal team: Student found unconscious in library basement. Possible assault. No cameras functioning. Investigation ongoing.

You don't correct them. Don't mention the glove hidden in your nightstand drawer. Don't explain that the bruises on your throat match the exact span of fingers that had held your face like you were something holy, something worth breaking for.

Your body remembers even when your mind tries to forget. The soul bond, severed as quickly as it formed, has left you feeling like someone hollowed out your chest cavity with a melon baller. It's worse than before—before was just absence. This is active loss. This is knowing exactly what you're missing.

The dreams start the first night home from the hospital.

Not nightmares—that would be easier. These are soft things that leave you gasping awake at 3 AM with tears on your face and your hand pressed to your cheek where he'd touched you. Dreams where those gray eyes find yours across impossible distances. Where his hands shake as they frame your face. Where he whispers apologies in languages you don't speak but somehow understand.

Sometimes you dream of snow. Of cold so profound it burns. Of a voice saying his name—names?—until there's nothing left but the mission.

Sometimes you dream of falling. Of a train that screams through mountain passes. Of reaching for something—someone—who's always just beyond your fingertips.

But mostly you dream of that moment. The mask coming off. The devastating gentleness of his forehead against yours. The way he breathed you in like his lungs hadn't recognized oxygen until then, like you were the first real thing he'd touched in decades.

You become an expert in lying about the nightmares. "Trauma response," you tell the university-mandated therapist. "Yes, I'm processing. No, I don't remember details. Yes, I feel safe on campus."

Lies. All lies.

You remember everything. The weight of him. The contrast between violence and tenderness that shouldn't have existed in the same person. The way the soul bond had sung between you for those impossible seconds—not the gentle hum your mother described, but something desperate and raw, like two halves of something broken trying to fuse back together.

The research starts three weeks after the incident. You tell yourself it's academic curiosity. Tell yourself you're not the first person to lose a soulmate before really finding them. There are support groups. Statistics. An entire subset of psychology dedicated to severed bonds and what they do to the human psyche.

Increased rates of depression. Anxiety. Insomnia. Some subjects report physical pain at the site of initial contact. Others experience what researchers call "phantom bond syndrome"—the persistent sensation of a connection that no longer exists.

You check every box. Feel him in every room you enter, just a second too late. Wake up with your hand pressed to your face, trying to hold onto the ghost of leather and gunpowder and something metallic you couldn't place then but can't stop tasting now.

The databases give you nothing. Facial recognition software turns up empty. You sketch what you remember of his face—strong jaw, soft mouth, eyes like winter—but it feels like trying to draw music, like something essential gets lost in translation.

"Maybe he was military," Katrina suggests over coffee that tastes like disappointment. She's trying to help, your best friend since undergrad, but she looks at you with the kind of careful concern reserved for people about to break. "Special ops or something. That would explain the tactical gear."

You don't tell her about the way he moved. Don't mention that special ops soldiers don't usually have metal arms—you'd felt it when he caught you, the strange whir of plates adjusting beneath the fabric. Don't explain that whatever he was, military doesn't quite cover it.

December bleeds into January. You submit your dissertation proposal late, blame the incident, receive an extension wrapped in sympathetic looks. The bruises are long gone but you wear scarves anyway, can't stand the feeling of air against your throat where his thumb had pressed.

Your google search history becomes a testament to obsession:

“severed soul bonds recovery time?” “can soul bonds reconnect?” “military tactical gear supplier identification” “metal prosthetic arm advanced” “soul bond physical pain management”

Nothing. Always nothing.

But late at night, when the world sleeps and you're alone with the ache that lives between your ribs, you pull out the glove. Run your fingers over worn leather that's been softened by use and something else—care, maybe. The kind of attention that comes from having nothing else to focus on.

It smells like winter. Like violence. Like the ghost of cologne that might have been nice once, before it mixed with gunpowder and fear and whatever else clings to people who move through the world like weapons.

You press it to your face and breathe deep, eyes closed, trying to summon those impossible seconds when he'd looked at you like you were salvation and damnation all at once. When his voice had broken on an apology for something you didn't understand. When he'd promised to find you again in words you shouldn't have been able to translate but did.

The bond throbs. Phantom pain for a phantom connection.

You fold the glove carefully. Place it back in the drawer. Go to bed knowing you'll dream of gray eyes and the kind of gentleness that only comes from people who've forgotten they deserve it.

Tomorrow you'll get up. Go to class. Pretend your chest doesn't feel like someone excavated it with rusty tools. Pretend you don't scan every face on campus, looking for winter eyes and a jaw that could cut glass.

But tonight, you let yourself remember. Let yourself feel the echo of his forehead against yours, the desperate press of his mouth to your skin, the way he'd held you like you were worth breaking the world for.

I'll find you again.

You touch your throat, the memory of leather and promise.

I'm waiting.

The asset doesn't fight anymore.

Hasn't for years. Learned the hard way that resistance only makes it worse—more voltage, longer sessions, deeper cuts into whatever remains of the person he might have been.

Better to go limp. Better to let them position him like a doll, open his mouth for the rubber guard, wait for the electricity to wash it all away.

The asset craves it sometimes. The blankness. The nothing. Easier than carrying the weight of what his hands have done.

But Bucky Barnes fights.

Screams himself raw before they get the guard between his teeth. Thrashes against the restraints hard enough to bend the metal table, to make the technicians step back with wide eyes because the asset never does this, hasn't done this in fifteen years, not since they perfected the chair's calibration.

"Hold him!" Pierce's voice cuts through the chaos, sharp with irritation. "Get those restraints tightened before—"

Bucky's metal arm tears through the leather strap like tissue paper. Swings wild, catches a handler across the jaw with a crack that sends him spinning into medical equipment. Two more rush forward and he fights them with everything he has, everything he'd forgotten he could be.

Soft hands on his face. Bright eyes wide with recognition. The soul bond singing between them like coming home—

"No!" The word tears out of him, accent thick with desperation. Russian, English, something older—he doesn't know anymore, doesn't care. "Please—please, I can't—"

A needle finds his neck. Sedative, fast-acting, enough to drop an elephant. His knees buckle but he keeps fighting, keeps reaching for—what? The memory's already going slippery, falling through his fingers like water.

Someone. There was someone. Wasn't there?

"Interesting." Pierce circles him as four handlers wrestle him into the chair, voice clinical. "What happened on the mission? You terminated the target, but something affected you. The timeline's off by forty-three minutes."

Bucky's jaw works around the guard they're shoving between his teeth. Can't tell them. Won't tell them. But what is he protecting? The feeling's there—urgent, desperate, worth dying for—but the shape of it keeps shifting.

A face. Soft mouth parted in shock. The way she'd—

The electricity hits before he can finish the thought.

White-hot agony races through every nerve ending, bows his back against the restraints they've doubled, tripled. The scream locks in his throat, comes out as a sound that doesn't belong to anything human. But underneath the pain, worse than the pain, is the feeling of something essential being carved out of him.

Don't take her, some part of him begs. Take everything else, but not her, not this—

But the machine doesn't care about please. Doesn't care that he's crying—when did he start crying? The asset doesn't cry. The asset doesn't feel. But Bucky Barnes is sobbing, choking on the rubber guard as memories start to fracture and fade.

Her hand against his jaw. The world breaking open. Recognition so profound it rewrote thirty years of programming in seconds—

Another pulse. Stronger. Pierce has turned the dial past safety parameters, past sanity, past anything they've done before.

"Sir," one of the technicians ventures, nervous. "The readings—"

"Continue."

Forehead to forehead. Breathing her in. The apology scraping his throat raw because he'd never wanted to meet her like this, never wanted her to know him as a weapon first and a man second—

Gone. It's gone. He reaches for it, desperate, but there's only white noise where her face should be. Only the echo of something precious he'd held for minutes—hours?—seconds?—he doesn't know anymore.

The machine winds down. Silence except for his ragged breathing, the drip of something (blood? tears?) hitting the concrete floor.

"Asset."

He doesn't respond. Can't. There's something wrong with his chest, like someone reached in and scooped out everything that mattered.

"Asset."

Training kicks in where consciousness fails. His head lifts, eyes focusing with effort on the man in the suit. Pierce. Handler. The one who holds the leash.

"Ready to comply." The words come out broken. Mechanical. But correct.

"Mission report."

"Target eliminated. No witnesses." A pause. Something scratches at the back of his mind, urgent, important. But when he reaches for it there's nothing but static. "Extraction successful."

Pierce studies him, pale eyes narrowed. "And the deviation? You were off-schedule."

The asset blinks. Searches the white noise of his mind for an answer that makes sense. "Unexpected resistance. Handled."

"I see." Pierce doesn't look convinced, but he waves to the technicians. "Run a full cognitive recalibration. I want him stable before the next deployment."

They unstrap him eventually. He doesn't fight. Doesn't do anything but stare at his metal hand, trying to understand why it feels wrong. Why everything feels wrong. There's an ache in his chest that wasn't there before—or was it always there? He can't remember. Can't remember anything but the mission, the chair, the readiness to comply.

But that night, locked in cryo-prep, he dreams.

Fragments. Glimpses. A basement that smells like old paper and fear. Someone pressed against a wall, hands pushing at his chest. The feeling of skin against skin and the world exploding into color he didn't know existed.

He wakes with her ghost on his lips—no name, no face, just the shape of an apology in a language he's not supposed to know.

The asset reports for cryo on schedule. Lies still as they prep the chamber, ice already forming in the tubes that will freeze him until the next time he's needed. But as consciousness fades, as the cold takes him under, one thought persists:

Someone. There was someone. And I've lost them.

The machine hisses. Frost spreads across the glass.

The asset sleeps.

Bucky Barnes screams.

The Starbucks on 42nd doesn't have soul bonds on the menu, but they do have overpriced lattes and witnesses, which is why you're here instead of home, staring at your bedroom ceiling and trying to parse nightmares from memories.

Six months.

Six months of the glove under your pillow losing his scent. Six months of your advisor asking pointed questions about your "lack of focus" and your therapist prescribing sleeping pills that don't work because how do you medicate a severed soul bond?

How do you explain that you're mourning someone you knew for less than five minutes?

You're arguing with yourself about the merits of a fourth shot of espresso when the world explodes.

Glass shatters inward, the windows becoming a thousand diamonds catching afternoon light. Your coffee hits the floor—there goes eight dollars you don't have—as your body moves on instinct, dropping behind the counter with five other people who smell like fear and pumpkin spice.

Screaming. So much screaming. Cars screeching outside, the percussion of something that might be gunfire but sounds too wrong, too close, too real for a Tuesday afternoon in Manhattan.

You peek around the espresso machine and your heart forgets how to beat.

He's standing in the middle of the street like death dressed for winter. Same tactical gear, same casual violence, same way of moving that makes everyone else look like they're traveling through molasses. The mask covers the lower half of his face again, but you'd know those eyes anywhere. Have been seeing them every night for six months, after all.

A cop raises his weapon. The soldier—your soulmate, your ghost, your nightly torment—disarms him with an economy of motion that's almost beautiful. The crack of breaking fingers carries even through the shattered windows.

Get up, your brain screams. Run. Move. Do something that isn't standing here like a deer watching headlights come to claim it.

But your body has other plans. Your treacherous, soul-bonded body that recognizes his even across thirty feet of chaos and broken glass. You're moving before conscious thought catches up, stumbling through the destroyed storefront on legs that feel like they belong to someone else.

This is stupid. Monumentally stupid. The kind of stupid that gets psychology PhD candidates killed in broad daylight. But your hand is already reaching, already grasping, because maybe—

Your fingers close around his wrist.

The barest slip of skin where his sleeve has ridden up, your thumb finding his pulse like it was made for nothing else. The connection slams through you—heat and recognition and yes, finally, yes—

The gun clatters to the asphalt.

His whole body goes rigid, that same terrible stillness from before. You watch his pupils dilate, watch six months of careful nothing shatter in his eyes as a stranger crashes back into existence.

He moves so fast you don't process it. One second you're standing there, thumb on his pulse, the next you're spinning, back slamming into his chest as his metal arm locks across your body. The gun—when did he pick it up?—presses cold against your temple.

You stop breathing.

Around you, cops and civilians alike freeze. Weapons lower incrementally because now there's a hostage situation, now there's a girl who was stupid enough to touch the Winter Soldier and—

"Name." His voice in your ear, so quiet you almost miss it under the sirens. That sound that had haunted your dreams, rougher now, desperate. "Your name. Please."

Your lips barely move, sound threading between heartbeats. You tell him, soft as a whisper.

The gun doesn't waver. To everyone watching, he's perfectly still, a predator considering prey. But his metal thumb moves against your bare arm where your shirt has ridden up. Gentle. Deliberate. Tracing letters maybe, or just feeling, and you wonder if he can—if there are sensors in the metal that let him—

"My name is James Buchanan Barnes." Each word careful, precious, pressed into the space below your ear like a secret. Like a gift. "Bucky. My name is Bucky. I won't remember, so I need you to—you have to remember for me."

James Buchanan Barnes.

It tickles something in your memory. A history class, maybe. Something about World War II, about Captain America, about—

"What have they done to you?" The words slip out, horrified, because the pieces are trying to fit together but the picture they're making can't be right, can't be possible—

"Find me." Urgent now. His realness, his hereness makes your chest ache with completion even as your mind screams danger. "When I—after they—find me. Please. I can't—"

His voice cracks.

The gun leaves your temple.

The crack of the shot makes you flinch, but it's the cop to your left who goes down, clutching his knee, screaming. Bucky shoves you—not hard, but enough to send you stumbling into the crowd as he moves the opposite direction, using the chaos as cover.

You hit the ground hard, knees cracking against asphalt, palms scraped raw. Around you, people scatter like startled birds. Someone's hands on your shoulders, pulling you back, asking if you're hurt, if you need medical attention.

You can't answer. Can't do anything but stare at the place where he'd stood, where he'd held you, where he'd given you his name like it was the only thing he had left to give.

Your arm throbs where his metal thumb had traced patterns. When you look down, you can see the faint red marks—not bruises, just pressure. Just proof.

"Miss? Miss, we need to get you checked out—"

"I'm fine." You're not. You're the opposite of fine. You're shattering in slow motion, held together by adrenaline and the phantom feeling of his chest against your back. "I'm—he didn't hurt me."

The EMT looks skeptical. "He held a gun to your head."

"He didn't hurt me," you repeat, and you're not sure who you're trying to convince.

They take you anyway. St. Luke's emergency room, where you spend four hours being poked and prodded and questioned by people who look at you like you might break or explode. The FBI shows up eventually, two agents in bad suits who ask the same questions fifteen different ways.

"Did he say anything to you?"

My name is James Buchanan Barnes.

"No."

"Are you sure? Even something small could help."

Find me.

"He didn't say anything."

They don't believe you. You can see it in the way they exchange glances, the way their pens hover over notepads. But what are you supposed to tell them? That the most wanted man in America is your soulmate? That he gave you his name like a prayer? That even now, hours later, you can still feel the phantom press of metal against your skin?

They release you near midnight with a card and instructions to call if you remember anything. You take a cab home because the subway feels too exposed, too dangerous, like maybe he'll be there in the shadows between stops.

Your apartment is exactly as you left it. Laptop open on the counter, half a cup of cold coffee growing something ambitious by the sink. Normal. Safe.

Empty.

You sink onto your bed, still fully dressed, and pull out your phone. Your search history is already damning, but what's one more nail in the coffin?

James Buchanan Barnes

The results make your stomach drop.

Born 1917. Best friend of Steve Rogers, Captain America. Sergeant in the 107th Infantry Regiment. Fell from a train in the Alps in 1945. Presumed dead.

Except he's not dead. He's not dead because you touched him today, felt his pulse under your thumb, heard him breathing in your ear as he held you like something breakable and precious all at once.

You dig deeper. Past the official records, past the Wikipedia entries, into the conspiracy forums and leaked documents that only half-load on your shitty wifi.

The Winter Soldier.

HYDRA.

Seventy years of ghost stories.

An assassin who appears and disappears like smoke, leaving bodies in his wake.

Your soulmate is a century-old brainwashed assassin. Your soulmate is Bucky Barnes, who died in 1945. Who didn't die. Who was turned into something else, something violent and beautiful and dangerous.

Who fights back to consciousness every time you touch him only to be dragged under again.

What have they done to you?

You close your laptop. Lie back on your bed, fully clothed, and stare at the water stain on your ceiling that looks like a rabbit if you squint. Your arm still throbs where he touched you. Traced letters, maybe, or just—

You bolt upright.

Grab a pen, try to recreate the pattern from memory on your other arm. It takes three tries before the movements feel right, before the shapes resolve into something recognizable.

Numbers.

He'd traced numbers on your skin. Coordinates.

Find me, he'd said.

Your hands shake as you type them into your phone. A location upstate, middle of nowhere, the kind of place where no one would look twice at an abandoned building or hear the screams from underground.

You should leave it alone. Should forget his name, forget the numbers, forget the feeling of being whole for thirty seconds in the middle of chaos. Should be smart and safe and boring and alive.

Instead, you screenshot the location. Book a rental car for tomorrow. Pack a bag with things that might matter—the glove, pepper spray that won't do shit against a super soldier but makes you feel better, a first aid kit you probably won't get the chance to use.

Find me.

You're going to. God help you, you're going to find James Buchanan Barnes.

Even if it kills you.

(It probably will.)

(You're going anyway.)

The HYDRA facility squats in the pre-dawn darkness like something that crawled out of the Cold War and forgot to die. You're crammed in the back of a tactical van between enough weaponry to level a city block and Captain America's guilt, which somehow takes up more space.

Forty-eight hours. That's all it took from wine-drunk-email-to-vague-Avengers-PR-listing to this—body armor that doesn't fit right, your heart hammering against ceramic plates, and the ghost of coordinates still throbbing on your arm where he'd traced them.

"Two minutes to insertion." Natasha's voice crackles through comms you're not supposed to have. But Steve had insisted, jaw set in that way that apparently nobody argues with. Not even Fury.

Steve Rogers had shown up at your door with Natasha Romanoff and Nick Fury, your roommate had screamed in her towel, and you'd told them everything. About the library. About the way Bucky's entire being had shifted when you touched him, like watching someone break the surface after drowning.

About how he'd held you in that Starbucks, whispered his name against your ear like a secret, like salvation, like the only thing he had left that was his.

Steve had gone very, very still. Then: "We're finding him. We're bringing him home."

Now he's sitting across from you, shield balanced against his knee, and you can see why people follow him into impossible situations. It's not the shoulders or the jaw or the way he fills out tactical gear like he was born to it. It's the way he looks at you—not through you, not around you, but at you. Like you matter. Like your connection to his best friend makes you worth protecting.

"Remember," he says quietly, pitched below the engine noise. "The moment we find him, the moment you make contact—"

"I know." Your fingers won't stop moving, tracing and retracing the numbers Bucky left on your skin. "Skin contact. Bring him back." Don't let go."

What you don't say: What if it doesn't work this time? What if they've wiped him too many times? What if whatever's left isn't enough to—

The van stops.

Everything happens too fast after that. Doors flying open, bodies moving with practiced precision, you stumbling to keep up as Steve's hand on your elbow guides you through pre-dawn shadows toward a concrete mouth that looks like it's waiting to swallow you whole.

The facility is worse inside. All industrial fluorescents and that particular kind of silence that sounds like screaming if you listen too hard. Your soul bond, quiet for months, starts to ache with proximity—a deep, bone-level recognition that makes your teeth chatter.

"Northeast corridor clear." Natasha's voice, clinical.

"Southwest clear." Someone else, call sign you didn't catch.

"Movement in the lower levels." Another voice. "Looks like they're mobilizing—"

A sound cuts through the chatter. Not quite human. Not quite animal. Something between a scream and static that makes your hindbrain light up with warnings to run.

Steve's already moving. "That's him."

You follow because what else can you do? Down stairs that smell like rust and terror, through corridors that branch like diseased arteries. The ache in your chest intensifies with each level down, soul bond pulling taut as piano wire.

Then—

The room opens before you like a wound. Medical equipment that belongs in museums next to things that belong in nightmares. And in the center, strapped to a chair that looks more like an electric chair than anything medical—

"Bucky." Steve's voice breaks on it.

He's shirtless, sweat-slick and shaking, with enough electricity running through him to light up half of Brooklyn. His hair hangs limp around his face, and even from here you can see the way his muscles lock and release in waves as current pulses through the chair. Fresh burn marks lattice across his chest where the nodes attach, and there's blood—so much blood—dripping from where he's fought against the restraints.

There are bodies on the floor. Technicians, by their white coats. The blood is fresh enough to still be spreading.

"Stay back." Natasha has her weapon trained on him, all business. "He's still the Winter—"

Bucky's head snaps up.

His eyes find yours across twenty feet of blood and machinery.

Time stops.

Those aren't the empty eyes from the library. Aren't the desperate clarity from the coffee shop. These are something else entirely—feral and frightened and so fucking broken under all that damage. He looks like something that's been torn apart and reassembled wrong, like an animal that's been in a cage so long it's forgotten what sky looks like.

You're moving before conscious thought catches up. Dodging Steve's reaching hand, slipping past Natasha's outstretched arm. Your feet slip in blood—whose blood? His? Theirs?—but you don't stop. Can't stop. The soul bond is screaming, every cell in your body reaching for its other half.

"Don't—" Someone shouts. Might be Steve. Might be God himself. Doesn't matter.

Because Bucky's watching you approach with the kind of stillness that precedes violence. His metal arm—and this close you can see how it's grafted to flesh, red and raw and infected at the edges—flexes against the restraints. The leather creaks. His chest heaves with each breath, and there's a wild look in his eyes like he can't decide if you're real or another torture.

You collapse on the arm of the chair. His breathing is ragged, chest heaving, and this close you can see old scars layered on new ones, a roadmap of decades of damage. Seventy years of this. Seventy years of being unmade and remade into something sharp and wrong.

Your hand reaches up, slow as you'd approach a wounded animal.

He flinches.

Actually flinches, this assassin who's probably felt every kind of pain there is. A sound escapes him—small, wounded, barely human. But when your fingertips brush his cheek—skin to skin, that electric recognition—his whole body convulses.

"Oh," you breathe, and it's inadequate, it's nothing, it's everything. Because the bond slots into place like coming home if home was a person who'd been carved hollow and filled with ghosts.

His eyes clear incrementally. Pupil contraction, focus sharpening, and then—

The noise that tears out of him is inhuman. Seventy years of grief and rage and desperate loneliness condensed into a single sound that makes your bones ache. His metal hand shatters the restraint like tissue paper, then the flesh one, and before you can process the movement he's dragging you up, up, into his lap, crushing you against his chest with desperate strength.

"You," he's saying, over and over, voice wrecked beyond recognition. "You, you, you—real, you're real, you're—"

His hands are everywhere at once. Metal fingers tangling in your hair, flesh hand splayed across your back hard enough to bruise, holding you like you might dissolve if he loosens his grip for even a second. He buries his face in the curve of your neck and the sob that escapes him is pure agony, seventy years of touch starvation hitting him all at once.

You can feel him shaking—no, not shaking, convulsing, like his body doesn't know how to process gentle touch anymore. Doesn't know what to do with softness after decades of nothing but pain.

"I'm here," you whisper against his temple, your own tears falling freely. "I'm real. I found you. I've got you."

His response is to hold you tighter, tight enough that breathing becomes difficult, but you don't care. Can't care when he's falling apart in your arms like this. The metal hand fists in your tactical vest and you hear fabric tear, but he doesn't seem to notice. He's pressing his face harder into your throat, breathing you in like you're air and he's been suffocating for seventy years.

"Thought I dreamed you." The words come out destroyed, muffled against your skin. "They said—they said I made you up. That the pain was making me see things. But you smell real. You feel—" His flesh hand slides up to cup the back of your head, holding you in place. "Please be real. Please, please be real."

"I'm real." You press your lips to his temple, just a brief touch of comfort. "James Buchanan Barnes, you're real and I'm real and I found you."

His breath hitches at his full name, and suddenly he's pulling back just enough to look at you. This close, you can see everything—the burst blood vessels in his eyes, the way his pupils can't quite focus, the decades of accumulated scars. He looks ancient. He looks young. He looks absolutely shattered.

"Don't know who that is anymore." Raw honesty, delivered while his thumbs trace your cheekbones with desperate reverence. "Don't know who I am when I'm not killing. When they're not—" He breaks off, jaw working. "I've been empty for so long. So fucking long. And then you touched me and I remembered what it felt like to be human and they took it away—"

"They can't take it away again." You frame his face with your hands, forcing him to meet your eyes. "We're leaving. Right now. Together."

"You don't understand." He's crying openly now, no shame in it, just pure emotional overflow. "Seventy years. Seventy fucking years of this chair, this room, these walls. They put me in the dark and take me out to kill and put me back and I can't—when they say the words, I disappear. Everything disappears."

"Then we don't let them say the words."

"I've killed so many people." He presses his forehead to yours hard enough to hurt, but the contact seems to calm something in him. "Children. Civilians. Good people. Bad people. So many I lost count. The things they made me do—the things I did—"

"I don't care."

"You should." His metal hand comes up to wrap around your throat, gentle but present. "This hand has strangled innocent people. These fingers have pulled triggers that ended lives. I'm not—I'm not good. I'm not worth—"

"Stop." You turn your head to press your lips to his metal palm, and the sound he makes is pure agony. "You're worth everything. You're my soulmate. You're—"

He makes a broken noise and crushes you against him again, like he's trying to crawl inside your skin. His whole body trembles with the effort of holding you close enough, like no amount of contact will ever be sufficient after seventy years of nothing.

"They're gonna wipe me again." Matter-of-fact. Resigned. "Soon as they realize what happened here. They always do. And I'll forget you again. Forget this. And next time—" His voice breaks. "Next time they'll make sure I can't touch you. They'll find ways to hurt you through me. They'll make me—"

"No." Your hands tighten on his face. "No, they won't. We're leaving. Steve's here. Natasha. We're getting you out."

"Stevie?" For the first time, his eyes flicker past you, landing on his best friend. The confusion there is heartbreaking. "But you're—you're supposed to be—"

"Hey, Buck." Steve's voice is thick with emotion. "It's me. It's really me. We're taking you home."

But Bucky's already looking back at you, like he can't bear to look away for more than seconds. His flesh hand hasn't stopped moving—tracing your face, your neck, tangling in your hair like he's trying to memorize you through touch alone.

"I don't want to forget again." It comes out small, broken. "Please. I can't do it again. Can't lose you again. It'll kill me. It'll—"

"You won't forget." You shift in his lap, wrap your arms around his neck, and he makes a sound like you've given him salvation. "I won't let them take you. I won't let them hurt you anymore. I promise."

"We need to move." Natasha's voice, soft but urgent. "Security response in two minutes."

Steve's at your side instantly, but when he reaches for Bucky, the soldier flinches back violently, metal arm coming up in defense. The only thing that keeps him from lashing out is your hand on his chest, your voice in his ear.

"It's okay. It's Steve. He's safe. He's here to help."

"Can you walk?" Steve asks, careful to keep his distance.

Bucky nods against your shoulder, but when you try to move off his lap, his arms lock around you with desperate strength.

"No." Panicked. "No, please. Need to—need to touch—"

"I'm not going anywhere." You run your fingers through his hair, and he leans into it like a cat. "We're walking out of here together. But you have to let me stand up."

It takes visible effort for him to loosen his grip. When you stand, he follows immediately, swaying slightly. He towers over you even hunched with exhaustion, and when his hand finds yours, it's with the grip of a drowning man finding driftwood.

You start moving as a unit, but Bucky can't stop touching you. His free hand keeps finding your face, your hair, your shoulder, like he needs constant confirmation you're real. At one point he stops entirely, pulls you back against his chest, and just breathes you in for several seconds while Steve and Natasha stand guard.

"Left," he says suddenly as you reach a junction, pulling you down a side corridor. "Service tunnel. I've—I've tried before. Three times. No. Four? They always—" His free hand comes up to his head, pressing against his temple.

"Hey." You squeeze his hand. "Doesn't matter. Which way?"

The service tunnel is narrow and dark. Bucky pulls you through it like muscle memory, but halfway through he stops, pressing you against the wall. His hands frame your face in the darkness.

"What if this isn't real?" Desperate. "What if I'm still in the chair? What if this is just another way they're breaking me?"

You reach up to cradle his face in return, thumbs brushing over his cheekbones. "Does this feel like a dream?"

"No." He breathes the word against your mouth. "No, it feels—it feels like waking up."

The exit spills you out into pre-dawn forest. The quinjet looms out of the darkness, and for the first time in seventy years, Bucky Barnes runs toward freedom instead of away from it.

But even on the jet, even safe, he can't stop holding you. He pulls you into his lap on the bench seats, ignoring the medical team, ignoring everyone, and just holds on. His face stays buried in your neck during takeoff, his arms locked around you like prison bars in reverse—keeping the world out instead of keeping him in.

"You're free," you whisper, over and over, like a prayer. "You're free. You're safe. You're mine."

"Yours," he agrees, and finally, finally, his death grip loosens just enough for you to breathe. "Yours. Always yours. Even when I couldn't remember. Even in the dark. Somehow I was always yours."

The sun breaks the horizon as you fly toward home, and for the first time in seventy years, Bucky Barnes believes he might actually make it there.

The first time Bucky Barnes calls you at 3 AM, your body knows it's him before your mind catches up.

The phone vibrates against your nightstand, and your hand's already reaching, heart already racing—not with fear but with recognition. That soul-deep pull that's been your compass for three months now.

"Bucky?" Your voice comes out sleep-rough, concerned.

Just breathing on the other end. Ragged, like he's been running. Or fighting. The sound makes your chest tight.

"Can't—" His voice cracks like splintered wood. "Can't remember if the blood on my hands is from yesterday or a decade ago."

You're already moving, sheets tangling around your legs as you hunt for clothes in the dark. "Where are you?"

"Steve's. The Tower. I'm—" A shaky exhale that you feel in your own lungs. "I'm safe. Everyone's safe. Just needed—"

"Me." Not a question. The bond thrums with his distress, a phantom ache under your ribs. "I'm coming."

"You don't have to—"

"I'm coming."

Twenty minutes later, Happy's pulling up to the Tower's private entrance. You're wearing the first things your hands found—pajama shorts with snowflakes on them that you stole from your roommate, one of Bucky's hoodies that still smells like him (cedar and gunpowder and something indefinably him).

The elevator ride feels eternal. Your skin prickles with proximity, the bond pulling taut as you rise through the floors. By the time JARVIS deposits you on the residential level, your hands are shaking with the need to touch him, to soothe whatever's tearing him apart.

You find him on the couch, knees drawn up to his chest like he's trying to make himself smaller. His metal hand is clenched so tight you can hear the recalibration whirs, flesh hand buried in his hair. Steve hovers nearby, hands opening and closing like he wants to help but doesn't know how.

"Buck," you breathe.

His head snaps up, and oh—his eyes are winter-wild, pupils blown with panic, caught in some liminal space between then and now. You watch him catalog you in pieces: face, voice, the way you're already moving toward him like gravity's reversed its pull.

You don't speak. Don't need to. Just fold yourself onto the couch beside him, close enough that the line of your body presses against his from shoulder to hip. His flesh hand finds yours immediately, desperate, fingers lacing between yours like maybe if he holds tight enough he won't drift away.

The effect is immediate—a full-body shudder, his breathing starting to sync with yours. The bond hums, warm honey spreading through your veins. Steve makes a sound—relief wrapped in something more complicated—and quietly retreats.

"Sorry," Bucky murmurs after a moment. His thumb finds your pulse point, traces it like he's counting heartbeats. "Shouldn't have woken you."

"Yes, you should have." No reproach, just fact. "That's what this is."

He turns to look at you then, really look, and you watch him surface by degrees. His metal hand comes up without conscious thought, fingertips ghosting along your jaw with impossible gentleness. The cool metal makes you shiver, but you lean into it, letting him map the reality of you.

"There you are," he whispers.

Something fractures inside you. He pulls you in—careful, always so careful with you—until your foreheads touch. His breathing ghosts across your lips, and you stay suspended in that space, sharing air and warmth and the indescribable thing that ties soul to soul.

It becomes your new normal.

The calls come at all hours. Sometimes Steve's the one calling, voice carefully controlled: "Can you come? He's asking for you." Sometimes it's Natasha, brusque but not unkind: "Barnes needs you." Once, memorably, it's Tony: "Your touch-starved assassin is having a moment. Also, he may have broken my espresso machine."

You always go.

The team adapts to your presence like you're a new piece of furniture—necessary, functional, occasionally in the way. You learn to read Bucky's tells from across a room: the way his eyes go distant when memory bleeds through, the micro-flinches when sound becomes too much, the careful way he holds himself when he's fragmenting.

But more than that, you learn the language his body speaks when it's seeking yours.

He's always careful at first, tentative as a feral cat learning to accept kindness. A brush of fingers, testing. The barest press of his palm to yours. But once that first contact is made, something in him unravels.

He touches you like he's mapping a new world.

It starts innocuous enough—fingers tangled together during movie nights, his thumb painting absent patterns on your wrist. His hand finds the small of your back when you walk, not possessive but anchoring, like he needs proof you're real. He pulls you between his knees when he's sitting, arms banding around your waist, chin notching over your shoulder while you chat with Sam about nothing important.

But as weeks become months, the touches grow bolder. Hungrier.

"Does it bother you?" he asks one afternoon.

He's had a brutal therapy session—three hours of guided recall that left him shaking and grey-faced. You'd spent the past hour with his head in your lap, your fingers carding through his hair while he pieced himself back together. His flesh hand has found its way under your shirt, palm spread wide over your ribs, and his metal fingers trace delicate patterns on the inside of your wrist.

"Does what bother me?"

"This." He gestures vaguely at the negative space between you that stopped existing weeks ago. "How much I need—" He stops. Swallows. Tries again. "How I can't stop touching you."

The question deserves honesty, so you give it consideration. Think about how your life has restructured itself around these points of contact. How you've started wearing layers just so there's always fabric to push aside, skin to find. How your body anticipates his touch now, turns toward him without conscious thought.

"No," you say finally. "It doesn't bother me."

He studies your face with those searching eyes, looking for the polite lie. You let him look, keeping your expression open.

"I've been thinking," you continue, adjusting so you can see him better. His hand immediately shifts, fingers splaying wider across your ribs like he needs more contact to make up for the movement. "About touch. About deprivation."

A muscle in his jaw ticks.

"Seventy years," you say softly. "Seventy years where touch meant pain. Programming. Violence. Where hands on you meant—"

"Stop." Rough. His hand presses harder against your ribs, feeling your heartbeat.

"—so is it any wonder you're hungry for something else? Something good?"

His exhale shudders out of him. "The doctors say it's codependence."

"The doctors haven't had their souls systematically unmade and remade." You cover his flesh hand with yours, pressing it more firmly against your skin. "You're not codependent, Bucky. You're human. You're healing. And if touch helps—"

"It's not just that it helps." The words come out jagged, confessional. "I want—" His metal hand comes up, traces the line of your throat with one careful finger. "I want to touch you all the time. Want to know the texture of every inch of your skin. Want to map you like territory, like—" He cuts himself off, jaw clenching.

Heat pools low in your stomach, but you keep your voice steady. "Like what?"

"Like you're mine." Barely audible. His eyes won't meet yours. "Like I have any right to—"

"You do." You turn into him more fully, catch his face between your palms. His eyes flutter closed, and he leans into the touch like a man starved. "You have every right. We're soulmates, Bucky. That means something."

"What if I never get better?" Raw, honest. "What if I always need this? Need you?"

"Then you'll always have me."

His eyes snap open, winter-blue and desperate. "You can't promise that."

"Watch me."

The trial is excruciating. You watch from designated seating as Bucky sits statue-still, hair pulled back severe, wearing a suit that makes him look like someone else entirely. They read names, show photographs, detail missions that exist in his memory like shattered glass—some pieces clear, others reflecting nothing but blood.

The days he testifies, he comes to you after.

Never speaks about it. Just shows up at your door looking hollowed out, and you let him in without questions. He wraps himself around you like you're the only solid thing in a tilting world, face buried in the curve of your neck, breathing you in like oxygen.

These are the times his hands grow bold.

Not inappropriate—never that. But searching. He maps you like a cartographer charting new territory. Palms skimming your sides, memorizing the curve of waist to hip. Fingers tracing the ladder of your ribs through thin fabric. Metal thumb finding the hollow of your throat where your pulse flutters hummingbird-quick.

"I need—" he'll say against your skin, words muffled and desperate.

"I know," you always answer. "Take what you need."

So he does. His flesh hand slips under your shirt, finds the warm plane of your stomach, spreads wide like he's trying to absorb your steadiness through osmosis. His metal fingers trace patterns on whatever skin he can find—the inside of your wrist, the nape of your neck, the sensitive spot behind your ear that makes you shiver.

Sometimes you'll find his hand at your sternum, metal fingers splayed over your heartbeat like he's using it to calibrate his own. Sometimes he'll trace the boundary where clothing meets skin, fingertips ghosting under hems and necklines but never pushing further, just needing to know there's softness underneath, that not everything in the world has sharp edges.

"Is this okay?" he asks every time, even as his touch grows more familiar, more certain.

"Yes," you answer every time, even as your skin heats and your breath catches and you want—

You want.

"So are you two fucking yet?"

You choke on your coffee, hot liquid searing your throat. Across the kitchen, Bucky's shoulders go rigid where he's making eggs with the kind of focus usually reserved for defusing explosives.

"Tony," Steve says, warning clear in his voice.

"What? It's a legitimate question. All that touching, the eye-fucking across every room, the way Barnes goes feral if anyone else so much as—"

"We're not." Your face burns. "That's not—we haven't—"

Tony's eyebrows achieve escape velocity. "You're telling me you've been playing the world's most intense game of grabass for three months and haven't—"

"Stark." Bucky's voice is winter-quiet, dangerous in the way that makes smart people reevaluate their life choices.

But Tony's never been accused of survival instincts. "I'm just saying, that level of sexual tension could power—"

The plate in Bucky's metal hand shatters.

Silence rings out, broken only by the drip of egg yolk hitting tile.

"I'll just." Tony backs toward the door, hands raised. "Workshop. Important things. Very important things."

He's gone before anyone can blink, leaving you, Bucky, and Steve in a kitchen that suddenly feels airless. Bucky stares at the ceramic shards in his hand like they've personally betrayed him.

"Buck—" Steve starts.

"I need air."

He's out the door before you can process the movement, leaving you with cooling eggs and Tony's words hanging in the air like smoke.

Steve sighs, the sound of a man who's aged a century in the last minute. "He's an idiot. Tony, I mean. Though Buck's also—" He stops. Runs a hand through his hair. "This is none of my business."

"But?"

"But." Steve fixes you with those earnest eyes that probably ended wars. "He thinks he's protecting you. From himself. From what he's done. He doesn't think he deserves—" A gesture encompasses you, the kitchen, the entire situation.

"That's not his decision to make."

"No," Steve agrees. "But when has that ever stopped him?"

You find Bucky on the roof because of course that's where he goes. He's sitting on the edge, legs dangling over nothing, and your heart does something complicated in your chest.

"Most people have their existential crises at ground level," you say, settling beside him carefully.

His mouth twitches—not quite a smile, but close. "Most people haven't fallen off a train."

"Fair point."

The city spreads below like a circuit board, all light and movement and life. Without looking, his hand finds yours, fingers interlacing with the ease of long practice. The bond settles, that constant thrum of rightness that comes with skin meeting skin.

"Tony's not wrong," he says eventually.

You wait, let him find the words in his own time.

"I think about it." His voice is carefully controlled, but you can feel the tremor in his hand. "Touching you. Not just—not just to ground myself. Not for the bond. I think about touching you because I want to. Because you're—"

He stops. His throat works, and when he speaks again, his voice is rougher. "Because you're beautiful. And kind. And you laugh at my terrible jokes even when they're not funny. You come when I call at 3 AM. You let me put my hands on you even though these same hands have—"

"Bucky—"

"I dream about it." The confession comes out raw. "Dream about kissing you. About how you'd taste. How you'd feel. Wake up with your name in my mouth and my hands reaching for you, and it's not about the bond, it's about—" He turns to look at you then, eyes dark with something that makes your breath catch. "It's about how much I want you. How much I want things I have no right to want."

"What if," you say, voice steadier than your pulse, "I want those same things?"

His breathing stutters. "You don't. You can't."

"Don't tell me what I want." You turn toward him fully, free hand coming up to his jaw. He leans into it helplessly, eyes falling closed. "I know exactly what I want. Who I want."

"I'm held together with duct tape and trauma," he says, but his resolve is crumbling. You can see it in the way he presses harder into your palm. "I can't take you on normal dates. Can't promise I won't have panic attacks. Can't even sleep through the night without—"

"I don't want normal." Your thumb traces his cheekbone, feels him shudder. "I want you. Every piece, every edge, every nightmare and bad day. I want the man who hums old songs when he thinks no one's listening. Who makes terrible eggs but keeps trying. Who touches me like I'm something precious and looks at me like I'm a miracle."

"You are," he breathes. "You're—"

You kiss him.

Or maybe he kisses you.

Maybe you meet in the middle, drawn together by forces older than choice.

The first press of lips is tentative, a question asked and answered in the same breath. His flesh hand comes up to cradle your face, and the tenderness of it makes your chest ache. But then you make a sound—small, needy—and something in him breaks.

Or maybe something in him finally fixes itself.

His metal arm bands around your waist, pulls you against him with desperate strength. The kiss deepens, and oh, you understand now why people write symphonies and wage wars. Because Bucky Barnes kisses like he's drowning and you're air, like he's been starving for seventy years and you're sustenance, like maybe the universe knew exactly what it was doing when it tied your souls together.

He kisses you like he's trying to crawl inside your skin.

His tongue traces the seam of your lips and you open for him without thought, and the sound he makes—broken, grateful—sends heat racing down your spine. He tastes like coffee and something indefinably him, and you chase that taste deeper, hands fisting in his shirt.

He doesn't surface for air. Doesn't pause. Just tilts his head to find a better angle and kisses you deeper, harder, like he's trying to memorize the shape of your mouth, the texture of your sighs. His metal hand spans your lower back, pulling you impossibly closer, while his flesh hand maps your face, thumb stroking your cheek even as his mouth devastates you.

You're half in his lap now, twisted awkwardly on the ledge, and you don't care. Can't care about anything beyond the heat of his mouth, the way he groans when you nip at his lower lip, the way his hands shake where they hold you.

"Wanted this," he gasps against your mouth, not pulling back enough to actually stop kissing you. "Wanted you. Before I even knew you. So long, so fucking long—"

You answer by sliding your hands into his hair, nails scraping his scalp, and he shudders against you, kiss going a little sloppy and desperate. He's not cold, not controlled, not careful. He's burning, pressing against you like he wants to fuse at the molecular level, like the soul bond isn't enough and never could be.

When you finally break apart—only because oxygen is apparently necessary—you're both wrecked. His lips are swollen, eyes dark and dazed. You probably look the same. His forehead drops to yours, and you can feel him trembling against you, all that careful control finally, beautifully shattered.

"Okay?" His voice is destroyed, rough like he's been screaming.

"So far past okay," you manage. "Though your timing—we're on a roof, Barnes."

He laughs, the sound surprised out of him, and presses kisses to your cheeks, your jaw, the corner of your mouth like he can't quite stop now that he's started. "Sorry. I'll plan better next time."

"Next time?" You're going for teasing but it comes out breathless, hopeful.

His eyes find yours, and the intensity there steals any words you might have had. "Every time. Any time. All the time, if you'll—if you want—"

You press your mouth to his again, swallowing whatever self-deprecating thing he was about to say. He makes a noise of pure relief and hauls you closer, and you think maybe Tony Stark has exactly one good point in his entire existence.

Not that you'll ever tell him.

** The science had been clinical, sterile words on a page that you'd skimmed in college while nursing a hangover and trying to make sense of your Behavioral Psych reading.

Enhanced neural connectivity. Synchronized endorphin response. Heightened sensory feedback between bonded pairs.

Academic language that utterly failed to capture this—Bucky's mouth hot and slick and desperate against your throat while his hands relearn territory they've been mapping under cotton and denim for months, each touch sending electricity racing down your spine like lightning seeking ground.

"Fucking finally," he growls against your pulse point, and you feel the words more than hear them, vibrating through skin into bone, into the very marrow of you. His metal hand spans your ribs, each individual plate recalibrating against your skin with tiny whirs and clicks, like even the machinery of him is trying to get closer.

"You know what it's been like? Having you close enough to smell, to taste in the air, but not—Christ, the way you tremble each time I touch you, like you're starving for it—"

You try to form words but he's already peeling your shirt away with hands that shake despite their practiced efficiency, and the first full press of his bare chest to yours—scarred skin against soft, furnace heat against cool air—whites out anything resembling higher thought.

The soul bond doesn't just sing—it screams, every nerve ending recognizing its other half and lighting up like a constellation, like a neural map catching fire.

"Oh," you gasp, and it's inadequate, it's nothing, but Bucky goes rigid above you like you've shot electricity straight through his spine.

"Yeah," he agrees, voice absolutely wrecked. His forehead drops to your shoulder, dog tags dragging cold metal across your overheated chest as he pants against your skin, each exhale making you shiver. "Yeah, that's—fuck, is it always gonna feel like this? Like touching a live wire, just—"

"More," you manage, arching into him until there's no space left between your bodies, and you feel his control splinter like ice under pressure.

His mouth finds yours again, hungry and graceless, all that careful restraint from months of chaste touches finally, blessedly gone. His tongue slides against yours and you taste coffee and something metallic—blood maybe, from where he's been biting his lip. When you nip at his bottom lip he makes a sound like something wounded, something primal, hips rolling into yours with zero finesse, just pure need, his cock hard and insistent through too many layers of fabric.

"Sensitive," he warns against your mouth, but it comes out more like a plea, like he's begging you to understand. "Everything's dialed up to eleven, I can—I can hear your blood moving in your veins. Can feel every place you're warm and wet and—fuck—" His whole body shudders when you rake your nails down his back.

Your fingers find the scarred terrain of his back and he actually whimpers, muscles rolling under your touch like water, like something liquid and desperate. That's when the second revelation hits: whatever you're feeling, he's feeling it magnified. Seventy years of sensory deprivation plus enhanced everything plus a soul bond that's been stretched taut for months—

"Gonna lose my mind," he mutters, mouthing at your jaw, your throat, anywhere he can reach, leaving wet trails that cool in the air and make you shiver. His stubble scrapes against sensitive skin and you gasp, hips bucking up involuntarily. "Already lost it. Lost it the second you touched me in that library. Do you know? Do you have any fucking idea what it's like, having someone reach inside your skull and turn all the lights on? Like going from black and white to color, like—Jesus—"

His flesh hand fumbles with your pants, clumsy with urgency, while his metal hand grips your hip hard enough to leave marks—and god, you hope it does, hope you wear his fingerprints for days. The button pops free and he makes a victorious sound that might be funny if you weren't so desperate, if you weren't already so wet you can feel it soaking through your underwear.

His hand slides lower, fingers slipping beneath elastic, and when he finds you soaked and swollen, the noise that punches out of him is pure animal—a growl that starts in his chest and rumbles through both your bodies where they're pressed together.

"Christ." His fingers slip through wetness, exploratory and reverent, and you can feel the tremor in his hand. "This is—this is for me? You get like this just from—" He circles your clit with his thumb and you cry out, hips jerking. "Fuck, you're dripping. Can feel your pulse in your cunt, baby. So swollen, so ready—"

"From you," you gasp, grinding down against his hand as he slides two fingers inside without warning. The stretch makes you moan, makes your walls clench around him immediately. "Always from you. Only from you."

Something fractures in his expression—something raw and possessive and desperately vulnerable all at once. He hooks his fingers, finding that spot that makes your vision white out, and watches your face like he's cataloging miracles, like he's mapping the geography of your pleasure. "Say that again."

"Only you." It comes out breathless, edged with desperation as he finds a rhythm that has your thighs shaking, has wet sounds filling the air between you. "Only ever you, Bucky, please—"

"No." His thumb finds your clit and circles with devastating precision, pressure just the right side of too much. "Not yet. Not when I've been imagining this for—do you know how many times I've jerked off in the shower thinking about this? About how you'd sound when you're desperate? How you'd taste?" He adds a third finger, stretching you wider, and grins dark and feral when you sob. "Bet you thought about it too. Bet you touched yourself thinking about me, didn't you? Tell me."

"Yes," you admit, face burning, and his pupils blow even wider.

He drops to his knees between your thighs suddenly, metal hand holding you open like something precious, like an offering. The first swipe of his tongue has you jackknifing off the bed, but he just pins you down with his metal arm across your hips and does it again, slower, a long drag from entrance to clit that has you seeing stars.

"Fuckin' knew it," he groans against you, and the vibration of his voice makes you clench around nothing. "Knew you'd taste like heaven. Like mine. Knew you'd shake for me just like this." He spreads you wider with his fingers, looking at you with dark eyes. "So pretty. So perfect." He spits on your cunt, watching it mix with your wetness, and the filthy intimacy of it makes you moan. "Gonna ruin you for anyone else. Gonna make it so you can't come without thinking of my mouth, my fingers, my cock."

His words dissolve into action, mouth working you over with single-minded focus. He eats you out like he's starving, like he's dying, all lips and tongue and just the edge of teeth. The soul bond makes it devastating—you don't just feel the physical sensation, you feel his hunger, his satisfaction at finally being allowed to give pleasure instead of pain. His metal fingers dig into your thigh hard enough to bruise and you hope they do, hope you wear his marks for days, hope everyone who sees them knows exactly who put them there.

"Close," you warn, though he probably knows—can probably taste it in the way your cunt's clenching, feel it in the bond that's gone molten between you. Your thighs are shaking, muscles pulled so tight they hurt, and there's a sound filling the room that you distantly realize is you, making noises you've never made before.

He pulls back just enough to speak, lips glossy with your wetness, chin soaked, eyes wild. "Yeah? You gonna come on my tongue? Gonna let me taste it?" He slides three fingers in, curling with devastating intent, and your back arches off the bed. "Come on, sweetheart. Give it up. Let me have it, don't be greedy."

You shatter with a sound that might be his name, might be pure noise. The orgasm rolls through you in waves, each crest higher than the last, and he works you through it mercilessly, not letting up even when you try to squirm away from oversensitivity. Through the bond you feel his echoing pleasure—not physical, not yet, but something bone-deep and satisfied and proud.

"Atta girl," he murmurs against your inner thigh, pressing kisses to sweat-slick skin while his fingers still move lazily inside you, drawing out aftershocks. "So fucking beautiful. Look at you, all fucked out and soft and mine. Could do this for hours. Will do this for hours. Keep you here, coming apart on my hands, my mouth, until you're so sensitive you cry, until you forget there was ever a time we weren't—"

"Bucky." You tug at his hair, need making your voice rough despite the orgasm still sparking through your nerves. "Get up here. Need you inside me. Need—"

He's moving before you finish, shucking his pants with graceless efficiency. The first glimpse of his cock—thick and long and leaking steadily—makes your mouth water and your cunt clench with fresh want. When you reach for him he catches your wrist, gentle but firm.

"Next time," he promises, reading your intent with unnerving accuracy. His voice is strained, like he's hanging on by a thread. "Let you taste me next time. Let you choke on it, fuck that pretty mouth until you're drooling, until—" He cuts himself off with visible effort, chest heaving. "But right now I need—if I don't get inside you in the next ten seconds I'm gonna fucking die—"

"So do it." You spread your legs wider, shameless, showing him how wet and open you are, how ready. "Come on, sergeant. Follow through."

His control snaps audibly. He's on you between one breath and the next, pinning you down with his weight, cock nudging at your entrance. The head catches on your rim and you both groan, but he stops there, trembling with effort, forehead pressed to yours.

"Look at me." It's not a request—it's a command, rough and desperate. You force your eyes open, meet his gaze—winter blue swallowed by black, raw and vulnerable and fierce. "Need to see you when I—need to know you're here, that you're real, that this is—"

"Real," you confirm, wrapping your legs around his waist, heels digging into his ass to urge him forward. "I'm real. You're real. This is—oh fuck—"

He pushes inside in one long, devastating slide, and the world reconstitutes itself around this moment. Around the stretch and burn and perfect fullness of him, around the broken sound he makes against your throat—half sob, half growl—around the soul bond lighting up like a supernova, like every nerve ending suddenly discovering what it was made for.

"Fuck." His metal hand grips the headboard hard enough to crack wood, splinters raining down. "Fuck, you're—tight. So fucking tight. Hot. Perfect. Can feel—God fucking damn, I can feel everything. Can feel how good it is for you, can feel how your cunt's trying to pull me deeper—" He shifts his hips and hits something devastating inside you, makes you clench around him involuntarily. He laughs, breathless. "Yeah, right there. That's it, isn't it, baby? Right fucking there."

He moves experimentally, just a slow roll of hips, and you both moan at the drag of him inside you, at how your bodies fit together like they were made for this, only this. The angle is perfect—he's reading your body's responses in real-time, adjusting until every thrust has you climbing higher, until you're making noises that would embarrass you if you could think.

"Not gonna last," he warns, rhythm already getting ragged, desperate. Sweat drips from his forehead onto your chest, mixing with the sheen already there. "Not this time. Too much, too long waiting, too—the way you feel—" His flesh hand finds your throat, rests there warm and possessive, thumb pressing just enough to make your pulse flutter. "Like velvet. Like coming home. Like I could fuck you forever and it would never be enough—"

"Don't care." You pull his head down, bite at his jaw hard enough to leave marks just to feel him shudder, to watch his control fracture further. "Just want you. Just need—"

"Tell me." His grip on your throat tightens fractionally, not enough to restrict breathing but enough to make you aware, to make you feel it. "Tell me what you need. Want to give you everything. Want to be so good for you, sweetheart. Want to make up for every night you went to bed empty when you should've been—"

"Full of you," you finish, and his hips stutter, lose rhythm entirely for a moment.

"Yeah?" His thumb presses against your pulse, feeling how fast your heart's racing. "That what you need? Need me to fill you up? Keep you full and fucked out and dripping with my come? Make sure everyone knows you're mine, that I'm the only one who gets to—"

"Yes." You're beyond shame, beyond anything but the building pressure where he's driving into you harder now, each thrust shoving you up the bed. The wet sounds of your bodies meeting fill the room, obscene and perfect. "Yes, Bucky, please—"

"Say my name again." He's fucking you harder now, chasing his release with single-minded intensity. The bed frame creaks ominously with each thrust. "Want to hear it when you come. Want to feel it when you—fuck, you're clenching around me, baby. You close? You gonna come on my cock? Gonna be good for me?"

You nod frantically, words lost to the slide of him inside you, the relentless pressure against that perfect spot, the way his pubic bone grinds against your clit with each thrust. His metal fingers find your clit, cold against overheated flesh, and the contrast makes you scream.

"That's it," he growls, working your clit in tight circles while maintaining that punishing rhythm. "Come for me. Come on my cock like a good girl. Let me feel it, let me—fuck, there it is, I can feel it starting, you're getting so tight—"

You come with his name on your lips, back arching off the bed so hard you think you might snap in half. The orgasm slams through you like a freight train, like dying and being reborn, every muscle locking up as pleasure whites out your vision. The bond makes it circular—your pleasure slamming into him and reflecting back, amplified, until you're both shaking with it, until you can't tell where you end and he begins.

"Oh fuck—" His rhythm breaks entirely, becomes something desperate and animal. "Fuck, I'm gonna—gonna fill you up, gonna—"

"Inside." You dig your nails into his shoulders hard enough to draw blood, hold him deep even as oversensitivity makes you want to squirm away. "Want to feel it. Want all of it."

He comes with a sound that's half your name, half prayer, half roar, hips grinding deep as he spills inside you. You feel it all—not just the physical sensation of his cock pulsing, filling you with warmth, but the emotional avalanche through the bond. Relief and want and mine mine mine and something that feels dangerously close to devotion, to worship, to complete and utter belonging.

He fucks you through it, shallow little thrusts like he can't help himself, like his body won't stop even though he's already given you everything. Each movement makes more come leak out around his cock, makes wet sounds that have you hiding your face in his shoulder, embarrassed and aroused in equal measure.

The aftershocks last forever, little sparks of shared pleasure that have you both gasping, twitching, clutching at each other like lifelines. When he finally stills, he doesn't pull out, just shifts enough that his weight isn't crushing you, keeping you plugged full of him.

"Stay," he mumbles into your neck, words slurred like he's drunk. "Just—stay exactly like this. Please. Need to—need to keep you full. Need to know you're here, that this is real, that I get to—"

"Not going anywhere." You card your fingers through his sweat-damp hair, feel him shiver at the gentle touch after all that intensity. "Never going anywhere. You're stuck with me, Barnes."

His arms tighten around you, and you can feel his smile against your skin, feel the way his cock twitches inside you with renewed interest. "Good. Because now that I know what this feels like, what you feel like—" He rocks his hips experimentally, and you both groan as you feel his come shift inside you, feel how wet and open you are. "We're not leaving this bed for a week. Gonna fuck you in every position I've imagined. Gonna map every inch of your body with my mouth. Gonna find out exactly how many times I can make you come before you beg me to stop—"

"What about—"

He kisses you quiet, slow and thorough and filthy, tongue fucking into your mouth in a pale imitation of what his cock just did. When he pulls back, his eyes are dark with promise and his cock is fully hard inside you again, enhanced recovery time making itself known.

"Nothing else matters," he says simply, starting to move again, slow and deep and devastating. You're so sensitive it borders on too much, but the soul bond floods you with his pleasure, his desperate need, and suddenly you're right there with him again. "Just this. Just us. Just how many times I can make you come before sunrise. How full I can keep you. How loud I can make you scream."

You clench around him involuntarily and his eyes flutter closed, hips stuttering.

"Gonna kill me," he mutters, picking up speed, the wet sounds even more obscene now with his come easing the way. "Seventy years of nothing and now—" A particularly deep thrust has you seeing stars. "Now I've got a soulmate who looks at me like I'm worth something, who touches me like I'm not a weapon, who lets me use her however I need—"

"Who loves you," you interrupt, watching his face crumble and rebuild itself, watching him fight back what looks suspiciously like tears.

"Yeah?" Barely a whisper, so vulnerable it makes your chest ache.

"Yeah." You pull him down for another kiss, pouring everything you can't say into the contact, letting him feel it through the bond. "So much. So long. Even before I knew you, I think I loved you. Think I was waiting for you."

He makes a broken sound and starts fucking you in earnest, like a man possessed, like he's trying to climb inside you and never leave. "Say it again."

"I love you."

"Again." Harder now, each thrust shoving you up the bed.

"I love you, Bucky Barnes."

He fucks you like a promise, like a prayer, like maybe if he does it right the universe will let him keep this. You come apart under him again and again, until time becomes meaningless, until the only reality is where you're joined, where the soul bond burns brightest, where his come leaks out of you with each thrust only to be fucked back in, marking you inside and out as his.

When exhaustion finally claims you both, he's still inside you, still hard, wrapped around you like armor and apology all at once. You're going to be sore tomorrow—hell, you're sore now—but you wouldn't move for anything.

The last thing you feel before sleep takes you is his lips against your temple, his voice rough with wonder and satisfaction:

"Love you too, sweetheart. More than I've got words for. More than I probably should. Gonna spend the rest of my life showing you, if you'll let me. Gonna take such good care of you. My girl. My soulmate. Mine."

"Yours," you mumble, already drifting, clenching around him one last time just to feel him shudder.

His arms tighten, and you feel his smile against your skin, feel the way his cock twitches inside you with interest despite everything.

"Forever," he promises.

"Forever."

Outside, Brooklyn wakes to another morning, unaware that two souls have finally, fully, found their way home.

check out the series masterlist♡

[w1nter-fairy]

The Prophecy

main masterlist

pairing: post TFATWS!Bucky x tarot reader!Reader

summary: Every psychic and every tarot deck tells the same story: love isn't meant for you. Every reading ends the same way—until one skeptical customer pulls three cards that were never meant to belong to him. Suddenly, the future you've spent years trying to outrun refuses to leave you alone.

word count: 11.3 k

warnings: sort of enemies to friends to lovers, meet ugly, tarot, soulmates, slow burn, mutual pining, hurt/comfort, fluff, happy ending.

a/n: based on The Prophecy by Taylor Swift, been 7 weeks stuck in my drafts, I hope you like the outcome as much as I liked writing it for you! Beta read by @kileyking & @buckysdecaflove ❤︎ | dividers by @strangergraphics

read on AO3

Your family doesn't mean to hurt you. They just do.

It's the same every reunion, somebody's hand landing warm on your shoulder. When are you going to bring someone for us to meet? Are you ever gonna get married? That boat's sailed, hon. You missed your shot.

And their newest addition, just now: So, when's your turn? We really thought you'd be the next one walking down the aisle.

You're in your thirties now. Two cats, an apartment that's exactly how you want it, and you learned a long time ago to deflect, to laugh, to change the subject before anyone got too invested in your answer.

But those words stung.

Because god knows you've tried dating. You wanted the thing everyone kept asking you about, but you couldn't seem to hold onto it. Somewhere along the way you accepted that maybe you weren't meant to, just like the cards said once.

When the answer your cards gave you wasn't good enough, you tried something else: the oracle, rune-casting, pendulum, palmistry. You even ran the extra mile and paid someone to read your matrix destiny, but the answer remained the same: Not for you.

Apparently, the person meant for you was born over a hundred years ago, it wasn't meant to be in this life. Or at least, that's what the woman interpreted for you, it wasn't your line of work, but that night you pulled the cards alone and they confirmed it.

Your mom leans over, snapping you out of your thoughts. "They want you to say something."

You already knew this, you prepared days ago sitting in your apartment with your cats. You wrote and rewrote on your phone, trying to keep your words light and genuine.

"I've known Sarah since we were kids," you say. "She was always the one who knew exactly what she wanted. Not confused like the rest of us, not second-guessing. She just knew."

You can see her smiling, David's hand rest on her shoulder. You take a breath, your eyes are swelling with tears, but that's fine. That's normal at weddings.

"Sarah, David… you deserve each other, and you deserve the whole beautiful future you're about to have together. I hope you know how lucky you are, how blessed you are." Your voice wavers just slightly on that word. "Not everyone gets this, not everyone finds someone who loves them the way you love each other."

You're looking at Sarah and you mean every single word, even though it's cutting into you.

You raise your glass, trying to keep your hand steady despite the awful feeling sitting on your stomach. "To Sarah and David, and the future you deserve."

Later, when you're home at the outskirts of the city, with your cats curled on either side of you, you let yourself cry. Not angry tears, just the deep kind that come from watching someone else get the thing you've accepted you never will.

You think about the cards, about the woman who read your destiny and the words that have chased you since you were seventeen: The person meant for you was born out of time.

And your cousin's husband was born exactly at the right moment, in the right place, in the right life.

You're happy for her, you really are.

You're just so tired of helping everyone else find the life the cards promised would never belong to you.

The fair comes to the edge of your small town every spring, and you've been here for three years now. Your shop is small—just enough room for a folding table, two chairs, and the cards that you've been reading since you've been a teenager and decided to expand the gift you've inherited from your great grandmother.

The bell above the shop door chimes on a slow afternoon, and you look up from the velvet cloth you're arranging to find a couple standing in the doorway. The woman sees your altar in the corner, the crystals and the candles and her face lights up.

"Oh, this is perfect," she says, turning to him. "See? I told you we'd find someone authentic."

The man—dark hair, broad-shouldered, pierced-blue eyes and a very defined jawline— gives you a polite, slightly uncomfortable smile.

"Hey," he says. "She's been talking about you for weeks."

"Come in," you say, standing. You wipe your hands on your skirt. "Welcome to The Velvet Oracle, do you have an appointment?"

"I called yesterday," the woman says, stepping forward, hand extended. "I'm Hazel, this is Bucky. I want a couple's reading, we've been dating for four months and I just thought, you know, let's see what the future holds for us."

You gesture to the chairs across from you. "Sit, let's see what the cards have to say."

Hazel settles in, leans forward eagerly. Bucky sits back with his arms crossed. You don't let yourself look at him too long, because every time you do it you feel your stomach dropping, like when you miss a step in the dark.

You shuffle the deck, the familiar worn edges of the cards grounding you against your palms.

"Alright," you start. "For a couple's reading, I usually pull a few cards for each person individually, and then we'll look at the relationship as a whole. Sound good?"

Hazel nods enthusiastically, but Bucky's expression is somewhere between polite discomfort and outright skepticism.

"I gotta be honest," he says, glancing around the tent at the crystals and candles, "this isn't really my thing."

"I know, baby, but it'll be fun." Hazel tugs at his sleeve until he relents, uncrossing his arms. "Just let her do the reading, okay? For me."

He doesn't look convinced, but he nods and his expression softens for her. You don't know why, but that somehow makes you wanna cry.

You focus on Hazel, spreading the deck in a smooth arc across the velvet. "Go ahead and pull three cards when you're ready."

She leans forward, her fingers hovering dramatically before selecting. The first card makes you nod slowly—the Ace of Pentacles. A seed planted in rich soil. The second is the Empress, all abundance and growth. The third one is the World.

"Completion, fulfillment, a cycle coming to a close in the best possible way."

Hazel beams. "That's good, right?"

"Very good," you gesture at the Ace of Pentacles. "Pentacles are earth energy—practical, grounded, built to last. This is a new beginning with a solid foundation. The Empress suggests growth and nurturing, maybe even family, and the World is a major arcana card of fulfillment. Whatever you're building toward, the universe is supporting it."

"I'm a Taurus!" Hazel claps her hand together. "That's an earth sign. This is so accurate, oh my god! Earth energy for an earth sign, that has to mean something."

"It suggests alignment," you say carefully, because you've learned not to over-promise."The path you're on has stability written into it."

Hazel turns to Bucky with bright eyes. "See? I told you she was the real deal."

Bucky shifts in his chair, unmoved. "Great, so what about the rest of it?"

"Your turn," you say, trying to keep your voice light. "Three cards, same as before."

He looks at the deck like it might bite him. "I don't really believe in this stuff."

"It's just cards," you say. "They only have the power you give them."

Something shifts in his expression—not quite interest, but maybe a grudging willingness. Hazel nudges him with her elbow. "Just do it, Bucky. For me."

He sighs, leans forward and taps three cards with a soldier's precision. One, two, three. No hesitation, like he wants it over with.

You turn the first card: The Lovers.

Your breath catches. You force yourself to keep your expression neutral, but your fingers have gone cold against the velvet.

"The Lovers," you say, and your voice comes out steady, despite the static in your ears. "This card is about significant choices. A crossroad in a relationship or a deep connection that requires a decision."

Hazel practically squeals with excitement. "That's us! A deep connection!"

Bucky doesn't react. His eyes are on the card, but his face gives nothing away.

You turn the second card. The High Priestess.

The card you've pulled for yourself more times than you can count since you were seventeen. Intuition. The veil between worlds. The woman in the card stares at you from the table, and for a disorienting second you swear the woman on the card has your eyes.

"The High Priestess represents hidden knowledge," you manage. "Things beneath the surface, secrets, intuition… the parts of ourselves we don't fully understand yet."

"What does that have to do with Bucky?" Hazel asks, frowning slightly.

"I'm not sure yet," you lie, because you're suddenly horribly sure of exactly what's happening, and you want to sweep the cards off the table and pretend you never touched them.

You flip the third card with a trembling hand. The Ace of Cups.

The card of new love, emotional awakening. The beginning of something that fills the heart. It's the same card that you've always pulled up reversed for yourself every single time you ask the universe if there's anyone out there for you.

Now here it is, on his spread… along with your arcana.

"A new emotional beginning," you say after a moment of silence. "The Ace of Cups is the start of something in matters of the heart. It's a very powerful, personal card."

Hazel turns to Bucky, her earlier enthusiasm dimming. "Is that about us? Wait— water and earth complement each other, right? Bucky's a Pisces, that's a water sign, I'm earth. That's good isn't it? They balance."

"Water and earth can be very nurturing together," you say, because it's true, even if the cards aren't saying that. "But these cards feel more like a personal message for Bucky, something individual, not necessarily about the relationship."

You don't remember what you say after that. Something about water signs and intuition, something about the cards reflecting individual journeys within partnerships. You're very good at small talk, at telling people something they might want to hear while the cards tell you something else entirely.

Hazel pays you in cash, and she leaves with her hand tucked into Bucky's elbow, already chattering about dinner reservations. He lingers in the doorway for half a second, looking back at you with an expression you can't read. Then the bell chimes, and they're gone.

You sit in silence for a long time, staring at the three cards, still laid out on the velvet. You gather them up with shaking hands and slip them back into the deck, but you can feel them there, warm against the others, like embers buried in ash.

That night, you pull your own cards for the first time in months. You stopped asking about love a year ago, because the answer never changed—the reversed Ace of Cups, Ten of Swords, the Tower. But tonight, you need to know if you imagined it, if the shop was too warm, if you simply wanted something so badly your mind bent the cards to fit.

You shuffle the deck until your fingers ache and cut the deck three times before pulling: The Lovers. The High Priestess. The Ace of Cups.

Exactly the same spread from earlier.

You throw the deck across your kitchen table and watch the cards scatter like birds. You don't read them, you don't need to.

The dreams start three nights later.

You're in the shop, but once you pay enough attention you realize it's not your shop—it's larger, older, with windows that look out onto a street you've never seen, snow falling in thick, silent curtains. Bucky is there, sitting across from you, but he's different. Younger, somehow, though you can't explain how you know that. He's smiling at you, and he reaches across the table to take your hand.

You wake up gasping, your sheets are twisted around your legs, your heart hammering against your ribs.

The second time you dream of him, you're dancing. You're not able to see if it's anywhere specific. It's a dark room, there is music playing from somewhere distant, his hand on your waist, his cheek pressed against your temple. He smells like cedar and leather. You can feel the calluses on his fingers through the fabric of your dress. When you wake up, you can still feel them.

You start drinking chamomile tea before bed. You burn sage. You place an amethyst under your pillow and a black tourmaline at your door, but nothing works. The dreams continue, threading themselves through your sleep like a second life you're living in parallel, and in every single one, he seems like the answer to a question you've been asking for a very long time.

You don't tell anyone. Who would believe you? What would you even tell them? I had a tarot reading go wrong and now I'm psychically stalking my client's boyfriend in my dreams. You'd sound insane. Worse, you'd sound desperate.

You don't hear from Hazel or him again. You tell yourself it's a good thing. You tell yourself the dreams will fade, that the thread between you dissolves with distance and time… except they don't fade, they get worse.

In your dreams you're now in Brooklyn, walking down streets lined with brownstones, and he's beside you, close enough that your shoulders brush. He's telling you about his day, about his past, and you listen until his words start to fade. When you wake up, you can smell his cologne in the air.

You start taking walks in the afternoon, though you don't know why. You pull your cards again, desperate for something—anything—to change.

The Tower. The Star. The World.

Disaster, then hope, then completion. The cycle you've been trapped in for years, except this time the Tower doesn't feel like another heartbreak waiting to happen. It feels like change—the kind you can't stop even if you wanted to.

You don't sleep that night. You sit on your kitchen floor with your cats weaving between your legs, and you rearrange the cards in every configuration you know: Celtic cross, three card spread, relationship spread, past-present-future. Every single time, the same arc emerges: something is ending, something is beginning. And whatever comes next will leave you irrevocably changed.

Your aunt Margaret—Maggie, as you've called her since you were little—tells the family that she has broken her hip on the cellar stairs, that the surgery went fine, but she doesn't want a nurse or a help aide. She wants someone from the family who can come stay with her or she'll manage alone.

The call gets passed down through the entire family, but nobody offers to go take care of her. Your cousins have husbands, kids, mortgages, school pickups… Meanwhile, you have two cats and a tarot shop you can shutter for a season, and nobody says it out loud, but everybody means it: you're the one with nothing to leave behind.

You arrive on a Tuesday with your two cat carriers, three suitcases and the deck wrapped in a scarf at the bottom of your tote. Maggie is waiting in the front room of the brownstone, sat in a wingback chair with a cane across her knees.

"There she is, I knew you would come," she says. "Come kiss me."

You oblige before setting the carriers on the floor and opening them to let your cats wander around and recognize the place you'd be staying for a few weeks.

"I got two rules," Maggie starts, taking off her reading glasses. "The thermostat stays where I put it, and no cards in my house."

"Maggie—"

"I know what you carry around, I have enough ghosts in this old apartment, so there's no way I'm letting you welcome more through…that."

"They're just cards."

"Then it won't kill you to leave them in the bag," she settles back into the chair and picks her crossword up off the side table, and that is the end of it. "The kettle's on, you can take the room at the top of the stairs."

You know arguing with her would be useless, so you go and install yourself in that cramped old room and decide you'll read when she's asleep.

It becomes a ritual within the first week: you wait for the apartment to go quiet, wait for her snoring to even out and you sit at the kitchen table with the deck and a single candle as if you were a teenager sneaking cigarettes. Your cats take turns supervising from the counter, but you keep one ear on the ceiling the whole time, just in case.

Every single time, the same cards you pull at your shop with Bucky keep coming.

The Lovers. The High Priestess. The Ace of Cups.

The dreams don't fade with the distance from home, they sharpen. Now the businesses have names, because you've walked past it every time you go run errands for your aunt Maggie. The stoop where he sat beside you, close enough that your shoulders touched, you know it. You've seen the exact iron railing, three blocks east. In one dream he laughs at something, and you wake up missing something you haven't even seen in real life.

You try to build a reasonable conclusion: You've been here previously, you know this neighborhood. You just did one reading to a ridiculous handsome man eight months ago and your lonely, overworked brain latched on, and now it's trying to dress a crush in destiny because it's something you've been trying to change your whole life. That's all this is. A simple crush and a reader's block. It happens sometimes to some people, right?

At least that's what Reddit said last time you checked.

You've almost convinced yourself by the third Saturday in October, which is when you see him at the green market, standing at a fruit stall with a paper bag in one gloved hand. You stop so fast a woman with a stroller clips your heel.

Eight months and four hundred miles, and he's right here, wearing a canvas jacket with his hair shorter than you remember, frowning at the fruit, and your first coherent thought is run, but your feet are refusing to move.

He must've felt your eyes on him, because he looks up.

"You," he says it flat.

"Hi," your voice comes out steadier than you expect, and you silently thank god, the universe and every existent deity. "Bucky, right?"

He crosses the few feet between you, and up close you notice a tension in him that you don't remember from the shop. "What are you doing here?"

"Buying some groceries." You lift the bag as evidence. "I'm here taking care of my aunt and—"

"Right, so now your aunt happens to live here. Funny."

"You can come with me and check if you don't believe me," the bite gets into your voice before you can stop it. "Is there a problem?"

He laughs once, but there's no humor in it. "Is there a problem, you ask? Why don't you pull your cards and figure it out?"

"Okay—"

"Hazel broke up with me," he watches your face while he says it. "Three weeks after that reading, you want to know why?"

The market noise keeps going around you, crates and gulls and a vendor calling out prices, but everything is reducing to background noise while you feel the cold coming up from through your boots.

"She couldn't let it go," he continues. "You said something about a new beginning, some big personal message and she turned it over until there was nothing left. Every conversation we had circled back to it, who is she? When did it start? The cards don't lie. Four months, gone, because you laid out three stupid pieces of laminated paper and made it sound like some stupid prophecy."

"That isn't what I said— "

"Well, it's what she heard."

"I told her those cards were about you, individually. I was careful—"

"You were vague," he says, "which is the whole trick, isn't it? Say something soft enough to fit any shape, take the cash, let people destroy themselves filling in the blanks… there's a word for that." He shifts the bag of groceries to his other hand. "You're a fraud. The polite version is intuitive, a fraud with esoteric words."

You should let it go. He's a stranger, he's grieving a relationship, the market is crowded and you have other things to do, but you don't let it go.

"I didn't make those cards come up." You step in instead of back, and something flickers across his face—surprise, maybe, that you didn't fold. "I shuffled, you pulled three cards, it was your own hands, no hesitation. I read what was on the table and I softened it more than I should have, for her sake. What she did with it afterward isn't mine to carry, and neither is what you do with it."

A muscle moves in his jaw. For a second neither of you says anything, and you notice—stupidly, uselessly—that his eyes are exactly the color they are in your dreams.

"For what it's worth, I'm sorry about Hazel."

"Yeah, you sure do." He steps around you. "Enjoy Brooklyn and stay the hell away from me."

You stand there with your own groceries until your hands stop shaking.

That night you don't pull cards. You lie awake instead, replaying it, building better arguments hours too late, and when you finally sleep, he's there—sitting across a kitchen table that doesn't exist, pushing a cup of coffee toward you, smiling at you the way he has never smiled once in real life.

You wake up furious at your own mind.

The radiator in the front room dies the last week of October, the same week the temperature does.

You find Maggie in her wingback with a blanket over her knees and the phone already against her ear. "It's the front one again," she's saying. "It clanks like the devil and gives nothing… No, don't be silly, after lunch is fine. You'll eat here anyway." She hangs up before whoever it is can argue.

"I could've called someone," you say. "There's a service the pharmacy recommends—"

"A service?" She huffs a laugh, like you've said something completely irrational. "I have James, he does the whole block—the Russo's gutters, Mrs. Ferreira's stairs… he won't take a dime, but I tuck it in his jacket when he isn't looking."

"James," you repeat.

"You'll like him," she says, returning to her crossword. "He's a serious boy, it's good with hands, single…"

The doorbell rings at one. You open the door and there he is, on your aunt's stoop, a tool bag over his shoulder, and you watch the exact moment his face goes through the market all over again.

"You gotta be shitting me," he mutters.

"Yeah, well, I'm not excited either, but I told you I was taking care of my aunt."

From the front room, your aunt's voice: "James! Don't let the heat out, it's the one radiator still working in here!"

You look at each other and there's a long moment where you genuinely cannot tell whether he's going to turn around and walk back down the steps, and then he exhales through his nose and crosses the threshold, being painfully obvious at avoiding brushing your shoulder in the narrow hall.

What follows is the strangest two hours of your autumn. Because the man at the market and the shop doesn't appear. With your aunt, he's somebody else entirely—patient, dry, gentle in an odd way for the way he's treated you. He kneels on the floor and bleeds the radiator and lets her direct him with her cane without complaining. Asks about her hip, and actually listens to the answer.

You stay in the kitchen, mostly. You make the coffee she orders you to make and when you bring it in, Nova—the bolder of your two cats—has installed herself on the tool bag, paws tucked underneath him, supervising, and for your surprise, Bucky is working around her rather than moving her.

He glances up when you set the cup down near him, just out of his way.

"Thanks," it's dry, but it's not nothing.

"You take your coffee black, right?" you say, and then bite your own tongue off, because you don't know that. You've been dreaming of that.

He pauses with the wrench mid-turn. "Lucky guess."

"Well, you look like a man who likes to keep it simple." You say it lightly and walk away before your face can do anything stupid, and behind you, Maggie says something about you reading people, and then you hear the small clank of metal as something in his hands slips.

He doesn't stay to eat, despite your aunt's best efforts. At the door, shrugging the tool bag back up, he stops with his hand on the frame. He doesn't quite look at you.

"Her hip," he murmurs. "If she needs anything lifted, or any errands to run, whatever… Maggie has my number."

"Okay."

"For her," he clarifies.

"I understood you the first time," you say sweetly and shut the door on whatever his face does next.

In the front room, Maggie has watched this entire exchange over her glasses.

"You didn't tell me you know James."

"Barely."

"Mm." She picks up her pen. "It seemed like more than barely to me. But if that's how you treat men no wonder why you're still single."

You gasped audibly and she winked an eye at you before going back to her crossword.

You start running into him in an almost daily basis. The neighborhood is small—twenty thousand people and somehow the same six faces every single day— and now that you know he's in it, he's everywhere. Outside the hardware store with a length of pipe over his shoulder. At the pharmacy counter, when you go pick up Maggie's medications and he's talking to an Asian man. Across the green market, where you both pretend with great commitment that the other one is invisible.

But there's no real conversation until now.

You've misjudged the sky and the distance, so you're hauling two grocery bags and a sack of cat litter up Pierrepont when the cold drizzle turns serious. You stop under sycamore to redistribute everything you're carrying, water running off the end of your nose, and a shadow falls over you. You lift your gaze and he's there, hood up, his hand already out reaching for you.

"What? Your cards didn't tell you there would be a storm?"

"Ha-ha. Very funny."

"Give me the litter."

"I've got it."

"You're going to put your shoulder out being stubborn. I said give me the damn litter."

You could protest, but you know it's pointless to fight with him, so you give him the litter and walk the last two blocks side by side without speaking, rain hissing on the pavement, his boots and your boots out of step.

He sets the sack on the second stair of your aunt's gate, but he doesn't leave immediately.

"At the market," he murmurs, to the gate rather than to you. "When I— when I said those things to you… I was out of line."

"You were rude."

"I was out of line," he repeats.

"You called me a fraud, and you said my intuition was exactly that, a fraud with esoteric words."

"Well, if you were so intuitive, wouldn't you have known about the rain?" It takes you a second to hear it, the dry shift under the flat delivery, and you laugh before you decide to. He looks surprised, like he wasn't expecting the sound either.

"Go home, Bucky," you say. "You'll catch a cold."

"Is that a prediction?"

You rolled your eyes. "There's no need for that, it's logical."

"Tell Maggie I left the wrench in the bin by the door… for the sink." He's already turning. "Don't let her do the sink herself, she'll try."

"I know my aunt."

"Then you know she'll try." And he's gone into the rain, shoulders up, and you stand at the gate watching him go for longer than you should.

That night you dream of him again, except the dream is just this: the two of you under a sycamore, rain coming down, but this time he's laughing—really laughing, head tipped, the whole architecture of his face rearranged by it— at something you can't hear yourself say.

You wake before dawn with your heart going hard and the echo of his laugh still in your ears.

It's a crush, you remind yourself staring at the ceiling.

Then why does your heart feel so heavy?

By November, your aunt has invented a maintenance schedule that no brownstone in history has ever required. The storm windows, the cellar light, a cabinet hinge you're fairly sure she loosened herself, because you watched her test it with her cane the day before she called him.

"You're matchmaking," you accuse, setting her tea down.

"I'm maintaining my property." She doesn't look up from the crossword. "Seven across, six letters. Foreseen by the stars."

"Fated."

"That's five."

"Destined is eight. Fated is five." You count it on your fingers. "What's six?"

Maggie hums thoughtfully and writes something down where you can't see it.

Bucky comes back on Thursday to check the storm windows. It's the fourth time, not that you're counting, and something has shifted in the dynamic between you—the hostility has burned down to a kind of wariness, and that wariness keep springing leaks.

He lets you hold the frame steady while he drives the screws, close enough that you can smell the cedar on his jacket. He answers your aunt's interrogation about his week in actual sentences. When Nova bolts for the open window, Bucky catches her one-handed without looking, absorbs the betrayed yowl and deposits her on the sofa with a flat "No". You expect retaliation, but Nova—who has never once obeyed you—stays.

"Traitor," you tell the cat.

"She respects the chain of command."

Maggie goes up for her nap at three with a theatrical yawning that should embarrass her. Bucky's packing up the drill in the kitchen and you're making coffee because it's cold and the radio on the counter—her ancient radio, permanently tuned to an AM station that plays classics—is murmuring under everything.

And you go still.

It takes you a moment to realize, and another to find why: he's humming. Barely, under his breath, and the song sounds pretty familiar.

The mug slips, you catch it against the counter, there's coffee slopping over your knuckles, and the burn makes you realize that song was playing in the dream where he danced with you in a dark room. You've never heard it awake in your life until right now. You don't know its name either, you only knew the next three notes after he hummed them.

"You okay?" He's looking at you now.

"It's nothing," you run your hand under the tap. "Just… wanted to heat my hands a little bit."

It's just an old song, it's an old radio station. Men hum old songs; it's logical. You repeat it in your head twice but your hands don't believe any of it. And god forbid you, you neither.

When you turn around, he's leaning against the counter, watching you with an expression you can't quite read.

"I've been meaning to ask you," he starts. "About the cards. Why do you do it? And I don't want the speech, I want the real answer."

You dry your hands slowly, deciding how much truth he's earned.

"My great grandmother read cards," you start, leaning against the counter across from him. "She read for people in her village back in the old country. My mom said she could look at someone and see the shape of their life, like… like they were made of glass. She tried to teach my mother, but the gift skipped her and landed on me instead."

You take a pause, watching the radio, the floor, anything but him.

"I was seven the first time I saw something I couldn't explain. I touched my grandmother's deck and I knew things about her neighbor who was sitting at the kitchen table. That she'd lost a baby the year before, that her husband was sleeping with her sister, that she was going to leave him by spring." You swallow. "I said all of it out loud, like an idiot child, because I didn't know you weren't supposed to just say those things."

Bucky's quiet. You can feel him listening, like he's cataloguing every word.

"My mother was horrified. My grandmother on the other hand wasn't. She said the cards chose me, and that I should learn to read them properly so I'd stop blurting out unfiltered truth at dinner parties." A small, humorless laugh leaves you. "So I learned. By the time I was a teenager, I was pulling cards for friends, for strangers, for anyone who asked. And most of the time, it's just… pattern recognition and intuition working together. The cards are a tool, not a magic trick, but sometimes—"

"Sometimes what?"

"Sometimes they show you something that doesn't fit any pattern you know. And you have to decide whether to believe what you're seeing or pretend you didn't see it."

The radio changes songs.

"Is that what happened with my reading?" he asks quietly.

No, you think. It's worse than that.

"I read what was on the table," you say instead, because it's the truth, even if it's not all of it. "I didn't make it up, Bucky. I've never fabricated a reading in my life. The cards that came up for you were clear… unusually clear. And I softened them because Hazel was sitting right there and I didn't want to hurt her, but I didn't lie."

He studies you for a long moment, and you can see the war happening behind his eyes—the part of him that wants to believe you fighting the part that needs to think you're a con artist, because the alternative is harder.

"Okay," he says finally.

"O—Okay?"

"I'm not saying I believe in it. I'm saying I believe you believe it, and that's… different."

It's the most generous thing he's said to you since the market, and it lands somewhere under your ribs.

It's a Tuesday in late November, and Maggie has sent him to fix a leak under the kitchen sink that you both suspect she caused by hitting the pipe with her cane. He's on his back under the counter and you're handling him tools, trying not to notice the way his shirt rides up when he reaches for the wrench.

When he slides out, wiping his hands on a rag, he looks at you for a while.

"There's a place two blocks over. They make decent coffee, if you're done pretending you don't need a break."

"That's the worst invitation I've ever heard. You're just observing that I look tired."

"You do look tired."

"Wow, thank you. A true gentleman."

His mouth twitches. "Do you want coffee or not?"

You want to say no, because saying yes feels too much like stepping off a cliff, but the word comes out before you can stop it. "Fine, but only because you're paying."

Maggie, from the front room calls out: "Take your time! I'm perfectly fine!"

You both know she's been listening to every word.

The walk to the café is silent.

The place looks cozy—it's small, warm and smells like cinnamon and cardamom. He orders black coffee and you order a latte and a slice of walnut cake. You sit t a table by the window where the afternoon light comes in, and for a few minutes neither of you says anything.

It should be awkward, being here without Maggie or your cats between you, but it isn't.

"Would you mind if I ask you something?"

"You're going to ask whether I say yes or not."

"Smart man." You turn the cup slowly. "Why do you do this? The handyman thing… Maggie says you work for the whole block. But you don't charge, you won't take money—"

"I take money, I just don't like to ask for it, besides, Maggie always invites me to eat."

"She tucks money in your jacket while you're not seeing."

"She's not as subtle as she thinks." He takes a sip of his coffee and ten looks at you. "I like fixing things, always have. When something's broken, there's a right way to fix it, and when it's done, it's done, it's done. You can see the result, it's not…"

"Ambiguous?"

"Yeah, exactly. It's not ambiguous."

You understand suddenly why he hated the reading and everything related to it. You gave him a puzzle with no solution, a fix with no steps… you made him sit with something unfixable.

The conversation moves easier after that. He tells you about the neighborhood, about Mrs. Ferreira, about Yori—the Asian man you saw the other day who feeds pigeons from his window, about the old man on the fourth who swears at everyone in Italian. You tell him about your shop, about your cats—Nova and Salem, about the time you accidentally read cards for a man who turned out to be an undercover cop investigating a psychic scam two towns over, and how you spent forty-five minutes proving your cards weren't marked.

You see him laughing, not the polite sound from always, but a real one. You drink your coffee and eat your cake and try to not think about the dreams.

It becomes a thing. He finishes a repair at Maggie's or passes by to eat and you end up at the café, or walking the two blocks to the park where the benches face the water, or simply sitting on her stoop in the last cold light of the afternoon while you both drink coffee.

You learn things about him in pieces. He's from Brooklyn—born and raised, he says, but the tone on his voice tells you it's partly a lie. He has a best friend named Sam who's a pain in the ass. He doesn't talk about his family, but you don't push. He served in the military, a long time ago.

He learns things about you too, like the fact you talk with your hands when you're passionate about something, or that you hum when you're thinking and that hum is always off-key. He learns about your habit of reading strangers on the street and narrating your observations under your breath.

The first week of December arrives with an ugly wind that rattles Maggie's windows and makes your cats burrow under the blankets. Maggie has graduated from the cane to limping short distances without it, which means she's mobile enough to meddle full-time.

Bucky comes by Wednesday to check a draft Maggie swears she can feel coming from the baseboards. You both know there's no draft, but he comes by anyway.

You open the door and he's standing on the stoop with his hands in his jacket pockets, his tool bag over one shoulder, and there's snow in his hair—not much, just dust, but it's there, melting against the dark of it—and your heart does something complicated because of how good he looks.

"Maggie's napping," you say.

His hand comes out of his pocket. He's holding a folded napkin, and he holds it out to you like it's a wrench.

"I made reservations," he murmurs. "At Valentino's, this Friday, seven o'clock."

You stare at the napkin. "Did you just… write it on a napkin?"

"I didn't have a paper." He shifts his weight. "Sam says you're supposed to give the person a specific time and place, so… there it is."

"You asked your friend how to ask someone on a date?"

"Well, he tells me a lot of things, more of it is useless." He's looking at the doorframe while he speaks, then he glances at you. "This part seemed right."

You unfold the napkin. His handwriting is surprisingly neat—small, precise letters. Friday, 7 pm- Valentino's on Henry St. —B

"Is this because Maggie put you up to it?" you ask, because if this is charity or pity or Maggie's matchmaking you'd rather know now and bleed later.

"No. She might take credit for it, but no. I was going to ask you at the café last week, but then you started reading people and I lost my nerve."

Bucky lost his nerve.

"So, Friday… at seven."

"Is that a yes?"

"That's a yes."

He nods once, and you can see his shoulders drop half an inch. You want to laugh, or cry, or both, so you just fold the napkin carefully and put it in your pocket.

"Are you going to come in and check the nonexistent draft, or…?"

"Might as well, just to keep the appearances."

He brushes past you in the doorway, and unlike the first time, he doesn't avoid your shoulder.

When Friday night comes, you don't understand why you're so damn nervous, but here you are, changing your outfit twice before settling with a blue dress and a pair of boots that Maggie claims make your legs look like they go on forever. You're halfway down the stairs when the doorbell rings.

He cleans up well. That's the first thought you have when you open the door. He's wearing a dark jacket over a sweater, and his hair is pulled back in a way that shows the sharp lines of his face, and he smells so good you have to resist the urge to lean closer and breathe him in again.

"You look nice," he says when you open the door.

"You too." You grab your coat from the hook. "Don't wait up, Maggie."

"Go. Don't come back before ten, I have a television program."

"We're going to dinner, Maggie, not—"

"Door will be locked before ten o'clock," she insists, and shuts the door on your face before you can answer, letting you at the bottom of the stairs.

You turn to face Bucky and the way he looks at you makes you forget every argument you've ever had with yourself about why this is a bad idea.

"Ready?" he asks.

"It depends. Are you going to accuse me of fraud tonight?"

"Not tonight."

"Then I'm ready."

Valentino's is tucked between a laundromat and a bookshop. The hostess greets Bucky by name and leads you to a corner booth where the candlelight flickers against the red-checkered tablecloth.

"Fancy," you tease.

"I said it wasn't fancy."

"Exactly," you unfold your napkin and look around—warm brick walls, fairy lights strung along the ceiling, and and old man at the bar arguing with the bartender about baseball. "I like it."

He orders wine for the table without asking, but it's the good kind, the kind that tastes likes blackberries, and when he catches you watching him over the rim of your glass, he doesn't look away.

You're talking about the shop—what you'll do when you go back, whether you'll reopen at all—when he leans back in his chair and takes a deep breath. "I want to ask you something, but I don't want to fight."

"That's a promising start."

"Why do you believe in it? The cards, destiny, all of it. You're smart. You read people like they're open books. How do you also believe that pieces of cardboard can tell the future?"

It's not hostile. It's genuine curiosity, and that's worse, because you owe him a real answer. You down the rest of your wine for a bit of liquid courage.

"When I was seventeen," you start, and your voice is careful, like you're walking on ice, " my great grandmother died. She'd been sick for a while, and when I went to see her in the hospital she… she told me she'd been reading my cards since I was born. That she'd asked about my future every year on my birthday, the way she did for everyone in the family. And every year, the same cards came up."

The restaurant noise fills the silence—the clink of glasses, a murmur of conversation from the next table—but you're hyper aware of him.

"She said love wasn't meant for me." You trace the rim of your glass with your finger. "I didn't believe her, I was seventeen, I thought she was a dramatic old woman who loved tragedy, or that maybe she was way too high on her meds. So I started reading for myself, I pulled my own cards every week, every month, every time I met someone I thought could be something. And every single time, the same answer. Reversed Ace of Cups. Ten of Swords. The Tower. Not for you, not in this life."

You laugh, but it comes out humorless.

"I even paid a woman to read my destiny matrix, I tried runes, I tried everything because I wanted so badly for the answer to be different; but it never was. I tried dating, I did. I wanted so bad to be loved. Apparently, the person meant for me was born over a hundred years ago, and I was born now, so the timing was wrong, and that's it."

Bucky is very still across the table. He hasn't moved, hasn't reached for his glass, hasn't done anything except listen with an intensity that makes your skin prickle. The silence between you stretches. He's looking at you with an expression you can't decode.

"Bucky?"

He exhales slowly, and his jaw works twice. Then he leans forward, resting both forearms on the table. "You don't have any idea of who I am?"

"Should I?" you ask, confused.

He stares at you for a long moment like he's looking for some sign that you're joking. "You really don't."

"Bucky, you're freaking me out a little. Are you in the mob? A famous musician? Because I have to be honest, I don't really follow the news, and history was never my strong subject. I know the major stuff, but—"

He reaches into his back pocket and pulls out his wallet, sliding something across the table toward you.

It's his driver's license. You pick it up, squinting at the tiny photo—he looks exactly the same, of course he does, that hot bastard—and then your eyes drop to the birth date.

March 10, 1917.

You read it three times, but the numbers don't change. You look up at him, and he's watching at you with an expression you can't read.

"I was born in 1917," he says quietly. "Here in Brooklyn. I went to war in '43 and… I didn't come back the way I left. They did things to me, changed me. I don't age the way normal people do, and there's a lot of years in between that I'd rather not talk about in a restaurant."

Your hands are shaking. You set the license down on the table between you like it might burn you.

"The matrix destiny," you whisper. "It said a hundred years ago. You were born a hundred years ago."

"Yeah." He leans forward. "And here's the thing. I don't believe in fate. I don't believe in stars writing our stories for us, because if I did—" His voice breaks, just slightly, and he catches it. "If I did, then I'd have to believe that what happened to me was determined. That the things that I did, the things that were done to me, they were written in stone before I was even born. And that's too cruel, that's a crueler god than I'm willing to worship."

He's breathing harder now, and you realize with a start that he's scared. Bucky Barnes, who caught your cat mid-air and argued with you in the rain, is scared of what you might say next.

"But you," he continues, softer now. "You showed up in my neighborhood reading cards and talking about things you shouldn't know. And I kept seeing you everywhere, and I kept telling myself it was a coincidence, that Brooklyn is small and you were just… there. But there's something here. I feel it every time I'm in the same room as you, and I don't know if that's fate or if it's just—" He stops, running a hand over his face. "I don't know what it is. But I know I haven't wanted to spend time with someone like this in a long time. And if that means the stars finally decided to do something kind for once, then maybe… maybe I'm not as angry at them as I thought."

You don't know what to say. The pasta arrives and sits cooling between you, forgotten. You think about every card you've ever pulled, every spread that ended in the same lonely answer, every time you accepted that love wasn't meant for you. And now, he's sitting across from you, born in 1917, a hundred-year-old soul in a young man's body, and the math is so simple it makes you want to laugh and cry at the same time.

"You're quiet," he says.

"I'm not quiet," you manage, but your voice sounds like it's coming from very far away. "I'm just… I don't know what to say. You don't— you don't just drop 'I was born in 1917' into a conversation and expect someone to have a response ready."

The corner of his mouth twitches. "Fair."

"You fought in World War II."

"Yeah."

"And you're telling me you don't believe in fate, but you just handed me proof that the answer I've been getting my whole life wasn't wrong."

"I'm telling you that I don't care what the cards said," he reaches across the table, his hand hovering over yours for a moment before he covers your fingers with his palm. His skin is warm, calloused, and you feel it everywhere. "I care that you're here, right now. And I'm here. That's enough for me."

You look down at your hand under his, at the candlelight pooling in the hollow of his palm, and you think about the High Priestess card, the one you've pulled for yourself a hundred times. Hidden knowledge, the veil between worlds, secrets.

Maybe the secret was that you weren't waiting for a ghost after all.

You eat eventually, though you barely taste it. He tells you about Sam, about the boat they worked on together, about the neighborhood changing and staying the same all at once. You tell him about your cats, about the way Maggie pretends to be asleep every time he comes over so you'll have to answer the door alone.

But mostly, you sit in the candlelight and let yourself have this. Whatever this is.

He insists on walking you home. It's not far—five blocks, maybe six—and the December air is sharp enough to make you tuck your hands into your coat pockets. He walks on the outside of the sidewalk, closest to the street, the way men used to do when he was young, and something about that makes your chest ache.

"You okay?" he asks as you turn onto Maggie's block.

"Yeah." But you're not, not really. You're overwhelmed, full of things you don't know how to say. You want to tell him that you've dreamed about him, that you've known the shape of his laugh before you ever heard it, that you pulled his cards in your kitchen and you threw the deck across the room because it was too much to believe. You want to ask him if he feels it too, this gravity, this sense of falling into something you never expected to find.

But you don't say any of that. You just walk beside him in the dark, and when you reach Maggie's stoop, you turn to face him.

The streetlamp behind him casts a halo around his shoulders. You think about all the years he's lived, all the winters he's seen, and you can't believe any of them led him here. To you. To this moment in your aunt's cracked concrete steps.

"I had a good time," he says.

"Me too."

He steps closer. You can smell the wine on his breath, the cedar of his jacket, the cold night air clinging to his air. He's close enough that you have to tilt your head back to look at him, and his eyes are darker in the shadows.

"I don't think I need to." Your voice is barely above a whisper. "I think I already know how this goes."

"Yeah?" His hand finds your waist, tentative, asking permission. "How's it go?"

And then he kisses you.

It's soft at first, careful, like he's giving you time to pull away. But you don't pull away. You reach up and curl your fingers into the front of his jacket, and he makes a sound against your mouth before deepening the kiss. His hand slides to the small of your back, pulling you closer, and you can feel the warmth of him through every layer between you that suddenly feels like too many.

He tastes like red wine, and his jaw is rough under your palm, and when you break apart you're both breathing hard, foreheads pressed together.

"Okay," you whisper. "Okay."

"Okay," he repeats, and he sounds almost drunk with it. He kisses you again, lighter this time, on the corner of your mouth, your cheek, your temple. His lips brush your ear as he murmurs, "I don't care about fate. But if you want to tell me what the stars said, I'll listen."

You laugh, a little watery, and push at his chest. "Go home, Bucky. It's cold."

"I know." But he doesn't move. He tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, his fingers lingering against your jaw. "I'll see you tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow."

He finally steps back, down one step, then two. He's smiling, the kind that reaches his eyes and rearranges his whole face into something boyish and new. "Night, then."

"Night."

You watch him walk down the block, his hands in his pockets, his shoulders relaxed in a way you haven't seen before. You watch until he turns the corner and disappears, and you stand there for a long moment with your fingers pressed to your mouth, trying to remember how to breathe.

The front door opens behind you.

"You're welcome," Maggie says.

You jump so hard you nearly fall off the stoop. "Jesus, Maggie!"

She's standing in the doorway in her robe and slippers, her crossword in one hand and a cup of tea in the other. She looks entirely too pleased with herself.

"You were watching!" You accuse.

"I was observing, there's a difference." She steps back to let you in. "I told you he was a good boy, serious, good with his hands." She winks. "And now you know for sure."

"Maggie!"

"Don't 'Maggie' me. I didn't raise you to be ungrateful." She shuffles toward the stairs. "You can thank me properly at breakfast. And don't think I didn't notice you sneaking cards at my kitchen table for three months straight. I may be old, but I'm not blind."

You stand in the hallway, coat still on, cheeks burning, and listen to her cackle all the way up the stairs.

Your cats appear from the front room, twining around your ankles, and you bend down to scoop Nova up, burying your face in her fur. She purrs, loud and indignant, and you laugh against her soft orange head.

"Okay," you whisper to him, to the empty hallway, to no one in particular. "Okay."

You don't know what happens next. You don't know how any of this works, a tarot reader and a century-old soldier, two people the universe apparently decided to throw together just to see what would happen.

But as you climb the stairs to your cramped little room, you think about the spread you pulled the night before you left for Brooklyn. The Tower. The Star. The World.

Disaster, then hope, then completion.

Maybe The Tower wasn't heartbreak after all. Maybe it was just the world rearranging itself to make room for something you never dared to ask for.

You fall asleep that night without pulling any cards, without any dreams at all, and when you wake up in the morning, the first thing you hear is Bucky's voice downstairs, asking Maggie if she takes one sugar or two, and the sound it's better than any spread you've ever read.

June.

The summer breeze at Coney Island smells like salt and fried dough, and you were wearing the jacket Bucky lent you because you misjudged the wind off the water. It's still too big, the sleeves past your knuckles, and he keeps reaching over to roll them back up for you, his thumb brushing your wrist every time.

You can't remember whose idea it was to come here. Maybe yours, maybe his. Maybe it doesn't matter, because Bucky's hand is wrapped around yours. You've been official since January, though the line between before and after has blurred into something that feels like it started long before either of you were brave enough to name it.

The boardwalk is crowded with families and couples and teenagers laughing too loud, but Bucky moves through them like he was made for this—for cotton candy and carnival lights, for the easy joy of a Brooklyn summer night. He fits here, you realize. He fits now. A hundred-year-old soul learning how to be young again.

"Step right up! Test your luck!" A barker's voice cuts through the noise, and you follow it to a row of old arcade machines tucked beneath a stripped awning. Skee-ball, claw machines, a racing game with a faded steering wheel—and then you see it.

A fortune teller machine.

It sits in the corner like something out of another era, which, you suppose, it is. Madam Zola's Mystical Fortune Cards, the peeling gold paint reads. Insert coin. Receive Your Destiny. The mechanical woman inside has painted glass eyes and a silk scarf draped over her plastic hair, and her hand rests on a deck of cards that probably haven't been mystical a day in their life.

Bucky follows your gaze and laughs. "You're kidding me."

"I'm absolutely not kidding you." You're already digging in your pocket for a quarter. "Madam Zola and I are colleagues, I need to know if she's legitimate."

"She's made of plywood."

"So judgmental." You find two quarters and press one into his palm, your fingers lingering against his. "For you, professional courtesy."

He looks down at the quarter, then back at you, and something softens in his expression. "Alright," he says. "But if this thing tells me I'm gonna die alone, I'm blaming you."

"Fair."

You drop your quarter in first. The machine whirs to life with a dramatic creak. Madam Zola's hand moves across the cards in jerky, mechanical motions, and after a moment, a small white card drops into the brass tray below.

You pick it up. It's not a real tarot card—just cardstock, cheap, the edges already soft from humidity—but the image printed on it makes your breath catch. Two hands clasped, reaching across a starfield. Beneath it, in gold script: The Lovers.

And underneath that, smaller: You've found the one. Don't waste time doubting it.

You stare at it. Bucky leans over your shoulder to read it, and you feel him go still.

"Huh."

"Your turn!"

"I don't need a card to tell me—"

"Your turn, Barnes."

He huffs, but he drops in the quarter you gave him. The machine grinds and another card falls. He picks it up. You don't see it at first, but you see his face—the way his jaw loosens, the way his eyes soften at the corners.

It's the same image, but the text beneath reads: What was written in the stars has come to pass. Trust the path, trust your heart.

The noise of the fair fades to a distant hum. You look up at him, and he's already looking at you.

"Bucky—"

"I don't care if it's rigged. I don't care if every card in that thing says the same thing. You're—" He stops, swallowing thickly. "You're it for me. You know that, right?"

Your heart is doing that complicated thing again, the thing it does every time he looks at you like you're the only person in the world.

"I know," you whisper. "Me too."

He kisses you then, right there in front of Madam Zola and half of Brooklyn, his hand cradling your jaw like you're something precious. When you pull apart, you're both breathless, and someone's wolf-whistled from the skee-ball line, but none of you seem to care at all.

"Come on," he says, lacing his fingers through yours. "I saw a ring toss on the way in, I need to win you something."

It takes him four tries and an embarrassing amount of money, and by the end he's swearing at the rigged bottles while you laugh so hard you have to lean against the counter for support. But on the fifth throw, the last ring catches, and the barker hands over the prize with a grudging nod.

It's a ridiculous bear, oversized and caramel-colored, wearing a tiny red bow tie. Bucky presents it to you as if he was handing you over the Holy Grail.

"For you. I was gonna go for the giant panda, but this one looked like it needed you more."

You crush it against your chest, burying your face in its soft synthetic fur. "I love him. I'm naming him James."

"You're not naming him after me."

"I'm absolutely naming him after you. Look at him, he has your expression."

Bucky stares at the bear's blank button eyes and then at you, and then he laughs, tilting his head back and you want to take a picture of him like this—careless, happy.

"Let's go to the photobooth," you demand, grabbing his hand. "Before the light changes."

"Bossy."

"You love when I'm bossy."

He doesn't agree, but he doesn't deny it either.

The photobooth is tucked behind the funhouse, a vintage four-strip model with a faded red curtain and a sign that flashes OUT OF ORDER every third flicker. But when you slide your money in, it whirs to life, and the first bulb flashes before you're ready.

"Wait—" you laugh, still adjusting the bear on your lap.

Too late. The first picture capture you mid-laugh, Bucky leaning in with his mouth open, probably saying something sarcastic.

"Okay, okay, be serious," you say, turning toward him.

"Serious," he repeats, but his eyes are dancing.

The second flash catches you pressing a kiss to his cheek, his hand coming up to rest on your waist. The third finds him turning his head at the last second so your lips meet his instead, his fingers threading into your hair. The fourth flash finds you both laughing into each other's mouths, your foreheads touching, the bear crushed between you. You don't remember who kissed who, but you don't care.

When the strip slides out of the machine, you hold it up to the light, watching the images develop in slow motion. Four tiny windows into a perfect moment. You look at them, and you think about al the cards you've ever pulled, all the lonely spreads and reversed cups, all the years you believed love wasn't meant for you.

And here you are. Here he is. A love out of time.

"I'm putting these on the fridge," you say. "When we get back to the apartment."

"Our apartment," he corrects and your heart flips.

You're moving in together next month. You found a place in Brooklyn with a windowsill wide enough for two cats and a fire escape that gets morning sun. He's already planning on building a spare room for your appointments, and built a shelf for your cards. You told him he didn't have to, that you'd find another place to do your readings and keep the cards in the closet if he wanted, and he looked at you like you'd suggested drowning a kitten.

"It's your gift," he said. "Why would I want you to hide it?"

Later, when the moon is high and the fair lights are starting to dim, you sit together on the boardwalk with your shoes off, toes buried in cool sand, sharing a funnel cake.

"We should get home," you say, but you don't move. "Salem and Nova are probably destroying something."

"They're fine, Nova's probably sleeping on my tool bag, and Salem's judging her from the windowsill."

"How do you know that?"

"Because that's what they do every time I'm there." He licks powdered sugar off his thumb. "Those cats have a very established routine. Nova loves me, Salem tolerates me… it's a good system."

You smile, leaning your head on his shoulder. "Salem tolerates everyone, that's just his personality. Nova loves anyone who gives her attention. They're not a good benchmark."

"Okay." He pauses. "Then you love me. And you're a much better benchmark."

You go still. The word hangs in the air between you, but he doesn't take it back. He just turns his head and looks at you, waiting, his eyes reflecting the last of the carnival lights.

"I do," you whisper. "I love you."

His smile is small and yet so full of hope it makes your chest ache. "I love you too. I think I started loving you the day you shut the door on my face."

"You have terrible taste."

"Must be the century I was born in, we liked 'em feisty."

You laugh, pushing at his chest, and he catches your hand and presses a kiss to your knuckles. You sit like that for a long time, watching the tide come in, his thumb tracing slow circles in your palm. Eventually, he reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out the fortune card from Madam Zola's machine.

"Do you think it's true?" he asks quietly. "The whole destiny thing. Do you really believe we were supposed to find each other?"

You look at the card, then at him—the man who was born over a hundred years ago, who fought a war and survived things you can't imagine, that sometimes admit not knowing how to do any of this, but that tries anyway for you.

"I believe," you start, "that the cards pointed me in a direction. They told me to wait, to not settle for something that wasn't right." You turn his hand over, tracing the lines of his palm—his life line, long and unbroken; the heart line, deep and sure. "But I don't think they made this happen, Bucky. I think we did. I think you showed up at my shop and you were rude and impossible and I couldn't stop thinking about you anyway. I think we let Maggie manipulate us into falling in love. The cards didn't do that, we did."

"Okay," he says. "I like that better anyway."

"Me too."

He folds the car again and tucks it back into his pocket, over his heart. "I'm keeping this, though. As evidence."

"Evidence of what?"

"That sometimes the universe gets it right."

You don't pull cards that night, haven't done it for a while, because you don't need to. You fall asleep with Bucky's heartbeat against your back, Salem purring at your feet, Nova curled on the pillow between you like a furry chaperone, and you dream of nothing at all—just the deep, peaceful dark of a life that's finally exactly where it's meant to be.

taglist: @herejustforbuckybarnes @wintersoldier-gal @globetrotter28 @angelryex @biaswreckedbybuckybarnes @erina00 @buckysdecaflove @jai200700 @squishyfruitloop @broadwaybabe18 @abyy1838 @juniebjonesin @mostlymarvelgirl @gilwm @ghost-of-barnes @alyssinwunderland-blog-blog @weasleyswizarding-wheezes @phoenix-in-writing @julinkapipinka @i-loveyoubutyourenotmine @oinswiftie @imtoooldforthis82 @onyx8514 @mathcat345 @apenny4thots +add yourself here!

[thecreelhouse]

pin back in the grenade

Paring: Steve Harrington x AFAB reader

Word count: 6k+

CW/tags: best friends to lovers, hurt/comfort, angst, post s4, mentions of wounds/blood/etc., fluff, PiV unprotected sex, oral sex (m receiving), somno if you squint (tbh not really but just to be safe gonna add that one), light dirty talk. title is from liar - paramore. MDNI

a/n: request from this post (that was supposed to be a blurb and I am so sorry): 🩹  tending to each other's wounds, 🍯  friends to lovers, 🔥  slow burn, 🛏 only one bed. also combining this with a request I got back after s4 part 2 dropped (to that anon, I am REALLY sorry lmao) for post s4 comfort sex w/ Steve. anyway, hope y’all enjoy <3 (divider from @/strangergraphics)

“Do you get a new freckle every day?”

Steve’s brows crinkle together while he laughs wearily. “Huh?”

You’re cleaning the wound around his neck and can’t help noticing just how many freckles and moles he has across his body. Or, from what you can see, at least. He has his shirt off while you’re tending to his injuries from the Upside Down and Vecna’s destruction across Hawkins.

Over the last several years, Steve’s normally vacant house became a safe haven for disasters like these, also a place where the kids could be together to just hang out on the quiet, normal days. He never said it, but he loved hearing the kids laughing and yelling, sometimes having movie nights, or playing DnD; it was a welcomed sound compared to the painful quiet he had grown used to for the majority of his life. 

Tonight, no inside jokes and endearing name calling echoed throughout the house. No fighting over which movie to play first, or what kind of pizza to order, or the shouting and cheering that usually came along with playing their favorite game. If anything, there were somber conversations, softly echoing through the house, with words and emotions no kid should have to be worried about. Sometimes there was crying, or complete silence, where the only thing Steve could hear was the faint, yet now permanent ringing in his ears he had gained over the last several years. Any which way a sound like these carried through the house, it broke his heart.

So, you try distracting him as the two of you clean one another’s wounds for yet another night. You keep things light where possible, but the both of you know it’s only a bandaid over a permanent emotional scar that is torn open time and time again. The physical wounds always heal, but the heartbreak you’ve all grown accustomed to is one that weighs so heavy on everyone’s hearts, and you can’t imagine it vanishing anytime soon.

“Yeah, I swear, it’s like you’re magically turning into a connect the dots picture, or something.” Steve smiles, laughing softly through his nose at your corny attempt to keep his mind off of the trauma.

“You think so? Maybe one of these days you should come up with a drawing out of ‘em.” Steve’s trying his hardest to keep things lighthearted, too, but sometimes it’s just easier to feel the pain instead of forcing any positivity.

“Jesus, this is gnarly.” You murmur, still amazed by the damage Steve took this time around as you’re softly swiping some kind of medicated ointment along the open wound. He hisses from the dull sting, but the substance begins to numb the ache and inflammation, bringing some sort of relief, if any at all. “Do you feel like a greasy slug when you use this stuff? Because I definitely feel like a greasy slug when I use it.”

Neither of you had figured out the best way to dress the wound around his neck, so Steve had been changing clean t-shirts like bandages every few hours. The others, at least, were relatively easy to clean and dress, but they seemed to be deeper; Steve probably needed stitches on some, but he refused to go to the hospital, insisting other people in town had worse injuries, and needed the medical attention more.

“I mean, I feel slimy… but not like a slug— Jesus, how much sleep did you get last night?” At first, you think he’s asking because of your silly remark, but then he’s cupping the side of your face, thumb gently rubbing along your cheekbone, getting a better look at the dark circles draped under your eyes. You push aside the butterflies in your stomach from his touch as you reach for his clean shirt, moving his arms out in front of you to roll the fabric down and over his arms and head. For a moment, you miss his touch, but it’s back on your face after he adjusts his shirt.

“Seriously, are you sleeping at all?” He asks softly, eyes filled with worry. Leave it to Steve to worry about everyone else before himself. 

You shrug as you look away, not wanting to make a big fuss. “Last night was just rough up here,” You poke at your temple. “That’s all. I’m sure I’ll be able to sleep easily tonight with how tired I am.”

“Where’d you sleep last night?” He asks, knowing decent spots to sleep were limited now that the all of the kids were reunited again. Everyone, except Max who was at the hospital, and Lucas, who refused to leave her side. Still, there were only so many places to rest for the entire group, even in a roomy house like Steve’s.

“Um… well, some of the kids had the pullout couch, one took a recliner, Robin has the guest room, and Jonathan and Nancy have your parents’ room… so I slept on the floor in the living room.” You shrug, but you know that contributed to the lack of sleep, and extra aches in your back. How you ever easily slept on the floor as a kid during sleepovers, you’ll never understand.

Steve looks bothered by this, letting go of your face as you move to the faucet to wash your hands. “What? Why didn’t you say something? You could’ve had my bed.”

You scoff a laugh out, “Steve, you need a real bed after everything you’ve been through. I can handle the floor like a big kid.”

“Okay, well, tonight you can sleep in my bed. I’ll take the floor, I don’t mind. Or I can sleep downstairs somewhere if you want sp—”

You shake your head wildly. “Don’t- I don’t wanna be alone again.” You maneuver around Steve as he slides off the counter, and you take his spot to let him tend to your wounds next. Finally, you confess, “I fell asleep once, and it was just one giant nightmare. I stayed up after that. Didn’t want to see that shit again.”

Steve washes his hands, lips pursed and brows furrowed as he keeps quiet for a moment, thinking. The two of you always trusted one another, always came to one another whenever you needed, so why the hell were you isolating yourself now?

“Next time, tell me. Wake me up. I don’t care.” Steve’s tone is firm, but he’s not upset with you. Just upset that you’re retreating into yourself when he just wants to help. 

He starts peeling off the butterfly bandages around the slit skimming vertically down your eye. It begins just above your eyebrow, running down to your brow bone, pausing across your eye before continuing just under your lash line, finishing off past your cheekbone. Instinctually, your eye begins to squint closed, but the action tugs at your skin, stinging along the edge of your wound. 

“Steve, you haven’t had a good night’s sleep since high school. Why would I wake you up when you need the rest?” He starts cleaning the wound, sighing to pause himself, think carefully about what he wants to say next. You keep going. “I actually did come in last night, but you were sound asleep. I didn’t have the heart to wake you up, not when you need the rest.”

“Close your eye for a second.” You do, appearing as if you’re failing an attempt at winking. Steve’s gently patting the cut with some sort of medical disinfectant on a cotton ball, heart aching little by little as you whimper in pain. You try keeping quiet, knowing your wounds are nothing compared to his. “You can cry you know. Or curse. Or yell. Or whatever. Stop trying to hide it.”

“Mine are like… paper cuts compared to yours.” He pats the wound dry with a new piece of cotton, sighing again. “What?”

“You don’t have to hide your pain from me. I’m not sure if you’re worried its a burden to anyone, or whatever, but you never hid from me before. What happened?” Steve begins to apply clean butterfly bandages along the deep slit in your skin. Every now and then, his eyes flicker to your lips, and you have to remind yourself your other face wound is a split in your lip. “Gotta get that next.”

“I can do it.”

“Nope, if you’re gonna nurse all of my wounds, it’s only fair if I do that for you in return.”

“Steve, you don’t have to—”

“No, but I want to. You’re my best friend, and you’ve been patching up my wounds since we were reckless little shits on the playground. You care about me, let me care about you.” His thumb gently presses on the untouched side of your bottom lip, holding it steady so he can begin fixing that one up, too. You’re too aware of how the pad of his thumb feels against your lip, wondering what it’d be like to wrap your lips around it and take him into your mouth.

“See, this is why I gotta hold your lip, you’re so twitchy.” Steve teases, unaware of why your bottom lip trembles every now and then when he’s so close. Is he really that clueless? “After this, you’re sleeping in my bed. I’ll carry you and lock you in my room if it means you’re gonna sleep like a normal person tonight.”

Your skin prickles and hair stands on end at his words. He really has no idea what he does to you with silly comments like these.

“Okay, but like…. What if I have to pee in the middle of the night?”

Steve stops his movements, snorting as his eyes close while a smile graces his features. With a shrug, he simply answers, “Hold it.”

Your jaw drops, feigning offense. “That’s fucked up, Steven.”

“So is sleeping on the floor instead of a bed.”

“You need it more than me!”

“Will you shut up for like, ten seconds? I’m almost done with this.” He’s stifling his own laughter, before murmuring, “Not gonna lie, you’re gonna look so badass when these are healed.”

“Pfffft. Maybe, but no one’s gonna be attracted to this mess.” You’re only joking, but Steve frowns as he applies petroleum jelly to your lips, generous on your cut. 

“What? No fucking way. You’re still a babe.”

“Yeah, okay, Steve. No one’s gonna kiss me after this.” You chuckle, but notice the way his eyes flicker to your lips again, lingering longer than usual, then back to your eyes. His gaze is mesmerizing, with the warm brown color and hazel undertones, you can’t bring yourself to look away. 

“I mean, I w—”

“Hey, St— oh,” Robin’s in the doorway of the bathroom, smirking at the two of you. “Am I interrupting something?” You lean back, fingers curled around the edge of the counter while Steve’s standing up straight, taking a step back from you as he clears his throat.

“N- no, we were just fixing each other up.” Steve nervously spits out, adding a shrug like everything’s cool. 

“Right. Sure you were.” Robin teases. You want to shrink into yourself and completely disappear on the spot. “Where’s the box of movies you stole from work?”

You quirk a brow at her question, then look back at Steve. “You did what?”

“Shut it— I didn’t— I borrowed them. Robin, stop spreading rumors about me.”

“Fine. Sure. You “borrowed” them,” She flashes air quotes with her fingers, and you laugh. “Where are they? The kids are driving me up a wall trying to find them.”

Steve looks puzzled, chuckling. “They’re literally right next to the damn TV. Dustin should know that by now.”

She rolls her eyes, “Oh my god,” she turns out of the room yelling down the stairs, “Dustin! Get your shit together, man!” Before walking away, she glances at the two of you again with a smirk, “Have fun playing doctor, or whatever.”

“Leave.” Steve points out the door as Robin’s already leaving.

“Yeah, you showed her.” You tease Steve, trying to let go of what he was about to say before Robin barged in. You’re sliding off of the counter, and Steve playfully pushes your shoulders from behind, forcing you out of the bathroom.

“Alright, smart ass, let’s go.” He nudges you across the hall to his room, but you try turning away. Swiftly, he turns you back towards the door. “I wasn’t kidding, I’ll throw you over my shoulder if it means getting you to sleep in a bed.” He keeps a firm grip on your shoulders, pushing you through the doorway comically.

“Steve, if you wanted me in your bed so bad, all you have to do is ask nicely.” You’re not even trying to be coy or flirt, but it makes him choke on air. You spin around quickly, “Hey, you okay?”

“Yeah, I— wrong pipe.” He rasps out, clearing his throat. You don’t buy it, realizing your lazy joke was the reason for his coughing fit. Still, you let it go, not wanting to embarrass him. Steve continues clearing his throat as he pulls some old blankets out of his closet, and some pillows from his bed to lay out on the floor.

“Stay in your bed, I’ll take the floor, it’s fine.” You’re trying one more time, hoping he’ll stop being so stubborn and sleep in his fucking bed. 

“Why are you so damn stubborn?” He wraps his arms around your waist and picks you up off the floor slightly, carrying you a few feet over before dropping you into his bed. 

“I was just thinking the same about you.” You murmur, arms crossed as you look at the bed behind you. You realize how big it is, and have an idea. “If you won’t let me sleep on the floor, just sleep next to me. There’s plenty of room for the both of us anyway.”

“Sleep— sl— next to you? Same bed?” Steve’s voice cracks, pulling giggles out of you. 

“Yes, Steve. Same bed. Unless you’ve got another one hiding around here.” You’re surprised you’re even suggesting this when the idea makes you incredibly nervous, but you need sleep, and Steve needs sleep, and you’re out of any other ideas. “If you want it to yourself though, I’ll sleep on the floor.”

“No- I- stop it, I’m gonna sleep on the floor, and that’s final.” His hands are on his hips, his signature, go-to move when he’s scolding the kids, but you’ve qualified for its appearance tonight, too. You rise to your knees on the bed, hitting eye level with him while you mirror him, hands falling to your hips in the same pose he has. 

Steve isn’t having it, and before you can start verbally teasing him, he’s pushing you back into bed. You catch yourself on your hands as you stumble back onto the pillows. “I’m gonna superglue you to the bed.”

“Now you’re just being a child.”

“Me? You were just—” Steve sighs, hand dragging over his face. “Just go to sleep.”

“I don’t want to!” Your bottom lip is wobbling as your bloodshot eyes tear up ever so slightly; you’re doing all you can to hold them back, reminding yourself logically this isn’t that serious, but your emotions show otherwise.

If anyone else in any normal circumstances yelled this, they’d be deemed childish. You, on the other hand, you’re yelling this for perfectly valid reasons. And Steve knows what you’re feeling all too well. One more time, his heart breaks for you, watching the panic spread across your sleep deprived face.

“I don’t want to sleep, I don’t want to watch you get hurt over and over again in my nightmares. I’ve seen that too many times in real life, it’s sickening watching you get beaten to death time and time again… and I just— fuck. Steve, just take the fucking bed. Please? I don’t want to sleep, and you need it more than me, I really don’t mind the fl—”

Steve sits next to you and pulls you into a hug, holding you tightly against him. That’s when the floodgates finally break. You grip onto his shirt, balling the fabric into your fists as you begin crying on his shoulder.

“M’not going anywhere. Promise. You’re safe, I’m safe, everyone’s okay.” You know that’s not completely truthful; Max is hanging on by a thread in the hospital, and Eddie’s gone. Steve knows this, but right now his concern is getting you to finally fall asleep. “C’mon, you’ll feel better if you lay down.” You expect Steve to gently nudge you to the pillows alone, but he keeps his hold on you, carefully laying the both of you down. “You sure you’re okay with me staying in bed?” You nod against his shoulder, wrapping yourself around him as if that’ll anchor him here for good. 

“Don’t go,” You’re mumbling into the fabric of his shirt, wanting to tug yourself closer to him, hang onto him like a clingy koala, but you’re trying to stay mindful of his injuries. 

“Not going anywhere.” Steve whispers, kissing the top of your head before lingering for a moment. “Not going anywhere without you.” Neither of you untangle from one another, and Steve’s embrace is starting to calm you down to steadier breathing and shaky hiccups instead of heavy crying filled with anxiety and dread. With your body desperate for rest and the security you feel with Steve, it doesn’t take long for sleep to pull you in. Steve’s snoring softly shortly after you fall asleep.

At some point in the night, the two of you untangle, rolling to opposite sides of the bed. Steve’s woken up by movement, strange shifting in the bed next to him, and an airy whimper, just loud enough for him to hear. He rubs his eyes, turning over and sees your figure, facing away from him, remembering that the two of you fell asleep in his bed. 

Steve’s not sure what time it is, nor does he really care, especially not after hearing another soft noise float from your parted lips. Trying to adjust to the dark surroundings, despite the weak glow from a night light plugged in, he stares at you, or what he can see, at least, worried you’re having another nightmare. He moves closer and leans over you, prepared to wake you up and give comfort if you need, but you don’t look scared. If anything, you look pained, frustrated; Steve’s eyes scan down your figure as you move again, noticing the way your hips roll forward against your own hand.

Holy shit.

Frozen, he can’t take his gaze off of you. He needs to. He should roll back over and force himself back to sleep, pretend he never heard anything, never saw you—

“Steve…” You murmur, languidly grinding against the heel of your palm, face buried into the pillow as you writhe under his imaginary touch. His mind starts spiraling.

That’s why you got nervous when he held your lip, or when you mentioned how with a lip scar inevitable in the near future, no one would want to kiss you, and the way the two of you couldn’t take your eyes off of one another. How you looked so mortified when Robin walked in, forcing the two of you apart. He begins to realize how this isn’t new, this has been going on for awhile, and he can’t believe how oblivious he’s been.

The signs have always been in your lingering touches, when you lock eyes with him and share knowing glances no one else would understand, the way you’ve always tried protecting him, or tending to his now routinely scheduled injuries whenever he’s caught up in anything related to the Upside Down. It’s always been in the way you’d give up your comfort for him, how you’d never complain if he woke you up from nightmares, calling at three in the morning. 

How it’s an unspoken pact between the two of you to share your fries with one another, or when one falls asleep early during movie nights, the other thoughtfully covers them in a blanket, letting them rest. How you always keep extra medical supplies in your car just for Steve’s clumsy ass. How he’s sneaking you video tapes for free whenever you visit him at work. How you insist on calling him exactly at midnight on his birthday. 

You’d drop everything in an instant for Steve, and he’d do the same for you without hesitation. Whenever he tries to put your needs first, you’re quick to point out that someone needs to care about him, too.

Steve can’t believe how clueless he’s been, and out of all the times he’s figuring this out, it’s now, while you’re having a wet dream about him. Because of fucking course it would hit him now.

While his thoughts ran in a million different directions at once, he wasn’t aware of how hard he became, hearing your cute little noises, and how he’s still pressed right against you from behind. Does he let you continue? Does he wake you up? If he does, what’s his excuse? Lie and say it was a nightmare? Or tell you the truth, risking ruining something before it could ever begin, embarrassing you on the spot?

Without warning, you turn over, still asleep as your arms slip around his torso loosely, as if you’re still trying to be careful with his wounds while knocked out. One of your legs slot between his, and Steve has to bite back a groan at the pressure against his bulge. As if that alone wasn’t threatening to make him fall apart, your hips begin moving lazily again against his leg, and he can feel your sticky heat on his skin through your sleep shorts. Steve’s about to lose his fucking mind.

“Stevie, wanna make y’feel good…” You’re still asleep as you murmur this. Steve knew you talked in your sleep, but never like this. He can’t take it anymore. One hand ends up on the hip facing away from the bed, while the other is drawn to your neck, curling to the back to hold you gently as his fingers slide up into your hair. 

“Wanna make you feel good too, angel.” He’s guiding you slowly along his thigh, tensing up underneath you; he’s not sure how to wake you up without startling you, and he doesn’t want the building desire to end so soon. 

In time with his thoughts, you begin to stir, eyes fluttering open. You blink a couple times, then Steve nudges against your core again, and you keen, throwing your head back into his hand already waiting for you.

“Oh- oh, fuck, oh my god…” You’re growing aware of the situation, realizing your dream is becoming reality so seamlessly. You’re embarrassed, you want to hide away and apologize, but Steve rubs himself against the leg you have pressed against him, releasing a throaty groan; the embarrassment falls away, fast. “St- Steve?”

“Yeah?” He’s trying not to pant this soon, trying not to sound so breathy and needy already.

“M’sorry, I- I didn’t realize that I—”

Steve shushes you softly, bringing your face closer to his as he leans in, noses touching while you’re both making the sweetest noises together. “I can stop, if you want. I- I shouldn’t just assume you want this, maybe it was a silly dream—”

“No, it wasn’t… I really want you, Steve.” Your hands test the waters, sliding up his body, but only over his shirt, before holding his face; your gaze locks with his, and despite the dim glow in the room, you can see the lust ridden look he’s giving you while nodding wordlessly to give his consent. You lean in to kiss him, lips touching ever so slightly; you freeze as self doubt sets in, but he senses it, and kisses you back fully, mindful of your split lip. 

It’s slow, almost too slow for you and how wound up you are from the dream, but you do your best to stay patient. Steve’s hand on your hip sneaks under your shirt, just enough that the tips of his fingers brush against your skin, just beneath the hem. The hand cradling the back of your head moves to your jaw, fingers splaying out to get a better hold on you when his lips part against yours. You make some kind of small noise, a muffled yelp that slips into Steve’s mouth when his tongue slips into yours. Distracted by the kiss, your hips stopped rolling, so Steve begins guiding you along his thigh again.

A moan shudders out of you as you pull back to catch your breath. Steve can’t take his eyes off of you as your eyes flutter shut, head falling back as another sweet moan leaves your lips, losing yourself in the pleasure from such a simple action.

You’re not sure when, but your hands made it to Steve’s back, fists bunched up with the fabric of his shirt, not wanting to touch any part of him that might hurt, but needing to grab something. 

“Does th- this happen a lot?” He manages to ask, and in his head, he’s rolling his eyes at himself, because he wanted that to sound so much sexier than it did. You’re in a whole different world, though, already blissed out when barely anything has happened yet.

“Mhm,” You open your eyes as you answer, the burning desire low in your body growing hotter as the two of you make eye contact again. “Can I- can we— take this stupid thing off.”

Steve laughs, realizing maybe sexy isn’t what either of you need right now; being best friends already, it only makes sense that the only time the two of you can’t form coherent thoughts laced with lust would be when you’re pressed up against one another for the first time.

Pulling his hands back, he gestures to his shirt in the goofiest way, like he’s Vanna fucking White, showing off a purchased vowel. “You can’t take this seriously, can you?” You’re not mad, in fact, you’re laughing with him, and something about the two of you nervously laughing makes you more comfortable being intimate with your best friend. 

“I’m just filling in the blanks for you, angel.” He’s smirking, but he’s also trying to stifle more laughter, so it just comes out as a product of a snicker and a snort. 

“Oh, that was real cute,” You tease, reaching for his waist. “Words, words are hard.” You’re grumbling, tugging at the bottom of his t-shirt, carefully pulling it over his head.

“Yeah, don’t hurt yourself thinking too hard.”

Whatever smart-ass retort you had ready to roll off your tongue disappears at the sight of Steve, now shirtless. It’s nothing new to you, you’ve seen him shirtless plenty of times before, but in the moment, you’re hyper aware of how different this is. There’s no going back, but if you were being honest, there was no going back once you moaned his name in your sleep.

“What?” Steve asks, laughter dying down as he watches you reach out to his torso, tracing his scars, both old and the ones just beginning to form. 

“You’re so… pretty.”

Steve blushes, a rosy red shade blooms across his face, to the tips of his ears. “I— shut up.”

You scoff, “I’m being honest!” He tugs at the bottom of your shirt, waiting for your permission, but your hands hold his back, shaking your head. Shyly, you state the obvious, “I don’t have a bra on.” Of fucking course you don’t, you never sleep in bras. Even Steve knows that, forever impressed with how you could just unhook that damn thing with one hand so casually and slip out of it, pulling it out of your shirt without ever stripping. It’d take everything in him to hold his jaw from dropping, when you just wanted out of a ridiculously uncomfortable bra.

“Hey, it’s okay,” Steve reassures softly, only to follow it up with, “I don’t either.”

“Alright, that’s it, I’m going back to sleep,” You tease, beginning to roll back over, but Steve grabs you quickly to roll you on top of him instead. 

“Like hell you are,” He’s tugging at your shirt again, looking up at you with those sweet doe eyes, filled with wonder and curiosity over what his best friend looks like under everything. “Don’t feel pressured to say yes. We can st—”

You’re pulling your shirt off with a determined speed, like ripping off a bandaid, throwing it on the floor. “I do not look good with these bruises.” 

Steve sits up, all humor and admiration draining from his features as he takes in all of the severe bruising you have from a few days ago. “Wh… how— why didn’t you show me? Or tell me? Fuck, I probably made some of them worse—”

“Hey, Steve, it’s okay. Seriously. I’m okay. These are nothing compared to what you ended up with.”

He shakes his head, ghosting his fingers over some of the worst bruises, blooming in the darkest shades of purple and blue he’s ever seen on someone, including himself, and that says a lot. Some are beginning to grow into that sickly yellow, even greenish color. 

“What the hell do I have to do or say to convince you that you’re allowed to show me your pain too?” He’s not sure what he’s feeling, he just wishes you said something, wishes he knew so he could care for you properly.

“There’s not much you can do for bruises, Steve.” You shrug. “M’sorry, I just wanted to put you first. You’re always caring for everyone else before yourself, and I wish you’d let someone care for you, too. I want to give you the love and care you give everyone but yourself. These mean nothing to me, I just didn’t want you to be disappointed.”

Steve can’t believe what he’s hearing. “Disappointed? From what? How you look with these? Because I wasn’t kidding when I said you’re still a babe with your face wounds, and that applies here too. You have… no fucking idea how badly I want to get my hands all over you, but I think we should stop. I don’t want to make those more painful than they already are.”

“Steve, I can handle it. I bruise like a peach, anyway.” You’re mentioning it casually, but enjoy the way he blushes at your words, clearly thinking of better reasons to be bruised. You smirk, “Feel free to tuck that fun fact away for another day.”

“I— I’ll bring that back up later.” He murmurs, trying to focus. “Anyway… are you sure?”

Rolling your eyes, you grab his hands, bringing them to your tits roughly. “Does this answer your question?”

Enthusiastically, Steve nods, fingers already toying with your nipples, breathing out, “Fuck yeah it does.” You start giggling until he latches onto one of the sensitive nubs, fingers softly pinching at the other every so often, in between grabbing a handful of you. He groans into your skin, thinking about how long he’s wanted to touch you like this, but it’s better than he imagined. 

You’re arching your back as he switches sides, a thread of spit unraveling from his lips that’s still clinging to you;  your eyes to roll back as you grind down onto his lap from just the sight alone, fingers twisting into his locks, tugging softly as he sucks, bites, soothes with his tongue, then repeats.

“I need…” You’re gasping, head falling back; Steve takes advantage of your exposed neck, kissing up your chest before leaving small, soft love bites up to your jawline. 

“You need… what?” He kisses the corner of your mouth, but you can’t take it slow anymore, you need him now. You grab his face to kiss him, and it’s a little sloppy, a little clumsy, but he leans into it anyway. The two of you find a semi perfect rhythm, one that flows with the way you continue to grind onto him. You nip his bottom lip, tugging on it before letting go, and Steve moans into you. 

“Need you, need you right now.” You’re frantically murmuring against his lips.

“We don’t have to rush.” He pulls back, searching your features for any sign that something is off, but all he sees are your lust blown pupils. “I mean, I’m not complaining, but—”

You kiss him quickly before pushing him back against the pillows, shimmying down his body, kissing his scars with care along the way, continuing down until you reach the waistband of his shorts.

“Oh, you don’t have to—”

“Steve, quit being nice for, like, five minutes. Are you okay with this?”

With a gulp he nods, breathing heavily “I— I’m more than okay with this.”

“Thank fuck.” You tug his shorts down, almost drooling as you watch his length spring free, the rounded tip red with desire, leaking precum. “Steve, what the fuck.”

“You’re sending me so many mixed signals tonight, holy shit. Is that … is that good?”

You need to shut your mouth, mind too far in a cock-drunk daze to tease him with words. So, you run your tongue up the underside his cock, broadly, taking your time to reach the head, eyes on him the entire time. Steve yelps on contact, eyes screwing shut as his head falls against the pillow, but he pushes himself to look down at you, bucking against your tongue before you take him in completely.

“Jesus fucking Chri-iiiiiiiist,” He shudders out, hands tangling into your hair as you begin to bob up and down on him. “This… you… hhhhohmygod—”

You pull off with a pop that echoes off the walls, a sound Steve wishes he could’ve recorded to play when he gets off in the future, followed by the sight of you drooling onto his cock as it kicks with need.

“Tell me how you really feel, Steve,” You tease before taking him in again, but he holds your head in place, making you pout. “Am I doing something wrong?”

“No, no, fuck no. Your mouth feels so fucking good, angel, but I need… I…”

“Take your time, babe, it’s okay.” You tease, making Steve groan, both with annoyance and a craving for you to get mouthy, just not now. 

“Fuck me, just need you to fuck me, please baby,” He’s babbling as he tugs you back up his body, hands on your hips as you hover above his cock. “Need to feel you, angel.”

You push your shorts down and throw them to the floor with your shirt. “Yeah?” You lightly rub your core against his cock, and he bucks with a desperate whine. 

“Yes, please, please—”

Words become nonexistent as you sink down onto him slowly, walls slowly stretching around him, adjusting to his size.

“Knew you w- were big, but not like… not like this.” You’re panting, overwhelmed by the slight pain from taking him to the hilt, but the pleasure is greater, rendering your brain useless. Not a damn thing on your mind except Steve and how fucking good he feels so deep inside of you.

“Fuckfuckfuck,” Steve gasps, grip digging into your hips roughly, knowing he’s just adding to your bruises, but he’ll apologize later. “You’re so— never felt a pussy tighter than yours, angel. M’god, don’t fucking move.”

You giggle, and he glares at you. “Don’t— do not do that either, just… fucking sit there for a second, okay? I’m really not trying to blow my load this early.” You’re doing your best to keep stoic, nodding as you fold your hands and wait patiently. “Oh my god, why are you like this?”

Shrugging, you begin to reply, “Why n— oh!” Steve pulls you down to him roughly, kissing you as he begins to move, fucking you slowly from below. He guides you by the hold on your hips, bouncing you on his cock, causing your eyes to roll back as he moves a hand to the back of your head. Holding you tightly against him, your forehead rests against his as the two of you gasp and pant lewdly onto each other’s lips. You’re riding him like no one else has, to the high fucking heavens, and he swears he’s gonna die a happy man right here, underneath you.

“How often have you dreamt about this?” You shamelessly ask, sitting up and leaning back as you roll your hips, grinding down so he hits your sweet spot just right. Steve’s speechless, flexing up into you, jaw slack as your walls flutter around him. “You’re so pussy-drunk right now, huh?”

A strained “Mhm,” leaves him; he’s not even going to hide how he’s putty in your hands, right now, and as long as you’ll have him. Finally, he rasps, “Fuck, wish we did this sooner.”

“We got all the time in the world to make up for it, Stevie.” Your legs twitch and shake, signaling you’re not far off from your high, but they’re also sore still from days ago, and right now, you’re just making them hurt more. Great cause, of course, but it doesn’t dull the pain, so you’re beginning to slow down. “Fuck, my legs hurt.”

“Oh, no you don’t,” Steve pulls you back down arms wrapped around your back, one hand gripping around his other wrist, keeping you stable as he plants his feet against the bed, fucking up into you with everything he’s got. “It’s okay, angel, I’ve got ya’.” He grunts, hammering into you with so much force, you can’t help but moan loudly, almost screaming, but you bury your face into his shoulder, biting down to muffle your noises as you flutter around him. “Fuck, didn’t think you were so vocal.” At this point, you are screaming, but the noise barely leaves you as you keep your mouth on his skin.

Steve’s hips are starting to stutter, and his cock twitches, needy for release. “Good girl, don’t wanna wake up the whole house, right?” That’s the final push over the edge for you; grabbing Steve’s face, you kiss him deeply to keep quiet. The faint, metallic taste of blood works its way onto your tongue, and you realize your semi-treated split lip is split once again. You pull back, trying to keep as quiet as possible, frantically whispering, “I love you, I love you, fuck, I love you—” Following you into bliss, Steve pulls you back onto his lips as he cums, filling you shamelessly as you still squeeze him, milking him for all he’s got as he’s moaning into you.

When the two of you come down, covered in a sticky sheen of sweat and hearts ready to beat out of your chests, the shame hits fast as he pulls back enough to murmur, “Fuck. I didn’t even ask—”

“Birth control is a beautiful thing, babe.” You smile down at him, breathless. Steve sighs relief, thankful for whoever the fuck created the pill. His eyes fall to your lip before thumb swiping the mess away.

“Shit, m’sorry.”

“Worth it. So fucking worth it.” You giggle before he kisses you softly. 

Pulling back, Steve reaches out to cup the side of your face, and you lean into his touch, giddy and exhausted all at once.

He’s admiring the view of you above him, softly replying to your confession, “I love you, too.” 

The two of you are basking in the afterglow of one another, beaming and holding each other tight, unable to move just yet. Steve doesn’t mind taking a second to catch his breath, but then a loud bang against his bedroom door startles the both of you.

“About fucking time!” Robin shouts from the other side before walking away. Faintly you hear her huff, “Noisy assholes.” Steve locks eyes with you, both of you stunned and embarrassed before bursting into a fit of laughter together.

“Still worth it?” Steve teases, and you shrug playfully.

“Worth what, the impending shame fest they’re gonna put us through tomorrow morning?” You lean down to kiss him again before replying against his kiss-swollen lips, “Oh, fuck yeah.”

[wendichester]

⋆˚𝜗𝜚˚⋆ big arms, bigger apologies,

summary. you've just been introduced to the world of hunting and the questions are many. dean's not in the mood to answer them

pairing. dean winchester x reader ( gn )

wordcount. 838 genre. soft angst and then comfort

warnings. dean snapping/raising his voice, reader overwhelmed by the hunting world

ᯓ★ read sam's version

The questions tumble out before you can stop them. It’s like opening a floodgate—you’re desperate to learn, desperate to keep up, because this world Dean and Sam live in is big and violent and terrifying, and if you don’t understand it, how are you supposed to survive it?

“So the salt is for ghosts, but what about—wait, do demons—”

“Salt doesn’t work on demons,” Sam supplies from across the room, his voice patient, though he’s buried in lore books.

You nod, filing that away, but another question’s already on your tongue. “Okay, so if salt doesn’t work, then what about—”

“Oh my god,” Dean snaps, louder than you’ve ever heard him.

You flinch. He’s at the table, oiling a gun, but now he slams the rag down so hard the bottle rattles. His head jerks toward you, green eyes burning, and the sharp edge in his voice feels like it cuts straight through your chest.

“Can you shut up for five freakin’ minutes? Christ, you sound like a broken record. Questions, questions, questions—do you ever stop talking?”

The words hit harder than they should. Your mouth falls open, but nothing comes out.

Dean’s still going, pacing now, too wound up to sit. “This isn’t some cute little campfire story, alright? This is life or death. You screw up out there because you’re too busy playing twenty questions, you don’t get a do-over. You don’t need to know everything, you just need to listen and do what I say.”

The silence after his rant is brutal. Sam looks up from his book, startled, but stays quiet. Your throat tightens, hot and humiliating. You blink hard, trying not to let the sting in your eyes show, because if you cry now, it’ll only prove his point: that you’re too green for this life.

So you swallow. Nod once. And without a word, you cross the room and perch on the edge of your bed, arms wrapping around yourself like armor.

Dean doesn’t notice. Not at first. He’s still pacing, muttering under his breath about “goddamn babysitting duty,” raking a hand through his hair like he’s the only one carrying the weight of the world.

But then his eyes land on you.

You’re sitting stiff-backed, staring at the ugly motel carpet like it’s safer than looking at either of them. Your hands are clenched in your lap, jaw tight, lips pressed together. Silent.

And that’s when Dean feels it—the guilt, heavy and cold in his gut.

“Aw, hell.” He exhales like he’s been sucker-punched.

Sam opens his mouth, maybe to say something sharp, but Dean’s already moving. He crosses the room in quick strides, and when he kneels in front of you, the anger’s gone from his face. What’s left is something rawer.

“Hey.” His voice is lower now, hesitant. “I… shouldn’t have said that.”

You lift your eyes, just barely, and the flash of hurt there nearly floors him. He swallows, shifting closer until his knee bumps yours.

“I was outta line,” he admits. “I didn’t mean… all that. You’re not a screw-up. You’re just—” He stops, sighs, rubs the back of his neck. Vulnerability isn’t exactly his strong suit. “You’re just trying. And I went off on you like an ass.”

You shake your head automatically. “No, it’s fine.”

Dean grimaces. “Don’t—don’t do that. Don’t say it’s fine. It’s not. I was a jerk.”

Before you can answer, he leans forward and pulls you into his arms. The hug is abrupt, almost clumsy, but tight—so tight you can barely breathe for a second. His chin drops against your shoulder, and you feel his chest rise and fall in heavy breaths.

“I’m sorry,” he says, voice muffled. “I get wound up, and I take it out on people who don’t deserve it. You didn’t deserve it.”

Your arms hover in the air for a moment before you give in, wrapping around his broad back. The tension in him bleeds out slowly when you hold him back, like he’s been waiting for permission to let it go.

“I just…” He pulls in a shaky breath, presses closer. “I don’t want you getting hurt. I’ve already lost too many people. Can’t—” His voice cracks, so he cuts himself off with a shake of his head. “So yeah, I get snappy. Doesn’t mean I don’t want you here. Doesn’t mean I don’t…” He clears his throat. “Care.”

Your chest aches, but not from his words this time. You squeeze him tighter. “Okay.”

Dean eases back just enough to look at you, green eyes searching. There’s still guilt there, but softer now, threaded with relief. When you give him a small, tentative smile, the corner of his mouth twitches up like he doesn’t quite believe he’s earned it—but he wants to.

He cups the back of your head, pulling you against him once more, and this time he doesn’t let go so quickly.

And for all the things Dean Winchester is terrible at saying, the way he holds you now says more than enough.

ꔛ. all works ; writing guidelines ; support my work .ᐟ

[levanswrites]

𝐝𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐭𝐞

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: steve harrington x reader 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: old money!steve, waitress!reader, slow burn, enemies-ish to lovers, idiots in love, mutual pining

♡ · · · ♡ · · · ♡

The card room is full of men old enough to be your father.

Some are old enough to be your grandfather.

They all call each other by their last names and gamble away more money in a single hand than you make in six months, all while finding the time to tell you you'd look prettier if you smiled.

The tips are obscene, though.

So you smile. 

You refill glasses before anyone has to ask and laugh politely at jokes that haven't been funny in thirty years.

You pocket your tips. You move on.

Until one Thursday, someone new walks in.

He couldn't be more than a year or two older than you.

Maybe not older at all.

He's got the kind of face rich boys seem to keep well into their thirties: hazel eyes that catch warmth in the low chandelier light, a strong nose and soft, full lips. Thick brown hair that refuses to stay in place, falling forward in a way that looks accidental even though you know it probably took a 300-dollar haircut to make it look that effortless.

He's dressed simply—pale blue Oxford shirt with the sleeves rolled to his forearms and dark slacks—but everything about him is stupidly expensive if you know what you're looking for.   

The watch, the loafers. The clean, understated cologne and the heavy gold signet ring on his left hand.

Old money.

Of course.

Another trust-fund prince getting dragged in by his daddy to “learn the family business.”

You grab the bourbon ordered for seat four—two fingers of Woodford Reserve over fresh ice—and carry it across the room.

He glances up as you set the glass beside him.

Unfortunately...

He's somehow even better-looking up close.

His eyes are stupidly big, lashes stupidly long. There's a scattering of tiny moles across his left cheek, little imperfections that stop him from looking carved out of marble.

Rich boy's got a nice face.

Shame about everything else.

His eyes catch yours for a moment before he gives you a polite nod.

“Thanks, honey.”

Then his attention drops right back to his cards.

You blink.

Honey?

Who the fuck is this guy?

He's your age.

Maybe younger.

You've got seventy-year-old regulars who've been calling waitresses “sweetheart” and “doll” since before you were born, but somehow hearing it from someone who probably still remembers freshman orientation is infinitely more irritating.

You turn on your heel before he catches the expression crossing your face.

Trust-fund asshole.

Probably couldn't tell you what a gallon of milk costs if you put a gun to his head.

Fuck that guy.

· · ·

Well.

Turns out, trust-fund asshole is good at poker.

Disgustingly good.

He’s not loud about it either; that’s what the older men hate most.

For almost an hour, he folds hand after hand, absently spinning that signet ring around his finger while everyone else slowly convinces themselves that he's way out of his depth.

So it's almost funny, when this twenty-something-year-old cleans out someone who's been playing cards since before he was born.

You have to bite back a laugh when one of the regulars slams his cards down hard enough to rattle everyone's glasses.

Serves him right.

By the time you make another round, half the table is bleeding chips.

Everyone's in a foul mood.

Everyone except for seat four.

You set another Woodford beside him.

“Thanks, honey.”

He smiles, this time.

The corners of his hazel eyes pinch with it, little creases fanning outward. It gives him an almost boyish look, rounding out his cheeks, smoothing away the sharp lines of his face until there’s something disarmingly gentle about him.

Huh.

Then he goes right back to looking at his cards.

Asshole.

· · ·

The game finally breaks sometime after midnight.

You're clearing glasses when you notice a thick wad of cash tucked under silver-spoon dickhead's—seat four's—empty tumbler.

You assume it's meant for the cashier... until you pick it up.

It's all hundreds.

A lot of hundreds.

You count it once. Then again. Then a third time because surely, surely, there’s no way.

Your head snaps up toward the entrance and find him standing by the coat room, shrugging into a camel-colored cashmere overcoat that could probably cover your student loans three times over.    

You hurry after him before common sense can stop you.

“Hey! Um, excuse me!”

He turns.

“I think, uh...” You hold up the money. “I think you made a mistake.”

His eyes drift over your face, then flick down to the wad of cash pinched between your fingers—fifty crisp hundred-dollar bills.   

He blinks at you, those ridiculous lashes fanning against his cheeks, his brows drawing together like he honestly can't figure out why you’ve chased him down.  

A tiny little crease appears between his brows, which would almost be cute if he wasn't so disgustingly wealthy.

“Did I?”

“...Yeah.”

He studies the cash for another second before understanding dawns on his face.

“Oh.” He gives a small shrug. “No.”

“No?”

“That wasn’t a mistake. It was for you.”

You laugh, because that's insane.

To someone who just walked away with well over a hundred thousand dollars, five grand probably feels like buying coffee.

To you, it's rent. It's gas, tuition, groceries, bills. An entire semester where you wouldn't have to hold you breath every time you swiped your debit card.

“I... I can't take this.”

His brows pull together again. “Why not?”

You stare at him.

“Because it's... five thousand dollars? That's—” You huff another disbelieving laugh. “I mean, that's just... way too much for a tip.”

He glances back toward the card room, then back at you.

Smiles, just a little.

“Didn't seem like too much from where I was sitting.”

You open your mouth, but nothing comes out.

And before you can think of another reason to refuse a tip worth more than your savings account, he's already shrugging the rest of his coat on, straightening the lapel with an absent swipe of his thumb.

He turns toward the door, making it only three steps before he pauses.

One hand settled on the brass handle, he glances back over his shoulder.

“You're here Thursdays, right?”

It takes you a second to answer.

“...Yeah?”

His smile comes back.

“Great.”

He tucks his hands into his coat pockets, gives you a little nod, and heads for the door.

“I'll see you next week, honey.”

And then he's gone.

· · ·

He comes back the next Thursday.

And the Thursday after that.

By week five, you've learned his name.

By week six, you've stopped rolling your eyes every time he calls you honey.

By week seven, he starts lingering after the games instead of disappearing the second the last hand is dealt.

One night, you're hauling a crate of empty glasses toward the bar when, without warning, the weight disappears.

You glance up to see a pair of hazel eyes blinking down at you—a warm, boyish smile on those plush lips, almost sheepish, like he's not sure if you're going to let him help or tell him to get lost.  

You raise a brow. “Uh, I'm pretty sure that's not your job.”

“No, it’s not,” he agrees easily.

“Then why are you doing it?”

He shrugs like the answer couldn't possibly be complicated.

“Gets me an extra five minutes.”

“Five minutes?”

“With you.”

He says it so casually that it takes a second for the words to actually land.

And when your face flares with heat, you’re grateful he’s too busy balancing the crate to notice.

· · ·

After that, Thursdays become a little easier.

The job is still the job—the endless dance of dodging wandering hands, stepping away from men who mistake a smile for an invitation and politely slipping your wrist free from people old enough to know better.

But Steve Harrington becomes your bright spot.

He never touches you unless you’re handing him a glass.

He’s the only man in the room who doesn’t let his eyes linger on your ass or snap his fingers to get your attention.  

He always arrives ten minutes early.

Always orders the same Woodford Reserve. Always says thank you.

Always calls you honey.

You learn little things about him.

That he tips everyone far more than necessary.

That he folds cocktail napkins into perfect little squares whenever he’s lost in thought.

That his thumb always finds the gold signet ring on his finger when he’s making a decision.

That he taps it twice against the felt whenever he’s nervous about a bluff.

(You never tell him you figured that one out.)

You learn that Steve doesn’t talk much about his work or his family.  

Instead, he asks about you.

Your classes, your major. The exam you mentioned weeks ago that he somehow remembers without you ever bringing it up again.

You tell yourself he’s probably just like that with everyone.

That Steve Harrington is simply the kind of person who makes people feel noticed.

Special.

You never quite believe it.

· · ·

One Thursday, the game wraps up just before midnight after two of the regulars call it early.

The older men filter out puffing expensive cigars, grumbling about bad beats and rematches.

You're halfway through counting your tips when Steve appears beside the bar.

Hands tucked into the pockets of a navy wool coat, rocking back on his heels.

He waits until you look up.

“Hi.”

“Hey.”

And Steve Harrington—poker prodigy, heir to whatever impossible amount of money his family had sitting around—suddenly looks unsure of himself.

Which is new.

And, admittedly, a little adorable.

You set your money down.

“Everything okay?”

“Yeah.” He answers too quickly, then clears his throat. “Yeah. I just—can I ask you something?”

You eye him suspiciously.

“With you? Depends.”

A small smile pulls at his mouth.

“Fair.”

He pulls his hand from his coat pocket, resting it on the bar between you. His thumb brushes over the gold signet ring on his finger, twisting it slowly.

“Well, I was just wondering, if you're done for the night...”    

Tap. Tap.

Two soft taps against the bar top.

You bite back a smile.

“Would you let me take you to dinner?”

You blink.

“...Right now?”

“Yeah.”

“It's midnight.”

“Late dinner, then?”

His expression is so serious that you have to bite back another laugh.

Steve watches you, a faint smile tugging at his own mouth.

“What?”

You shake your head, reaching for your jacket.

“Nothing.”

“No, what?”

You look back at him, pursing your lips.

“You’re just... so different from what I thought you’d be.”

He tilts his head slightly, a flicker of amusement creasing his expression. He’s not offended in the slightest—if anything, he looks intrigued.

Steve Harrington has never been someone who seemed bothered by other people’s opinions of him.

“In a good way or a bad way?”

You consider him for a moment, taking in the guy you were so sure you had figured out from the second he walked through the door.

This boy you’d dismissed as just another entitled douchebag, who turned out to be so downright strange—awkward where you expected arrogance, thoughtful where you expected indifference.

You can't help but smile.

“Ask me again after dinner.”

♡ · · · ♡ · · · ♡

[yeah-iveheardofbears]

melt with you

pairing: steve harrington x curvy!reader

summary: during a summer of heatwaves, arguing, and a chance encounter with your high school bully, your least favorite coworker ends up being your biggest supporter. in more ways than one...

wc: 17.5k (promised you guys a long one)

cw: coworkers to enemies to friends to lovers, curvy!reader, bisexual!reader, good ally (but slightly oblivious) steve, slight homophobia, talks of queerbaiting and bisexual fetishization, college burnout, feelings of inadequacy from both parties, TENSION, slowburn, maybe too many inner thoughts about steve in that slutty little uniform, making out, dirty talk, teasing, body insecurity (on both parts tbh), oral (f recieving), bigdick!steve, grabbing that mans ass because we need more of it, p in v sex, fluffy ending, cuddling

love notes: yet another long curvy!reader x steve harrington fic because i love him so very much. off the bat i want to make it clear that this reader is bisexual and its a large part of the story. i've always dealt with a lot of these struggles as a hyperfemme curvy queer woman and this was really cathartic to write about. i hope you all enjoy it as much as i did writing it, even though it took me forever. i'll just say half the reason is because sometimes its hard to think about writing when you have to picture him in those stupid little shorts... (⸝⸝♡﹏♡⸝⸝) (also, not a face reveal but the photo on the banner is me in my Robin cosplay since pinterest was a failure on finding anyone curvy in the scoops cosplay. when in doubt, be self indulgent i guess!)

masterlist | consider buying me ko-fi | join my taglists

A small bead of sweat started to roll from Steve's forehead to his brow as he slumped into one of the backroom chairs. He could see you grimace as he wiped it away with that stupid hat before dropping it on the table. 

"What?" his exasperated tone was laced with heat exhaustion, "Am I not allowed to sweat in front of you?"

"No, by all means, sweat all you want," your fingers twitched around the straw in your drink, the plastic crinkling under the pressure, "Just try to get more on your uniform. It adds to the… aesthetic."

He rolled his eyes in that bitchy way you'd come to almost admire. 

"Yeah well maybe if I get sweat stains all over the hat, I won't be forced to wear it anymore."

You give a fake pout after taking another sip. "And the heats already ruining that perfect hair, your life is so difficult." 

He leaned forward, propping his chin on his hand, the blue of his uniform making his hazel eyes look impossibly more brown, "You have no idea."

The door swung open, letting in a blast of mall air that did little to cool the room.

"Eugh!" Robin practically wretched from the doorway. "Can you guys get rid of that rancid trash? I'm pretty sure there's kiddie puke in there and the heat is not helping."

It was true. The break room smelled horrendous. The freezers and the sale floor were cold to protect the product, but back here was a stuffy, sticky coffin of recycled air.

One of the mall's maintenance guys was supposed to fix it this morning but he hadn't been back yet. And to be honest, he looked a little sketch. No tools, very short sentences, and a vaguely Russian accent. 

"It's your turn, Buckley," Steve grumbled without moving.

"Nuh-uh. I did it yesterday. You two can duke it out but it's not gonna be me."

The swinging door to the shop floor shut behind her and she was gone.

Great.

You didn't even need to look at him to know he had that stupid, lazy grin on his face.

"You two can duke it out," he mimicked in a higher pitch, still slumped in the chair, clearly having no intention of moving.

"Look, there's two bags already, we can each just take one. For once this summer, I don't have the energy to argue with you. I'm sweating from way too many places I'd rather not be, I think my deodorant gave up hours ago, and my drink is already mostly water."

With a dramatic sigh, you pushed yourself up from the chair, the red vinyl sticking to the back of your thighs with an embarrassing noise. Steve watched, an unreadable expression on his face, as you went to the corner by the door where the offending bags sat.

"What?" you echoed his earlier tone. "I can't help it if the shorts don't come in a bigger size."

You yanked one of the black plastic bags from the pile, and Steve finally stood up. The shorts they had you wear were ridiculous on your frame, a size too small, digging into your hips and thighs. Usually you didn't care, but today, with the heat melting everything in the mall to a sticky pulp, you felt like you were suffocating.

"Trust me, I'm not looking," Steve said. But he was.

He grabbed the other bag, his arm brushing yours. The contact lasted less than a second, but it sent a jolt through you that had nothing to do with the oppressive heat. You blamed it on static, on the friction of the plastic bags, anything other than some pretty boy in a sailor suit. He was the antithesis of everything you were supposed to like.

You made it to the employee entrance at the back of the mall, near the loading docks. The heavy metal door groaned open, and a blast of real, unconditioned air hit you.

The groan Steve let out was dramatic, even for this heat. "It's worse out here."

You couldn't argue. The air smelled of hot asphalt and distant trash. The sun beat down on the concrete as you trudged toward the giant green dumpster, the plastic bag scraping against the pavement.

"Let's just get this over with," you mumbled, more to yourself than to him.

Steve tossed his bag in with a lazy heave. It landed with a sickeningly wet thud. You did the same. As you turned to go back inside, you tripped over a deep crack in the pavement.

"Fuck!" you grunted out, turning to take a look at your knee, which was now stinging and bleeding. You ripped your knee away from the searing concrete and inspected the damage.

A deep scrape, a little bloody but more dirt and grime than anything else. You huffed out a frustrated breath, your already frayed patience wearing even thinner. You lay back on the hot pavement, one knee propped up, and awaited the sweet release of heat induced death. 

"Looks like someone hasn't gotten her sea legs." Steve stood over you, blocking the sun in his eyes with his hand, the other settled on his hip. "Oh, shit, that actually looks bad..." 

"Brilliant observation, Captain." you snapped, the pain making you sharper than usual.

He crouched down, the shorts stretched tight across his thighs. This uniform was truly ridiculous, but the way it fit him was… infuriating. Being near eye level with his crotch was not helping matters. 

"You're bleeding," he said, his voice softer now. He reached out as if to touch your knee, then thought better of it, letting his hand hover for a moment before dropping it.

"Again with the astute observations. You missed your calling, Harrington. Should've been a detective."

"C'mon." he rolled his eyes again, extending a hand to help you up. "Let's get you back to the break room. We've got a first aid kit in the stockroom. I'm pretty sure I saw it when I was looking for places to hide the day they made us film that embarrassing commercial."

You ignored his hand and pushed yourself up, your palm stinging on the hot pavement. He gave you a raised eyebrow and you sighed before reluctantly taking his help. His grip was firm and warmer than you expected. You tried to pull away as soon as you were standing, but he held on for a beat too long, steering you toward the door.

The break room was still a sauna, but at least it wasn't the blazing sun. He sat you down in the same chair you'd vacated earlier and rummaged through a cabinet, finally emerging with a white plastic box with a red cross on it.

"Alright, tough guy," he said, kneeling in front of you. "Let's clean this up."

"I can do it myself." You protested, but he was already wordlessly cleaning the wound. 

He was really good at this, you thought. Much more than you expected someone like him to be. 

"What, did you patch people up after you and your jock friends threw them against lockers or something?"

It was an unnecessary jab, but you needed to say something to break the otherwise tender moment. 

He looked up at you with an almost hurt expression as he ripped the gauze packet open with his teeth. The motion was quick and efficient.

"Yeah, that was me," he said, not looking at you, focusing on cleaning the scrape with an antiseptic wipe. "King Steve. Got the T-shirt and everything."

He sounded so bitter, like the name tasted wrong coming from his lips.

"Sorry," you mumbled, feeling a pang of something you didn't want to name. "That was..."

"Forget it," he cut you off, but his touch gentled even more. "People are allowed to think I'm an asshole. I was an asshole."

You stayed quiet as watched him gently pressed the fabric to the cleaned wound, noticing how such big hands could be so precise. How someone who you knew could be a clumsy, arrogant moron could now have a look of intense focus.

He's quiet for a long moment, before glancing up at you again. "Had my ass kicked more than a few times. You learn a few things. Like how to clean a scrape."

There was something more there, something in the way he said it that you couldn't quite place. He wasn't talking about a simple schoolyard scuffle. But you didn't have the energy to press.

"Well if they didn't build this mall so fast maybe all the pavement wouldn't be cracking..." you muttered, both embarrassed by your fall and desperate to move on from an impending heavier topic.

He lets out a short, amused breath of air and he's taping a fresh piece of gauze over your knee. He's so close you can smell him, a clean scent of soap and a tinge of sweat. It's a musky, surprisingly comforting smell that has no right to be this intoxicating.

"All done, think you'll survive."

He pats your good knee and sits back on his heels, surveying his work before looking up at you, as if asking with his eyes if there's anything else you may need.

It was a cruel joke seeing him like that, practically on his knees in front of you. His hair was sunkissed, brushed slightly more away from his forehead. His eyes were unfairly puppy dog-ish and you swore he had to actively put balm on his lips with how pouty and shiny they always looked. 

Steve was pretty, and you hated it. You hated how easy he was to look at.

"Guess I'll have to." You push the chair back and stand. "Thanks, I guess. For the medical attention and not, you know, leaving me to die out there."

"Yeah, well, Buckley would have my head if I came back without you." He stands too, his height suddenly imposing in the small space. "Can't have you bleeding out on my watch. Bad for business."

He walked over to grab his hat and did a little trick where he flipped it onto his head. You tried to look unimpressed, but a ghost of a smile tugged at your lips.

"C'mon, Harrington, don't flatter yourself. My death would probably improve sales."

His laugh was real this time. "I disagree. We'd have far less preteen boys trying to order extra scoops just to get you to lean over the counter."

You paused, your hand on the panel of the swinging door. That was… new. A warmth that had nothing to do with the weather spread through your chest. You risked a glance back at him.

He looked as if he was surprised at himself, too. He was leaning against the table again, trying to regain that careless facade, but something had shifted. You saw it in the slight tension in his shoulders, in the way he couldn't quite meet your eye for a second.

"The shirt." he gestured, clearing his throat. "It's, y'know, tight."

Any hint of flirtatious energy inside you evaporated at that. You were suddenly acutely aware of the way the company mandated top stretched across your stomach and chest. The casual, almost clinical observation stung more than any deliberate insult could have.

Steve could practically feel an icy chill when you wordlessly pushed through the door and it had nothing to do with the AC from the sales floor. 

"Shit..." he muttered to himself, relaxing against the table with a deep sigh, running a hand down his face. He knew that look. He had said the wrong thing. Again.

The rest of your shift was a special kind of hell. The soft serve machine seemed determined to only dispense melted soup, the toppings station was a sticky mess that no amount of wiping could fix, and the endless loop of corporate-approved pop hits drilled directly into your skull. Every interaction felt like a performance. Your smile for the customers was a brittle mask, your sarcastic remarks to Robin were forced and thin.

"Are you good?" she asked when it was close to closing and the Friday rush had died down. 

"Yeah. Fine."

Your words were short as you marked your clipboard for the nightly inventory. 

"Okay... well you're practically putting your pen through the paper there..." She gestured with her scoop, "and you haven't made a single joke about the mall cop that looks like Tom Selleck if he was raised by wolves."

You glanced at the man leaning against one of the columns outside the store, sporting a truly glorious yet questionable mustache. You shrugged and went back to your clipboard.

You could feel her looking at you before letting out a dramatic sigh and going back to her duties.

Steve didn't try to talk to you. He worked with a quiet efficiency, wiping counters, restocking syrups, avoiding your line of sight.

Eventually Robin shut the gate and you counted the money in the till. 

"You missed a twenty." 

It comes from over your shoulder, not in a malicious way, but a simple statement of fact. The fact that it was his voice though, that made you clench your jaw. 

"No I didn't." Your reply was clipped.

"Yeah, you did. It's stuck to the back of the tray." He reached over you, not quite touching you, but close enough that the scent of him - that faint musk- washed over you again.

His thumb brushed the bill loose from its hiding place. He set it on top of the stack without another word and turned to wipe down a spotless display case.

The silent ride home with Robin was just as bad. Your hands gripped the wheels a little too hard. 

"He's not that bad." Robin finally said from your passenger seat. 

"Who? Tom Selleck wolf-cop? No, I think he's probably a pillar of the community." The sarcasm was so thick it was nearly solid. You knew exactly who she meant.

"No, Steve."

You sighed, letting your shoulders slump as you pulled into her driveway.

"I mean, he's a total dingus, sure, but he's not malicious, you know?" She was unbuckling her seatbelt, gathering her bag. "He's just… post-prime Steve Harrington. He's still figuring out the new manual."

"It's weird of you to defend him." 

"It's weird of you to get your panties in a twist over a stupid sailor boy." She shot back with a grin, hopping out and leaning back in through the open window. "Look, all I'm saying is... don't take whatever dumb shit he says to heart. He's probably just scared of your... you-ness."

You raised an eyebrow.

"Anyway," she said with a yawn. "I have the morning shift tomorrow so I need sleep."

"Wait... you're not closing on a Saturday?"

"Nope. You're on your own with Captain Hair Care." She wiggled her fingers in a wave. "Don't let him get under your skin."

She was gone before you could formulate a decent comeback, a skip in her step as she trotted toward her front door. You watched until she was inside, the porch light flicking on. Alone with the quiet hum of your car's engine, you leaned your forehead against the steering wheel.

Robin's words bounced around your head. Scared of what? Your tendency to swear like a sailor? Your less-than-perfect figure in a ridiculous uniform? Your ability to form complete sentences without the word 'like'? The thought of the former King of Hawkins High being intimidated by you was so absurd it was almost funny.

But it was the last thing she said that stuck. Don't let him get under your skin.

Too late. He was already there, a low-grade fever you couldn't sweat out, even in this miserable heat. The image of him kneeling in front of you, his focused expression, the gentle pressure of his fingers on your knee... It played on a loop behind your eyelids.

Right next to all the annoying shit. Forgetting to restock the cherries. Leaving sticky rings on the counter. The way he tried to charm every mom who came to the counter. And that comment. The clinical, almost detached observation about your shirt being tight.

He was under your skin alright, like a parasite.

Saturday afternoon arrived with the subtlety of a jackhammer. The heat was worse. It shimmered off the asphalt in visible waves, ready to fry an egg or melt your skin off.

You walked into Scoops Ahoy at 1:59 PM, a minute before your shift. The blast of frigid air of the mall was a welcome shock. When you clocked in, Steve was already behind the counter, wiping down the surface that was already immaculate.

"It's been surprisingly dead for a Saturday," he said without looking up, breaking the silence. He sounded tired. "Guess everyone's at the pool."

"Smart people are at the pool," you mumbled, tying on your own ridiculous apron. The uniform felt like a punishment, the fabric scratching at your already overheated skin.

Robin popped out from the back, changed in some normal summer clothes. 

"Lemme guess," you sigh. "The pool." 

"Right you are my fellow corporate slave! Some of the band kids are getting together, and I cannot miss an opportunity to make fun of Brad Johnson's new haircut." she beamed. "You two have fun. Don't burn the place down."

She gave you a pointed look, then one at Steve, before she disappeared out the front with a jaunty little wave.

"I would give anything to have the morning shift right now," you grumbled to no one in particular.

"You and me both," Steve sighed, finally looking up at you. "I could be at the pool right now, seeing how the summer is treating the female population of Hawkins."

A familiar irritation sparked in your chest.

Of course.

That's where he'd be. Scoping out chicks in bikinis. The thought made your stomach clench for a reason you refused to examine.

Instead, you grabbed a rag and started wiping down the already clean topping bar.

"I already did that..." he started. 

"Don't you have a pool of your own?" your voice came out judgey and sharp, but you didn't look at him. 

"Uh, yeah... I do. But it's no fun by yourself." He gestured vaguely with the rag.

"I'm sure you have a rolodex of numbers you could call."

There. The perfect jab. Annoying, bordering on cruel, and it would hopefully shut him up for a few hours.

"Right," a bitter, short little laugh escaped him. "Look, could you just... not do that?"

"Do what?"

"That thing you do. Where you act like you know everything about me."

Your hands stilled on the counter.

"I don't. I'm just making conversation based on the public record."

"Look, I know what my 'public record' is, alright?" His voice wasn't angry, just... weary. "You've made it pretty clear you think I'm some shallow, womanizing douchebag. But maybe..."

He trailed off, tossing the rag into the sink behind the counter with a wet slap.

"You know what? Never mind."

The silence that followed was thick as the hot fudge congealed in the drip tray.

A few hours went by and the after dinner rush finally slowed.

You managed to have a civil, albeit short, conversation about the best Muppet. You argued for Animal, obviously. He was a Kermit man through and through. It was the most you'd talked to him without the conversation taking a sharp, veiled turn.

As the night progressed, just a few hours left of your shift left, you both found yourselves people watching in between customers. 

"Oh shit, that's Stacey Carmichael," Steve said, a little too loud, a spark of that old King Steve charm suddenly igniting. He instinctively ran a hand through his hair. It was a reflex. "She, uh, she used to be a cheerleader." 

You rolled your eyes as you watched the tall, gorgeous blonde talking with a group of other equally gorgeous girls in the food court. 

"Yeah, I'm aware. She was in my class." 

"Oh shit... yeah you were a couple years ahead, right?" he looked at you with genuine curiosity, which somehow was more annoying.

"A gap year and then the failed college stint," you said, quoting the air with your fingers. "I was supposed to be a sophomore this year."

"So what happened? If you don't mind me asking..."

"Another gap year." was all you offered. You didn't want to get into the messy details of your spectacular failure. Of the crippling anxiety and the pressure of it all. How you'd locked yourself in your dorm room for three days before finally calling your parents in tears to come get you.

He seemed to understand this was a door you didn't want to open. He nodded, his eyes drifting back to Stacey, who was now laughing at something her friend said, a bright sound that carried across the food court.

"She turned me down for prom, you know," he said, a thoughtful look on his face. "Her prom. My sophomore year. I was so sure I had it in the bag. I'd just gotten my car."

"And already going for senior girls, huh?" you couldn't help but poke, a genuine, small smile gracing your lips. "A real legacy player."

He flushed, a deep pink creeping up his neck. "Shut up. She was... mature. For her age." He winced at how that sounded.

"Code for: she had boobs and long legs. Still does." you summarized, taking a sip of the soda you'd poured yourself a while ago.

"Yeah, well," he leaned against the counter, mirroring your posture. "She's still pretty."

"So go talk to her." The words were out before you could stop them. "You're a changed man now and all." 

He looked at you like you'd just suggested he go wrestle a bear. "No way. Not now. Not... not here."

"Why not? She'd probably still swoon for the old Harrington charm."

"I'm in a sailor suit," he deadpanned, gesturing down at himself with a look of utter revulsion. "The magic's kind of gone when you're asking for their order of banana splits instead of asking them to dance."

You had to stifle a laugh.

"Girls aren't that complicated. If she's still shallow like she was in school, she already peaked anyway." 

"You really think that?" He looked at you, and for a moment, the usual smirk was gone, replaced by a genuine, searching expression. "That people just... peak?"

"I think some people do," you said quietly, your gaze drifting to Stacey's group again. "She once asked me in English class if my hair was a 'political statement'. So, yeah. I think her peak was probably getting crowned queen of the winter formal."

The corner of Steve's mouth twitched.

"You had that pink streak in the front, right? That was cool."

Your eyes snapped back to his. Cool?

Coming from him, that felt like a betrayal of the natural order.

"Principal Higgins would disagree. He called it a 'deliberate act of insubordination' and threatened to suspend me if I didn't wash it out."

"He was a dick," Steve said with surprising vehemence. "He gave me detention once for a week when Mrs. Click caught me and Tommy H. trying to see how many pencils we could fit in the ceiling tiles."

You made a disgusted look at the mention of Tommy Hagan. That was a name you could have happily gone the rest of your life without hearing again.

"You were a child of privilege, Steve," you said, your tone light but sharp, trying to steer the conversation back to safer, more familiar territory.

He picked up a stray cherry that had rolled onto the counter and popped it into his mouth. The way his lips closed around the small red fruit was distractingly... something. "I think I was a bored little shit with too much time on my hands. There's a difference."

Seriously, why were his lips so—

"And now you're a bored little shit in a sailor suit," you shot back, grabbing the cherry stem from his fingers and throwing it in the trash. Your fingers brushed his lips only just slightly. A current ran up your arm that you blamed on the static from the stupid poly-blend uniform.

You turned back to see Stacey and her friends heading to the ice cream parlor. 

"And, sailor, here's your cue."

You leaned against the back counter, a gesture that forced Steve to take the lead and serve them. He straightened up immediately, that lazy, charming smile sliding into place like a well-worn mask. He was good at it, you had to give him that.

"Welcome to Scoops Ahoy, ladies. What's your pleasure?"

Stacey giggled, flipping her hair over her shoulder. "Steve Harrington? I haven't seen you in ages. You work here?"

"Just for the summer," he said with a casual shrug that was anything but. "Living the dream. So, what can I get for you? On the house, for old times' sake."

Her friends tittered. You rolled your eyes so hard you were worried they'd get stuck.

You busied yourself with wiping down yet another spot on the counter that was already perfectly clean, trying to ignore the easy way he worked them.

You heard that sickeningly sweet voice say your name and you looked up at Stacey. Her perfect pink lip curled a little as she looked at you. "You're still doing... this?" She gestured vaguely, an all-encompassing wave that clearly meant your entire existence— your curvy frame in the too-tight uniform, the dark eyeliner that was slightly smudged at the end of the day, your complete lack of interest in her conversation.

A hot prickle of shame and anger started at the back of your neck. Until you looked up at her and noticed a familiar tell you'd only seen from a few girls in your college. 

It was less judgmental curiosity and more... interest.

You held her gaze and gave her a slow, deliberate smile before leaning over the counter. You knew exactly what this did to the uniform top.

"Yep. But now I have a deep and abiding passion for corporate-mandated polyester and the art of the perfect swirl," you said, your voice dripping with mock sincerity, giving her exactly the right amount of sarcasm and confidence.

To your left, you heard the soft clink of a metal scoop hitting a ceramic bowl.

Steve had stopped.

Stacey's perfectly composed mask wavered for a second, a flicker of... something in her eyes.

"Oh. Well. Good for you," she said, her smile becoming more genuine.

Steve, bless him, was clueless. He made an attempt to steer Stacy's attention back to him. As if he was doing you a favor. Getting you away from her taunting. 

"Alright ladies..." he started, trying to regain control of the situation, but he didn't understand.

You already had it.

Stacey's friends lost interest and started ordering their sundaes.

While Steve was occupied, Stacey leaned a little closer to you, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.

"Hey, so, me and some friends are having a little get together tomorrow night. A bonfire, out at Lovers Lake. You should come."

‘Little get together’ was code for summer rager. You knew the type. Keystone lights and weed stolen from older brothers.

She was watching you, waiting. Not mocking. Expectant. And in that moment, the pieces clicked into place without any apprehension. Her initial judgment wasn't about you being beneath her. It was about her trying to figure out if you were like her.

A packed party meant no one was looking too much at any two people slipping off into the woods. A bonfire at Lovers Lake was prime real estate for secret encounters.

Steve's head popped up from behind you, a look of pure confusion on his face. He was completely lost.

"A party?" he asked, trying to smoothly join the conversation he wasn't a part of. He turned to Stacey. "Cool. Who's all going?"

Stacey didn't even look at him. Her gaze was fixed on you.

"We're not really advertising," she said, her tone dismissing him so completely it was almost masterful. "But... you're both welcome to join. Just some of us who are home for the summer. Hanging out."

The offer was still aimed at you. Steve was an afterthought, a necessary addition to extend the invitation to the other half of the current Scoops Ahoy duo.

He didn't seem to realize that Stacey Carmichael, the girl who had turned him down for prom, the girl who represented the peak of the very social hierarchy he used to rule, had just completely shut him out to talk to you.

"We'll think about it," you said, your voice casual, as if you got invited to ragers by reformed mean girls every day of the week. You gave her another slow smile, this one with a little more teeth.

"Cool. Hope to see you there," she said, finally turning to collect her sundae from a flustered-looking Steve. "Thanks, Stevie. It's... cute. The uniform."

The name 'Stevie' was the final twist of the knife. She sauntered away with her friends, their laughter echoing back from the polished linoleum.

You let the silence hang in the air for a solid ten seconds after they were gone.

"I think that went well," he said, crossing his arms and nodding his head. "She did a little volley there by mentioning the party to you and then looped me right back in. Classic misdirection. She's interested."

You stared at him. He was genuinely analyzing this like it was a sports play.

"Steve," you said, your voice dangerously quiet. 

"Yeah?"

"She wasn't interested in you."

"What are you talking about? She was totally flirting. I think she wants me to go to that party tomorrow." The hope in his voice was pathetic. "She even called me Stevie. That's pretty straightforward."

"That's not what was happening." You leaned forward, lowering your voice even though you were completely alone in the ice cream shop. "She wasn't interested in you."

The gears in his head were turning visibly.

"Okay...?" He drew out the word. "So... she was just being nice?"

"Let me spell it out for you, Captain. Her invitation wasn't for you. It was for me."

He blinked. The full, glorious impact of your statement seemed to short-circuit his brain.

"So she wants to be friends after bullying you in high school? Yeah, right."

"I didn't say she wanted to be friends." You met his bewildered gaze head-on, your own expression a mixture of pity and amusement.

And then, you saw it. A flicker of something in his eyes. A lightbulb, dim and far away, but it was on.

"Oh," he breathed out. He leaned against the counter, taking off his hat and running a hand through his hair. "Oh. Wow."

He looked from you, to where Stacey's group had disappeared, and back to you again, as if trying to solve a complex equation.

His gaze settled on your face, not your body, not your clothes, just your eyes. He was looking at you differently.

Not as a coworker, not as a friend of Robin's, not as the girl who made sarcastic comments. He was looking at you as a person with a secret, a life beyond this stupid counter.

"So she's...?" he trailed off, unable or unwilling to finish the sentence.

You just gave a simple nod.

"Holy shit," he whispered, a slow grin spreading across his face. It wasn't the cocky, practiced smile he used for customers. "Okay, now the prom thing makes so much more sense."

You couldn't help it. An honest-to-god laugh escaped you, echoing slightly in the empty shop.

"So that's what you get out of all this? An explanation for your bruised teenage ego?"

"What did you want me to say?"

It wasn't rude or judgemental like a small part of you had suspected he may be. He was confused and you had thrown a lot at him all at once.

"I was prepared for you to be an asshole, honestly."

"I can be," he said, shrugging on a surprising wave of vulnerability. "But, you know, not about... that." He gestured vaguely between you and the direction Stacey and her friends had left. "It's not... I don't see why it's a big deal."

Your laugh was a little softer this time. "You're the last person I expected to have that reaction."

His smile was a little softer now, something unreadable in his eyes as he cleared his throat a little. He busied himself with grabbing the clipboard and starting the closing inventory checklist before he spoke again. 

"So are you, uh, also..." he didn't look at you as he spoke, focusing hard on counting the boxes of cones like they held the secrets of the universe. "...like Stacey?"

"Gay?" you finished for him, the word feeling foreign and loud in the quiet shop. "No. Not... exclusively."

You watched the back of his neck turn pink as he nodded, processing the new information.

"Okay," he said to the inventory sheet. "Okay. That's... fine."

"Wow, Harrington," you deadpanned. "Don't get too excited. You might pull something."

He finally turned to look at you, and the smile was back, but it was different. It was real. "Sorry. My brain is just... rebooting. You know, Steve, circa '83, probably would have had some deeply stupid and offensive thing to say right about now."

"Yeah, well," you leaned against the counter, trying to act casual, but your heart was hammering against your ribs. "He's not here right now. Just the sailor."

"Good," he said, his gaze holding yours for a beat too long. "The sailor is much better company."

The last hour of your shift passed in a strange, comfortable silence. It wasn't tense or awkward, just...

Unnerving? 

You kept catching him watching you. Not staring, not leering, just... watching. When you'd catch his eye, he'd look away quickly, a faint blush creeping up his neck, and pretend to be intensely fascinated by the nutritional information on a can of whipped cream.

"I'm not interested in Stacey." You finally say, much more casually than you feel, as you count the till. 

Steve looked up from where he was sweeping the floor, leaning on the broom. "I figured."

"Did you?" Your tone was laced with skepticism.

He shrugged, pushing a stray sprinkle into a dustpan. "Yeah. I mean, you called her 'shallow'. You don't seem like the kind of girl to go for people you think are shallow."

He paused, then added, "Even if they do have incredible legs."

A small, unexpected laugh bubbled out of you. "Okay, fair point. Her legs are pretty great."

He grinned, a genuine, easy thing that made your stomach do a little flip. "See? We agree on something."

"Miracles do happen," you said, bagging the cash. "I just genuinely can't believe you didn't pick up on what was happening. I thought you were supposed to be the expert on girls."

"Former expert," he corrected, a wry twist to his lips. "My certification expired. Turns out, knowing how to get a handjob in the back of your car at a party doesn't exactly make you an authority on the female mind. Or... you know. Any mind but your own, really."

You made a disgusted noise. "Charming."

"I'm just being honest," he said, resting the broom against the wall and leaning against the counter opposite you. "It was all a game. And I was good at the game. But that's all it was. It was all... surface."

The words hung in the air between you, until he added the most vulnerable part. "You know, until Nancy."

You stopped counting the cash. This was the most he'd ever said about Nancy Wheeler outside of a few offhand comments you'd overheard, and it felt significant. Nancy Wheeler, the quiet, smart, headstrong girl who had brought Steve Harrington to his knees in a way that no cheerleader or social climber ever could.

"Surface?" you prompted gently.

"Yeah," he said, looking down at a worn spot on the linoleum. "She... she wasn't... She cared about things. Like, real things. The newspaper, and... college, her family and friends, and the future. And she saw right through the bullshit. Through me. It was... terrifying. And also maybe the best thing that ever happened to me."

The sincerity in his voice was disarming. He wasn't performing. He was just... talking. To you.

"And I'm guessing it didn't end so well," you said, finishing up the till and sliding the tray into its slot.

His smile was sad, a ghost of the easy charm he usually wore. "I, uh, didn't handle some things well. After her best friend went missing... I didn't... I wasn't there for her the way I should have been. I was still playing the game. And then... Jonathan Byers happened."

You knew Jonathan Byers. The quiet, intense photographer with the difficult home life. Another one of Hawkins High's outliers.

"Let me guess," you said, leaning on the counter, mirroring his posture. "They're together now?"

"I'm not angry," he said, and to your immense surprise, he sounded like he meant it. "I was, for a while. I was an asshole about it. But... they make sense. They actually, like, talk to each other. He gets her in a way I never figured out how to."

The only sounds were the low hum of the freezers and the distant muzak trickling from the mall's main speakers. You watched him, this boy you had so neatly categorized and dismissed, and saw the edges of the caricature start to fray.

"You're not so bad, Harrington. For a washed-up jock."

He looked up, a flicker of that old, lazy grin returning. "Coming from you, that's practically a marriage proposal."

"In your dreams," you scoffed, but the retort lacked its usual bite.

"You're right, my legs aren't nearly as good as Stacey's," he let out a dramatic sigh. 

You couldn't help the way your eyes glanced downward to see what he was talking about. The uniform shorts, while stupid, did little to hide how strong his legs were. How much they must've been toned from years of sports. How they hugged his thighs just right. How they hugged his--

"You're staring."

Your head snapped up so fast you nearly gave yourself whiplash. "I was not."

"Were too," he sing-songed, that stupid, completely gorgeous grin spreading across his face. "Don't worry, I get it. The uniform is a lot to handle."

"I was admiring the craftsmanship of how the seam is coming undone on your left thigh," you shot back, your face feeling hotter than the summer pavement outside. "Shoddy workmanship. I should report it to corporate."

He looked down, genuinely inspecting the seam in question. "Oh, hey, you're right. The thread's all popped." He fingered the loose string. "Huh. Probably from when I had to haul that new container of sprinkles out of the back. Nearly gave myself a hernia."

You internally were grateful for his complete obliviousness to your real line of sight and rolled your eyes. "Yeah, a real hero. The sprinkles would have been lost without you."

He shrugged, unbothered. "A hero's work is never done."

The weekend went by without much issue. You didn't go to the party. Something about getting high with a bunch of vapid teens you went to high school with, while trying to pretend you weren't having a mid-college crisis, felt about as appealing as licking the floor of the ice cream shop.

Instead, you’d stayed home, listened to records on repeat, and tried to write a short story that was going nowhere.

Tuesday night was when you always closed with Steve.

It was dead. A Tuesday night in Hawkins in mid-June was the definition of purgatory.

You both did your closing duties with practiced ease, a silent, efficient rhythm that you'd fallen into. He'd sweep, you'd wipe.

"So, like... the other night..." Steve started as he swept, his tone betraying the fact that it had been weighing on his mind. 

Him speaking had broken the zoning out you were currently doing. 

"What about it?" you asked, feigning disinterest as you scrubbed at a stubborn spot of dried fudge on the counter.

"Did you, uh..." He paused, leaning on the broom. "Did you and Stacey...?"

"If you're asking if we had some secret girl on girl rendezvous at Lovers Lake, the answer is no," you said, not looking at him. "I didn't go to the party."

He let out a small breath, and you couldn't decipher if it was relief or disappointment.

"Oh. Okay."

"It's not like porn, you know," you said, glancing over your shoulder at him. "The concept isn't a free-for-all for any man's viewing pleasure."

He bristled, his brow furrowing. "That's not what I was asking. I was... curious."

"What, wondering if we would go back home and wear silky pajamas and hit each other with pillows?" The sarcasm was a familiar armor, and you pulled it tight around yourself.

He almost looked angry now. He slammed the dustpan down on the counter a little too hard. "Why do you do that?"

"Do what?"

"Assume the worst of me. Every single time. I ask a simple question and you turn it into me being some kind of... of..." He struggled for the word.

"Scumbag?" you offered helpfully. "Caveman? Horndog?"

"I was going to say moron," he shot back, his voice low and surprisingly hurt. "But I'm not that guy. And it's... it's getting really fucking tiring trying to prove it to you."

You were silenced for once, before you let out a deep sigh and put the rag down for a minute. 

"Look," you started. "College was... hard for me. On like, so many levels. I guess I thought the one way it would be easier is that I didn't have to hide certain parts of myself like I did here. And then I quickly realized that there were new reasons it was hard being... like me."

You couldn't bring yourself to put a label on it. You hadn't quite figured out what one worked and that was okay. 

"But anyway, one of the biggest hurdles, and maybe the most surprisingly common reaction I got from both men and women was to... treat it like it was for them. That it was a performance."

"Okay," he said, leaning against the counter, listening.

"You know, I’d meet a girl at a party and we'd chat and flirt and once it got to anything more than that, anything physical, she was usually just trying to catch the eyes of some pervy frat guys." You let out a self depreciating sigh, a little embarrassed to be telling him all this.

"And then if I tried to start something with a guy, they acted like it was a free pass for a threesome. It wasn't genuine interest in me, you know, just in what I could offer them. What my... existence could do for their sexual fantasy."

Steve watched you, his eyes soft and serious. There was no smirk, no hint of judgment.

"So when you get that look in your eye-like you're trying to work out some kind of complicated puzzle that would probably earn you a prize if you solve it, it's... hard not to assume. So I'm sorry. That I was an asshole. It's an ingrained defense mechanism."

The confession left a raw, buzzing silence in its wake. You had laid a piece of yourself bare on the grimy linoleum floor, a piece that you'd been holding on to since you decided to take a gap year, and it was in front of him of all people.

"Okay," he finally said, his voice quiet. "Okay, I get that. I'm sorry that happened to you. That's... shitty. People are shitty."

He looked down at the floor, kicking at stray sprinkles before looking back at you.

"For what it's worth, I'm not asking for a show." he said, a little sadly. "I don't... I wasn't picturing that."

He paused. "I just... I was just trying to figure it out. Figure you out."

You looked at him, your heart giving another one of those little, painful flips.

He cleared his throat and picked up the dustpan. "The good thing is, I'm a very slow study. So you'll have plenty of warning before I solve any of your complicated puzzles."

You watched as he fell back into the rhythm of sweeping. You noticed the way the muscles in his back moved under the thin fabric of that ridiculous shirt. How the shorts rode up just a bit as he bent over. How the back of his neck, where his hair started to curl with sweat, was surprisingly vulnerable-looking.

You were humanizing this man. You were seeing him as Steve. A guy who worked a shit job, who had a complicated past, who seemed genuinely, achingly lonely sometimes. A guy who, for some reason, was putting in the effort to be decent to you, even when you were a complete bitch to him.

"Why do you want to figure me out?" You asked, busying yourself with meaningless cleanup to hide the softness in your own voice.

He finished with the dustpan, straightened up, and leaned against the broom handle again. He looked out over the deserted food court, at the mall security guard making his slow, predictable rounds.

"I don't know," he said after a moment. His gaze was distant, fixed on the flashing lights of the arcade. "I guess I've realized there's more to people than I thought. A lot more. And I feel like I spent years… just not seeing any of it."

He turned to look at you, and the sincerity in his eyes was so disarming it almost felt like a weapon.

"You're interesting. And you don't like me. I'm trying to figure out what I did. And... maybe if I do, I can stop doing it."

The honesty of it was a punch to the gut. He wasn't trying to charm you, wasn't trying to get anything from you. He was just a guy trying to understand why he kept failing.

"I—" you started, but no words came out.

He saved you by pushing off the counter and grabbing the clipboard for the closing checklist. "Alright, what's next on the shutdown protocol?"

He was letting you off the hook, changing the subject, giving you space. And you were ridiculously grateful for it. But you also didn't want to take it.

"You didn't do anything, Steve," you said, the words quiet but firm.

He paused, pen hovering over the checklist. "Come on. Every time I talk to you, I feel like I'm putting my foot in my mouth."

"That's not your fault," you clarified. "I don't dislike you. I dislike the idea of you. The version of you that lived in my head. The guy who had it all. The guy who never had to try."

You gestured vaguely around you. "The guy who was probably going to get a sports scholarship and have a summer fling and never think about the people who had to clean up after him."

Steve finally looked at you, really looked at you, a small, frown line appearing between his brows.

"Little fun fact? I am trying. All the damn time," he admitted. "And the summer fling? Not exactly panning out. And the sports scholarship..." He scoffed, a short, bitter sound. "Let's just say my dad and Coach had a little talk about my 'priorities' last year and I didn't listen. I don't think college is in my future."

You felt a strange pang of something in your chest. It almost felt like guilt. You had built this whole narrative in your head about him, this perfect, easy life, and here he was, chipping away at it with every quiet, honest word.

"Oh," you said, brilliantly.

"Yeah, 'oh'," he mimicked, a ghost of a smile on his lips. He set the clipboard down, moving to the back to start emptying the sanitary bins. "The universe has a funny way of kicking you in the teeth. Turns out I'm not as special as I thought I was."

"But!" He turned to you and pointed, before pushing the door open with his back. "I'm kind of okay with that now."

You watched the door swing shut behind him, waiting a beat before following.

"Well, I guess I'm sorry for underestimating-"

You're suddenly chest to chest with him in the back room. He'd forgotten the trash bag. He'd turned right around and you walked straight into him.

"-you." you finished, your breath catching in your throat.

One of his hands was braced on your waist, grabbing to steady you. You could feel the warmth of his palms seeping through your uniform. You could smell him again, that clean, soapy, slightly sweaty scent that was becoming infuriatingly familiar.

"Whoa, easy there," he said, but his voice was lower than usual. He didn't move away, the softest smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

Your eyes, almost of their own accord, flicked down to his lips. They were slightly parted. And in that split second, you wanted to know what they tasted like.

This was bad. This was so, so bad.

You pushed gently against his chest. "Personal space, Harrington."

He blinked, the spell broken. He let go of your arm and took a half-step back, running a hand through his hair in that nervous way he had.

"Right. Sorry." He looked anywhere but at you. "My fault. Should've worn a bell..."

It had been four days since the almost-kiss. It's all you could think about, but neither of you spoke about it.

The silence that settled between you now was different. Before, it was laced with tension and disdain. Now, it was charged with something else.

Luckily, the busy Saturday night crowd had left you both too busy to think about anything but orders and cash. You moved around each other in the small space with a new, careful choreography, your hands brushing, your shoulders passing close, each touch a tiny jolt.

A mother with three screaming kids finally left, leaving a sticky trail of melted strawberry ice cream across your clean counter.

Robin was at the register, her head in her hands.

"I swear to God, if one more kid asks for gummy worms on their chocolate ice cream, I'm going to scream."

"It's a culinary revolution, Buckley. Don't stifle their creativity," you said, scrubbing at the sticky spot with maybe a little more force than necessary.

"It's gross." Steve chimed in, wiping down the scoop well.

You both looked at each other at the same moment before quickly looking away.

Robin's head shot up, eyes narrowed. "You two have been weird all week. Weirder than usual. What's going on?"

"Nothing," you both said in perfect, damning unison.

"Oh, my God," she breathed, a look of dawning, horrified comprehension on her face. "You had sex."

Steve dropped his scoop. It clattered into the metal well with an almost ear-piercing clang.

"No!" he yelped, his face turning a shade of red you'd only previously seen on a sunburned tourist.

"No!" you echoed, your voice slightly higher than you intended. "What the hell Buckley!"

You both looked at each other again, this was the last person you wanted to be in this interrogation with.

Robin stood up straight, planting her hands on her hips. She looked back and forth between your panicked faces with a gleeful expression. 

"Relax, you two. I'm messing with you," she said, waving a dismissive hand, although her eyes still held a speculative glint.

Robin was too good at her job, her specialty being pattern recognition. She had you two pinned, at least enough to know something had shifted in whatever weird, antagonistic ecosystem you and Steve inhabited.

Steve picked up the scoop, wiping it on the side of his apron. "Hilarious. In no world would that ever, in a million years, happen."

The words were a slap in the face, even if they were said in a panicked attempt to deflect Robin's teasing. You felt a hot surge of anger, but you didn't even have the energy to fight him on it. You just bit the inside of your cheek, focusing intently on scrubbing the last of the sticky pink sludge from the counter.

"Yeah, Steve only goes for girls of a certain pedigree, isn't that right?" The words came out sharper, more acidic than you intended, but you were hurt. "He has standards to maintain."

Robin looked between you two again, her grin faltering as she sensed the shift from playful banter to something real.

Steve winced, physically recoiling from your words as if you'd slapped him. He looked at you, his expression a mess of regret and pleading, but your back was to him.

"Alright, I think I've overstimulated the weird little... whatever you two have going on here," Robin said, grabbing her bag from under the counter. "I'm taking my break before I have to witness an extinction-level event."

She gave you both one last, inscrutable look before disappearing through the swinging door, leaving you and Steve alone in a silence that was so loud it hurt.

You kept scrubbing at the counter, the rough texture of the sponge a welcome, painful distraction. Your shoulders were tight, a knot of anger and humiliation lodging itself right between your shoulder blades.

"You know that's not what I meant," he finally said, his voice quiet, rough.

"Wasn't it?" you shot back, not turning around.

A customer came to the counter just then— a worn out looking dad with two kids hanging off his legs— and you had to switch on your customer service face. It felt like a mask that was cracking. You took their order with a brittle cheerfulness that you knew Steve could see right through. 

He took over making the sundaes while you worked the register, a silent, tense dance. His hands were clumsy, fumbling with the hot fudge pump. He was off-balance.

When the family left with their ice cream, the silence descended again, heavier this time.

The line picked up again and the two of you were too busy to even look at each other. He made the ice cream, you rang it up. There was no room for error or emotion. It was the most efficient you two had ever been.

Robin had the mid shift, so you and Steve closed yet again. For the last hour, the only sounds were sloshing of the mop bucket and the click clacks of the calculator.

The cleaning was almost done. You'd wiped down every surface, emptied the sanitizing buckets, and were now in the backroom hunched over the final inventory sheet. The numbers swam in front of your eyes.

You couldn't wait for your day off tomorrow. Maybe you'd hit up the pool or see if a new album had dropped at the record store. Anything to get out of this polyester prison and away from the suffocating silence.

"I'm not going to apologize for saying something dumb to Robin to get her to back off," he finally said, his back to you as he restacked the crates we had been counting. "Because I didn't mean it. I think you know I didn't."

"Why do you think I care if you meant it or not?" you said, not looking up from the clipboard. "It doesn't matter to me who you do or do not want to sleep with."

"Because I hurt your feelings," he stated, simply, matter-of-factly. He wasn't asking. He knew.

Your head snapped up. "You have a high opinion of yourself, don't you?"

"No," he said, turning to face you. "I just feel like every time I get close to saying something right, I trip over my own feet and say something monumentally stupid instead."

He took a step closer, the backroom suddenly feeling much, much smaller.

"Look, I'm not sorry for trying to get Robin off our backs," he said, his voice low. "but I am sorry for how I did it. That's all. End of story."

He stood there, waiting. He wasn't pleading or demanding. He was just... present. He was holding himself accountable, and it was maybe the most attractive thing you'd ever seen him do.

You slammed the clipboard down on a crate before turning around, the noise echoing in the small room. "Why do you even care?"

"Because!" he burst out, his frustration finally boiling over. He ran both hands through his hair, messing it up. "Because for some insane reason I can't figure out, I like being around you! And I'd rather do that without you looking at me like you want to set me on fire!"

The confession held more weight than you realized, your breath hitching slightly at his earnestness.

You stared at him, truly and completely speechless for the second time that week. This whole conversation had careened wildly off the rails you'd laid.

You didn't know what to say. So you just watched him pace in the cramped space. He was like a caged lion, all restless energy and barely contained frustration.

"I've had my life fall apart, okay?" he said, stopping to face you. "My girlfriend left me for a guy who's probably a better person than I am, my dad looks at me like I'm a monumental disappointment, and my crowning achievement is a hairdo that gets compliments from either freshman girls or lonely housewives."

You didn't mean to laugh, but a small hysterical sound escaped your lips. It wasn't mocking; it was just the pathetic honesty of it.

"And then you show up," he continued, taking a step closer, a wild, desperate light in his eyes. "You're smart, and you're funny, and you're... you just don't give a shit about any of the stuff I spent my whole life trying to be good at. You see right through it, and it's infuriating. And it's... good. It feels real. For the first time in a long time, something feels real."

He was so close now. The space between you was humming with a new tension. 

"So, yes. I care. Not because I see you as some novelty or a challenge or whatever fucked up things you think guys like me think. I care because you're the most interesting person I've talked to in months. And because I said something stupid that made you look at me the way you looked at Stacey Carmichael and I can't stand it."

You couldn't move. You could barely breathe. Every carefully constructed wall you'd built around yourself was crumbling, brick by brick, at the blatant sincerity pouring out of him.

"Do you always give romantic movie speeches or is it a special occasion?" The words came out quiet, stripped of their usual bite.

He didn't even smile. "I'm not trying to be romantic. I'm trying to be honest."

Oof. You should say something. You should deflect. But he spoke again before you could. 

"Not that... I mean, not that you're unattractive because you're very much..." he trailed off, gesturing vaguely at you. He was so close you could feel the warmth coming off him, see the way his throat worked as he swallowed. "You know."

"Squished into this uniform?" you offer with a laugh that has zero humor to it.

"What? No!" he frowned. "You look… good."

Now it was your turn to blush, a heat creeping up your neck that you prayed he couldn't see.

"Yeah, well, you'd look good in anything," you admitted, the words slipping out before you could stop them. "That's your whole... thing."

You didn't want to admit it before, but you knew. Even in this stupid uniform he was handsome, but there was something else there. 

Steve's smile was lopsided and soft.

"So you forgive me? For being an idiot in front of Robin?"

"I'll consider it."

He took another step closer, and this time you didn't back away. The fabric of your uniforms nearly brushed. You were close enough now that you had to tilt your head back to look at him.

"What, are you gonna kiss me or something? To seal the deal?"

It was meant to be a joke, a final test. A way to push him away and see if he'd flinch. You expected him to laugh, to roll his eyes, to step back into the familiar safety of sarcastic banter.

He didn't.

He just looked at you, his eyes searching yours, and the lighthearted air in the room vanished. Your bravado evaporated.

His gaze dropped to your lips, and then back to your eyes.

"I might," he said, his voice a low murmur. "If you wanted me to."

Your breath hitched. This was a bad idea. A terrible, no-good, very-bad idea.

"Do you want to?" you whispered back, the words barely audible.

He answered by closing the final inch of space between you.

His lips were softer than you imagined. It was a careful, searching kiss, nothing like the confident, performative smooches you'd witnessed him bestow on girls in school hallways.

You responded in kind, a soft sigh escaping you. Your hand, as if of its own accord, came up to rest on the nape of his neck, your fingers tangling in the soft hair there. That seemed to be the permission he was looking for.

The kiss deepened. His hand came up to cup your jaw, his thumb stroking your cheekbone. He tasted like mint toothpaste and a faint, lingering sweetness from the strawberry flavoring he'd been ‘testing’ earlier.

Your free hand found its way to the front of his ridiculous shirt, your fist clenching in the fabric. He was solid, warm, real. Not the caricature you'd built in your head.

He angled his head, the kiss becoming more insistent, more desperate, his free hand steadying on your waist. He pulled you flush against him, and you gasped into his mouth as you felt his body against yours.

The rational part of your brain, the part that was still screaming about what a monumentally bad idea this was, went completely silent. All that was left was the feeling of him. The smell of him.

You were tentative as your hands trailed down his torso, palms flat against his toned pecs to the softness of his stomach and back up to his strong shoulders. You wanted to feel him.

"Hey," he murmured against your lips, a slight smile in his voice.

You pulled back just enough to see his face, your fingers still curled into the fabric of his shirt. His hair was a mess from your hands, his lips were swollen and wet, and his eyes were dark, pupils blown wide with want.

"Hi," you breathed back.

"This is," he started, then seemed to change his mind, leaning in to kiss you again, a soft, brief press of lips. "This is not a good place for this."

"No," you agreed, your brain slowly coming back online. "Not really."

He looked past you, towards the door that led out to the shop floor. "We need to go before that weird mall cop comes by."

You were suddenly acutely aware of your surroundings. The scent of dry goods, the hum of the freezers. You could still faintly smell the disinfectant and the sickly-sweet cherry flavoring.

"I'll go lock the gate and we can leave through the back." He kissed you again quickly and practically jogged out of the room, not giving you a chance to respond.

You took a minute to try and calm your racing heart before grabbing your bag. You could hear the heavy clank of the metal gate from the front of the shop.

You met him by the back door, the silence between you now charged with a different kind of electricity. You followed him out into the oppressive heat of the Hawkins night.

The air was wet, clinging to your skin. The parking lot was a sea of asphalt, shimmering under the orange glow of the mall lamps. The cicadas were screaming their summer song from the trees beyond the lot.

"Which one's yours?" he asked. 

"The blue shitbox over there." You pointed to your car.

"Classy." He grinned, shoving his hands in the pockets of his ridiculously short shorts. "Mine's the Beamer."

"I know."

He walked with you to your beat-up car, the silence stretching out between you. You could still feel the ghost of his kiss on your lips.

"So," he said, stopping next to your door, his proximity making it hard to think. "Now what?"

You looked up at him, at the hopeful, uncertain look in his eyes. "Aren't you the expert in this stuff? Master of the..." you trailed off, not knowing what to call this.

"Post-shift makeout session in a stuffy back room?" he supplied, a lopsided smile playing on his lips. "Yeah, kind of a new one for me, too."

He wasn't trying to play a part, not with you.

You leaned back against the warm metal of your car door. "Do you work tomorrow?" 

"You don't have my schedule memorized yet?" he asked, a flicker of the old Steve in his tone. You decided you liked this version better. "I'm off. So are you, according to the board."

"Right."

"So," he said again, rocking back on his heels. "Do you wan--" 

"I don't do hook ups." The words tumbled out of your mouth, blunt and defensive. It was your last line of defense, a final test to see what he'd do with the rejection. “Not… any more. Since, you know.”

He stopped rocking, his smile fading. He just looked at you, his expression unreadable in the lot’s lights.

"Okay..." he said, his voice quiet as he drew out the word. "I wasn't asking for one."

You winced internally. You hadn't meant for it to come out so harshly.

"I just mean, I don't..." you struggled to explain yourself, the heat from the asphalt and the heat from your blush making it hard to breathe. "I'm not that girl."

"I know," he said simply. "I wouldn't be standing here if I thought you were."

The certainty in his voice was disarming. He stepped closer again, crowding you against the car door.

"Is that what you thought this was?" he asked, his voice a low murmur that sent a shiver down your spine despite the humid air. "That I'd kiss you in the back room and then expect to... what? Come home with me and...?" He didn't finish, just let the question hang in the heavy air.

You almost hated that you wanted to be more than a forgotten hook up.

The idea that the one guy you've been trying not to want for weeks, might see you as just another notch on a bedpost, was a rejection that would sting more than anything else.

"I mean... I wouldn't want to get fired," you deflected. "Hypothetically, workplace fraternization would be very frowned upon by our corporate overlords at Scoops Ahoy."

God, that was weak. He knew it, too.

A lazy grin spread across his face. "If I did bring you home with me, hypothetically, it wouldn't be a hook-up."

And that, that right there, was what made you feel lightheaded. The casual certainty in his voice. He wasn't just trying to get you into bed. He was trying to get you.

"I mean... I'd be lying if I said I'm not thinking about it, or that I'd be against something happening..." he admitted, his gaze dropping to your lips again. "But I'm also thinking about seeing you tomorrow. And the day after. And maybe taking you somewhere that doesn't require a sailor hat."

You felt a smile tugging at your own lips, unguarded. "Oh yeah? Like where? The food court?"

"Even better," he said, leaning in, his lips ghosting over yours. "The movie theater."

You couldn't help it. You laughed. "Wooing me with all the high-class hotspots, Harrington."

"I aim to please," he whispered, and then he kissed you again. "I can also do restaurants, if you're feeling particularly adventurous. Maybe even that fancy Italian place out by the highway if I save up my tips for a month."

You were smiling against his mouth. "A whole month of Scoops for a plate of spaghetti? You drive a hard bargain."

"I like you." He said it like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Simple. Direct. A fact.

He pulled back just enough to look you in the eye. "That's all this is. It's not a game. It's not a hook-up. I just... really like you."

You held his gaze, feeling the warmth fill your body. 

"Do you like diner food?" you whisper. 

"Is that a serious question? Of course, I like diner food." The hopeful, ridiculously bright look that came back onto his face was worth more than you thought it would be.

It gave you the confidence to be bold. 

"I could... follow you home. And maybe in the morning you could take me to the diner for pancakes."

He blinked. "Seriously?"

"I'm not into hook-ups, Steve." The words were a little shaky, but you were sure of them. "But I'm not a nun, either."

He blinked again, trying to process. "So... you're coming home with me?"

"I'm following you home," you corrected, your own lips curving into a smile. "My car is my escape route. Don't make me use it."

"I won't," he promised, his voice dropping into that low register that made you want to melt into a puddle on the asphalt. "I won't."

He leaned in for one last kiss in the parking lot, a sweet press of lips that tasted like promise.

Following his BMW through the darkened streets of Hawkins in your hammydown car was one of the more surreal experiences of your life. The juxtaposition was almost funny. His clean, expensive car cutting through the night, you rattling along behind it, engine groaning in protest.

You'd driven by his house plenty of times. Large, sprawling, and dark. The kind of house that was meant for a family that was whole and happy, but instead there was an emptiness to it that you could feel from the driveway, a silence that had nothing to do with the late hour.

You hadn't asked if his parents were home, you already knew the answer. It was common knowledge that the Harringtons were never really around. You'd assumed he loved it. An endless party house. But seeing the stark reality of it, not even a single light on at the entrance, the cavernous windows all dark, you felt a different kind of understanding. A strange wave of pity and protectiveness washed over you. He was all alone in that big, echoing house.

He parked in one of the garages.

(Seriously, why were there so many?)

You had to park yours in the drive, a small, rebellious speck of automotive failure in the middle of all that success.

Steve must have gone in through the garage, because he was opening the front door as you got out of your car. You didn't miss the way he was still a little nervous about this whole thing. The confidence he had in the mall parking lot had retreated behind a wall of shyness that you had yet to see.

You walked up to where he was waiting at those red double doors.

"It's huge," you managed, feeling small.

"Yeah, well. My mom likes to entertain," he said, the words flat and devoid of any real emotion. He wasn't bragging; he was just stating a fact of a life that didn't feel like his.

He led you inside and locked the front doors as you toed off your shoes. The stairs were right by the entry way, carpet over wooden slats, the hall into the living space on the other side.

He turned a small lamp on by the wall before turning to you, hands on his hips and looking at the floor, trying to break the silence.

"Alright," he said, finally looking at you. "This is it. Casa del Harrington. Don't touch anything."

You could hear the smile in his tone.

"Wow, what a tour. So many highlights," you played along, your own lips tugging into a grin.

"I'm saving the best for last," he said, grabbing your hand. His was warm and a little sweaty, and your fingers linked together like they'd been doing it for years. He led you upstairs.

The hallway was long, half balcony, half doors to other rooms. One floor was bigger than your whole family home.

He pushed open a door at the end of the hall. "And this," he announced with a flourish, "is my room. The grand finale."

It wasn't what you expected. It was... plaid. Like, beige and black plaid walls and matching curtains.

"I swear I have a personality," he said, noticing your amused expression. "My mom's interior decorator did not get the memo."

"It's very... masculine," you managed, looking around the random items. A bowling pin on the desk, a poster of a car, a poster of a bikini clad woman he clearly flinched at when you saw. 

The king-sized bed, the sheets on top slightly rumpled from this morning, seemed to take up half the room.

It felt... intimate. Not in a threatening way, but in a way that made you feel like you were seeing a part of him no one else was supposed to. The messy pile of clothes on a chair, the photo on his dresser of him and a younger boy with curls and a goofy smile, a half-empty bottle of cologne.

"I'm gonna..." he cleared his throat. "Go change from this... stupid uniform." He gestured down at himself before turning to the door.

"Don't!" The protest slipped out before you could stop it.

Shit.

"Uh... I mean..."

He turned back slowly, his eyes wide, surprised. "Don't what? You afraid to be alone in here?"

"No, it's not that," you said, feeling your cheeks flush. You bit your lip, trying to find the words that wouldn't make you sound like a complete lunatic.

"I mean, don't... not because I don't want you to," you stammered, your gaze dropping to his chest. "It's just... I've been looking at that stupid uniform all summer. And I have this stupid image in my head of you in it and I..."

You trailed off, mortified. What were you even saying?

A slow grin spread across his face, a flicker of the cocky Steve Harrington you knew, but it was tempered by something softer.

"Oh," he said, the understanding dawning in his eyes. He took a step back into the room, closing the door behind him. "So... this is a thing for you, then?"

"It's not a thing," you denied, but your voice was weak and embarrassed. "It just... fits...well?"

That was also a bad choice of words.

You wanted the floor to swallow you whole, but then he started walking towards you with a slow, deliberate pace.

"Fits well?" he asked, his tone low and teasing. He stopped directly in front of you, so close you could feel the heat radiating from him. His gaze was heavy, searching your face. "You think so?"

You couldn't speak. You just nodded, your eyes locked on his.

"Is it the shorts?" he asked, his voice a low rumble. "Or does the dumb little scarf thing get you going?"

"Steve," you whispered, a pathetic attempt at shutting him down.

But instead of backing off, he took a hold of your waistband, tugging you flush against him. His hands were confident but not rough.

"Because, you know…" he continued, leaning down so his lips were right next to your ear. "I was thinking the shorts are a little short. Show a little too much thigh."

You let out a shaky breath, your hands coming up to rest on his chest. You could feel the steady, rapid beat of his heart under your palm.

"I take all my nice words back, you are actually evil."

He chuckled, the sound a deep, warm vibration against you. "Only a little bit."

One of his large hands found the red tie of your own uniform and played with it a little, not quite touching your chest, but his eyes were there.

"You're one to talk, you know..." he confessed. He traced the collar of the blue and white striped top. "Gotta say, I'm more than a little curious to see what's underneath. Not really leaving much to my imagination here, sailor." He says pulling at it a little to see your neck line.

"You're the one who said it was tight on me last week," you reminded him, your own hands slowly, nervously sliding up to wrap around the back of his neck, your fingers brushing the soft hairs there. "Wasn't really a confidence booster..."

"Is that why you were quiet the rest of the day? You thought it was, what, an insult?" He was genuinely confused. "It wasn't. I was trying not to stare, god, I was trying so hard not to stare."

Your fingers stilled in his hair. "Really?"

"Yeah," he breathed, leaning in again. His lips brushed your jaw, a fleeting, warm touch. "I spent the rest of the shift trying to think up ways to get you fired, just so I didn't have to look at you in this stupid uniform anymore."

The laugh that escaped you was half-shock, half-desire. "That's the most romantic and simultaneously psychopathic thing anyone has ever said to me."

He nipped at your earlobe, and a full-body shudder wracked its way through you. "God, when I was patching up your knee? And you kept flinching and your shorts were riding up your thigh and I could feel you shaking... you have no idea what I was thinking."

"I have a pretty good idea," you gasped as his lips trailed down the column of your throat. His hand was still on the ridiculous scarf-thing, one thumb stroking the skin just above your collarbone.

"No, you don't," he murmured against your skin. "But I'll show you. If you let me."

You didn't answer with words. You answered by tilting your head back, giving him better access, and by pulling him closer until there was no space left between your bodies. He took the invitation, his kisses becoming open-mouthed and hungry against your throat.

His hands finally moved to the hem of your uniform top, warm fingers brushing against the sliver of exposed skin on your stomach. You sucked in a sharp breath. His touch was a brand.

"Is this okay?" he breathed against your skin, pausing.

You answered by grabbing the hem of your own shirt and pulling it over your head in one smooth motion, tossing it to the floor.

Your eyes were searching his face, trying to gauge his reaction, half-expecting a flicker of disappointment or the detached calculation you'd imagined from the old Steve. Instead, you were met with clear want.

"Wow," he breathed, his gaze sweeping over you. He looked dazed. "Wow."

"Stop," you said, but it was a weak protest.

"No, I mean it," he said, his hands coming up to rest on your waist, his thumbs stroking the soft skin there. "Those are... wow."

He was looking at your breasts like he'd just discovered a new continent, but it was the reverence in his expression that did it for you.

"They're boobs, Steve," you said, your voice shaky with a nervous laugh.

"They’re great boobs," he countered, leaning in to kiss you again. This kiss was different. Deeper, more possessive. One of his hands slid up your back, his fingers tracing the clasp of your bra.

It was a simple, utilitarian, beige thing. Nothing lacy or special. You suddenly felt a pang of self-consciousness.

"This is the least sexy bra in the history of the world," you murmured against his lips.

"I'm not really looking at the bra," he said, a smile in his voice. He deftly unhooked it with one hand and you felt the straps fall loose.

He pulled back just enough to slide the bra down your arms and let it join your shirt on the floor. The cool air of the room on your bare skin made you shiver.

"Jesus," he breathed, his eyes wide, devouring the sight of you. He looked like a kid in a candy store who'd just been told he could have whatever he wanted.

He didn't say anything else. He just looked, his gaze hot and heavy, and it was somehow more intimate than if he'd touched you. You'd never had anyone look at you like that. Like you were a masterpiece.

Then he was kissing you again, and this time his hands were on you, warm and sure. They weren't tentative or clumsy. He knew what he was doing.

One hand cupped your breast, his thumb brushing over the nipple, and a jolt went through you so intense you gasped into his mouth. He swallowed the sound, deepening the kiss, as he rolled the sensitive peak between his thumb and forefinger.

You pulled his shirt up, your hands flattening against the warm, bare skin of his back. You could feel the muscles there, tense and solid. He helped you pull the stupid uniform shirt over his head, and then it was your turn to look.

His chest was smooth and defined, a patch of chest hair trailing down to a soft tummy that you wanted to lick. 

"Got a little soft from all the ice cream," he said, a self-deprecating note in his voice.

"I like it," you said, and you meant it. You leaned in, pressing a kiss to the center of his chest, right over his heart. His breath hitched. "You're hairier than I thought though."

He let out a surprised laugh, a real, genuine burst of sound that rumbled through you.

"You been thinking about my hair distribution a lot?" he teased, his hands settling on your hips.

"You'd be surprised," you murmured, kissing your way up to his collarbone.

"Let me get my hands on you before I explode" he whispered, and he was tugging you towards the bed. He sat down on the edge, pulling you to straddle him. His hands roamed over your back, your hips, your ass, appreciating your shape.

Your breasts were pressed against his chest, the coarse hair a delicious friction. You threaded your fingers through his hair, tilting his head back. You kissed him, a slow, deep kiss that you felt all the way down to your toes.

"God, you feel good," he breathed against your lips, his hands squeezing your ass.

He was hard, you could feel it through the layers of fabric between you, a rigid, insistent pressure against you.

"Steve," you whispered, rocking against him. The friction was maddening.

"Tell me what you want," he said, pulling back to look at you, his eyes dark and serious.

You took a shaky breath. You weren't used to this. Guys usually just took what they wanted, assuming they knew.

"Touch me," you said, your voice barely a whisper. "Everywhere."

He smiled, a slow, dangerous curve of his lips. "My pleasure."

He guided you onto the bed, your back sinking into the plush comforter. He followed you down, settling over you, propping himself up on his elbows so he wasn't crushing you.

He started slow. His lips traced a path from your jaw down to the hollow of your throat. His hands mapped your body, savoring every curve.

"I can't believe this is happening," he murmured, mostly to himself.

"Me neither," you admitted, your hands stroking through his hair as he kissed a path across your collarbones.

When he finally took one of your nipples into his mouth, you arched off the bed with a choked gasp. He swirled his tongue around the sensitive peak, his other hand coming up to toy with its twin.

"Look at these... God," he said, pulling away with a wet pop. His thumb and forefinger rolling the sensitive nub, pulling a little making your hips buck. "Fucking perfect."

The compliments, the reverence, it was overwhelming. It was too much, but also exactly what you needed. He wasn't treating you like a conquest. He was worshiping you. You were the only thing in this cavernous, lonely house that mattered.

He shifted, moving down your body, pressing open-mouthed kisses to your stomach, your hips.

"Can I show you what I was thinking about when I patched you up?" he asked, his gaze flicking up to meet yours from his position above your shorts. His fingers were hooked into the waistband, teasing the elastic.

You nodded, unable to speak, your throat tight with anticipation.

He grinned, that wicked, knowing grin, and slowly, torturously, peeled your shorts down your legs. He tossed them aside, leaving you in nothing but your plain cotton underwear.

He settled between your thighs, pushing them apart. His gaze was heavy, and you felt a fresh wave of self-consciousness wash over you. You started to close your legs, to hide, but he held you in place, his hands firm on your thighs.

"No," he said, his voice a command. "Don't you dare hide from me."

He leaned down, and you felt his breath, hot and damp, through the thin cotton of your panties. Your hips bucked, a silent plea.

"God, you're already so wet for me," he murmured, his thumb pressing against your clit through the fabric.

You whined, a high, desperate sound you didn't recognize as your own. Your hands fisted in the comforter.

He took pity on you, hooking his fingers into the waistband of your panties and sliding them down.

"Look at you," he breathed, spreading you open with his thumbs. "Pretty. So fucking pretty."

He didn't wait. He leaned in and licked a flat, broad stripe up your center.

The world tilted on its axis. Your back arched, a strangled gasp tearing from your throat as you fought to keep your eyes open. He looked up at you from between your legs as he did it again, slow and deliberate, savoring the taste of you. His perfect nose nudged against your clit. He groaned, a low, rumbling sound of pure, unadulterated pleasure, and the vibration of it shot through you like lightning.

"Steve... oh, god..."

"That's it," he encouraged, his voice a rough whisper against your sensitive skin. He settled in, alternating between broad, lazy strokes of his tongue and focused, precise circles around your clit. His hands held your thighs apart, his grip firm and grounding. He wasn't trying to impress you with some frantic, porno-worthy performance. He was trying to make you feel good. He was paying attention.

He watched you, his eyes dark and intense, cataloging every reaction, every twitch, every gasp. When your hips started to cant up, meeting the rhythm of his tongue, he knew he'd found it. He sealed his lips around your clit and sucked.

"Fuck!" you cried out, your hands flying from the bedspread to tangle in his hair, holding him to you. "Don't stop. Please, god, don't stop."

He didn't. He doubled down, flicking his tongue against the sensitive bundle of nerves in a relentless, perfect rhythm. He slid one finger inside you, then another, curling them in a 'come here' motion that made you see stars.

"Steve," you whimpered, his name a prayer on your lips. "I'm... I'm..."

He knew. He could feel it. The fluttering of your walls around his fingers, the way your thighs were starting to tremble uncontrollably. He was good at this. He'd learned a thing or two, a quiet voice in the back of your mind supplied, before the thought was obliterated by the coiling tension in your stomach.

And then you were falling. The world shattered into a million pieces. Your back bowed off the bed and a long moan was torn from your throat as the orgasm hit. He didn't stop, didn't let up, working you through it until you were a boneless, panting mess beneath him.

He finally lifted his head, his face glistening, a satisfied grin on his lips. He crawled up your body, pressing a kiss to your lips. You could taste yourself on him, the intimate flavor making your head spin.

"Your thighs are shaking," he whispered, the words a warm puff of air against your cheek. His hand came up to stroke your hair tenderly.

"Blame the sailor uniform," you managed, your voice hoarse. Your brain felt like it had been scooped out and replaced with cotton candy.

"And let it take all the credit? No chance. That was all me, baby."

Baby.

"You're insufferable," you whispered, but you were smiling, pulling him down for another kiss. You could feel him, still hard against your hip through the fabric of those ridiculous shorts.

"You don't seem like you're suffering too much." He rocked his hips against you, a deliberate, delicious friction that made you gasp.

"Conceited, too," you retorted, your hands coming down to cup his ass, pulling him tighter against you. The muscles were firm and perfect in your palms.

The move must have surprised him a little because he flinched away. Not in a bad way, he looked confused by the feeling of your hands there.

Truthfully, you hadn't been with a guy in a while, and your reflexes were a little rusty on the male body.

"Uh...sorry..." You whispered as you moved your hands back to the bed.

He just shook his head. "No, no. You just surprised me is all." The look on his face was a mixture of confusion and awe. "I... uh..." He was stammering again, which was weird.

"I'm not used to girls... well, touching my ass," he admitted with a little laugh. "Usually it's just been about what I can do for them."

You hadn't even thought about it. You'd been more interested in the feeling of him.

His smile was gone, replaced by that serious, searching look again. He was watching you, his brow furrowed in concentration.

"You've definitely had girls touch you before, Steve." You whisper, hands impatient back on his lower back. 

"Yeah... yeah. Just not like this." He leaned down, kissing your shoulder. "Not where it's about... me."

He had no right to look so vulnerable. Not with the reputation he had around Hawkins. Not with everything you'd heard. But as he hovered above you, all you saw was a boy who was used to being wanted for what he could provide, not for who he was.

"Also it's... been a while for me." he admitted, his lips against your neck again like it would help hide the confession. 

The idea that you were the one to make him this nervous, this unsure, was the most intoxicating thing you had ever experienced.

Your hands roamed over his back, feeling the muscles tense and flex under your touch. You wanted to memorize the slope of his shoulders, the ridge of his spine, the dip at the base of his back.

"I like it, for the record." He says after a moment of your hands playing with the waistband of those shorts, lost in the feeling of your hands on him. "I like how handsy you get when you're turned on."

You smile and your hands move back to his ass to push him more firmly against your core, you let out your own moan against his lips. He was still so frustratingly clothed.

"It's your turn," you breathed, your hands tugging at the fabric. "Lose the shorts."

He kisses you quickly before pulling back to take them off. There was a significant wet patch on the front from where he'd been pressed against you. You watch his eyes trail down to it. 

"Oops..." you whisper with a smirk.

He just shakes his head with a chuckle before he finally, finally slides them and his boxers down in one go, kicking them to the floor.

And then he was naked. All of him. And your brain had to recalculate.

You'd heard the rumors, of course. Locker rooms were a breeding ground for exaggerated gossip. But seeing him in the flesh... seeing the hard, thick length of him, curving up towards his stomach... the rumors hadn't been exaggerated. They'd been an understatement.

He followed the path of your eyes, and you watched a flicker of something- pride, maybe, or just deep-seated insecurity- cross his face.

"You're staring," he said, a nervous edge to his teasing tone.

"I can't imagine a person who wouldn't."

You reached for him, your curiosity overriding any lingering shyness. He was deliciously heavy in your hand, the skin velvety soft. He let out the prettiest moan as you gave a slow, tentative stroke, your thumb smearing the bead of moisture at the tip. His hips stuttered forward, an involuntary movement.

"Jesus," he breathed, his head falling back. His hands braced on the mattress on either side of your head, caging you in. "Okay. Yeah. That's... okay."

He looked wrecked already. His hair was a mess, his cheeks flushed, his lips parted. It was a heady kind of power.

Your other hand slid up the back of his thigh, over the firm curve of his ass. You gave a little squeeze and he swore again, his hips bucking into your fist.

"Tell me what you want, Steve," you murmured, your voice low and sure.

He looked down at you, his eyes dark, a muscle working in his jaw. He's never been asked that. Not like this.

"Jesus Christ," he said again, as if that were the only coherent thought he could form. "I want... everything."

"Be more specific," you pressed, your thumb swirling over the head of him.

"I want to be inside you," he ground out. "I need to be inside you."

"Good," you whispered, pulling him down for a kiss. "Get a condom."

He blinked, then nodded, a flicker of disappointment in his eyes at the loss of your touch. He rolled off you, rummaging in the drawer of his bedside table. He came back with a little foil packet, tearing it open with his teeth.

You watched him roll it on, your own body revving with anticipation. He hovered over you again, one hand braced on the bed, the other lining himself up with your entrance.

"Just... go slow..." you say with a steadying breath. "I'm eager, yeah, but like I said, it's been a minute for me too. And you're... not exactly... small."

He looked genuinely relieved that you'd acknowledged it. "Yeah. I know. It's... it's a lot sometimes, for people. I'll be careful, I swear."

The vulnerability was back, but this time it wasn't about your reaction. It was about the act itself. He was scared of hurting you.

He pressed forward, and you felt the stretch, the welcome pressure of him entering you. It was a slow, deliberate push, and you felt him inch by inch. You let out a shaky breath, your hands coming up to grip his biceps.

He paused, giving you a moment to adjust. "You okay?"

"Just...really love touching you," you gasped out in lieu of a real answer. And it was the truth. Your hands were on him, feeling the toned muscle and the warm skin and the slight tremor in his arms as he held himself still. "You can keep going."

He kissed you, a slow, sweet kiss, almost overwhelming feeling of him filling you. He started to move again, shallow rocking that gradually built into a deeper rhythm.

"God," he breathed against your lips, burying his face in your neck. "You feel... you feel incredible."

Your legs wrapped around his waist, pulling him deeper, silently begging for more. The feeling of your plush, soft thighs around his hips made Steve lose all train of thought. He was breathing into your neck and making these small helpless sounds, like he couldn't believe this was really happening.

He set a pace that was both leisurely and deep, rolling his hips in a way that made you see stars. One of those strong arms made its way under you when you arched into him, pressing your chest to his. The movement shifted you, and he slid deeper, hitting a spot inside you that made you cry out.

"Right there?" he asked, a smug satisfaction in his tone. He rolled his hips again, deliberately, grinding against that spot.

"Steve..." you whimpered, unable to form a coherent thought.

"Say my name again," he commanded, his voice a low growl against your ear. His lips moved along the shell of your ear, nipping gently. He was chasing the praise you gave him, hungry for it.

"Steve," you repeated, louder this time, your hands tangling in his hair.

"You feel incredible, fuck you're so soft everywhere" He panted.

He was losing control, the careful rhythm faltering as his hips began to snap harder, more erratically. Your hands slid down his back, your nails trailing just enough before grabbing onto his ass to keep him deep inside you. You didn't want this to end, but you were already climbing again, that coil of heat tightening in your belly.

"I'm..." you started, but you couldn't finish. The words caught in your throat as he shifted, hooking one of your legs over his shoulder. "Holy fuck..."

The new angle was putting his cock impossibly deep, hitting that spot with every thrust. His name became a mantra on your lips, a prayer to the only god you currently believed in.

"I know, baby, I know," he panted, his face buried in your neck. "Doing so good f'me... taking it so good."

The praise was your undoing. Your world went white. You clenched around him, your orgasm ripping through you with a force that left you breathless and shaking. A cry tore from your throat, needy and real.

The feeling of your walls closing in around him, the sound of you crying his name, it was too much. He drove into you once, twice more, a whimper tearing from your own lips at the overstimulation. Then he stilled, burying himself deep as he came with a long, shuddering groan against your neck.

For a moment, you both just lay there, a tangle of arms and legs and heavy breathing in the oppressive heat of the room. 

Slowly, he lowered your leg back down to the bed, but not before kissing the inside of your knee like a silent 'thank you'. He brushed a sweat-damp piece of hair from your forehead, a gesture so soft and tender it made your heart clench. He was still breathing heavily, each pull almost leading in so a loft laugh.

"Usually I can last longer than that." he's quiet, confessing something you didn't even ask for. "You just..."

He didn't finish.

You just what?

You wanted to ask, but the words wouldn't come. You were too spent, too content. He carefully pulled out of you, and you both winced at the sensation. He dealt with the condom, tossing it in the small trashcan by the desk with perfect aim.

You expected him to roll over, to put some space between you. That's what the other guys had done. A moment of awkward silence, then the shuffle of sheets and a mumbled 'I'll be right back'. But he didn't. He shifted, pulling you into his arms until your head was resting on his chest, right over his heart. The beat was still fast against your ear.

His arm wrapped around your shoulders, holding you close. One of his legs tangled with yours, a possessive but gentle weight.

"Your chest hair is sweaty." you mumble against him, but your teasing tone gave away that you didn't actually mind. In fact, you kind of liked it.

"I'm aware," he laughed. "You did this to me."

"Oh, so this is my fault?" You laughed with him, your fingers tracing abstract patterns on the soft skin of his stomach.

"Entirely," he confirmed, pressing a kiss to the top of your head.

The comfortable silence that settled over you was warm.

"So," he started, his voice quiet in the dim room. "Diner pancakes in the morning. You still on for that?"

You propped yourself up on an elbow, looking down at him. His hair, which you now realized was grown out a bit more than usual and slightly sunkissed, was fanned out on the pillow, a complete mess. His eyes were soft in the low light, a perfectly warm mix of green and brown.

"You're so beautiful." The words slipped out.

A faint blush crept up his neck, coloring his cheeks. He turned his head for a moment, a boyish gesture that was so at odds with the confident way he'd been looking at you earlier.

"Was that weird?" You asked, suddenly self-conscious. You hadn't meant to say it out loud.

"No," he said, turning back to you, his gaze catching yours. "Just... not what I'm used to hearing."

He reached up, his thumb stroking your cheek. "The girls I'm used to... they'd call me hot, or tell me they liked my car. They wouldn't say that. Don't really think I'd like it from them anyway."

"Maybe you've been talking to the wrong girls," you whispered, leaning into his touch.

"I'm starting to realize that, yeah," he agreed, his hand sliding around to the nape of your neck, pulling you down for a slow, gentle kiss. 

You shifted, settling more fully against him, your leg draped over his. Your body was pleasantly sore, a lingering reminder of the way he'd touched you, the way he'd moved inside you.

You were both slick with a cooling layer of sweat in the humid, still air of the bedroom. The window unit was rattling away, doing a valiant but ultimately futile battle against the heatwave and your combined body heat. The sheets were twisted around your legs.

"Your parents aren't, like, gonna come home, are they?" you asked, a flicker of anxiety cutting through the post-coital bliss.

He let out a soft, bitter laugh. "No. My dad's in Chicago until August. My mom's on some retreat on the east coast. Supposed to 'celebrate the woman within' or some phony shit." He paused, tracing the line of your spine. "I think the only thing within her is a tanned tennis instructor named Todd."

"Ouch," you murmured, kissing his collarbone.

"It would be, if my dad didn't spend so many late nights at the office with just his secretary," he said, the words devoid of any real emotion. It was just a fact of life. "This house has been a revolving door for their issues for years. But I'm used to being alone here."

He squeezed your shoulder. "So, no. We're not going to get interrupted."

You felt the weight of that admission, the casual mention of a loneliness so profound it had become normal. It explained a lot about him, the desperate need for attention, the endless parties. He was just trying to fill the silence.

"We could... spend more time together tomorrow. After pancakes," you offered, your own nerves fluttering. "If you wanted."

He went very still. You could feel the change in his breathing, the way he held it.

"Yeah?" he asked, his voice a little rough. "You'd want to?"

"Do... you want to? I don't want to get in the way of you, like, hanging out with your friends or..."

"At this point my friends are a group of preteen nerds I was forced to babysit," he said, a small smile in his voice. "I think I'd rather hang out with you."

"Preteen nerds?"

"It's a long, very weird story," he said. "Involved a lot of digging and a very big bat."

"A bat? What, were you playing baseball?"

He huffed a quiet laugh against your hair. "Something like that. If you keep seeing me, maybe I'll tell you all about it one day."

"Are we seeing each other? Is that what this is?" You tried to keep your tone light, but your heart gave a little lurch at the prospect of putting a name to this thing between you.

"I'd like to," he said, so quiet you almost missed it. "If you would."

"I would," you whispered back, the answer easy and true.

He rolled onto his side, shifting so he was facing you, propping his head up on his hand. The little bedside lamp cast a warm, golden glow over him, highlighting the soft curve of his lips, the earnestness in his eyes.

"Good," he said, a slow, lazy smile spreading across his face. "So, pancakes in the morning? Then maybe we could go to the lake? It's supposed to be even hotter tomorrow. We could go for a swim."

"Trying to see me in a swim suit?"

"Is it working?" he teased, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

"Maybe."

"Should I try to convince you?"

"You're welcome to try…" you challenge.

A slow, predatory grin spread across Steve's face. He leaned in, capturing your bottom lip between his and giving it a gentle, suggestive nip. "I think," he murmured against your lips, "I can be very convincing..."

'ahoy, ladies!' [steve taglist]

@keer-y @aecd27 @snoopyharrington @mutual-future-repeat @djosfools @subtlesposts @cpnsteverogers @britt-mf @alimoiii @remorsefuul @bing72 @thehairharringtonsideblog @powerpuffedbjtch @ali-r3n @enchantedsharddetective @moonstoneandmoonlight @windowsshifts @bunnybunnns @cosmicjamieee @nowandajenn @cciessuzi @dreamerjj @calelundaa @nicherthanu @djobug @purplequeen64-stuff @starrlovee @ghostlyriddles @oohgeminii @ross-bunnybrew @micheledawn1975 @flashmountaindjo @buckyandlokirunmylife @argentinemango @mmmunson @winterwheeler @whatdjomeann @gutsnhugs @maaaachiii @treebabe @m-art000

[levanswrites]

𝐤𝐧𝐮𝐜𝐤𝐥𝐞 𝐯𝐞𝐥𝐯𝐞𝐭

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: steve harrington x reader 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 9.4k 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: your boyfriend throws himself off a 200-foot tower to save you. and you've finally had enough. 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: established relationship, heavy angst, character analysis, switch!steve, hurt/comfort, pain kink, breeding kink, minor blood kink, choking (m!receiving), bondage (?), hate-sex adjacent, sex as coping, descriptions of blood/injury, fantasies about marriage/children, scars, ptsd, aftercare, fluff, bathing together, palm reading, happy ending 𝐚/𝐧: out of everything I love about steve harrington, this is the thing that breaks my heart the most.

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“You’re such a fucking—idiot—asshole—”

How do you love a man who would die for you, but won’t live for you?

“—selfish dick!”  

You slam back into him before the sentence can finish breathing. Words shredded by teeth and tongue, by kisses hard enough to bruise. Bite hard enough, and maybe you can tear the martyrdom out from under his skin. Rip the halo off and snap it between your teeth.

You sink your cuspids into his bottom lip, right over a split that had barely scabbed over on the drive home.

You feel it tear back open. Feel the plush give of it, the hot burst of copper that blooms across your tongue. Metallic and thick, his life slides down your chin in a slow ribbon of red. It smears between your mouths when you grind closer, staining your skin, marking you both.

He makes a sound.

And it’s not anything born out of pain—you’d know. 

Deep and guttural, dragged up from somewhere starved. His hands clamp around your waist, fingers digging into your ass as he hauls you flush against him. Denim rasps against the inside of your thighs when he rolls his hips up, grinding into you.

That thick, heavy bulge makes itself known, humiliatingly honest.

Blood in his mouth. Dirt under his nails and the sour, rotten tang of that other place still caked in his hair. 

And he’s hard.

Something in him is broken that way.

Years of surviving by the skin of his teeth—beaten and concussed and tortured and choked and drowned and devoured—it’s fucked up the wiring in Steve Harrington’s brain.

Pain tolerance shot to hell. Fear braided with dopamine until his nervous system can’t tell the difference anymore.

Getting hurt no longer scares him.

Now, agony comes hardwired with clarity. That split second before impact, when adrenaline screams through his veins and he’s teetering on that razor-sharp edge of death, that’s when he feels most alive.

Your thumb presses into the fresh cut on his lip, smearing his blood back into it. His lashes flutter. His hips jerk up, rutting against you like you’re fucking him.

You grab his jaw, fingers digging into the sharp hinge to force his gaze down to yours. His pupils are blown impossibly wide; barely any color left, drowned beneath an endless wash of black.

“Yeah?” you whisper, venom-sweet. You drag your thumb down his throat, feel the jut of his Adam’s apple jump under your touch. “Does that feel good?”

He nods.

Doesn’t even have the decency to look ashamed. Whatever scrap of self-preservation he’d once possessed hollowed out by hunger—by that sick, reckless void inside him that only ever seems to ignite after he’s survived something that should have killed him.

A cruel cosmic coin toss that keeps landing in his favor—and instead of gratitude, it leaves him burning for more.

You lift your knee and press your thigh into the seam of his pants. He sucks in a sharp breath through blood-slick lips, head tipping back, throat bared.

You despise it.

You despise that this is the language his body understands. That he can shove you out of the way without a second thought—dangle over two hundred feet of empty air because he decided your life was worth more than his—and still get hard when you hurt him for it.

You drag your bloody thumb to your mouth and suck it clean, eyes never leaving his.

He watches you do it, watches your lips wrap around the pad of your finger to taste, to swallow—swallow his blood like it’s yours, like he’s yours, like the world could never take him from you.  

Like he hasn’t already tried to give himself away.

Only this time... it was for you, wasn’t it?

Hurled himself into the abyss without hesitation, fingers scraping at metal while the yawning darkness waited below.

One second slower. One fraction of a heartbeat, and—

Your palms slam into his shoulders.

Just like his had slammed into yours.

Bile surges up your throat as you claw at muscle and bone, shoving and shoving until his balance falters.

He stumbles back, heel catching on the edge of the bed. Momentum betrays him for a second time and he falls back onto the mattress with a startled grunt.  

Your stomach falls with him. Phantom vertigo clawing up your spine, even now.

And the moment you close your eyes—

You’re standing on top of that tower.

You remember the look on his face.

That awful, quiet resolve of someone who had already made peace with his fate.

You remember his hands on your shoulders. The firm press of his fingers, the way he held on just long enough to make sure you were steady, to make sure you were far enough away.

Far enough that you couldn’t reach him.

Far enough that you would live.

And then he let go.

You remember the force of it careening you backward, your boots scraping against the metal platform as you fought for balance. You remember the cold bite of the railing against your back. You remember watching him move in the opposite direction, his own momentum carrying him toward the open edge.

You remember his hand shooting out on instinct, searching for anything that would keep him there. His palm scraping against rusted steel, leaving streaks of red behind as his fingers curled desperately around the railing.

The same hands that had pushed you away.

The same hands that had held yours on the way up, guiding you over every rung of that ladder when the height made your stomach twist.

You remember his mouth opening like he might say something—your name, maybe—a goodbye, something he needed you to know—but all that came out was a broken, ragged breath.

You remember the color draining from his face as he looked down, the terrible understanding settling in his eyes.

You remember lunging for him without thought.

You remember Robin’s arms locking around your waist, holding you back so tightly it bruised, her grip the only thing keeping you from following him over the edge.

And then his fingers slipped.

You stalk toward him now, trying to outrun the memory, fists clenched so tight your nails carve crescents into your palms.

He’s sprawled across the sheets, chest heaving, arms flung wide in surrender.

“Why?” you demand, climbing over him, straddling him with an anger so raw it shakes your whole body. “Why the fuck would you do that?”

He lets out a quick breath through his nose, incredulous. Raises his brows like you’re the insane one.

“Seriously? You’re seriously asking me that.”

He’s smiling.

A crooked, boyish thing, manic brightness behind the eyes, adrenaline still lighting him up from the inside out.  

It detonates something in you.

You slam your weight down on him, knees digging hard into his sides. The mattress groans, the air punching out of his lungs in a sharp grunt.

You fist the hem of his shirt and yank it up.

The sight underneath steals your air right back.

It never gets easier to see.

Bruises bloom fresh and vicious across his ribs, inky purples bleeding into sick reds. New hurt swallowed by old hurt, skin that never gets the chance to heal clean before something tears it open again.

Jagged crescents from teeth, ropes of pale, warped ridges that split the tan of his skin like fault lines, ready to crack him open. That chunk of puckered flesh on his right side that never healed right—and it never will.  

Your fingers drag down the center of his chest, shaking.

“What was the plan this time, hm?” you spit, nails scraping over the soft plane of his stomach, catching on one of the scars. “What was the fucking plan, Steve?”

You hook your fingers into his belt buckle and rip it loose, hard enough that the metal clangs against itself.

“Answer me. What would you have done if—if Jonathan didn’t catch you? If you slipped?”

His head falls back, exposing the flushed column of his throat, pulse hammering wild and alive under skin you’ve kissed a hundred times.

“What the hell was I supposed to do?” he pants. “Let you fall?”

“You didn’t know I was gonna fall!”

“Well I wasn’t gonna fucking wait to find out, alright?”  

The mattress groans when he pushes himself upright too fast, pain flashing across his face before he buries it immediately, one hand flying to his ribs on instinct.

“I can’t... I’m not gonna just stand there and wait for something to happen to you.”

Your body goes still.  

The bright sting behind your eyes arrives right on cue, the fury choking off in your throat until all that’s left is grief.

“You know,” you whisper, quieter now. “You know I’m not just talking about the tower.”

There’s a moment of recognition in his eyes as the words sink in, a flash of something that might be guilt if he ever let it sit long enough.

He knows exactly what you mean.

Then, just as fast, he shutters himself. Lets the feeling die before it can root.

His gaze slides away toward the ceiling.

“No, don’t... don’t do that,” he mutters. “Don’t make this into some... suicidal thing. It wasn’t.”

“Wasn’t it?”

“No.”

“You could’ve died tonight.”

“But I didn’t.”

“That’s not the fucking point!”

“Well what do you want me to say?” he fires back suddenly, frustration cracking his voice. “That I’m sorry I stopped you from falling?”

“I want you to stop acting like your life means less than mine!”

He clamps his mouth shut, an audible click of his molars as he frowns, incredulity settling behind his wide eyes. His brows pulling together as he stares at you like he can’t understand why you could possibly be saying this.

Steve doesn’t consciously believe his life matters less.

He would never say that.

But somewhere deep down—in the ugly marrow of him, in the abandoned, lonely places built inside him when he was a kid—he believes it instinctively.

You’ve known that for a long time now.

Steve grew up starving.

Not for food.

For affection.   

A reason to believe he mattered even when there was nothing he could offer except himself.

Love, in the Harrington house, was conditional.

And at Hawkins High, he traded one kind of emptiness for another.

Built himself a throne out of borrowed attention and hollow praise.

Then the world ended, and suddenly everybody needed him.

Needed his fists, his strength. Needed the frightening way he could take hit after hit after hit and still stand back up bleeding.

Steve latched onto that feeling with both hands.

And his body became a type of offering.

A thing to spend.

You’ve lost count of how many nights ended exactly like this.

Both of you stumbling back home, adrenaline clawing through your veins, slick with sweat and blood—yours or his, it doesn’t matter anymore. Shaking so hard your teeth chatter while you scream at him, fists slamming into his chest.

Screaming and shoving and crying and kissing and begging—begging him to please, please stop being so fucking careless with your life. What’s the point of any of this shit if you’re dead, Steve?      

It always ends the same way. Your anger dissolving into something wetter as Steve reaches for your waist with bruised hands, dragging you against him, mouthing apologies into your throat he’ll never say aloud. Fucking you on top of bloodstained sheets while the smell of iron hangs thick in the room, face buried in your neck, every thrust a word he won't say.

Sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.

You stare at him now, chest heaving, lungs scraping for air that won’t come.

Then you reach down and pull his wrists together.

The leather creaks when you thread his belt around them.

Loop, thread, pull, cinch.

Survival knots perfected in the dead of night, in basements and back rooms, hands slick with sweat while you practiced until it stuck. So when the time came, you could hold down something thrashing and dangerous.

Because hesitation is what gets people killed.

It makes sickness crawl up your throat, how naturally your body remembers.

How this world has taught you to restrain someone you love—and taught you well.

You yank his arms above his head, the strap biting into his skin, pulling tight until the leather creaks and his skin pales underneath.

Steve doesn’t fight it, doesn’t even try. Just lets his head fall back against the pillows, wrists falling limp over dark linens.

Has the fucking audacity to smile.

“What,” he breathes, wrecked in an entirely different way now. “You gonna punish me?”

You yank the belt tighter.

He hisses softly through his teeth, brows creasing in a fake show of pain, hips stirring in anticipation.

“Okay, easy, easy,” he mutters breathlessly, grin crooked. “Jesus—easy, honey.”

“Oh, so now I’m honey?”

You shove his wrists harder into the pillow, then drop your hands to his pants, fingers rough and impatient. The button fights you before snapping loose, his zipper dragged down with a harsh metallic rasp. He sucks in a breath, back arching as the pressure eases off his swollen cock.

“Baby...” he tries, a soft laugh in his voice. “C’mon, you don’t have to, just—”

“Shut up.”

You shove him back into the mattress, gaze burning furiously through him.

He just stares back, that reckless, adrenaline-drunk smile still clinging to him like he hasn’t learned a single fucking thing.

So you wrap your hand around his throat.

Four fingers digging into warm, sweat-slick skin. Your thumb presses into the hollow beside his windpipe until you can feel it.

The frantic thump-thump-thump of life.

Life he throws around like loose change.

“S-shit, babe...” he chokes softly, lashes fluttering, eyes rolling back, the fucked-up wires in his brain firing off all at once. He uses what little leverage he has to lift his hips, grinding against your ass until you tighten your grip, a crease of real strain forming between his brows as his breath snags under your palm.

But even then, he doesn’t push you away. His bound hands strain downward, fingers grasping uselessly at your wrist, tugging you forward so he can get you closer, grind up harder.

You hate him.

You love him so much it makes you violent.

And he’s still fucking bleeding.

Face covered all over in fresh cuts and bruises, illuminated by the soft blue glow of the dinosaur nightlight in the corner—same one he’s had since he was five.

This bed once held your first kiss.

Your first time.

Steve laughing breathlessly into your mouth at sixteen years old because he kept fumbling the condom wrapper with nervous hands.

Whispered promises under blankets about senior year and college.

A hundred different somedays and maybes.

About a future that didn’t look like this—didn’t include gates or monsters or watching the boy you love come within inches of disappearing, over and over again.

Now you’re choking him in it.  

Straddling him with your hand around his throat because you don’t know how else to make him understand that you cannot survive loving somebody who keeps choosing death.

It won’t leave you alone, the image of his face on top of that tower.

Not an inch of hesitation.

Like it wouldn’t have mattered, either way.

Your other hand comes up, circling his throat fully now, pressing in. 

Your eyes sting as you narrow them, forcing yourself to hold his gaze.

Barely a whisper, the words cut you on their way out.

“Fuck you.”

Some days you think about killing him yourself.

Ending it before the world gets to.

Precipitate the inevitable doom that is loving a man who would bleed for you, break for you, die for you—

But won’t live for you.    

At least it would be quick, then.

At least you wouldn’t spend the rest of your life waiting for the inevitable moment where his luck finally runs out.

It’s unbearable.

Loving someone who would move mountains to keep you alive, but cannot understand why you’d want the same for him.

Calm in the face of oblivion, martyrdom fits him like a second skin. 

That’s what terrifies you most.

Because somewhere deep down, you know he doesn’t fear death the way he should. The way a normal person would.

Sometimes, you think a part of him finds peace in the idea of going out useful.

And it’s all so completely, irreparably fucked, because you don’t love him despite it.

You love him because of it.

Loving Steve Harrington feels like standing on a fault line, waiting for the ground to split wide and swallow you whole.

It’s a special, exquisite kind of torture, to be so in love with a man who throws himself at death like it’s a dare.  

And it is love, undeniably and irrevocably so.

You love him.

By god, you love him.  

Because his martyr complex is just a twisted language for devotion. When he throws himself into danger, you know it isn’t bravado—it’s instinct. A reflex burned into his bones, older than logic, older than fear.

Love is the only language Steve Harrington has ever been fluent in, and he speaks it with his whole body.  

It turns his skin into armor, his heart into a blade. Sharp enough to carve permanent lines inside you—wounds that might close, someday, but never fade.

And he really does believe it.

That this is what it looks like, loving somebody.

But what good is devotion if it buries you?

What good is love from someone six feet under?

Your hand loosens around his throat, just enough for him to drag in a ragged breath. His chest heaves under you, pulse still racing against your palm.

His Adam’s apple bobs, sending ripples of light over the pale rings circling his neck, thin and white against his flushed skin. Scars that still have him jerking awake some nights, clawing at his own throat, gasping like he’s still back there.

Nightmares that leave him staring at the ceiling until four in the morning because every time he closes his eyes, he sees vines threading around broken bodies. Migraines that get so bad after trips to the Upside Down he has to sit alone in dark bathrooms, forehead pressed against cool tile, breathing through the nausea until the room stops tilting.

His hands still reach for a nail bat when the house creaks at night, before he's even fully awake.

Fear has never made him run. It only ever taught him to step forward.

And the tear you've been holding back all night finally slips free, landing on his bare stomach with a soft, awful plop.

Steve flinches like it’s acid, muscles clenching underneath you.

“Baby...”

You let go of his neck fully as you sink back onto his thighs, fingers gone numb, teeth digging into your lip until copper floods your mouth.

“You didn’t even hesitate.”

You watch as his expression immediately sobers, brows drawing together, eyes flicking between yours.

“Y-you never do. You never fucking hesitate,” your breath starts coming in tight hitches, catching in your chest. “And it’s like—it’s like—”

The rest of the words slip free, torn loose now that everything’s exposed, out there in the open, your handprint around his throat and his wrists bound in leather.    

“...It’s like you don’t even care if you leave me here.”

Steve goes silent for a moment, shoulders slumping with a quiet breath.    

You watch—eyes burning, body trembling—as he slowly reaches for you. The leather belt creaks as his wrists slide down until his fingers brush yours.  

You feel the metal burns on his palms against the back of your hand—his skin split from gripping the railing so hard he tore himself open just to keep from falling.   

He whispers your name on a soft breath.

“Baby, if I ever lost you?” He shakes his head faintly. “That’d be it for me.”

You sniff hard, refusing to blink.

“I mean it.” Light pools in his eyes, trembling along the lower lashes until they glimmer like wet glass. “I’d never… I’d never leave you behind. How could I?”

He closes his fingers gently around your wrist, thumb brushing over your pulse.

“I love you. More than... more than anything. You know that.”

You lift your gaze slowly to meet his.

“Do I?”

Two words, but it’s the ugliest thing you’ve said all night.

It's suffocating, the silence that follows.

“Do you ever think about us? About me?”

Because that’s what this is really about, isn’t it?

For all the names you’ve thrown at him in your worst moments—reckless, stubborn, idiot, a selfish asshole with a death wish—

It’s you who feel selfish.

For wanting him to stay.

For wanting to keep him in a world that seems determined to take him first.

For wanting him to choose you over the next disaster that crawls out of the dark.

Because you’re terrified that when the moment comes, when it’s you or the world, he won’t have to think about it. That the world will always reach for him first—and that one day, it’ll win.

Or worse, that he’ll choose you instead.

That he’ll stop running toward danger because of you. That loving you will make him hesitate.

And you’ll be the reason he changes.  

The reason the world breaks.

Steve’s expression changes in a flash.

The belt creaks as he tries to sit up, a real wince cutting across his brow when his bruised ribs take the pressure. He sucks in a breath through clenched teeth, dragging himself upright.

“Look at me.”

You turn your head instinctively, but he follows.

“Hey. C’mon. Look at me.”

Hazel burns molten in the dim light, the shine in them trembling.

“Of course I think about you,” he whispers, breathless. “You don’t think I think about you? Hey, hey, look at me—you’re all I think about. You’re in my head, all the time. Every fucking second.”

Your tears spill harder, falling freely now, dripping from your chin onto the dark brown fabric of his cargo pants, leaving small damp spots that bloom between you.

“Every time something goes wrong, or—or I’m thinking about doing something stupid, you’re there. First thing. Your face, your voice. Telling me to stop being an idiot, telling me to think—"

You shake your head, a broken sound catching in your throat.

“And if I just stood there tonight,” he presses on, eyes locked on yours, brimming with tears but never flinching, “If there was even a chance you could fall, and I didn’t do anything?”

He swallows.

“I couldn’t live with that. I mean it, honey. I couldn’t.”    

A tear slips loose and slides down his own cheek. He doesn’t wipe it away.

“Baby, I... I wasn’t trying to die. I was trying to end this. All of it. So we don’t have to keep doing this forever.”

His mouth twitches faintly.

“You remember what we talked about? About college? That stupid road trip idea I had with the camper van?” He shakes his head, letting out a quiet laugh. “Six kids, right? Or... whatever insane number I said.”

His hands come up as much as the belt allows, clumsy from the strain in his shoulders, and cradle your face. His thumbs drag across the wet heat beneath your eyes, catching tears as fast as they fall, rubbing salt into flushed skin. 

“That’s the goal. That’s always been the goal.”

He leans forward until his forehead presses against yours.

For a long moment, he says nothing. His hands stay on your face, thumbs brushing softly over your skin, his breathing uneven in the small space between you.

Then, almost too quietly to hear:

“I would’ve jumped with you.”

You recoil immediately, shaking your head hard, eyes squeezing shut.

“Don’t. Don’t fucking say that.”

Steve pushes on, voice low and terrifyingly calm.

“If you’d fallen off that tower tonight, I would’ve followed you.”

His thumb brushes under your eye again, catching another tear before it reaches your jaw.

“Wouldn’t even think about it. I’d just go.”

“Steve—”

“I’d go.”

Your eyes snap open.

Those big, stupid hazel eyes bore into yours.

That stupid nose. Those stupid thick lashes and those stupid moles and those stupid lips.

And underneath all of it, that huge, catastrophic, stupid heart crammed inside a body that keeps throwing itself into danger like it doesn’t belong to him.

Your chest aches just looking at him.

You’ve spent countless nights staring at Steve Harrington while he slept beside you, wondering if loving him would always feel like standing barefoot on train tracks.

Waiting.

Feeling the vibrations underneath your feet before the impact ever comes. Knowing that something massive and merciless will come racing toward you and there won’t be a damn thing you can do to stop it. 

Sometimes you’d trace the slope of his nose with the back of your finger. Follow the shape of his eyebrows. The tiny scar under his chin from a T-ball game when he was six.

You’d study the dip of his cupid’s bow, the soft curve of his lips as he breathed into his pillow, completely unaware of how thoroughly he’d ruined your life for anyone else.

And you’d torture yourself with the same impossible question.

If someone had stopped you before all of this, taken your face in both hands and said:

Here, this boy is going to become the center of your entire world.

He's going to make you laugh so hard your ribs hurt.

He’s going to kiss you like you’re the last person on earth, and he's going to love you so completely you'll forget there was ever a version of yourself that existed before him.

He's going to look at you like you're the only thing worth finding at the end of the world.

Then one day, he’ll start throwing himself in front of monsters and nightmares beyond comprehension. 

He's going to throw himself off a tower without hesitating if it means you get to live.

Would you still choose him?

Would you still let him in, knowing one day he might not make it back?

Would you willingly hand your heart to someone who would protect it with his life—

But never his own?

And even in the quiet space of that hypothetical, the answer had never changed.

You would.

Every fucking time. 

“I love you,” the boy in front of you whispers.

The words slice straight through you, scraping against everything frayed raw inside your chest.

“Shut up,” you breathe, eyes squeezing shut.

Because if he loved you, wouldn’t he try?

Wouldn’t he try?

“I love you.”

“Steve, s-stop.”

“I love you. There’s nothing—nothing—that matters to me more than you.”

“Steve, I swear to god—”

“You’re it for me. And if it came down to it again—”

“Please, stop—”

“—I’d choose to jump. Every time.”

It feels like a seam is splitting inside your chest.

Your breath caves first—a sharp, stuttering inhale that catches in your lungs hard enough to hurt—before your body moves on instinct.

You surge forward, the mattress groaning beneath the force of it as you crash into him, fists tangling in the front of his shirt.

“Fuck you,” you sob.

Steve sucks in a breath as you pound weakly at his chest, his restrained hands jerking uselessly between your bodies.

He can’t hold you properly. Can’t wrap his arms around you the way he wants to.

Still, he tries.  

He shifts forward on the mattress, pulling you between his thighs. The leather around his wrists creaks when he strains to hook his arms around your waist.

You bury your face against his neck.

His entire body folds around yours, chest pressed flush against you so tightly you can feel the frantic hammer of his heartbeat through his sternum, the uneven rise and fall of his lungs where your bodies are crushed together. He presses his cheek against your temple, breathing hard through his nose.

“I know,” he murmurs hoarsely into your hair. “I know, baby. I know.”

“N-no, y-you don’t,” you choke out.

Your hands claw at his shoulders hard enough to bunch the fabric beneath your fists. You need him closer. Closer than skin, closer than bone. If you could unzip his ribs and crawl inside his chest just to keep his heart beating yourself, you would.

“You don’t know,” you sob against his throat. “You d-don’t know what it f-feels like—”

“Hey,” Steve whispers shakily. “Hey, c’mon. Breathe for me, baby. Please.”

You curl tighter against him, fists twisting in the soft cotton of his shirt until your knuckles throb from the effort. The tears don't stop. They soak into the warm skin at the base of his neck, your breath catching against him in broken, uneven pulls until your throat burns and your ribs ache with every desperate inhale.

Steve gathers you as close as his battered body will allow. Every so often, he presses another lingering kiss into your hairline, your temple, the crown of your head, each one quiet enough to say what words can't.

“I’ve got you, baby,” he murmurs into your hair. “M'right here, I got you. Not going anywhere.”  

You let his words settle over you, one shaky breath at a time. The sobs begin to lose their violence, splintering into uneven hiccups that leave your chest sore and hollow.

When you finally pull back, it's only far enough to see him. 

Your hand trembles when you lift it to his face.

Steve goes still as your fingertips ghost over the scrape on his cheek, tracing down the line of his jaw. He doesn’t so much as flinch when your thumb brushes over the split in his lip, featherlight over the broken skin there.

The first kiss is soft.

Nothing like the frantic, bruising collision from earlier.  

But it’s worse like this, somehow.

Wet with tears, with blood, salt and iron passed between soft, shaking kisses. Steve sighs into it, a trembling sound that vibrates against your lips as he tilts his head and follows you deeper. His nose nudges against your cheek, his kisses careful, almost hesitant in how tender he’s being with you.

And it’s funny, really.

How grief can change shape in the span of a heartbeat.

One moment it's lodged beneath your ribs like broken glass, your body still trapped on that radio tower, watching Steve disappear over the edge.

The next, it's here.

In the careful way he kisses you, the warmth of his breath against your mouth.

In the slow, wet drag of his tongue against yours, your fingers hooking into the open button of his pants. The zipper presses cold against the side of your hand before you push deeper, slipping beneath the elastic of his briefs.

He’s already half-hard. Heavy and thick and burning hot against your palm, velvety-soft skin twitching when you wrap your fingers around him. The soft curl of hair at his base brushes against your knuckles when you adjust your grip.

He pants openly into your mouth as you slide your other hand into his hair, gripping tight, yanking his head back at the angle you want it.  

Nose to nose, lips brushing even as you’re not kissing—only sharing air and spit, slick between swollen mouths.

And your eyes stay open, watching him.

Darkened hazels and helplessly fluttering lashes, his is a face that will haunt every version of your future. The one you almost lost, the one you’re still begging the universe to let you keep.

“Show me.”

He blinks at your words, lips parted in soft pants.

“Show me how much you love me.”

He swears under his breath, eyes clenching shut.  

“Fuck…” he groans, shaking his head slowly, side to side, grunting when you drag your thumb across the sensitive tip. “Baby, please... just untie me,” he pleads, straining against his binds again. “Please—fuck—let me touch you—”

“No.”

“Please, baby—”

“No,” you repeat, wrist rolling as you start to stroke him harder, feeling him swell fully in your grip.

He grunts, brows creased in pleasure as you continue to squeeze and glide your palm up and down his length, lips parted to keep kissing you in this obscene way, tongues sliding together in slow, wet strokes.

“God, you’re so... so pretty when you’re mad, you know that?” He huffs against your mouth, almost a laugh, throat gone hoarse and dry from how hard he’s been panting.

“You get this look like you’re—ah, fuck—like you might actually kill me.”

You squeeze your grip around his cock, dangerously tight.

“Maybe I should.”

Something catches in those soft hazel eyes, then.

Pinning you in place with nothing but their unblinking stare, almost unnervingly steady.

You watch, helpless, as he lifts his own hands up toward his mouth. He spits lewdly into the hollow of his right palm, shoving his waistband down just enough to free his cock, replacing your hand with his own.  

Wrists still bound, he slicks himself in slow, wet strokes, eyes never leaving yours.

"Yeah?" he asks quietly. "You gonna punish me?"

He tips his chin up toward you, lashes nearly brushing your skin when he blinks.

“You gonna use this cock, baby? Take it out on me?”

He uses what little range of motion he has to rub his tip up and down your glistening slit, obscene schlicks that fill the space between your breaths, spurred by the impatient grinds of your hips.

And the moment he pushes inside you, he breathes the words against your skin.

“I love you.”

His mouth swallowing your whimpers at the stretch of taking him this way—no prep, no lube, just spit—yours, his, it doesn’t matter anymore.

“I love you. I love you. We’re... we’re gonna be okay, baby, I promise. We’re gonna be okay.”

Your hands shake as you reach for the belt around his wrists, the buckle catching under your fingertips before releasing with a muted clink. He cups your cheeks as soon as it does, cradling your face, pressing his lips against yours. 

“I love you,” he repeats against your mouth, over and over. “I love you. I love you.”

Grief really is a funny thing.   

It burns until there's nothing left to consume

And the anger that had kept you upright for hours—the frantic, desperate need to make him understand how terrified you'd been—begins to crumble beneath the weight of what you almost lost.

Your strength gives out in increments. Your fingers slowly uncurl from his biceps, the crescents your nails pressed into his skin easing away. Your forehead finds the warm slope of his shoulder instead, eyes slipping shut as the last of the fight drains from your body.

You sag forward, soft whimpers and low groans exchanged between your lips as you rock back and forth on his cock, letting it fill up the hollowed-out places inside you.

And when you get too tired to do even that—when your strength gives out, thighs trembling with the effort of lifting yourself up and sinking back down—he’s there to catch you.

One arm sliding securely around you as he eases you onto your back, the muscles in his shoulders rippling under your fingertips as you wind your arms around his neck. You cling to him as he kisses you hard and deep, exchanging punched-out breaths as he starts up his thrusts with newfound fervor.

"Gonna marry you," he pants suddenly, stealing what little breath you have left.

You gasp against his mouth, caught between a disbelieving laugh and another sob. “Steve—”

“I mean it,” he insists, hips snapping into the mattress, barely pulling out before burying himself back in. “I-I want all of it. That house with the... the porch. That trip we keep talking about, in the camper van, and—”

His face screws up and he has to stop moving for a second, drawing in a shuddering breath.

“I’m gonna marry you and—fuck—gonna give you a baby.”   

You choke on the words, a helpless sound catching in your throat as you cling to him, bruisingly tight.

“Yeah?” He strokes your hair back, cupping the crown of your head with his palm. Smoothing the sweat-slick strands away from your face, thumb lingering at your temple as his eyes search yours. “You want me to give you a baby?”  

You nod into him, unable to find the words.

“How many?”

His pace is unrelenting—thrusts hard enough that the bedframe is thudding repeatedly against the wall, hard enough that you know the wallpaper’s going to show it tomorrow.  

“Tell me,” he grunts, voice rough with emotion, like he needs to hear you say it out loud. “How many?”

Sweat shining along his skin, hair a damp mess across his forehead, but he never once looks away.

“F-fuck, I don’t...” you break on another sob, eyes clenching shut. “Two. Maybe... maybe three.”

“Three,” he repeats to himself, and his hips snap a little sharper. “What about... what about four? Make it a—mm, fuck—make it an even number.”

And it’s hardly new—the kind of bullshit he spouts when you’re both this far gone, when adrenaline has burned through every last nerve and neither of you are thinking straight anymore. He’s always been prone to making wild promises in the heat of the moment—spinning out impossible futures and reckless dreams, building an entire lifetime in the space of a few breathless minutes—just to get you both off.     

But tonight, they don’t feel like a fantasy at all. 

“You’d look so... so fucking pretty,” he pants, voice breaking. “Pregnant with my kid. Jesus.”

“Mm, close...” you whisper weakly, face scrunched at the unbearably mounting pressure in your lower stomach.  

“Yeah? You’re close? You gonna come for me?”

You nod, burying yourself closer, clinging to him harder. “T-tell me again.”

“Tell you what, baby?”

“That you... that you love me.”

“Fuck,” he groans, thrusts turning sloppy as he buries a loud groan against your lips. “I love you. Love you so fucking much. I don’t even know what I’d do without you. I—shit, a-are you coming? Oh, fuck, that’s—that’s it. That’s my girl.”

Your orgasm hits hard and blinding. A broken groan ripping out of you as you clamp your thighs around his waist, mewling into his skin. You blink your eyes open just in time to see his gaze fixed on you—expression reverent, chest heaving as he watches you shake underneath him.

And as you go to kiss him, feeling the labored grunts of his mounting pleasure against your lips, the weight of his breaths and the slick drag of his cock against your heat—

When you press your lips to his and whisper for him to come inside you, make me yours Steve, get me pregnant, keep me, love me, stay with me, stay, stay, please fucking stay—

When he presses inside all the way to the hilt and lets his own pleasure overtake him—

You finally whisper the words back.

Three syllables against the enormity of what lives inside your chest.

Three syllables trying to hold every sleepless night and every quiet morning, every time you pressed your lips to the places on his body that hurt and wished that love alone could take his pain away.

They cannot carry it all.

They never could.

But when he closes his eyes and tips his forehead to yours—his weight melting against you as he presses an exhausted, dazed smile against your lips—you realize maybe the words don’t have to hold it all.

Maybe he can feel the rest.

· · ·

The seal breaks with a sharp snap, the plastic ring splitting loose and skittering across the bathroom floor.

You turn the bottle over in your hand, staring at it for a moment.

It’s the good kind—the expensive kind stored in heavy glass, the label still clean. You haven’t touched it since the day Steve brought it home months ago, back when you could still ask for things like Epsom salt and a box of chocolates at the general store without anyone looking at you like you’d lost your mind.

He’d shown up at your door that afternoon grinning like an idiot, grocery store roses tucked under one arm and a paper bag in his other hand that clinked when he lifted it.

“Thought we deserved something nice,” he’d said, holding up the bag with that stupid, proud little grin. “We haven’t done a proper date night in a while, right?”

But you hadn't used the bottle then.

You'd saved it.

For a night that felt right.

For a night where you weren’t just surviving long enough to see morning.

Your hands shake a little as you tip the bottle now.

Pouring more than you should, watching the pale liquid ribbon into the rushing stream of water, swallowed by the force of it before slowly blooming back to the surface in soft, frothy bubbles.

The smell hits a second later. Sweet, heavy lavender that clings to the back of your throat, swirling with the clean heat of the water.

For a moment, you let yourself go back.

Back to the day Steve bought this because he wanted to take care of you. Because he wanted one normal night where you could both pretend the world hadn’t changed.

A night where the biggest problem was what movie to put on.

Then, the sink creaks behind you.

You turn immediately, heart jumping.  

Steve’s reflection is blurred in the mirror—shoulders slumped, chin dipping toward his chest. He’s got one hand braced against the counter, knuckles pale from how tightly he’s holding on. The other fumbles with an orange pill bottle.

“You okay? You need help?”

He shakes his head. “Nah, I got it.”

The words are automatic. Steve’s favorite answer to anything that worries you.

He tips a couple pills into his palm, fills the glass beside the sink, and swallows them down.

You watch his face tighten afterward, eyes squeezing shut as he waits for it to pass. His throat works hard, his whole body briefly tensing, muscles bracing against something that should have been painless.

You step closer, hands settling carefully on his arms as you turn him toward you. 

He doesn’t argue when you crouch in front of him.

You start with his shoes.

Fingers working at the laces, easing them loose before pulling them off one at a time. They hit the tile with a quiet thud. His socks peel off next. Then his pants, the buttons still undone. His briefs.

He stays silent through all of it, one hand resting lightly on your shoulder.

It’s not much pressure, but you feel the way his weight leans into you, the slight sway when you shift back, like he’s having to constantly correct himself just to stay upright.

Helping him into the tub takes time. You stay close while he steps over the edge, one hand gripping your arm, the other braced against the wall.

Slowly, carefully, he lowers himself into the water.

The second it reaches his ribs, he hisses.

“Shit—”

His head falls back against the tile, eyes squeezing shut as a sharp breath slips between his teeth. His hand tightens reflexively around your wrist.

Foamy water laps against his chest, darkening the hair across his sternum, rising and falling with each careful breath.

“Too hot?” you ask quickly, already reaching for the faucet.

He cracks his eyes open, shaking his head.

“’S perfect.”

You keep watching him, searching his face for the slightest sign that he's only saying it to spare you.

Then, little by little, the strain begins to loosen its grip.

The hard line of his jaw softens first, his fingers easing around your wrist. His shoulders sink another inch beneath the warm water, the tension slowly melting out of them as the heat works its way into his muscles.

His next breath comes easier. Then another.

After a long moment, his eyes drift open again.

They're hazy with fatigue, heavy-lidded and unfocused, but they find you where you're perched beside the tub, knees tucked against your chest.

He squints, mouth twisting into a petulant frown.

“What?” he murmurs. “You’re not getting in?” 

A smile tugs at your lips. “You want me to?”

He gives you a slow, incredulous look—the classic Steve Harrington stare.

“Uh, yeah,” he mumbles, like it’s obvious. “How else am I supposed to feel better?”

You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling as you stand.

Your hands aren’t as steady as you’d like; you notice it more now, with nothing else to focus on.

You pull your shirt over your head, and immediately hear the quiet shift of water beside you, a soft slosh.

By the time you glance up, he’s already looking at you.

Sitting a little straighter than he was a moment ago, chin lifted despite the exhaustion pulling at him. Steam curls between you, softening the edges of his face, but his eyes never leave yours. They follow every movement with boyish concentration, fixed on you in a way that’s not even pretending to be subtle.

You huff a quiet breath through your nose, fighting a smile as you tug the rest of your clothes off.  

“Seriously?”

The corner of his mouth quirks, all innocence.

“What? Sue me.”  

He shifts deeper into the tub, water rolling around him as he eases back, making room between his legs before patting the space in front of him.

You step in carefully, goosebumps prickling as the heat climbs slowly over your ankles, your calves, your thighs. The water embraces you inch by inch until you're lowering yourself fully beneath the surface, warmth wrapping around you like a heavy blanket scented with lavender.

The moment your back brushes his chest, his arms find you.

They slide around your waist with familiar certainty, one settling securely across your middle to draw you closer.  Your hand rises on instinct, covering his forearm where it rests across your stomach. His skin is warm and damp beneath your fingertips, the fine hairs catching against your palm as your thumb strokes absent circles over his wrist.

His chin grazes your shoulder as he nestles closer, his next breath warming the side of your neck.

“This is nice,” he hums, body growing heavier where it rests against yours.

You let out a slow breath. “Yeah.”

You let your weight settle back into him completely. He answers by tightening his arm around your waist, one hand gliding up to squeeze your side as he draws you a fraction closer.

You take the other one for you to keep.

Turning it over slowly, relearning it by touch. The familiar roughness of his skin, the broad span of his palm, completely swallowing yours whenever he laces your fingers together. Your thumb glides over the callus at the base of his index finger, the thickened patch of skin from years of gripping weapons he never should have had to hold.

You rub over it absentmindedly, once, twice, then again.

“How do you know?”

The words come so quietly you're not even sure you've said them aloud.

“Hm? Know what?”

“How do you know...” You swallow, unable to lift your eyes from where the water laps gently over your joined hands, pale violet opalescence that ripples around you both. “How do you know this is real?”  

He goes still at that, the only sound between you the soft ripple of water and the rush of your own thoughts filling the space.

“We could still be down there,” you whisper, the words gathering speed the longer you speak.

“Maybe... maybe we never got out. Maybe Vecna just made us think we won by giving us...” You gesture around the room. “...this.”

The lavender.

The warm water.

Him.

“What if none of it's real? What if he just—what if he made us think we were safe because it'd hurt more when he took it away? I mean, how would we even know?”    

Your chest feels tighter with every word.

“What if we're still—"

“Hey.”

Steve's voice is so soft that you almost miss it.

“Hey. Look at me.”

His face is drawn with exhaustion, pain lingering in the tightness around his eyes, in the careful way he holds himself, like every breath reminds him of another bruise.

But they’re still his.

Still that same warm hazel you've spent so many nights memorizing, never daring to believe you'd get a lifetime of looking into them.

“You know how I know?”

Your throat goes tight. “How?”

“Because you’re scared.”

Your brows pull together, fingers tightening around his. He squeezes your hand back, gentle but certain.

“That’s how I know. Because you’re sitting here trying to figure out if this is real instead of just being happy that we’re okay.”

Steve watches you for a moment before looking down between you, at the lavender bubbles drifting around your joined hands.

A bead of water clings to his lashes before he blinks it away.

“I mean…” He draws out a slow breath. “I don’t know if I can prove it. How could anyone, right? After everything that happened? I don’t think any of us are supposed to just wake up the next day and be like, ‘Cool. Guess that’s over.’”

He pauses, a small smile pulling at his mouth.

“But then I look at you and… and I just see you doing that thing.”

You blink. “What thing?”

He lifts your joined hands from the water, droplets sliding down your wrists as the surface ripples around you.

“This.”

He gives your hand a little squeeze, lacing your fingers together more securely. 

“You always start messing with my hand when you’re freaking out.”

Your brows pull together. “What?”

He lets out a soft laugh, reaching up with his free hand to gently tuck a damp strand of hair away from your face.

“Yeah, you grab my hand and then you start doing this weird little... I don’t know. Thing. Like you’re inspecting it or something.”

Only then do you realize your thumb has been moving back and forth over the same callus on his palm, tracing the same small patch of rough skin.

“...Oh.”

“Yeah.”

There’s something teasing about his voice now, his smile.

The same Steve who’d make an absolute idiot of himself just to get you to roll your eyes. Who could make you laugh in the middle of the worst days of your life.

His smile softens as he looks down at the water, where your fingers are still tangled together.

His thumb brushes slowly over the back of your hand.

“I guess… I guess that’s how I know.”

The steam curls around you both, blurring the edges of the room until there’s nothing left but this.

His hand in yours.

His heartbeat steady against your back and his voice low and certain beside your ear.

“Because I know you.”

He tightens his fingers around yours.

“I know you.”

· · ·

Eventually, the warmth of the bath starts to fade.

The water isn’t quite as hot as it was when you first climbed in, the lavender bubbles breaking apart into a faint, delicate layer.

You’re still holding his hand.

Neither of you has let go.

“Hey,” he murmurs after a while, giving your fingers a small tug.

“Hm?”

He lifts your joined hands out of the water, turning his palm toward himself.

Then he starts tracing something, slow and awkward, brow furrowed as he studies the lines crossing his palm.

You can tell he’s searching for something—squinting at the grooves in his hand, trying to remember a detail you’ve explained to him once or twice before, maybe more.

You watch him for a second, then mumble:

“You’re doing it wrong.”

“I’m doing it wrong?”

“Yes.”

He turns to look at you, eyebrows raised, genuinely offended in that exaggerated way he does when he knows he’s being teased.

“How can I be doing it wrong? It’s my hand.”

You give him a look.

“Because you don’t know what you’re looking for.”

He glances back down at his palm, then back at you.

“Okay, fine, genius,” he huffs, holding his hand out toward you. “What’s this one mean?”

You smile faintly.

“You don’t remember?”  

“No, I do. Just... tell me again? I remember you said mine was good.”

You did. Sitting cross-legged on the couch years ago, his hand stretched across your lap while you traced the lines in his palm. You’d laughed the whole time because you didn’t actually believe in any of it. But Steve had listened like it mattered, eyes serious, hanging onto every word.

You adjust your grip now, turning his hand so you can see it properly. Then you take his index finger between yours and guide it slowly along the deepest line on his palm.

“Here,” you murmur.

His finger follows where you lead it, brushing over the groove that starts just beneath his pinky and curves upward across his hand.

“This is your heart line.”

Steve doesn’t look at his hand.

He looks at you.

“It’s deep, and it doesn’t break. That means you feel things deeply. You lead with your heart.”

He hums softly, leaning forward to press a soft kiss to the top of your shoulder.

You keep tracing, guiding his finger toward the end of the line where it curves upward.

“And here, it turns up.”

You press lightly into the space beneath his index finger.

“See that spot?”

“Mm.”

“That’s called the Mount of Jupiter. And when your heart line curves up like that, it kinda means you’re... a hopeless romantic.”

You don’t even have to see his face to know he’s smiling. You feel it in the small twitch of his fingers around yours, in the quiet huff of amusement against your shoulder.

“Seriously?”

“Seriously.”

You follow the line with your own thumb, pretending to study the grooves of his skin like they might reveal something you don’t already know.

But the truth is, you're not really reading his hand.

“It also says you don’t know how to love halfway.” Your thumb follows the line one last time. “When you care about someone… you give them every part of yourself.”

When you glance back over your shoulder, he's already watching you.

Something achingly fragile settled over his expression, a quiet wonder in his eyes as though he's seeing himself the way you always have.

“Yeah?” he whispers.

You nod.

“Yeah.”

You lean in to close the small space between you, brushing your lips against the uninjured corner of his mouth.

It’s a delicate thing, more of a press than a kiss.  

His fingers tighten around yours beneath the water.

“Tell me what else.”

You smile, looking back down at his palm.

“You want me to read everything?”

“Yeah. Obviously.”

You turn his hand back toward you, guiding his finger to another line.

“Okay. This one is your head line.”

Steve settles back against the tub, his arm tightening around you as you continue tracing the little grooves and curves in his palm, explaining what they’re supposed to mean.

The truth is, none of this is anything you don’t already know.

You don’t need the lines in his hand to tell you who he is. 

You’ve known for a long time.

So you tell him what you've been carrying in your heart for longer than you can remember.

That he’s stubborn.

That he’s brave.

That he loves harder than he knows what to do with.

That he’s always seen himself as ordinary when he’s anything but.

And Steve listens.

· · ·

You stay there together until the water goes cold around you.

And though the lavender fades from the bath, the scent still clings to your skin, lingering long after the warmth has left.

Outside this room, there will still be reminders.

Things neither of you can outrun.

Memories that return without warning, scars that ache long after the wounds have closed.

Maybe some things never fully leave.

Maybe they don’t have to.

Because the bad things are not the only things that get to stay.

And when the first light of dawn slips through the bedroom window the next morning, washing everything in soft gold, Steve is still there.

Beside you.

His hand wrapped around yours.

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