Lele

aries | lover of astrology | I came here to read.

[godmadeaterribleerror]

delicate

✦Read on aO3! - Masterlist - Dean Masterlist✦

✦summary: you ask dean to sleep with you, he turns you down, and you believe him. you tell him you don't care, and he believes you. eventually, one of you is going to have to tell the truth, won't they. ✦

✦warnings/tags: Dean Winchester x female!reader, no use of y/n, no description of reader, implied age gap (20s - 40s), virgin!reader, angst, overprotective, bad at feelings dean, pining, idiots in love, as is my way, shameless smut (loss of virginity, praise kink, dry humping, teasing, dean's dirty talk, spanking, fingering, stripping, body worship, degredation kink, soft!dom Dean, size kink, begging, pussy slapping, soft and rough sex, messy, creampie, big dick dean, mean dean, dumbification), love confessions, fluff✦

✦wc: 8.6k✦

✦author's note: i love writing idiots in love it's my favorite kind of idiot it's for love✦

“Have sex with me.”

Dean spits his coffee out. You sigh, bracing your hands on your hips, and wait for him to collect himself. You’re patient. He’s scrambling and slamming a fist on his chest, and you pass him a napkin with a sweet smile. You don’t think it’s going to win you a spot in his bed, but it might help.

“Better?” You ask, when he no longer sputtering and choking. He grunts, holding a hand up for a few more seconds. You roll your eyes—it wasn’t that crazy a thing to say—but bounce on your toes and wait.

Dean clears his throat, ears red, and looks up at you like you’ve grown a second head.

“What?”

“Have sex with me-“

“Yeah, I- I heard you the first time, that’s not-“ Dean shakes his head, running a hand over his face. “It’s eight in the fuckin’ morning-“

“It’s eight fifteen.”

That earns you a flat look, and you smile innocently.

“That’s fifteen extra minutes, it matters-“

“Not for this. And- I ain’t even showered yet-“

Your nose wrinkles. “Why haven’t you showered?”

“I shower after coffee,” Dean mutters, turning his mug in his hands. “If I don’t, Sammy’s stinkin’ up the kitchen from his run.”

“Oh- Okay.” You clasp your hands behind your back, peering at his tight jaw, his mussed, soft-looking hair. “Is that… A yes?”

Dean’s eyes widen on yours. You’re worried he’s going to choke on the air this time. “Yes?”

“Are you going to have sex with me,” you clarify, and his mouth falls open.

“I- I’m- You’re-“ His throat bobs, and he starts to look around the room with a worried squint. “Are you fuckin’ with me?”

You frown. “Why would I be fucking with you?”

“’Cause, sweetheart, you can’t just-“ He lets out a sharp breath. “Is it Sam? Did he put you up to this? ‘Cause I told him- That kinda prank, it’s off the table-“

“What kind of prank?” You’re a little lost, and there’s shame starting to burn up your neck.

A prank. He thinks it’s a prank.

It’s not. You’re so serious it’s almost embarrassing. You wouldn’t have asked him if you weren’t. You’d almost talked yourself out of it, after spending too much time convincing yourself into it. Nights of tossing and turning in bed, an insatiable and aching heat between your legs and the sheets bunched around you in a mockery of a body. Weeks of watching the boys slip out of bars with women that seemed to fall into them like magnets while you spun around, alone on a barstool without any prospects.

Months, of watching Dean with a flush he never saw. An adoration written all over your face he didn’t seem capable of noticing. You’d tried to stomp it out. Your stupid, useless little crush. Dean was older. Seasoned and desirable in the way that made you wonder if he was even real sometimes. Out of your reach, tantalizing, and impossible to just forget about. 

You’d neglect your feelings in the hope they’d die, but he’d water them until they were in full bloom and overtaking your heart and mouth and head. He’d buy the snacks you like and let you chose the movie. He’d open doors and let his hand linger on your lower back, he’d smile at you in the dim light of the Impala and make you feel like the only person in the world, he’d call you when he was away on a separate hunt every single night, just to update you. He’d play wrestle you for the remote, and somehow never manage to wonder why he always won when he’d see you take down men closer to Sam’s size with barely a grunt of effort.

“Nice try, sweetheart,” he’d whisper in your ear, when he had you pinned on the floor beneath him, and you’d have to swallow down your moan.

He’d get up, turn on the TV, and leave you on the couch while he went to the bathroom. You’d sit with your knees to your chest and your breathing uneven, unable to focus on anything but the ghost of his body over yours. The heat of him, the way his arms had caged you in, his knee pressed far too close to your neglected core.

If Dean knew how you dreamed about him—how those moments followed you into bed, every single night—you’re so sure he’d never look at you again. He doesn’t see you like that, you’re sure. You’re the kid they took in, the annoying girl who’s got too much mouth on her and not enough experience, in every possible way.

You’ve never done sex. You sort of just missed the window, where it’s supposed to happen, and then it became too big a deal, then you met Dean and you were lost. What was the point of being with anyone else, when you had his shoulder bumping yours in the hallway. When you were so hopelessly in love with him, you think your heart might beat out of your chest like a cartoon every time you see him.

So you made a choice, a few weeks ago. A choice it took a lot of courage to work yourself up to following through on

You just need to have sex. With someone. Anyone. Preferably Dean. It just needs to be done and over with—one time, where he doesn’t know he’s taking your virginity, where he’s peacefully oblivious of your worship of his very existence—and then you can try to move on. Once you’ve had sex, it won’t be this big monster you shy away from anymore. It’ll just be another thing.

So you’re asking Dean. Outside of your alternate motivations, it’s a sound strategic call. You know about his prowess. He’s bragged to you about all his five-star reviews. And maybe that always made you gag over a toilet bowl after, but if it did, that’s none of his fucking business.

Maybe you’re not up to par with his usual partners, but you can do your makeup, or he can turn off the lights, or whatever else makes it easier for him. Anything that makes him touch you. You won’t even cry about it in front of him.

But he thinks it’s a prank. Why would he think it’s a prank.

“You know,” he says, watching you wearily. “Sammy gives you a tenner, you come and ask me for sex, everyone gets a good laugh at Dean. Good joke. Classy.”

You wrap your arms around your stomach, shrinking slightly into yourself. “It’s not a joke,” you mumble. “I- I was serious.”

“You were serious?”

He says it like it’s insane. You shrug, fixing your gaze on the floor. A joke. He thinks fucking you would be a joke.

“Sweetheart-“

“You don’t have to,” you take a step back, trying to sound casual. Like your heart isn’t being torn to ribbons.

You really hadn’t expected him to leap at the opportunity, but this is so close to cruel it hurts. Tears are threatening your eyes, and a lump is forming in your throat. Pathetic, a voice spits in your head. Why the fuck would he ever want to fuck you.

“Wait, just- Hold on-“

You look up, faster than you want to admit. Dean staring at you with pale face and slack jaw, throat working like he’s swallowing his own words every second. You wait, because you’re a fucking useless idiot. Bouncing nervously on your feet—they’re smarter than the rest of you, they want to run—and trying not to melt under his gaze.

“You’re actually askin’ me to fuck you?” He rasps, and you nod.

It’s the tiniest motion of your head. Dean shifts in his seat, staring at you with wide, dark eyes.

“Why?”

“Why?” You frown, saying the first, easiest, least embarrassing reason that pops into your head. “Because- You- You’re good at it?”

“I’m good at it,” Dean repeats. “You wanna fuck me ‘cause you think I’d be good at it?”

You wish he’d stop saying fuck like that. With a harsh ending and low drawl. “I don’t think,” you offer. “You’re the one who said you would be.”

Dean’s lips twitch, but he doesn’t look amused. “I could be lying, sweetheart.”

“I don’t think you are.”

He stares at you. His eyes flick up to the ceiling—maybe he still thinks he’s on a prank show—and he lets out a sharp, slow breath from his nose.

Then he shakes his head, and you feel the echo of your heart as it howls in pain.

“No,” he mutters. “I ain’t- Doin’ that. Not just ‘cause you- No.”

You blink at him, the world blurring a little. You stumble back, and Dean says your name, moving to his feet. You shake your head, moving back another step. Your eyes are stinging with tears, but that’s not his problem. He’s allowed to reject you. You’re also allowed to cry about it.

“Sweetheart-“

“It’s fine.” Your voice is too high. Too wobbly. “It’s- That’s okay.”

“No, just- Fuck-“ He rubs his jaw. “Listen to me, alright-“

“You don’t have to explain,” you shrug weakly. “It’s okay.”

Dean gives you a disbelieving look, but you move further back before he can try to make you feel better about the rejection. It’s not going to help.

“I’ll just-“ You look over your shoulder. To the door, just one more step back.

Dean says your name again. When you look back, he’s reaching to you, trying to beckon you back into the kitchen. You smile, tight and watery.

“Thank you for your consideration.” You say, because you’re a fucking idiot. Dean certainly looks at you like you’re one.

You flee the kitchen. He calls your name again, but this time you don’t look back.

Rejection is fine. You’re fine. You’re so fine, you lock yourself in your room for the rest of the day and eat so much ice cream your stomach hurts. Because it’s fun. It’s fun to cry over something you never even had.

At least you anticipated this. You have a very solid plan B.

If Dean won’t sleep with you, you’re going to find someone who will. You’re going to get it over with. This week.

You’re learning something about yourself.

You are not good at flirting.

The first thing you try is the bars. Sam and Dean slide into a booth, and you go to get the drinks. A guy makes eyes at you, and you smile sweetly in return. When you bring the drinks back, you set the beers down in front of the boys and turn back on your heels to give the bar-guy a shot.

Dean says your name, and you freeze. You always do that for him. It’s a habit you don’t think you’re able to break.

“Where’re you going?” He frowns at you, one arm slung around the back of the seat. Around where you’d usually sit.

“Bar,” you say lamely, and the lines on his face deepen.

“Why, you forget something?”

“No.”

“Then what-“

Dean cuts himself off, his gaze flicking over your shoulder. To the bar. To the man, waiting for you with a smirk, because you promised you’d be back.

Dean grunts your name, low and rough, and if he asked you to stay, you don’t think you’d be able to tell him no.

Things have been strange, since the kitchen. Neither of you have brought it up, and Dean hasn’t stopped treating you the way he always has, but there’s something charged beneath it. A live wire that frays and crackles, every time your fingers brush or your eyes meet. You’ve caught him staring at you with an open mouth a few times. Last week he tried to talk to you, alone in the Impala while Sam got snacks from a gas station. You announced that you had to shit, and scrambled out of the car.

You don’t want to talk about it, and Dean has no right to make you. He’s not the one who got his heart broken. He’s not the one who sort of wants to cry, whenever your eyes meet.

He certainly has no right to glare at you, when he puts together what you’re doing. He said he wasn’t going to sleep with you, and you’re a grown woman. You can, if you so please, have casual sex with a stranger. It is your right.

“You can’t be for real, sweetheart-“

“Dean.” Sam stares at his own beer, looking like he wants to vanish into the floor, and Dean scowls.

“C’mon, Sammy- Tell her she’s being crazy-“

“Crazy?” You snap, and Dean leans back in surprise. “You fuck around all the time, how is it crazy that I’d do the same thing?”

“It’s not- You just- You don’t-“ He swallows. “You don’t do this-“

“I do now.”

“Sweetheart, just- Sit down-“

You flip him off, and march back to the bar before he can ask with a little more conviction. You just need to break out of his orbit. To force yourself to realize that there are plenty of other men, and not having Dean isn’t the end of the universe.

Unfortunately, you sort of just keep proving the opposite.

“What’s a pretty little thing doin’ in a place like this?” The first guy at the bar asks, and you fumble.

You have no idea. You giggle nervously and spin in your chair, speaking words you can’t really hear. He seems into it—no matter how pathetic you must be coming off—until his fingers brush your arm, and you flinch back because his skin is cold. It sends a shiver up your spine that’s not the hot rush of Dean’s touch, but the sliver of a snake.

You go home alone that night, and you don’t look Dean in the eyes. He tries to talk to you, before you retreat to your room. You ignore him, because that’s the only way this is going to work. 

But you try again and again and again, and you never get anywhere. They always touch you, and it all falls apart. You look at them too long, and you can’t manage to squeeze them into a Dean shaped hole in your heart, and there’s no way forward. You try dating apps. That goes worse. Every dick pic you get sent just makes you wonder if sex is even something you want. They’re all worm-shaped and ugly. At least dildos come in nice colors. Maybe you should just buy a dildo.

No. You’ll just pretend it’s Dean all the time, and that’s the opposite of what you’re supposed to be doing here.

So you keep trying. And you keep failing. And Dean’s been looking at you weird—brow pinched and jaw set, every single night—and you’re getting desperate and fuck it.

“Sam.”

Sam hums, not looking up from his book. You clear your throat, leaning further over the table.

“Sam.”

“I’m listening, what’s-“

“Have sex with me.”

Sam, to his credit, doesn’t choke. He just goes very, very still, and looks up at you with an expression close to horror. He says your name slowly, and you shake your head, holding up a single hand.

“Just- Listen-“

“No?” Sam gapes at you. “I’m not- I’m not going to listen to that- Jesus Christ-“

“Come on, we could turn off the lights, and- I wouldn’t make it weird-“

“It’s already weird-“

“You’d be doing me a favor-“

“I’d be making a death wish!” Sam’s voice drops to a hiss. “Dean would fucking kill me.”

 You roll your eyes. “Then don’t tell him, dumbass.”

“No, I- I’m not doing that.” Sam shakes his head, like he’s trying to jolt the image free. “To you. Or him.”

“To him?” You narrow your eyes. “I- What the fuck would this do to Dean?”

Sam gives you a puppy-eyed, hopeless look. “I… Can’t say.”

“Sam Winchester-“

“Why are you asking me?” Sam whines. “I’m not- You’re not even into me-“

“Exactly, there would be no strings attached-“

“That’s not healthy-“

“Fuck off, like you don’t have casual sex-“

“I mean, I do, but I’m not-“ Sam cuts himself off, sighing dramatically. “Just- Why would you even want to have sex with me?”

You flush, but shrug. It’s just Sam. It’s easier to tell him than Dean. “I want to get it over with.”

“Get it over with?” Sam echoes. “It- You mean sex?”

You nod, and Sam blinks.

“Are you a virgin?”

“Maybe.”

“You- You’re-“

“Don’t be an asshole-“

“No, I’m not- I mean- It’s fine. It doesn’t matter. It actually-“ Sam frowns at the air. “It makes sense, I guess.”

That makes you scowl. “It makes sense?”

Sam shrugs, giving you an apologetic smile, and you can’t even think of an argument. You sigh, your shoulders slumping, and Sam clears his throat.

“You know I’m not going to sleep with you, right?”

“Yeah.” You sigh, and he nods slowly.

“Does Dean-“

“No.” You point a stern finger at him, and Sam raises his hands in surrender.

“I think you should-“

“Sam. I’ll cut your balls off.”

“I- Okay.”

You give him one last glare, and go to leave. But before you can go, the question scratches up your throat. You turn around, hands tucked behind your back, and speak softly. “Would you?”

Sam blinks. “What?”

“If you didn’t- Know me,” you mumble. “If we weren’t like- Friends. And you just met me, and I asked you- Would you?”

Sam snorts, and you scowl.

“I’m serious-“

“Yeah, I know you are.” Sam’s lips twitch. “It’s just- Yeah. I would. Of course I would.”

You stand a little taller. “Really?”

“Yeah, I mean- You know you’re attractive, right? If you just didn’t, like, annoy me. I’d be in.”

“I do not annoy you-“

“You’re annoying me right now.”

You laugh despite yourself. Sam smiles, his voice dropping to something gentler.

“Anyone would be lucky to have you,” he says your name slowly. “I just- Don’t want to be lucky.”

You huff in amusement—if Sam isn’t lying, aversion to luck is a family trait—but dip your head. “Thanks. I think.”

“You’re welcome. And-“ Sam pauses, looking you up and down with a strange expression. “I’m sure the whole- Thing will work out for you. There are… People. I think you’re going to figure it out.”

“You need to sleep with her.”

Dean needed to stop drinking coffee when people walked into the kitchen. This was the second shirt he’d ruined in as many months, and it was because everyone kept saying crazy fucking shit.

“Sammy, what the fuck-“

Sam said your name, and Dean’s hands fisted on the table.

Again. Son of a bitch, he was about to go through this again. The first time had been bad enough. You’d looked at him with glossy, hopeful eyes, practically begged for him to fuck you, and Dean had wondered if he’d died in his sleep last night and been dragged back to hell. Forced to experience some new kind of torture Crowley was developing, where everything he’d ever wanted was just a stretch away from his fingertips, and he wasn’t allowed to take it.

He had to be the noble one here. The wise, old asshole who didn’t take advantage of you. Taking you up on that offer would be one of the worst things he’d ever done. It would be selfish, and cruel, and a worse fate than anything else. To get what he wanted, for one night, then never fucking have it again. To get hooked—because he would, he fucking knew he’d never be able to kiss and touch you once then go back to just living—and turn into an addict willing to do anything to get another hit.

Dean would’ve turned into a bigger creep than he already was. Instead of stares and long, shameful showers with his cock in his hand and your name on his lips, he’d stuff your panties in his pocket and press them to his nose while he fucked himself raw. He’d get possessive, he’d snarl at anyone else who got to close, he’d fall to his knees and beg you to stay if you ever decided you had enough of him.

And he knew that last thing was going to happen eventually. You had a whole life ahead of you, and he was stuck here. In this dim bunker with blood on his hands and under his feet and staining his past and future all at once. He swam in a river of it. In front of him, behind him, washing over him all the time, there was just fucking blood. You deserved better than that. Better than Dean. You deserved the fucking world.

So he’d told you no, and you’d looked at him like a wet fucking kitten he’d kicked into the rain, but it had been for your own good. You’d get over it. Dean was the one who had to watch you flirt with douchebags at the bar. Who couldn’t get in another bed anymore, because he kept getting kicked out for moaning your name.

He was the one who was rooted here forever. You’d find something softer. Something good.  He’d accepted that, with a lot of beer pushing it down. You’d find something better, and that was what he wanted.

Sammy knew all that. Dean had gotten drunk once and confessed his stupid, undying feelings, then sworn Sam to secrecy in the morning. He’d kept his word, only shooting Dean sad looks whenever you went off to flirt and smirking whenever Dean called you on a hunt.

But now he was asking Dean to sleep with you. Like he’d lost his damn mind.

“No,” he grunted, and Sam rolled his eyes.

“Look, Dean, I get that you’re being cool and righteous and whatever-“

“I’m not fuckin’ her, Sammy- I shouldn’t.” He shot Sam a glare. “You know why I shouldn’t.“

“Yeah, well, I think your why is pretty stupid.” Sam said flatly. “You’ve never even asked her if she’d be- You know. Open to it-“

“I know she’d be open to it,” Dean scowled at his coffee. “But that’s- I ain’t doing it, Sammy. Never.” Not like that.

Sam was silent for a moment. When Dean looked up, he was staring at him with wide eyes. “She asked you first, didn’t she.”

Dean frowned. “What’d you mean, asked me first-“

“To take her virginity.”

He hadn’t taken a sip of coffee again. This time, he managed to choke on nothing at all. “To- What?”

Sam leaned back slightly. “Did she not ask you to sleep with her?”

“No, she did, I just didn’t fuckin’- She’s a virgin?”

“I guess,” Sam shrugged. “You know that’s not a big deal, right?”

Dean grunted. His head was spinning. Of course it wasn’t a big deal, he didn’t care. He’d wanted you before, he wanted you now, that wasn’t the fucking issue.

But you’d asked him.

You’d asked him to fuck you. You’d wanted him to- Do it. Take it. Pop it, whatever. You’d chosen Dean, to be the guy, and he’d told you no, and then you’d started flirting around with other people, and you could’ve ended up with someone dangerous, someone who took advantage of you, who thought your inexperience was hot for all the wrong reasons and hurt you and-

Dean paused. He looked at Sam. Sam blinked, and Dean’s eyes narrowed.

“How the fuck do you know that.”

Sam swallowed, taking a small step back. “Uh…”

“Sam-“

“She might’ve… Asked me.”

“She what-“

“I said no!” Sam said quickly. “I told her I wouldn’t. But- You know.” Sam cleared his throat. “If you’d said yes to her the first time…”

Sam gave him a pointed look. He was asking to get punched in the fucking face.

“No.”

“Dean, just-“

“No. I’m not takin’ advantage of her, Sammy, I’m not-“

 “It’s not taking advantage of her if she wants it!”

“She doesn’t want it-“

Sam snorted. “Oh, fuck off.”

Dean blinked, leaning back in his chair. Sam turned a little red, wincing at himself, but didn’t back down.

“Wow, Sammy. Big claws, huh.”

Sam sighed, running a hand over his face. “Dean… Just- Think about her, okay?”

Dean almost laughed. “All I fuckin’ do is think about her-“

“Then think a little harder.” Sam said flatly. “Before both of you get actually hurt.”

Dean didn’t have an answer to that. Sam didn’t seem to be asking for one. He turned and walked out of the room, leaving Dean alone. With only his coffee mug and thoughts for company. A dangerous thing to do. Dean could talk himself into and out of almost anything, if the logic police weren’t there to stop him.

He was going to do something really fucking stupid and selfish, and it was all Sam’s fault.

“Come in!” You call to the knock on your door, glancing up from your laptop as the door creaks open.

Dean shuffles into your room with his head bowed. Your face heats, and you slam the laptop closed. He doesn’t need to see you scrolling through hookup websites and think any lower of you. You’re already losing sleep over the worry you’ve fractured something between you beyond repair.

“Hi,” you whisper, and he swallows.

“Uh- Hey.”

“Hi.” What the fuck is wrong with you.

Dean’s lips twitch. “Hey.”

You start to pull the sheets between your fingers, trying not to ogle him too obviously. He’s wearing sweats and a t-shirt, and it’s sexier than all the profile pics you’ve spent hours staring at. His hair is a mess, and there are bags under his eyes, and you don’t think you’ve ever wanted to climb over him more.

“You, uh-“ He glances at your computer. “You busy?”

“No- No.” Never for him. You shove your computer onto your bedstand, moving to sit on your knees. “What’s up?”

Dean’s throat bobs. He runs a hand through his hair, huffing something close to a laugh, and shakes his head. “Jesus.”

“What-“

“Nothin’.” He clears his throat, giving you a strange look. “Did you ask Sam to sleep with you?”

Your mouth falls open. You almost trip sitting down. “I- I didn’t-“

“You didn’t?”

“No, I mean- I- He wasn’t supposed to tell you,” you whine, avoiding Dean’s stare. “I didn’t- Fuck-“

“Hey- It’s- Woah-“

Dean crosses the room in a few strides, grabbing your wrists with firm, warm hands. You’d started to pick at your nails with the anxiety. You hadn’t even realized it.

“Don’t hurt yourself, sweetheart,” he mutters, his thumb dragging a circle on your wrist.

You nod, your voice only a breath. “Okay.”

He’s so close. You can count all his crow’s feet, map his stubble, trace his lips with just your eyes. He’s still frowning at your wrist, so you allow yourself to stare.

Then he looks up. And you freeze in panic, but don’t manage to look away.

Dean’s tongue flicks over his lips. Your breath catches. Neither of you move, and you let yourself have it. For a single second, you imagine that Dean is here, in your room, on your bed, and that means something. You get lost in the warmth of his proximity, the calloused but soft feeling of his touch.

“Sammy told me something else,” Dean mutters, scanning over your slack, flushed features.

“Yeah?” You whisper, and he nods tightly.

“Yeah. Said you’re, uh-“ He clears his throat. “Said you’ve never- You know.” He cringes. “Been fucked.”

Your mouth falls open. You think you’d like to die now. “Dean-“

“Is that why you asked me?” His grip tightens on your wrist. Not allowing you to pull away. “’Cause you just wanted someone to take it?”

You drop your gaze to his crotch. There’s a soft bulge there. You’d drool over it, if you didn’t think you were going to explode any second now. 

Dean says your name, and you shake your head.

“Don’t,” you mumble. “Don’t just- Feel bad for me- You said no, that’s- It’s fine-“

“What if it’s not.”

Your eyes shoot up. You’d think he was joking, if he didn’t look so fucking serious. His jaw is set. His eyes are blown out and fixed on yours. Your mouth hangs stupidly open, and Dean smiles softly.

“Huh?” You manage to choke out, and he almost chuckles.

“What if I wanted to. Help you.”

“But-“ You blink. “You don’t.”

Dean shakes his head. “Wrong, sweetheart. I do-“

“You said you didn’t-“

“I lied.”

You stare at him. He doesn’t back down.

“Would it mean something?” He muttered, reaching up to trace the curve of your cheek. “If I did it?”

You nod weakly, leaning into his touch. It sends violent, hot shivers through your whole body. Almost like a fever. You don’t want the cure. “Would it matter to you?” You ask, and Dean’s eyes flash. His fingers curl on your cheek. He leans an inch forward, then another inch. Your lips brush, the lightest possible touch, and you let out a soft, uncertain whine.

Dean pushes forward, his lips fully crashing into yours, his kiss demanding but certain. He presses over you, pulling you a little further up on your knees. You grab the collar of his shirt for balance, squeezing your eyes shut and trying to kiss him back with as much fervor as he’s offering you.

“De- Dean-“ You gasp against his lips. “Dean-“

He groans, his arm sliding around your back so he can pull you tight to his chest. You melt into his arms, and his kisses turn messy. Open mouthed and rough, his tongue dragging over your teeth as his fingers dig into your hips. You run out of air fast, but don’t try and pull away. You don’t want this to ever end, and you’re afraid that if you dare to break the moment, it will never be repaired.

High gasps start to escape your throat, though, and Dean pulls away. He cups your face between his hands, frowning slightly, and presses his brow against yours. You struggle for air, almost pressing forward to try and kiss him again, but he holds you in place.

“Breathe, sweetheart,” he mutters, rough and thick. It’s the same voice he uses on you during hunts. When he’s giving an order you didn’t ask for.

Usually, you protest or ignore him. Right now you’re putty in his hands. He could tell you to follow him to hell, and you would. You’d do anything, just for him to never let go.

You inhale unevenly, and Dean rubs your upper back. His hand slipped under your shirt, and his palm is broad and warm. It—annoyingly—helps a lot.

“There you go,” he murmurs, watching you under hooded eyes. “That’s a good girl.”

You whine again. “Dean-“

“Sorry. Couldn’t help it.”

He doesn’t fucking look sorry. His lips are twitching, and there’s a smug glint in his eyes that’s almost dangerously intoxicating.

“Better?” He asks, and you nod, slumping closer to his chest. He doesn’t push you away.

This might be real.

“Are you sure, ‘bout this?” Dean rasps, and you almost giggle.

“Yes.”

“I’m old, sweetheart-“

“I like it.”

Dean blinks, and you stutter, so sure you should shut up but not really sure how.

“I- I mean- I like you, so- I don’t care if you’re old- I like you old- I like you-“

Dean smirks, holding your face so firmly against his  you can’t shy away.

“You- Can you- I mean- If it’s just- Just sex- You can forget I said- I think you being old is hot-“

He finally takes mercy, and shuts you up with a long, rough kiss. You hum, pushing further up on your knees, and climb slowly into Dean’s lap. He sucks on your lower lip, angling your head back as your core settles against his bulge, then pulls back with a low sigh.

“Not just sex,” he mutters, dragging his thumb over your swollen lower lip. “Not with you, baby.”

You nod, smiling wider than you probably should. “Cool.”

Dean grins back. “Yeah?”

“Mhm.”

“Cool ‘cause you like me,” he teases, shoving your hips down, right over his crotch. “Of ‘cause I’m old.”

You face burns. All you can do is stare and him and whimper, “You’re spritely.”

Dean huffs, in disbelieving amusement. “Spritely? You think I’m-“

“Youthful,” you babble quickly. “You’ve got a lot of…” You flush as he stares at you, sort of wishing he’d just kiss you and shut you up. “Youth.”

Dean’s mouth curves up. “Youth, huh.”

You nod, and he chuckles, pressing the lightest kiss over your lips.

“Hurts when I bend over now, honey, don’t think that’s very youthful of me.”

“So don’t bend over,” you mumble, and Dean snorts.

“Demanding, aren’t we?”

You shrug, trying not to turn into a puddle and miserably failing. Dean kisses your cheek, then under your eye, tracing his mouth down so he breath tickles your ear.

“Mouthy and demanding,” he rubs your hips, dragging your hips back and forth across his crotch. “Don’t worry. I’m gonna fix that.”

You whimper, and Dean’s grin grows.

“You like that, huh.”

“Dean-“

“Ah,” he kisses the corner of your mouth, moving away before you can chase his lips. “You wanted my help. This is how I’m gonna help, baby. Takin’ real good care of you,” he thrusts his hips up, and you whine as the hard outline of his cock hits your clothed pussy. “Just like this.”

 You nod, pressing your face into the crook of Dean’s neck. You don’t think you’ve ever been this turned on. It’s different, with Dean’s hands wandering your sides and his voice right in your ear. Your heart pounds and everywhere gets slick with sweat and arousal, just his dirty talk reducing you to a heap of confused nerves. Dean’s lips drag over your jaw, and you curl further around him, your nails digging into his shoulders as he nips at your throat.

“Just gotta do what I tell you, alright?” He mutters, squeezing a handful of your ass. “Can you do that, baby? Do it for me?"

You nod quickly, and Dean chuckles against your skin.

“Eager,” he drawls, pushing his fingers slowly under the hem of your shorts. “Eager and soft.”

He squeezes your ass again, his fingers brushing against the edge of your pussy. You grind backwards, trying to push him to where you need him so very desperately. He lets you, teasing his fingers over the lips of your pussy, and you whine in his ear.

“Sit still,” he grunts, and you have to bite your lower lip, but you force your hips to come to a stop.

It earns you a sharp slap of your ass, and a kiss on the side of your head. Worth it.

“That’s right,” he mutters, letting those thick fingers dance back over your cunt.  “Good work, baby girl. You fuckin’ love the attention, don’t you. Eager to please me, eager to make me proud.”

You swallow, hugging him so tight you’re a little worried you’ll choke him. Dean doesn’t even flinch. He dips two fingers into the wetness of your heat and groans right in your ear, spreading the arousal everywhere between your thighs.

“If you’re gonna hide that pretty face,” he grunts in your ear. “At least fuckin’ kiss me.”

Nervously, you wander your lips over the strong curve of his shoulders, the arch of his neck. Dean moans in your ear, his cock jumping in his jeans. His fingers keep wandering near and around your pussy, and you get a little bolder. Kissing up his jaw, over his cheek, the top of his lip. You’re panting, trying to focus on your job as Dean keeps pulling and teasing you with his touch.

“Shit,” he moans your name, tracing around your flutter entrance. “That’s it, baby, just like that-“

 Dean grabs your jaw with his free hand, like he can’t fucking help himself, and slams his lips against yours. You squeak in surprise, but kiss him back, grinding down onto his hand. His fingers dip inside of you for a moment, and you moan. Dean grunts and shoves those fingers inside of you.

Your mouth falls open, your eyes widening at the thick, pleasurable stretch. He feels so good, so fucking right, you’re worried his cock might kill you.

“Look at you,” Dean coos, smirking at your slack face. “Just my fuckin’ fingers, baby. Keep breathin’, or this is all we’re doing tonight.”

You take a deep breath, sharp and sudden, and Dean smirks in approval.

“Good girl,” he pushes his fingers a little deeper, scissoring them and bumping against a spot that makes your whole body jerk.

“Dean-“

“Shh,” he kisses you, crooking his fingers to rub against that hidden button, and you mewl against his lips. “You feel that, baby?”

“Mmm- Mhm.” You press your cheek against his, eyes fluttering as Dean keeps pushing and tickling deep inside you. “Feels good.”

“I know it does, sweet girl,” he wraps his hand back around your neck, guiding your brow to press back against his. “It’s that special little spot, gonna make everything feel good.”

His words are sweet and mocking all at once, and it sends a new gush of arousal between your legs. You watch him with wide, clouded eyes, and Dean’s smile softens for a single second. He kisses you, more gentle than before, and pulls his fingers slowly out of your cunt.

“Lie down,” he whispers before you can protest, and you swallow, but obey.

Dean hums in approval, rubbing a massive hand on your thigh.

“Everything off,” he says, and you go still.

“Everything?”

“Mhm,” he raises his brows at your flushed expression. “That gonna be a problem?”

You shake your head, wrapping your arms around your stomach. You don’t want to disappoint him, but he’s going to see you. Really, fully see you. God, you really don’t want him to see you and change his mind, and-

“Hey,”  Dean takes your hand, squeezing it gently. “You want my help?”

“Yes, please,” you breathe, and that’s all it takes. 

Dean rips off his shirt first—makin’ it even, he says—then makes quick work of his jeans. You don’t get more than a second to marvel him—flushed, tanned chest and thick everything, and heavy cock that does not look like a worm—before he’s touching you. He shimmies your shorts down, then peels your shirt over your head, leaving you in only your underwear. For a moment he just admires you, palming his cock with a tiny grin, and you roll onto your stomach.

Dean laughs, tapping your ass with a single finger. “Gettin’ shy, baby?”

“Shut up-“

“Ah.” He drags that finger down your clothed pussy. “Who tells who what to do?”

Your face burns, and you press your face further into the pillows. Dean chuckles, and you feel the bed shift as he crawls over your body. You can feel the heat coming off of him, feel the drag of his cock somewhere near your ass as he whispers in your ear.

“You were doin’ so well,” he drawls, unhooking your bra with a single hand. “Don’t get shy on me now.”

It doesn’t help. You keep grinding, trying to get some friction with the sheets. Dean’s hand comes down on your pussy with one, sharp smack, and you squeal, pushing back against his hand.

“Needy fuckin’ baby,” he mocks. “Can’t even help it, can you. Still tryin’ to be good for me.”

He hooks two fingers around your panties, pulling them tight so they push against your clit. You push back against his hand, and he smirks against your ear.

“You want a little more?”

You nod, and he snaps the fabric down, sending a tiny shock through your body.

“Say please-“

“Please,” you gasp, moving your arms up to hide your face. “Please, Dean- More- Oooh-“

Dean’s thumb finds your clit, rubbing in slow, tight circles. Your words fall off, and he fists a hand in your hair, tugging your head back to allow him to kiss you again.

He’s not cruel, with how he touches you. He’s generous, but controlled. Every stroke of your clit is deliberate, making your head spin and your mouth fall further open. That seems to be exactly how he wants you, though, because he pushes his tongue further down your throat and flicks his thumb back and forth, working you up into a writhing frenzy.

When his fingers finally push back inside of you, Dean almost seems unwilling to pull back and stop kissing you. You’re bent back and pliant under him, whimpering happily as he feeds his fore and middle finger into your hole.

“Greedy little pussy,” he rasps against your lips. “Know you’re gonna strangle my cock, baby, son of a bitch-"

He groans, like he’s the one being fingered into oblivion. He’s set a harsh pace with his wrist, snapping his fingers in and out of your cunt without relent. His thumb moved away from your clit, replaced by the heel of his palm, rubbing in tight, unrelenting circles on your swollen clit.

Every single time, he hits that spot inside of you, and your head is starting to get light. All the electricity and heat in your body is pushing down into your core, building like a bomb and threatening to explode. You almost sob, with how overwhelming the sensation is. Dean notices, kissing you a little softer.

“Poor girl,” he mutters. “Already like this and I’m not even properly fuckin’ you.”

“Your- Your hands,” you push out the word between sharp breaths. “They’re big.”

Dean grunts, his cock jumping near your ass. “Yeah, sweetheart? You like how fuckin’ big my hands are?”

“Mh- Mhm.”

You try to kiss him again. He pulls back, moving his hand impossibly faster against your cunt.

“Words,” he grunts. “You’re not stupid enough to not speak, not yet.”

“Like it,” you breathe out. “Love- Love it, Dean, oh- Oh my god-“

You moan again, and Dean grunts. His hips are starting to jerk near your ass, making him rut against you as his fingers work.

“Your close,” he mutters, pressing his fingers fully inside and crooking them against that gooey spot. “Cum for me, pretty girl. Now.”

His voice must have some kind of supernatural power over you, because that pressure in your lower tummy bursts, and your orgasm rips through you link a hurricane. Your thighs clench, trapping Dean’s hand between your legs, and he groans, rubbing his fingers harsher and harsher against your g-spot. You’re shaking and rolling beneath him, and he has to grab the back of your neck and pin it down to keep you still.

Dean works you through your orgasm, whispering low praise in your ear as you float back down to earth. Your pussy feels empty, when his fingers finally pull away. Your eyes are slightly crossed, and your smile is dazed and a little stupid.

You don’t even squeak, when Dean grabs your thigh and flips you over. You keen, back arching and body twitching, but you’re mostly just staring stupidly and happily up at him. Dean swallows, his chest rising and falling fast, and leans down to press a soft kiss to your lips. You hum, eyes fluttering shut, and cup the back of his neck to hold him against you.

He drags his fingers lazily through the mess between your thighs, sending pleasurable little shivers up your spine. He drags your panties fully off your body, holding them up to his nose and taking a deep, long whiff before tossing them off to the side. He gathers your arousal on his fingers and slowly pulls away, rising over you with parted lips and gleaming, almost wholly black eyes.

Dean sucks your juices off his fingers, lapping them up with his tongue and a lazy, knowing smirk. Your breath catches. You almost push up to try and grab him, but you’re still foggy and boneless from the orgasm, and he shoves you back down with a broad hand splayed over your tummy.

“Dean-“

You cut yourself off under his stern gaze, swallowing nervously.

“Please?” You try again, and he chuckles.

“You’re cute.”

“I- I am not-“

“Yeah, you are. Cute when you cum for me,” he dips his fingers back into you, smirking lazily. “Cute when I touch you. Cute when you beg.”

“Deeeean-“

“Deeean,” he mocks, squeezing your upper thigh. “Listen to you. Fuckin’ adorable.”

You flush, a new wave of arousal hitting you like a rising tide, and you don’t even understand how you could possibly be ready that fast. Dean watches you pussy tremble and flutter, letting out a slow, rough breath.

“Son of a bitch,” he shakes his head, his hand moving to rub against his cock. “You got no idea what you do to me, baby, no fuckin’ idea.”

You swallow, watching him move against himself, almost enchanted. He really is prettier than is fair, in every possible way. His cock is thick and long, flushed at the head and leaking pre-cum against his thumb. Your tongue flicks over your lips, as you try to mentally measure the girth and length of him. You’ve taken toys before, when you got really curious. He’s bigger.

“You wanna touch, sweetheart?” He prompts, and you nod, your tongue flicking over your lips.

Dean pushes his hips forward, slowly taking your hand and guiding it against his shaft. He’s warm. Warm and hard. You dance your fingers down the length of him and he grunts, a vein ticking in his neck.

“Easy…” He rasps, and you nod nervously.

You find his balls, give them a light squeeze, and Dean catches your wrist.

“That’s enough.” He mutters, twining your fingers together. “Jesus, woman, gonna blow it before I even get inside of you.”

Your eyes widen. You’d almost forgotten about that part.

“That’s not going to fit inside of me.”

Dean chuckles. “Yeah, it will.”

“No, I mean like- It can’t-“

“It can.”

“Dean, I’m serious-“

He shuts you up with a quick rough kiss, and you go embarrassingly limp. His cock rubs between the folds of your pussy, bumping and pressing against your clit, and your breath hitches. Oh, God.

“Just do what I tell ya,” he mutters. “We’re gonna make it fit.”

You do. It is very easy to do what Dean tells you, when he follows through on all his promises. When he gives you such low and certain orders, and you find yourself molding perfectly around his cock.

Because it does fit. Somehow, Dean spreads your legs and kisses your pussy once—as if he can’t help himself—before crawling over you and slowly pushing the head of his cock inside of you. It’s tight at first. He grunts, pressing his brow to you shoulder, and rubs tight circle around your clit with his thumb.

“Open up for me, baby,” he rasps. “C’mon.”

You go limp with every inch he feeds you. The stretch is glorious, pulling you apart with every drag over your fluttering walls, every low grunt of your name from Dean’s lips. His determination to tease you seems to dissolve, by the time he’s fully seated inside of you, his balls pressed against your ass. He pants in your ear, hot and heavy, and cradles your body in his arms like it’s fragile.

“Slow,” he mutters, and it sounds like he’s talking to himself more than you. “Gonna go slow.”

You keen, at the first, lazy thrust of his hips. A lewd, wet sound fills the air, and the head of Dean’s cock pushes right up against that already abused spot inside of you, making stars dance behind your eyes. Every roll of Dean’s hips makes your whole body spark. He kisses all over your face, his own voice thick and wrecked as you clench around him.  

“Takin’ me so well, baby,” he rasps. “Feels good, doesn’t it. Feels so fuckin’ good, bein’ filled up with cock like you deserve-“

His words fall into a moan, his hips snapping forward, and the air gets knocked from your lungs. A sound you’ve never heard escapes you, and Dean chuckles, kissing your open mouth as he repeats the motion.

“Yeah, you like that.” He pulls almost fully out, then slams back forward. “Say it, baby girl, say you like it-“

“I like it,” you gasp out, sounding drunk to your own ears. “Love it, Dean- Fuck- Fuuuck-“

Dean captures your mouth in another kiss, and sets a brutal, drilling pace. You’re split open with every thrust, your every nerve on fire as he fucks you like a machine. He never gets too fast, just hard. Over and over and over again, until you’re gasping for air and clawing at his shoulders. That pressure turns molten and demanding, threatening to burst. Dean’s fingers dig into your hips. He moans in your ear, his own words staring to slur.

“Tight,” he moans. “So fuckin’ tight- I- I can’t- Shit-“

Dean’s hands fumble, dragging over your thighs and as he gropes for your pussy. Two fumbling fingers find it, rubbing tight circles, and you cry out, clenching down on his cock.

“Let go, sweetheart, need you to let for ‘f me- Fuck-“

Your orgasm hits you even harder than before, and your vision goes white. Your pussy flutters and clenches, something hot gushing out as your body trembles with overwhelming pleasure. It’s a strange sensation, but not bad. Not even close. You think you scream with pleasure, but Dean slams his mouth over yours and muffles the sound.

His hips stutter and jerk. You whine his name and he grunts, slamming forward and burying himself at the hilt as his cum spurts deep inside you, mixing with your own release.

You’re almost gone to the world. Dean lies over you, kissing you as you float back down, murmuring praise you can barely hear.

“Gonna clean you up,” he grunts, and you whine when his weight disappears.

“Deeean.” You grab at the air and catch his bicep. “Stay.”

You pout at him, eyes watery and hopeful. He just chuckles, kissing your knuckles before drawing back up, and promising to return.

He better. You really don’t want to let go of him now.

Dean brings a wet, warm towel, and cleans between your thighs. You didn’t realize how sore you were until he touches you with such light hands, but it’s a good kind of sore. When you moan, it’s not even really in pain.

He brings you water. A snack and a fresh shirt, that he bundles you in like a penguin. You somehow end up curled against his chest, half asleep and smiling against his bare, warm chest.

“I like you,” Dean says suddenly, and you beam. You don’t think you’ve ever felt so bubbly in your life.

“I like you too-“

“No,” his jaw works, the words low and tight. “I like like you- Like- Fuck-“

He runs a hand over his face, shaking his head. It’s almost adorable.

“You- You’re just- That really wasn’t nothin’ for me, sweetheart, not even close-“

You take his trick. You push up on his chest, press your lips together, and kiss him until he shuts the fuck up. He kisses you back immediately, cupping your face between shaking hands. You smile against his lips, pulling back just enough to whisper, “I like you too.”

Dean’s eyes snap open, his voice hoarse. “Really?”

“Yeah,” you flush. “A- A lot.”

Dean grins. He smiles wider than you knew he could, and slams a shorter rougher kiss against your lips before pulling back again. Like he can’t stand not to look at you for too long.

“Can I take you out?” He says, and you nod.

“Can we have more sex,” you whisper, and he laughs, pressing another kiss against your lips.

“Any time you want, baby.” He says. “You’re mine now.”

✦End note: drooling for him ✦

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[lexlikestoread]

This was so so so good!

“You’d neglect your feelings in the hope they’d die, but he’d water them until they were in full bloom and overtaking your heart and mouth and head.”

Obsessed with this line (and so many others too duh) and how you write Dean 🫶

[winteryn]

SYMPATHY FOR THE DEVIL stalker!benjamin poindexter x female!reader [9.5k]

— ⟢ SUMMARY: dex escapes prison only to end up sleeping in half-frozen alleys, surviving on stolen food, spare change, and whatever shelter he can find before the winter cold kills him. until, on a freezing december night, you hand him a stack of blankets and a cup of hot coffee. — ⟢ WARNINGS: 18+ MDNI; non-canon (it’s supposed to be an au of what happens after dex breaks out of prison); she/her pronouns for reader; dex is temporarily homeless; loneliness & depression; brief hints at ending his own life and dying in general; stalker behavior; obsessive behavior; murder & violence; kidnapping; dex knocks reader unconscious with a solvent; anxiety & panic attacks; dark!dex (dubious morality); pathetic & quite creepy!dex (he’s pretty unstable in this); smut (dub-con); oral (f receiving); fingering; multiple orgasms; overstimulation; unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it pls); creampie.

A/N: if anyone saw my post about my trick or tease series, yes—this title and this trope were originally meant for steve rogers. but I wanted dex to be part of it as well + the stalker dynamic suits him better, for obvious reasons ofc lol. ngl, this time I unsettled myself a little but that’s exactly what I was going for with his character. hope you’ll enjoy 🤍 trick or tease masterlist

Benjamin Poindexter wanders through the city without any particular destination in mind. The caution that has kept him alive during the first weeks after his escape now faded into the kind of resignation that started wearing him down after too many nights spent hungry and cold. He still avoids police officers when he spots them on the street and keeps his head lowered whenever he passes security cameras, but survival no longer feels like an objective he is actively pursuing. It feels more like a habit his body has not yet forgotten.

Days in the city are no different from the ones in prison: they all just end up blurring into one another. He wakes wherever he happened to fall asleep the night before, gathers the few things he has managed to keep, and disappears back into the endless flow of people moving through the busy streets. Sometimes he follows crowded avenues lined with storefronts and restaurants. Other times he finds himself in quieter neighborhoods where the sidewalks are cracked and the aging buildings weathered—a reflection of his own exhaustion.

It rarely matters where he goes. Every street eventually begins to resemble the next.

People brush past him constantly without sparing him a second glance. They have places to be, friends waiting for them somewhere. They are too busy looking at their phones and thinking about their own problems to notice the gaunt, unshaven man standing a few feet away. Even when their eyes distractedly land on him, there is no recognition. He is just another stranger occupying space.

Dex has spent his entire life studying human beings, as therapists taught him how to mimic emotional responses and superiors evaluated every aspect of his behavior. Observation has always been easier than participation, because people just make more sense when watched from a safe distance.

That didn’t really change. Nowadays he just watches them from bus stops and park benches, from the corners of coffee shops and train stations. Couples walking hand in hand while discussing what they should make for dinner; coworkers complaining about their bosses during lunch breaks; friends gathering outside bars and spending hours chatting and giggling...

The conversations are rarely important, because there is something far more interesting about them that catches his attention.

The ease.

The casual certainty with which they move through one another’s lives.

No hesitation. No calculation. No fear that a wrong word might cause everything to collapse.

They belong somewhere.

Everyone belongs somewhere except him.

There was a time when Dex convinced himself that structure could replace belonging with the help of therapy sessions and missions. Structure could free him.

Every hour of his life was accounted for by somebody else. Every success was measured, every failure documented. He spent so many years molding himself into whatever other people needed him to be that somewhere along the way he lost track of who Benjamin really was underneath all of it.

And now? Well, that same freedom feels too similar to being abandoned.

At night, when the city grows quieter and the streets empty, the loneliness becomes impossible to ignore. It follows him into abandoned buildings and dark street corners like a mourning ghost. It settles beside him in bus stations and laundromats and every other place he occasionally uses to escape the cold like a silent companion.

It’s in those moments that Dex finds himself wondering what would happen if he simply disappeared.

Not in the dramatic sense, like a shootout or an arrest.

Just... if he stopped moving altogether. If he died somewhere beneath an overpass or in one of the countless empty alleys he drifts through.

How long would it take before anyone noticed?

Longer than it should, probably.

Eventually some commuter would find him on their way to work and call 911. A local reporter would spend thirty seconds talking about the unidentified body discovered downtown before moving on to the weather forecast and traffic updates. By the next morning, nobody would remember the segment had aired.

Maybe somebody at the FBI would hear about it. An old colleague would recognize the name and mention it over coffee. There would be a moment of surprise, a few awkward jokes, a shake of the head.

The prison guards who kept him locked in solitary would probably celebrate. The administrators who spent years trying to keep him contained would finally get to close the file for good. One less monster on the loose.

And that would be it.

No funeral worth attending, no grieving family. Just a life reduced to paperwork and a body bag.

That thought clings onto the edges of his mind more than he likes to admit, because he knows the same thing would happen to countless other people around him. Every day he passes individuals carrying loneliness so obvious it might as well be written across their faces. Like the blonde woman who spends her entire lunch break sitting alone in the park, staring emptily at the ducks in the lake. Or the elderly man who goes grocery shopping every day just to talk to cashiers for a few minutes, because there is nobody waiting for him at home. And the exhausted employee at the bank who smiles politely at customers despite looking as though she has not slept properly in weeks.

Everyone is far lonelier than they pretend to be.

They hide it beneath routines and obligations and practiced smiles, but Dex sees it as clear as day.

Perhaps that’s why he notices you.

At first you are simply another face among thousands. Another stranger crossing his path who should have disappeared from his memory the moment you walked away.

Instead he finds himself lingering.

The first time he spotted you was outside the grocery store close by one afternoon, standing in the rain while helping an elderly man load bags into the trunk of his car. He remembers watching you crouch beside a stray cat behind a café two days later. And then seeing you again one evening while you came back from work looking exhausted enough to collapse, only to stop and smile at a little girl who waved at you from across the street.

And yet there are moments, between your kind smiles offered so freely, that are fleeting enough to disappear with a simple fluttering of lashes. Moments when your expression slips.

That fascinates him the most, because it reminds him of all the people who spend their lives pretending they are happy with what they have.

It reminds him of himself.

Most people look at you and see a nice, pretty woman going on with her day.

Dex looks at you and sees pain strategically buried beneath kindness.

The temperature has dropped well below freezing by the time evening settles over the city.

Dex has spent most of the day walking in an attempt to keep warm, but exhaustion catches up to him soon. The wind has grown sharper as the sun disappeared, slicing through layers of clothing that were never designed for nights like this. Every exposed inch of skin burns, his fingers having long since gone numb.

He eventually finds shelter in the recessed entrance of a shuttered storefront. It isn’t much, but it protects him from the worst of the wind. Lowering himself onto the cold concrete, he draws his knees toward his chest.

The city is still alive around him.

Cars pass, people hurry home. A group of friends laugh as they disappear into a restaurant across the street.

Some glance in his direction before quickly looking away. Most don’t bother looking at all, and he can’t even blame them.

See, most people have perfected the art of ignoring things that make them uncomfortable. They avert their eyes from anyone who serves as an unpleasant reminder of how quickly a life can unravel.

That’s when he sees you.

Stepping out of the grocery store with two paper bags pressed against your side, you adjust your grip halfway down the block, shifting the weight of them against your hip before continuing on.

Dex squints, trying to keep hold of the sight.

Well, it looks like you but the sight feels more like his mind offering him a gentle memory than accepting it as reality. You’re not here, you’re somewhere warm, a place that makes sense for someone as beautiful as you.

But when he blinks, the shape is still there. The same pace in your walk, the same slight forward lean, as if you’re only trying to get home without lingering in this horrible weather.

No, no, it can’t be you. And yet the image doesn’t disappear. His mind keeps it there, softening the edges, refusing to let it go.

You turn slightly as you walk, and the angle breaks whatever fragile certainty had been forming.

Still, he watches until you disappear between buildings, until the next gust of wind reminds him of the cold seeping cruelly into his bones.

At some point his eyes flutter close, tired in a way that has nothing to do with physical exhaustion.

Tired of moving.

Tired of hiding.

Tired of waking up every morning only to repeat the exact same meaningless cycle.

The thought that he might not survive the night this time arrives with surprising indifference.

Maybe that was really a trick of his mind then, Dex thinks distantly. A pleasant feeling to hold onto as everything stops altogether, a last thing to look at that doesn’t hurt.

Until the sound of approaching footsteps abruptly pulls him from the sweet memory.

They are too slow to belong to someone just walking by.

Dex’s eyes snap open.

You are in front of him, still in your work clothes. Looking as pretty and composed as ever. His ears burn in shame at the contrast.

You hesitate when you notice him looking at you, as though debating whether approaching him would be intrusive.

It lasts only a moment, though, before you make up your mind and walk over with a tiny, determined wrinkle between your brows.

Dex follows you cautiously with his eyes, slowly straightening up. People don’t approach him anymore, especially carrying a stack of folded blankets and a cup releasing visible wisps of steam into the freezing air.

“You looked like you needed it.” You offer quietly.

The explanation is so simple that for a moment he doesn’t know what to do with it.

Not you are dangerous. Not I am calling the police. Not I know who you are.

Just cold. And that’s enough to deserve your concern.

His eyes fall on the blankets after you place them beside him. They look new, like something purchased deliberately rather than discarded.

Nobody has bought something for him in a very long time.

When Dex finally reaches for the cup, his fingers brush yours accidentally. The contact lasts less than a second, but he shivers anyway, electricity pumping through his veins.

You don’t recoil, nor grimace. Instead, you smile at him—a genuine, warm curve of your lips that transforms your entire face. And Dex allows himself to shamelessly bask in the sight. Not only because he thinks you’re possibly the prettiest woman he has ever seen, but because he can’t remember the last time somebody looked at him with something even close to kindness.

He has been pitied, feared… used. But this? Kindness offered so freely, without expectation and obligation? It knocks the breath out of his lungs.

By the time he realizes he should say something, you’re already standing.

“I hope things get better for you.” You give him another small smile, adjusting the strap of your bag.

The words are painfully ordinary, something many people probably say every day without giving them much weight. Just leisure pleasantries. Yet after you disappear into the crowd, Dex finds himself replaying them over and over again, your soft voice a pleasant touch that quiets his chaotic mind for the first time in weeks.

He sits there for what feels like an endless amount of time after you’ve gone, shakily cradling the cup between his hands while the coffee gradually cools. The blankets remain folded beside him, the cold just as bitter as before, but the possibility of this being his last night on Earth is now a distant memory.

Out of the hundreds of people who walked past him that night, you were the only one who stopped. The only one who seemed to notice that he existed, and was not any less deserving of compassion just because of what his life had become.

The only one who looked at him and saw a person instead of a problem.

When Dex eventually rises to his feet and starts absently following the route you took through the city, he tells himself it’s simple curiosity. Why someone like you would concern yourself with someone like him.

The explanation sounds reasonable enough in his head, enough that he almost manages to ignore the fact that he is still thinking of your smile as he stares up at your silhouette moving through your apartment.

If somebody told you five months ago that your life was about to improve, you probably would have laughed in their face and walked away.

There is only so much disappointment a person can absorb before they stop expecting good things altogether, and somewhere along the way you have crossed that threshold without even noticing.

The thing is, your life hasn’t changed all that much since then.

Your landlord is still useless. Your paycheck still disappears almost as soon as it arrives. You still spend most evenings alone in an apartment that feels a little too quiet and a little too small. However, over the past few months a handful of odd little incidents have begun accumulating in the back of your mind.

One evening you spent nearly half an hour searching for your keys after becoming absolutely convinced you had left them on the kitchen table before work. By the time you found them sitting inside your handbag, exactly where they should have been, you laughed at yourself for being so forgetful. Exhaustion does strange things to memory, after all.

A couple of weeks later you came home to discover that the smoke detector that had been tormenting you with intermittent chirping for days had finally fallen silent. You fully intended to replace the battery yourself, but somehow the problem solved itself before you got around to it. You remember standing on a chair and frowning at the device for a solid minute, trying unsuccessfully to figure out whether the battery compartment looked different than before.

Then there was the leak beneath your bathroom sink.

That one bothered you more than the others because you knew for a fact that it was getting worse. Every few days you had to shove another towel beneath the cabinet to soak up the water, constantly reminding yourself with gritted teeth that you would deal with it properly when you had enough money. Then one evening you came home from work and discovered the leak just... stopped. The better part of the next hour saw you crouched on the bathroom floor inspecting pipes you barely understood before eventually convincing yourself that perhaps the problem had never been as serious as you thought.

Long story short, life carried on.

You continued waking up too early and going to bed too late. Work consumed you, money remained tight. Most days you were so tired that once you got home you refused to make dinner and just collapsed in your bed with the same clothes, grimacing in the morning at the idea of having to change the sheets again.

Occasionally, however, more strange things started to happen.

Like that package that disappeared from the building lobby and mysteriously reappeared outside your apartment two days later, looking like it had been opened and then taped back together. The bedroom window that refused to close properly for nearly a year suddenly functioned perfectly. The lost pair of baby blue panties that you had worn to a disastrous date with a colleague who apparently resigned the morning after, only to disappear into thin air. The man who spent months making you dread every shift with his lewd stares and inappropriate requests found behind a dumpster with his face unrecognizable and his tongue cut off.

None of it made sense, but you weren’t that worried.

If anything, the incidents feel morbidly helpful, which is probably why you never examine them too closely. They simply make difficult days a little more bearable, and so you accept them for what they appear to be: coincidences.

That explanation satisfies you right up until the moment you unlock your apartment door one rainy evening in May.

The day has been particularly draining, even by your standards. Your feet ache, your shoulders are tense, up to the point that halfway up the stairs you briefly consider sitting down and just falling asleep there for the night. By the time you finally reach your floor, all you can think about is taking a shower and collapsing onto the couch until the sound of your alarm wakes you the next morning.

You are already reaching for the light switch when you sense something different in the air.

You stand on the entryway for a moment longer than necessary, your hand resting on the doorknob as your eyes jump from the blanket on the back of the couch to the dishes left to dry beside the sink. The apartment looks normal, nothing broken nor missing.

But something still feels off.

Perhaps you are more tired than you thought.

You shake your head with a sigh, locking the front door before making your way to the couch to remove your shoes. Your arms are already halfway up for a big stretch, when your eyes accidentally fall on the book on the coffee table, and your body freezes.

You clearly remember throwing it carelessly the night before, annoyed that it was late and you couldn’t keep reading, or else you would have been a zombie in the morning. Now it’s placed in the middle of the coffee table, right beside the decorative vinyl tray where you use to store any knick knack that doesn’t really have a place in your small apartment.

Even that is carefully arranged: the remote control on the right side, your partially burned candle on the other, and right in the middle, the kitsch party favor you got from your colleague’s wedding last year.

With a slow turn, you look at the kitchen, still dark. Even from here you can see that one of the cabinets—the one where you keep your stash of snacks—is not completely closed. 

And then… the smell.

At first it’s faint enough to dismiss as something carried in from the hallway when you opened the door, but the longer you focus on it the more certain you are that it’s coming from the inside. Your apartment has always smelled of the jasmine candle you occasionally burn in the evenings, with traces of whatever shower gel happens to be sitting in your shower at the time. 

This scent is musky. A presence still clinging stubbornly to the air long after it has left. 

But you live alone...

From the moment you were old enough to go out alone, you started to imagine what you would do if you ever found yourself in danger, because every woman does at some point, and you had prepared yourself in all the ways that seemed sensible at the time. By now, walking home with your keys threaded between your fingers whenever a street is too dark and empty has turned into a habit you follow unconsciously.

That’s why you always believed that if the moment ever came, fear would sharpen rather than paralyze you, and you would at least be able to defend yourself long enough to get away.

Nobody tells you that the body doesn’t always choose between fighting and fleeing. Sometimes, the mind is simply trapped somewhere between disbelief and terror while precious seconds slip away.

There is no warning in the traditional sense, no footsteps or violence. Only the unbearable certainty that you are no longer alone in your own home.

One arm locks around your middle with a controlled firmness that prevents you from stumbling, while a cloth settles over your mouth before a scream can fully form. The terror manifests in your eyes widening, in panic turning your blood into ice as you struggle against someone that feels impossibly solid. 

A strange, sweet chemical smell fills your lungs before you can turn away. You try to fight, to twist and push and reach for anything that might help you break free. To hold your breath, at least… but even that becomes increasingly difficult as your body starts to quickly lose its reliability, strength draining out of your limbs in a way that feels unnatural and deeply wrong.

A warm breath brushes briefly against your neck—the touch so light you might later convince yourself you imagined it. And as darkness hugs your pliant body, you can’t help but notice the way the arm around your waist is supporting your weight rather than restraining it.

You try to force your eyes open when something tenderly brushes the apple of your cheek, lingering there for longer than it should.

Your lips part slightly—or you think they do—but the attempt to speak dissolves as you succumb to the void once again. It’s the worst feeling ever: your brain being awake, screaming at you to open your eyes and run, while your joints are heavy, lying vulnerable at the mercy of a stranger.

But you keep slipping in and out of consciousness in a room you don’t recognize and a presence you can’t fully see.

The voice is always there, low and close and impossibly calm, because the person speaking knows they have all the time in the world and no fear of being interrupted. 

“You don’t have to fight it.” You hear the first time, composed.

“I didn’t want it to be like this.” He murmurs at some point, his voice now on the brink of misery. 

There are other phrases too, ones that barely hold together when you try to catch them: something about you being safe now, something about not being alone anymore. But they never fully resolve into clarity before dissolving again.

“Pretty,” he says that a lot, as if he is thinking out loud rather than speaking to you directly. “So pretty and so sweet, my angel.”

Sometimes it’s a slow, controlled touch that caresses your forehead and then moves to your hair, as though he is making sure you are still there, still real and present in the way he imagined all along.

Your body reacts sluggishly, sinking further into whatever is holding you up.

“You’re going to be alright, I’ll make sure of it.” He whispers against your knuckles.

The last thing you register is not fear in its sharpest form, but the confusing contradiction of being held with such reverence while your mind insists that nothing about this should feel safe.

When you finally manage to pull yourself out of the heavy fog weighing down your mind, you immediately become aware of how your mouth feels like sandpaper. The simple act of swallowing is painful, your tongue sticking to the roof of your mouth uncomfortably. Every part of your body aches, the disorientation reminding you of that meagre time off you are allowed once a year that you promptly spend sleeping for days.

The sunlight filtering through the curtains definitely doesn’t help.

The rays spill across the room in warm golden strips, forcing you to squint against the brightness. Your head throbs in protest, and when you shift slightly against the mattress, a wave of dizziness rolls through you hard enough to make your stomach turn.

Another thing that you notice with furrowed brows is that this room is too quiet to be your apartment—no matter where you settle, the loud chaos of traffic and the sound of sirens blaring somewhere in the distance are always following you.

There is also a faint smell of vanilla lingering in the air, mixed with the scent of coffee that has long since gone cold. But nothing about your surroundings feels threatening. If anything, the room is painfully ordinary in its muted colors and minimal furniture.

Yet an uncomfortable feeling weighs behind your ribs.

A feeling that grows stronger the longer you lie there.

Your mattress isn’t this soft. Your sheets aren’t made of silk.

You force your eyes open completely. Staring upward, you blink lazily.

Your ceiling is full of cracks and dark spots. This one is clean and smooth.

And your bedroom window isn’t supposed to be there. You don’t even own curtains—you can’t because of some stupid policy your creepy landlord put in place.

You push yourself upright then, but the room tilts at once. A sharp wave of nausea crashes through your chest again, forcing you to grab the edge of the mattress while dark spots dance across your vision.

The movement is enough for you to acknowledge the man sitting on the armchair near the window.

A book is resting open in his lap, although judging by the way his eyes are already fixed on you, it wasn’t doing a good job at holding his attention.

The first thing that draws you in is his handsome face and broad shoulders. The second is his stare. It’s not the same as that of men watching women on the subway or across bars. Neither that of customers occasionally studying you when they think you’re too distracted to notice.

He looks at you like he’s been dying for this moment to happen.

A mug sits abandoned on the small table beside him, and despite his oddly tense posture, his voice comes out surprisingly gentle.

“There you are.” Relief spreads across his face so openly that it catches you completely off guard.

“Easy,” he takes a small step toward the bed, carefully placing the book near the mug. He frowns. “You’ll make yourself sick.”

You don’t even realize you have been slowly shuffling away until he says that.

You stop immediately. Behind you, your shoulders bump against the headboard.

There is nowhere else to go.

His eyes flick briefly toward the distance between you and the edge of the mattress, the wrinkle between his eyebrows deepening for a fleeting moment before returning to your face.

“I was starting to think you’d sleep through another day.”

You continue staring at him, convinced for a moment that you must have misheard.

Another day.

Your thoughts feel like they are desperately trying to push through mud, because every attempt to make sense of this bizzare situation only seems to leave you more confused than before.

“You need to drink some water.”

There is a bottle on the nightstand beside the bed, and next to it a glass, a packet of crackers and a folded hand towel. The arrangement is uncomfortably scrupulous, too symmetric to have been the result of some mindless afterthought.

The man reaches for the bottle, and your eyes follow his large hands as he unscrews the cap and starts pouring water into the clean glass.

“Take slow sips, your throat’s probably going to hurt. You’ve been out for almost forty-eight hours.”

The room tilts again.

Forty-eight hours.

Your gaze snaps back to his face.

“What?” The word comes out rough and barely audible.

His expression immediately changes. A faint smile pulls at the corners of his mouth, small enough that for a moment you are certain it must have been your mind tricking you.

“Here, drink it.” He completely ignores your question, handing you the half-full glass that you unconsciously take with trembling fingers.

“You had me worried for a while.”

You had him worried.

As though he has any right to be worried about you.

As though this stranger belongs anywhere near you.

It’s in that moment that the memory crashes into your mind like a wrecking ball smashing concrete.

Your apartment.

The smell that didn’t belong.

The certainty that somebody had been inside your home.

The feeling of arms wrapping around you from behind.

The overwhelming heaviness that followed.

Darkness.

Your pulse spikes so violently that it hurts your chest.

The glass slips from your numb fingers and lands on the mattress between you, messily spilling water on the sheets. For the first time since waking up, genuine fear breaks through the haze still clouding your thoughts.

You try to move away from him instinctively, but your body is still uncooperative. The effort is clumsy, leaving you dizzy as you brace a hand against the mattress to stop yourself from falling sideways.

The moment he notices the change in your breathing, his features harden for a mere second. Until then he looked elated to see you awake after spending the last two days drilling a hole through the floor of this damn apartment with his feet. But whatever he sees in your expression sweeps that relief away at once.

His eyes dart across your face, taking in every ragged breath and every failed attempt to back away. 

“Oh.”

The sound leaves him softly, almost regretful.

It’s the expression of somebody realizing they have made a mistake.

“Sweetheart.” The pet name sounds horribly familiar despite the fact that you have never seen this man before in your life.

“I know,” he slowly takes the glass and places it back on the nightstand. “I know this isn’t ideal.”

Not ideal. Of course, waking up in an unfamiliar room after being drugged and abducted is a rather unfortunate inconvenience. Surely not the worst experience of your life.

He takes a step forward before apparently thinking better of it. The hesitation lasts only a second, but it’s enough to suggest that he is trying to not overwhelm you and failing miserably.

For a man who somehow managed to break into your apartment, transport you somewhere else without being noticed, and keep you unconscious for two days, he suddenly looks too uncertain of himself.

“You’ve been asleep longer than I expected,” he continues carefully, as if you are some injured animal to coax out its hiding place. “I’m not going to lie, I was starting to worry. I checked your pulse every two hours, but you were breathing fine and your temperature stayed normal. I knew you were alright. Maybe you just needed to sleep a little bit more to properly gain back your energy.”

Does he really think that’s what you are worried about? Can’t he see the pure terror written across your face? Is he ignoring it voluntarily?

And the fact that he knows how often he checked your pulse, that he apparently spent two days probably watching you breath, touching you to take your body temperature while you lay unconscious, only reinforces the dreadful realization that this unknown man has devoted an unhealthy amount of attention to you.

When your breathing grows even more uneven, his expression tightens.

“Hey, don’t do that.” There is genuine concern in his voice. “You’ve got to slow down a little for me.”

The request is absurd enough that you almost burst out laughing.

Instead, it feels like the walls are gradually pressing down on you.

Dex recognizes it immediately. Something about the way he watches you suggests familiarity, as though he knows what it feels like when your own body turns against you.

Without asking permission, he frantically crouches beside the bed and reaches for your hand, carefully pressing it against the center of his chest.

The gesture is so unexpected that your eyes go wide.

His heartbeat is steady beneath your palm, your fingers weakly twitching in the fabric of his shirt.

“Just focus on my heartbeat,” he says softly. “You don’t have to talk to me, you don’t even have to look at me if you don’t want to. But you need to calm down. Try to match my breathing, okay?”

For the first time since waking up, he stops talking entirely and simply demonstrates, drawing in a slow breath before letting it out again, the movement measured and controlled. He repeats it again, and then a third time, never taking his alarmed eyes off you.

Little by little, against your own better judgment and under his patient movements, your breathing begins to follow the rhythm he sets.

You are still trapped. Still want to throw up from the residual drug mixed with fear. Still sitting too close to the man who kidnapped you. But the sharp edges dull enough to not make you feel like you are drowning. 

The visible satisfaction that spreads across his face is unsettling.

“Good. That’s good,” he murmurs, his thumb brushing lightly across your knuckles. “I didn’t want to scare you.”

“Bit late for that, isn’t it?” You mumble before you can stop yourself.

His eyebrows shoot up in surprise, before his quiet, startled laugh fills the small room. He briefly looks down, shaking his head as if conceding the point.

“Yeah,” he hums, far from defensive. “Maybe it is.”

His lips briefly press in a thin line pensively. “I’m sorry it happened like this.”

You don’t believe, even for a second, that this man is sorry for what he did. What he seems sorry about is the fact that you’re afraid, and that’s disturbing enough to make your skin crawl.

“I promise I’m not going to hurt you.” He adds quickly.

There’s a softness in his expression that would almost pass for affection if the situation itself weren’t so wrong. Yes, he’s not looking at you like he’s enjoying your fear, but that makes it worse in a way you can’t quite explain. Anger, sadism would have been more logical. But this quiet conviction that nothing bad is happening—not in his version of events—leaves you speechless.

The moment his hand squeezes yours, you flinch, having completely forgotten that he’s still keeping your palm pressed to his chest. His thumb starts moving again over your knuckles in a repetitive, absent motion.

“Who are you?” You manage out feebly.

Your throat is still raw, the words coming out rougher than you intend. The moment you speak, he’s already reaching for the nightstand, this time pressing the bottle of water into your free hand.

“You should drink this first.” He repeats. “Please.”

The water is cold enough that it makes your throat ache on the way down. Only when you look back at him do you realize he hasn’t stopped watching you, his lips slightly parted as he takes in the way your throat bobs with every eager gulp.

“Who are you?” You repeat, pushing down the urge to hide from his intense eyes.

Your question seems to be bouncing off the walls of his mind as he ruminates over it... Like he’s deciding which version of the answer would bring less trouble.

“My name is Benjamin.” He says eventually.

The name sits there between you, formal and unfamiliar in a way that doesn’t fit him at all. Then he exhales lightly, reluctant.

“Dex,” he adds with strain. “People call me Dex.”

The silence that follows is deafening.

You are sitting in a room with a man you don’t know, having a conversation that shouldn’t be happening at all, and yet your body hasn’t fully caught up to the fact that you should be screaming, trying to kick him away and claw your way out of this prison.

The thing is, you’ve never been good with confrontation. You avoid conflict when you can, letting things go too easily and apologizing when you dare to speak up for yourself. It has never felt like a flaw before as much as a way of keeping life manageable. And look where it has led you... right to your condemnation.

Your eyes flick briefly around the room without meaning to. It’s not large, but everything in it feels intentional. There’s no obvious sign of chaos, nothing that suggests the filth and improvisation of an insane gesture. 

Dex is still observing you, his hazel eyes completely soaking in your presence.

“We’ve met before.”

Your lips part uselessly, confused.

“Back in November,” he clears his throat awkwardly, readjusting his weight slightly. “The grocery store two blocks from your place. The one with the broken automatic doors that always stuck open halfway.”

Cold night. A man sitting too still against the wall. You debating for ten minutes whether it was a good decision to go back.

“But—but it was months ago...” You squeak out, recoiling. “You remember that?”

His face brightens, pleased that you do.

“Of course!” He nods. “You were still wearing your work clothes and had two bags with you because you’d stopped for groceries.” He swallows, eyes emptily staring at some random spot on your shirt as if he was reliving the moment.

“You walked right past me at first.”

Your throat tightens at his quiet comment. 

“But then you came back,” he finally looks up, his expression open again. “You brought blankets, coffee... You didn’t have to do that, but you did anyway.”

You allow your eyes to study him, trying to reconcile the man in front of you with the one he’s describing. He looks different now—cleaner, more put together, but there’s something underneath that practiced calm that feels like the same person from that alley… the same empty eyes. 

“You are kind to everyone,” he comments shyly. “Even when they walk right over you.”

The air changes with his expression.

“You think I didn’t notice?” He scoffs lightly at your clear surprise, his head momentarily tipping forward. “You hated your job. You came home exhausted every day, and yet you still kept going back. And your friends…” His mouth twists.

“Half of them only remember you exist when they need something. The others stopped calling altogether. You’re always the one reaching out first, always the one asking how they’re doing, always the one trying to keep those friendships alive. Then your birthday comes around and suddenly everyone’s busy. You spend holidays staring at your phone waiting for messages that never come, and they still expect you to be there whenever it’s convenient for them.”

A lonely tear trails down your cheek and his gaze holds yours for a moment longer than you can comfortably handle.

“I saw you cry.” His words are nothing short of a whisper but they hit you like a punch in the guts.

“In bed. In the shower. In the kitchen.” He swallows. “You were always so sad.” He whispers.

“I know what it’s like,” he adds after a pause. “Being alone.”

His free hand tentatively lifts, until it cups your cheek. The touch is far too careful, it makes you feel like an ethereal creature being worshipped rather than a woman kidnapped to satisfy some sick fantasy.

“But you’re not alone anymore.”

Your breath catches at the inevitability coloring his voice.

“Dex—”

“You’ve got me now.” He smiles, and for the first time you notice a missing tooth.

You don’t even realize you’ve stopped breathing properly until he is standing up, the bed dipping slightly under his weight.

Your first instinct is to back away, but it’s useless. The mattress gives under you in every direction, your body betraying you by freezing under his big frame.

“Hey,” he mumbles. “Hey, it’s okay. I’ve got you.”

The words make no sense coming out of his mouth, in your situation, in anything you understand, yet they don’t sound like a lie to him. That’s what makes it worse. He believes them. Completely.

You try to speak again, but all it comes out is a broken whimper, tangled in breath and panic, earning a small sound of frustration from Dex. The situation keeps slipping out of his control.

“I didn’t mean for it to go this way,” there’s a faint edge of strain in his voice now, actively struggling with your fear. “I just—I couldn’t keep watching you living like that anymore.”

The moment he moves closer, your muscles lock as the space between you starts to disappear. You try to shift away fruitlessly, already suffocating in the warmth that radiates off his body.

To your absolute horror, he doesn’t stop in front of your distress.

Each small movement forward strengthens the grip around your lungs—the oxygen around you is not enough.

Your fingers curl into the blanket beneath you without you meaning them to.

“I couldn’t leave you there.” 

His hand comes down near your hip, close enough that it brushes your covered skin, but still not touching you. You stiffen at the proximity alone.

Then the bed dips more as he lowers himself further, causing you to press harder into the headboard until the metal is digging uncomfortably into your bones. Your ears are ringing, your heartbeat so fast you feel like you are going to pass out, yet you are forced to live every second of it as Dex fully settles between your thighs.

His presence looms over you, before leaning in slowly. You flinch hard, an involuntary movement of your torso that causes the headboard to hit the wall with a deafening clank.

But Dex doesn’t stop, not until his head is resting on your chest.

Right over your heartbeat.

The contact sucks the fight out of you at once. Even your breathing stalls for a painful second before restarting in short, uneven pulls out of your control.

He doesn’t speak anymore.

He just stays there, still, listening.

“You’re really worked up,” he murmurs to himself. There’s something almost analytical in his voice. “I can fix that.”

Your fingers twitch into the sheets, until you finally gather enough strength to lift your arms and push at his shoulders, your neck desperately straining back to keep the contact to the bare minimum. It barely registers, your hands trembling as they make contact with a wall of steel. The effort leaves your limbs weak and unsteady, though, falling back against the mattress dejectedly.

“I’m not hurting you,” he recovers immediately, the words sounding more like he’s trying to convince himself. “I swear I’m not.”

You force your throat to work, and when your voice finally comes out, it’s in a thin, pathetic whimper.

“Get off me.”

Everything comes to a halt. Dex lifts his head from your chest with terrifying calm, just enough to face you. For a moment he doesn’t respond at all, his eyes just fixed on you, unblinking and so clear you can almost see the way he replays your words over and over again.

“Oh.”

He shifts back gradually, pulling his weight away from you as he settles on his knees. His hands go flat on his own thighs, open and visible, like he is deliberately trying to remove any sense of threat.

The movement is controlled, but there is a stiffness to his joints now, clearly responding to something he did not account for.

“I didn’t—” He begins, then stops mid-sentence, his jaw tightening slightly. “Okay. I won’t do that.”

He remains sitting close, his posture unnaturally still.

“I thought it would help,” he mumbles after a moment, his attention dropping briefly to the sad space between your bodies before returning to your face. “When people are overwhelmed like that… physical contact usually helps them settle.”

Again that detached tone.

You swallow thickly, genuinely scared at the speed your heart races inside your ribcage.

His eyes jump from your blown pupils to your heaving chest, then back up again.

“You’re still afraid.”

A pause follows in which you simply stare at him with tears threatening to spill.

“I don’t want you to be scared of me.”

Is Dex repeating that an attempt to convince you, or himself?

His breathing changes before he even finishes speaking, the rhythm of it losing its steadiness as if the thread keeping it all together just snapped under the inconvenience that is your reaction.

His hands keep lifting from his thighs before settling again, the small, restless movements never quite resolving into anything concrete.

“I have a job now,” he blurts out, eyes locked with yours, wide and intense. “A real one. I get paid regularly and I’ve saved money. I can take care of things—of you.”

Dex leans forward as words collide into themselves.

“You don’t have to go back to that life,” he swallows. “I can make it better. I—I already know how, I’ve planned it all! I got us a place out of the city, somewhere quiet where—where there is no traffic and no perverts scaring you at night.” His jaw clenches, knuckles turning white briefly as his hands close into two fists. 

“You talked about it, I remember, you wrote it down in your journal,” you wince. He even read your journal? “About—about the cottage in the middle of nowhere, and the garden with a place for the birds to rest and eat, and—and a porch where you can sit with your tea in the morning. No nosy neighbors and no greedy landlords.”

His voice keeps rising and shaking around the edges.

“I can keep you safe,” he whispers like a secret, his nose merely a few inches from yours. “You don’t have to worry about anything anymore. I’ve been handling things already, you just didn’t see it happening.”

That last part slips out before he seems to catch it, and Dex’s mouth snaps shut.

“No!” You flinch at the sudden rise in volume, witnessing first-hand how regret washes over his features.

“Sorry, sorry! I mean,” he exhales sharply, tone dropping again. “I mean I’ve been trying to make it right. For you.”

The lump in your throat is suffocating you.

“But I—I never asked for any of this. I don’t even know you.” You manage eventually, even if the sentence breaks apart halfway through, collapsing into tears before you can swallow them down. “Please just let me go. I won’t tell anyone, I swear, I won’t—just, please... please.”

Your hands come up to your face but they do a poor job at hiding your despair, because your body folds forward as the sobs take over, loud and agonizing.

Dex simply lets his body sit back on his heels, watching you cry with an unreadable expression.

After a long stretch of silence, it appears slowly—a faint curve of his lips that successfully slips past the control he had been so careful to piece together for you.

“What do you want from me?” You sob out, increasingly unsettled by his calm demeanor. “I can’t—” You choke on your next breath.

“I just want you.” He answers without hesitation.

Dex leans forward again, then stops himself mid-motion, catching his own impulse and forcing it back down. His hands hover for a second over your shoulders before returning to his sides.

“We’re going to be okay,” he hurries out. “You know that you were stuck. You want something different.”

“But I didn’t mean—”

“Anything you want,” his words tighten again with urgency. “I’ll make it happen.”

His voice lowers.

“Just...” His voice quivers faintly. “Don’t leave me.”

Your body is still shaking with every hiccup, but the words don’t bounce off you the way they should. They settle like a boulder on your chest, pressing against the exhaustion, the slow collapse of a life you were pretending was fine.

And before you can fully comprehend the mess you got yourself into because of a stupid good deed you decided to do on a whim, you flinch again as Dex moves, decisively enough that there’s no time to escape.

He pulls you into a hug, your body instantly going rigid as his muscled arms wrap around your waist. Whimpering, you lift your hands to push at his chest, but his hold tightens in response, your palms now forced flat between you two.

“It’s okay, sweetheart.” His voice is low against the side of your head. “Don’t cry, please, angel. You’re breaking my heart.”

He starts to rock slightly, the motion unhurried and consistent, but your crying doesn’t subdue right away.

When he lowers you back onto the pillows, your body tightens again at the change in position, but he follows the movement instead of pushing it. He stays close, his hands still wrapped around your body but careful to not press his weight into you the way he did before.

“I don’t want you to shake like that around me.” He mumbles in your ear after a while, stripped of the earlier urgency. “Why won’t you believe me? I said I’m not going to hurt you.”

You swallow at the hurt pouring from his voice, but you turn your head away anyway in a last, futile attempt to set a boundary. 

“I—” He cuts himself off, his next breath shaky. “I didn’t know how else to make you stop running in your head like that. You were—you were going to break yourself apart.” His arms squeeze once.

“But you don’t have to do that anymore,” he adds happily. “Not when you have me now.”

You don’t remember the last time someone stayed this close to you without an ulterior motive. Even friends and ex-boyfriends who touched you in the past did it like contact had an expiration date you were supposed to respect.

Most days you try to ignore it, because it’s work, home, work again, and then fill the spaces in between with loud music and books so you don’t notice how quiet everything is when no one is there to witness your life unfolding. You’re used to eating alone, shopping alone, coming back to an empty apartment without expecting anything different. 

But here, with someone actually holding you with such devoted desperation, something lodged deep inside you gives up before your mind can stop it. Your shoulders drop first, only now giving you the time to properly register the sharp sting caused by your constant rigidity. Your hands, which have been tense against his chest, loosen without your consent, fingers uncurling slowly instead of pushing.

Dex is still above you, braced between your legs and still surprisingly careful as he clings onto your body. Your arms move next. At first it’s only a mere jerk that you have the chance to stop, but then they are hovering over his back. And when they finally settle around his shoulders, his muscles lock in shock for a long moment.

Keeping still throughout it all, he is scared the faintest movement could drag you back into that dark conviction that paints him as the bad guy. Which should probably be the sensible thing to believe, because this is wrong—you are betraying your own sense of safety by embracing the same man who forcefully carved a place into your life and took control of it.

But you stay there anyway, even when Dex slowly lifts his head from where it has been tucked against your chest. The movement is timid as his hands remain exactly where they are: one gripping your side, the other resting between your shoulder blades.

For a few seconds neither of you speaks.

His face is close enough now that you can make out details you hadn’t noticed before, too blinded by panic. Like the faint shadows beneath his eyes, and the scar on his right cheek. The hesitation that keeps flickering in his hazel eyes.

From the way his gaze keeps dropping to your mouth before returning to your eyes, you know what is about to happen.

You should turn your head.

You should push him away and hold onto whatever common sense you have left.

Instead, you remain perfectly still.

When he finally leans forward, it’s so tentative that you almost don’t register it at first. His nose brushes yours, the small contact making his breath hitch.

For a moment it genuinely feels like he’s giving you one final opportunity to stop him. But you don’t.

The kiss lasts barely a second before he’s already pulling back again, watching you with an intensity that makes your stomach twist.

You don’t know what to make of any of this.

The fear is still there, intertwined with confusion. Nothing about the situation has become less alarming, yet beneath all of it sits a quieter realization that is much harder to confront.

You can’t remember the last time someone looked at you as though your existence alone mattered to them.

You truly are pathetic.

Dex studies your face frantically, searching for a reaction. When you don’t immediately recoil, some of the tension visibly leaves his shoulders.

“Sorry,” he murmurs, sounding embarrassed. “Haven’t done this in a long time.”

After the stalking and the break-in, you somehow expected him to be smoother than this. Certainly not to apologize for his kissing techniques.

Taking your silence as encouragement, he locks your mouths more forcefully than before. It’s eager, clumsy in the way his tongue pushes between your parted lips as the hand on your hip quickly flies behind your head to keep you nice and still for him.

“Wait—” You gasp when his big hands are suddenly everywhere. They squeeze your asscheeks, play with your covered breasts and palm your thighs as he keeps pressing wet kisses down your throat. 

A loud whine falls from your lips, and it feels downright mortifying, your body completely on fire under his desperate touch. Dex muffles a growl against the swell of your tits once his hand sinks into your ruined panties, basking in the sharp tang that invades his nostrils and that he only had the chance to smell from stolen underwear.

With his other hand, he lowers your tank top, leaving the fabric hanging hopelessly from your torso to admire your beautiful tits.

It’s nothing that Dex hasn’t seen before—he did have to install cameras inside your apartment to make sure that fucking asshole of your landlord wouldn’t break in while you were gone.

These fucking creeps never learn their lesson…

Fortunately you wouldn’t have to deal with him anymore. Not when you are finally with Dex, while he is somewhere in the depth of some big lake on the other side of the state. 

Your first orgasm of the night hits you with two of his fingers slowly fucking inside your pussy, and his lips delicately suckling your clit.

Your hands were desperately clutching his shoulders, his groan deep and animalistic around your nipple when your nails sank into the fabric of his t-shirt, causing a pleasant sting to travel down his back. 

“Yes, sweetheart. Mark me, ‘m all yours.”

When Dex finally looked at you with a pretty blush across his cheeks, mumbling that he needs to taste you.

You fought him at first, frantically shaking your head and squeezing your shaky thighs close to keep his mouth as far as possible from your core. But again, you must be so pathetic to cave in for a pair of glossy hazel eyes looking up at you as if you just told him to keep his disgusting hands to himself and let you go. 

Dex panted, chin gently propped on your belly. “Please, please my angel. Just a little taste, I promise.”

Now, a shiver runs down your back at the primal sound clawing out of his chest when he finally gets his mouth on your slick folds.

Your eyes turn wet, breathy whimpers reluctantly falling from your parted lips when you come, wave after wave of electrifying pleasure running through your veins as Dex watches mesmerized, tongue still working on your pussy and his free hand on your hip to help you hump his face. 

“That’s it. That was a strong one, hm lovely?” You flinch in shame at the sight of your wetness shining on his smirk, but Dex is already discarding his pants and boxers, blanketing your body with his as he drags his hard cock between your sensitive folds.

He moans in your mouth, ignoring the way your palms keep pushing at his shoulders.

“Dex.” You wail, overstimulated.

“Yes, angel. Say my name, wanna hear you scream it. Wanna show everyone how good I make my pretty girl feel, and then I’m gonna cut their fucking ears off.” He groans against your lips, completely missing your flinch.

“You’re beautiful everywhere. Pretty face, pretty lips, pretty tits, pretty pussy…” He blabbers, eyes squeezed shut as the tip of his length slips inside.

A loud moan claws out of your throat. “Stop talking.” You mewl, the stimulation causing your hips to buck uncontrollably as another climax draws impossibly close again.

Your face is on fire, not used to praises, much less coming from a man.

“Can’t, sweetheart.” His answer is strained, the control he spent months building just for you slipping miserably once the realization of finally having you on his cock, naked and moaning, fully hits him.

“You’re my good girl now.” His hips gain speed, the stretch burning a little until he finally finds that spongy spot that makes your eyes roll back. “Taking me so well, look at you.”

“Dex.” He shudders helplessly when you call for him. Never has his name sounded so sweet.

His head tips back all of a sudden. “Fuck, are you coming, my love?” He growls out, indulging in the way your pussy clamps desperately around him. 

Your climax is stronger and messier, slick steadily pouring out around his length as your back arches and you find yourself shamelessly moaning and convulsing, trapped in an endless circle of bliss with his cock abusing your sweet spot and the trimmed hair at the base rubbing your puffy clit raw.

“Gonna fill you up, baby. Mark you forever as mine.” He mumbles urgently, surging down to suck on the skin of your neck. “Shit, shit—” Dex grunts, his balls tight as thick ropes of cum stuff you full. 

You are now lying pliant on the mattress, his body still looming over yours as his cock weakly twitches inside you.

For a brief moment, a dangerous thought flashes across your tired mind.

He is spent and trembling, mumbling incoherently into your breasts... would it really be that hard to push him away? He is a broad, muscled man, but Dex would never expect it. Not after you surrendered so viscerally to his touch. You could shove him off and make a run to the door. Or reach for the glass on the nightstand and smash it against his temple hard enough to buy yourself a few precious minutes.

Instead, when his mouth frantically finds yours with a low whine, you allow Dex to steal the oxygen from your lungs as your hands slowly cradle his cheeks. 

Maybe it’s the beginning of something terrible. Maybe one day you’ll regret not even trying. But as this broken man holds you like letting go would kill him, you find that you can’t bring yourself to care.

— ⟢ END NOTES: thank you so much for reading 🤍 my masterlist → winteryn's masterlist

🏷️ general dex taglist: @bibiishin @sheriff-bodecker @erina00 @star-yawnznn

[expressions-of-nature]

Fukiage Poppy Field, Japan by Cheerfulness

[kwatzaya]

girlhood is a spectrum

[nesry-n]

on mustafar, when anakin tells padmé they can "make things the way we want them to be", he really means the way they have definitely discussed about throughout their marriage. they both share a vision of an ideal galaxy where injustice, suffering, and chaos doesn't exist.

but now, post-darkside corruption, anakin's way of enforcing this vision is through tyranny, where any dissent is danger to be destroyed, and order can only be achieved through control. because even on mustafar, anakin is under the delusion that he is saving the galaxy.

whereas, for padmé, it would be through a functioning democracy without corruption.

two idealists—now on two extreme ends.

[theroyalgardens]

Peach and yellow snapdragons

[darth-memes]

HAPPY MAY THE 4TH!!!

[squidlakeopera]

padme & "i loved you before i was born" by li-young lee

[lexlikestoread]

“The longing will outlive this body” is soooo beautiful

[anyetta]

Not a day has gone by that I don’t miss Lorcan and Elide

[idk-i-was-bored]

I decided to do something a little bit insane. I sat down and typed every word spoken in revenge of the Sith so I could then hand write every word to create this scene redraw. I am very pleased with the final result I’m not gonna lie.

[winteryn]

THE CASE OF A GRUMPY PEEPING TOM older neighbor!bucky barnes x female!reader [15.3k]

— ⟢ SUMMARY: bucky barnes has spent years cultivating a life of isolation. he keeps to himself, avoids attachment, and prefers the predictability of routine. then you move in next door and he tries to dismiss you as a temporary inconvenience. everything shifts the moment he notices your bedroom sits directly opposite his. or, bucky is a pervert and you aren’t really that far behind. — ⟢ WARNINGS: 18+ MDNI; non-canon; set in summer; she/her pronouns for reader; age gap I guess (he is stated to be in his late 40s; I imagined reader to be in her early 30s but it’s only mentioned that she is younger than him); kind of one-sided enemies to lovers; reader is mentioned to have hair; reader wears skirts, dresses & lingerie; mechanic!bucky; grumpy!bucky; loner!bucky; size difference (bucky is taller + beefy); they’re both perverts; possessiveness & jealousy; obsession; stalker-ish behavior; smut; voyeurism; exhibitionism; reader dates and fucks a lot in the beginning; big dick bucky organization (🙂‍↕️); sexual fantasies; dirty talk; masturbation (f & m); fingering; oral (f receiving); squirting; brief spanking; sexual acts in “public”; pussy spanking; pussy pronouns; slight degradation; a few uses of slut & he calls himself old multiple times; unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it pls); multiple orgasms; overstimulation; creampie.

A/N: at this point I guess grumpy lonely old man!bucky being obsessed with reader has become my trademark 😭 jokes aside, this was posted a while ago and tbh, it’s one of those stories that I had trouble finishing because... well, yk... 🥵 sorry for any typo and for the “unpolished” smut but I’m really tired and studying for my uni exams. hope you’ll enjoy it 💋

The small neighborhood sits just far enough from the main road to be quiet at all hours, with rows of modest houses and well-kept lawns. Unfortunately, this also means that it’s the type of place where people wave too much and chat for way too long.

Bucky Barnes doesn’t wave, nor does he chat. He tolerates.

He’s in his late forties and time has etched itself into him in ways that make him seem older at first glance: deep lines permanently drawn between his brows, too many grey hairs in his stubble, and a heaviness in his posture that comes from countless years of keeping the world at arm’s length. He is tall, broad in a way that makes doorframes feel narrow and sidewalks feel smaller when he walks down them. His body is solid, built by labor rather than vanity, with thick arms, powerful shoulders, and rough hands scattered in scars and used to grease. There is also a softness at his middle now, a slight curve beneath worn flannels and old t-shirts, the quiet evidence of comfort.

This only makes him more noticeable.

He is attractive and single, the combination of his size, his silence, and that perpetual scowl working in his favor far more than he likes to admit. There is something about a man who doesn’t chase attention that makes people want to offer it freely. Yet the lingering looks at the grocery store are rudely ignored, just like the awkward attempts at conversation at the garage he owns. The notes shamelessly slipped under his windshield wiper promptly end up in the first trashcan he sees—invitations and phone numbers he never glances at twice.

He had done the whole thing once already: the commitment, the shared space, the careful navigation of someone else’s expectations. It had not suited him then, and it certainly doesn’t suit him now. Whatever desire he had for that kind of life had burned out years ago.

His marriage had not even lasted that long. Too many arguments that circled the same problems, too many sharp words that lingered longer than they should have. His ex-wife cared too much about how things looked; he never cared enough. In the end, there was nothing left to fix that didn’t require one of them becoming someone else.

See, Bucky likes his mornings quiet and his evenings untouched by obligation. He enjoys eating alone, fixing things by himself, existing without explanation. Loneliness is just something other people have projected onto him while he built a life where no one asks questions and no one expects answers. Bucky likes it this way, it has become obvious to anyone who lives within a three-house radius of him.

As a matter of fact, the neighborhood knows him as the burly, intimidating man at the end of the street. The one who never smiles, never stops for coffee, never shows up at barbecues or block parties. If he feels gracious enough, he would reply with either a grunt or a curt nod. Kids are warned to not bother him and adults learned quickly that small talk died on his doorstep.

He calls the cops when the rich couple on his left throws backyard parties that stretch past ten. Not because he’s trying to be petty, he simply doesn’t understand why anyone needs music that loud or laughter that forced. He always waits for the patrol car’s lights to flash briefly across his living room wall, jaw set and arms crossed, before going back to his book the second the noise dies down.

He files complaints when someone’s dog won’t stop barking. He once told a door-to-door salesman to fuck off his property without even opening the door. When Murray Hall, the self-proclaimed leader of the street, came knocking to convince Bucky to hang seasonal decorations and was completely ignored, he taped a passive-aggressive, handwritten note to his mailbox about “participation” and “neighborly effort.”

Bucky took it down, folded it once, and dropped it straight into the trash without removing his blue eyes from the older man staring him down across the street.

He has never decorated after that, out of spite. The house stays dark every year, a silent protest no one dares to challenge directly.

His neighbors also learn to not park in front of his driveway, and to not ask him for favors unless it’s an emergency. They don’t expect pleasantries or smiles anymore, because Bucky exists like a locked door—solid, immovable, uninterested in what’s on the other side.

And it works. Until your arrival.

The moving truck is still there when he gets home from work that afternoon, its engine idling too loud since this morning. He stares from his porch as boxes are unloaded, one after the other, boots still on and shoulders tight from a long day under hoods and engines. He frowns, already planning how long he’ll give them before complaining about the noise.

Then you step into view.

You’re carrying a box that looks too heavy for you, arms wrapped around it awkwardly, and someone—a friend, maybe—reaches out to help. You laugh, shake your head and stubbornly keep going. It’s an easy sound, unforced, and it carries down the street like it already belongs there.

Bucky’s frown deepens.

You’re younger than most people who can afford a house in this part of the town, and pretty in a way that feels unfair—soft, bright, lively. You’re wearing worn jeans and a loose shirt, and you look… happy, comfortable.

The neighbors are immediately captivated by your charming presence.

Mrs. Collins from the corner house is already hovering, offering help, smiling too wide. The rich couple—fresh off their last noise complaint—wave enthusiastically from their driveway. Linda Whitman—the same woman who never misses a chance to peer through her curtains—shows up with lemonade to cool off, and right on her heels is Mark Donnelly, still convinced Bucky doesn’t sort his recycling “correctly.” 

He just observes, and that’s when you notice him.

Your gaze lifts absently and finds him standing stiff on his doorstep, arms crossed over his chest and expression carved into permanent disapproval. For a split second, something akin to surprise flickers across your face, but then you smile. Not the polite kind people give out of obligation. A real one.

You lift your hand and wave.

“Hi!” You call warmly.

Bucky doesn’t wave back. He doesn’t smile, doesn’t say a word. He just stares at you for a beat too long, then turns and goes inside, shutting the door with more force than necessary.

From behind the safety of his walls, he tells himself you’re just another neighbor, another disruption… another reason the street won’t be as quiet as it used to be.

Bucky starts to realize there is no such thing as mere coincidence in this fucking town.

The first run-in with you happens at the mailbox. He’s just gotten home, tired from the long day at work and as he flips through bills, footsteps echo behind him. He rolls his eyes.

“Oh, hi!”

Your voice again, familiar already, and that alone annoys him. He glances over his shoulder briefly, enough to see you standing a few feet away, clutching your own stack of mail and smiling like this is the most normal thing in the world. Like he didn’t completely ignore you the first time you tried to introduce yourself.

He grunts in response. Not unfriendly, just… noise.

“I’m your new neighbor.” You continue anyway, as if that wasn’t painfully obvious, and you point at the house right beside his. Then, you tell him your name but he just nods imperceptibly.

You hesitate, clearly waiting for something else, his name maybe, a comment about the neighborhood… anything.

However, you are brutally plunged into an awkward silence.

“Okay.” You draw softly, but recover quickly. “Well, nice to meet you.”

You wait another second yet his gaze doesn’t move from the pile of envelopes in his large hands. When Bucky finally turns to walk away, he can feel your eyes burning through his back, curious rather than offended.

That somehow makes it worse.

The next few times, he tells himself it’s just bad timing.

He’s leaving for work when you’re coming out of your house, keys in hand, sunlight catching prettily in your hair. Of course, you pause when you see him, smiling like it’s reflexive.

“Morning.”

He hums, adjusts his jacket, and walks to his truck without breaking stride. 

Two days later, he’s unloading groceries when you’re struggling with a bag that splits at the bottom of your driveway. Peaches roll everywhere, bright and ridiculous against the gray concrete.

“Shit.” You mutter, crouching to gather them. The movement causes your skirt to ride up your thighs without you noticing, fabric bunching dangerously high as you balance on the balls of your feet.

Bucky looks away too late, his heart giving a series of uncomfortable, fast thuds in his chest. Swallowing thickly, his jaw tightens as he forces the fleeting image of your soft asscheeks snuggled in a pair of pastel green panties out of his mind. 

He hesitates long enough to be annoyed at himself for it. By the time he unconsciously steps forward, you’ve already scooped most of them up. He grabs the last one anyway and hands it to you without a word.

“Thank you.” You gasp, smiling too brightly to someone that did the bare minimum of human decency.

Bucky nods once and leaves before you can say anything else, the violent blush still sitting high on his cheeks has him feeling utterly humiliated.

You don’t stop greeting him after that.

At the gas station, of all places, you spot him across the lot and lift your hand in a small wave. He pretends not to see it. Later, he realizes he knows exactly what your car looks like now, right down to the faint scratch along the rear bumper.

On trash day it’s like you’re waiting by the window for him to walk out, because you’re always there. Sometimes you’re early, sometimes late, but you never fail to find a reason to linger: adjusting the lid, brushing dirt off your hands, commenting about how warm it is these days.

“Hey.” You greet him softly one evening.

He doesn’t answer.

“You don’t talk much.” You add eventually, not accusatory. 

He stiffens, only to drag his bin to the curb harder than necessary.

“Sorry,” you rush out. “I didn’t mean—”

He’s already walking away.

That interaction bothers him more than it should.

The next time you meet there, it’s early morning, the air still crisp, and Bucky’s barely awake to deal with existence. He’s dragging his bin to the curb when he sees you already there, kneeling beside yours and struggling with a torn bag that’s almost spilling onto the pavement.

He stops without meaning to.

You look up when you hear his heavy footsteps, relief lighting up your face at once.

“Oh! Good morning—sorry, I think this thing hates me.” You chuckle quietly, embarrassed, still fighting to close it.

He observes you for a second too long, letting his eyes calmly trace the wrinkle between your furrowed eyebrows, before falling on your bottom lip trapped between your teeth.

With a tired sigh, Bucky steps forward. He grabs the bag, ties it off in one quick motion, and lifts it like it weighs nothing.

Your eyes widen. “Thank you! I really appreciated that.”

Bucky shrugs, already turning away.

“Have a nice day!” You call after him.

He doesn’t answer, but this time, he doesn’t feel as justified about it.

By the end of the second week, everyone is talking about you. It doesn’t take long before your name is pronounced with affection and pride, with the same tone people use when they feel incredibly fond of someone.

Mrs. Reeves can’t stop gushing about you often helping her carry groceries inside, and the rich couple brags—loudly—about you offering to water their plants while they were away on their umpteenth cruise. Murray mentions you bake delicious lemon bars, while Mrs. Johnson praised your kind nature after you volunteered to help clean up at the end of the last neighborhood meeting.

Bucky is forced to hear it all: at the local store, at the garage, over the fence when he’s trying to enjoy a quiet evening in his backyard... and he grits his teeth every damn time.

“She’s exactly what this neighborhood needed.” 

Bucky’s nostrils flare.

How can you make time for everyone, always seem present, listening, patient? How can you never complain about the noise, the interruptions, the way these leeches just take, take and take? You are so open, so willing to be involved, and God—your lips are constantly twisted into this bright, welcoming smile. How the fuck are you always so jolly? So damn... real.

And worst of all, you treat him like everyone else. Still polite, still warm. You beam at him like he hasn’t ignored you a dozen times over.

Irritation bubbles sharply in his chest every time his mind lingers too much on that thought.

Bucky is used to being judged and ignored, he knows how to live with it, how to justify it. But this quiet, persistent generosity doesn’t fit anywhere he has known until now.

On one of the rare summer dusks when the street is unusually still, Bucky is in his driveway, hood of his truck open, sleeves rolled up and forearms smeared with grease. He’s been chasing the same problem for an hour, the wrinkle between his brows deepening as his frustration grows. 

He doesn’t look up when he hears footsteps approaching, already huffing in annoyance.

“Hi.” 

His hands freeze.

You’re standing at the edge of his property, far enough to be respectful, hands clasped loosely in front of you. You look unsure for once, like you’re bracing yourself for rejection but trying anyway.

Bucky straightens slowly, wiping his hands on the rag he keeps on his shoulder. His eyes flick to you, then back to the engine.

“What do you want?” He asks flatly.

You don’t flinch, and that surprises him.

“I just...” You hesitate, then let out a small breath. “I wanted to ask if I did something wrong.”

That gets his attention.

He looks at you then, really looks at you. Your expression is genuinely distressed, your eyebrows pulled together slightly like this has been bothering you for a while.

“You don’t like me,” you continue softly. “And that’s fine, you don’t have to. I just—” You sigh, dejected. “I’d like to know if there is a reason, since... you know, we are neighbors, and I want to apologize if I’ve ever done or said something to offend you.”

His jaw tightens.

“You didn’t do anything.” He mutters reluctantly.

You tilt your head, studying him. “Then why won’t you talk to me?”

The silence stretches. A car passes at the far end of the street; somewhere, a lawn sprinkler clicks on. He can feel the weight of your patience like a boulder pressing on his chest.

“Everyone says you like to be left alone,” you go on carefully. “I respect that, I really do. But I thought maybe saying hello wasn’t crossing a line.”

“It was.” He replies sternly, too quickly to be considered a mere slip-up.

You blink, clearly taken aback. A hint of hurt flickers across your face before you school it away very efficiently, as if you are used to regulating your emotions in situations that require neutrality.

You nod once. “Okay.”

Your eyes drop to the ground.

“Well, I’m sorry.” Your answer is no louder than a mumble. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

That word makes his stomach churn, but before his brain can elaborate anything useful, Bucky is watching you walk away with his jaw clenched.

That night, as he lies in bed, he stares at the ceiling longer than usual.

The sound of your voice replays in his head without his consent. The way you didn’t push, didn’t accuse, didn’t demand anything from him. You just wanted clarity, already apologizing without even knowing what you did wrong.

Bucky tells himself he did the right thing. This is how he keeps his peace intact. But why, for the first time since you moved in, the quiet doesn’t feel as satisfying as it used to?

It’s later than Bucky’s usual bedtime, the house dark except for the warm lamp on his nightstand. He’s standing in his bedroom, tugging his shirt over his head, muscles sore and heavy after indulging too much at the bar with his friends. The air is still, window and curtains half-open to let in what little breeze this summer decided to grant them this year.

That’s when a light flicks on across the street.

He freezes mid-motion, shirt clenched in his fist.

At first, it doesn’t register as anything more than irritation; Bucky glances toward the window, already scowling. His face falls the moment he realizes that’s your bedroom. The angle is wrong in a way that makes his stomach drop: same height, same alignment. It allows him a clear, unobstructed view straight into the room across from his.

Straight into your world.

You’re lounging on your bed with your laptop on your lap, the lamp beside you casting a golden glow over the framed photos on the walls and a light blanket he recognizes from the day you moved in.

Bucky definitely believes his optometrist was just trying to squeeze more money out of him when he told him he needed glasses, because from here, he can clearly see your nipples poke through the thin fabric of your camisole.

An old, unfamiliar heat stirs low in his belly. He doesn’t remember ever seeing shorts that minuscule.

He shouldn’t be watching.

The thought makes Bucky turn away at once, like he’s been burned, heart thudding harder than it has any right to. He drops the shirt onto the chair and drags a hand down his face.

Jesus Christ, Barnes. Get a grip.

When he risks another glance, just to make sure the angle isn’t worse than he thought, you’re holding your phone, laughing quietly at something on the screen. Your houses are too distant for the sound to reach him, but it’s not hard to pretend. He’s heard it before anyway—that soft, high melody that never fails to carry a note of genuineness.  

Forcing himself to step back, Bucky pulls his own curtains shut with more force than necessary. The room feels suddenly too small, too warm.

He goes to bed furious with himself, ignoring the sweat gathering on his forehead and the uncomfortable tightening of his boxers.

The following night, Bucky is more careful. He changes in the bathroom, keeps the lights low, tells himself he won’t look.

He looks anyway.

Your window is lit once again and you’re stretched out on the bed, laptop open by your side this time. You look utterly absorbed in whatever it’s playing on the screen, completely unaware of the grumpy creep spying you from his window.

His body leans sideways against the wall without realizing it.

It’s almost… fascinating, being able to witness the quiet intimacy of someone alone in their own space.

And you are even more beautiful lying there, unguarded and completely relaxed.

The thought comes uninvited and unwelcome.

Bucky swallows as his eyes narrow like he can intimidate the word into leaving his mind. There is no need to make a big deal out of this, he just happens to be here and without much urgency to sleep, that’s all.

He doesn’t move until your movie ends and your light goes out.

Some nights your blinds are already drawn, golden light filtering through the slats. Disappointment makes him frown in disgruntlement, keeping him from falling asleep right away. Those are the same nights he spends wondering if you are getting ready for bed or if you have already fallen asleep with another movie on, the sleeves of your camisole delicately slipping down your shoulders and exposing the swell of your breasts for his gaze to feast upon.

When he does catch you, you’re on your bed, similar to the very first time he saw you, laptop placed in your lap or off to the side. Each time, you also check your phone with a small grin, too often to be a coincidence. 

Who is making you smile this much at that hour of the night?

Days go by with Bucky sticking to the same nightly routine, until he eventually comes to the uncomfortable realization that he could watch you for hours and never tire of it. He learns your small habits without meaning to, like the way you pace your room while on the phone, stopping at the window every so often as if you’ve forgotten something; or the way you stretch your arms over your head when you stand up, slow and uncaring of who might see you from the window that you always leave open. 

When you’re thinking hard, you chew on your bottom lip without realizing it, gaze drifting into nothingness. Sometimes you sit on the edge of your bed for a moment in the morning, shoulders slumping as if the day is slowly assembling itself around you.

When you laugh, you always tilt your head back just slightly, eyes closing as though you don’t want to miss the feeling.

Background noise is your best companion: a TV show you’ve already seen, music playing low from your phone, a YouTube video from your favorite gossip channels that help you empty your mind... anything to fill the silence while you move through your space. You never wander barefoot, nudging things back into place with your slippers. And when you finally settle, you curl in on yourself, drawing your knees up, hand tucked beneath your chin. It’s a posture of comfort, one you only take when you think no one’s watching.

It’s summer, and that means you dress for it, much to his poor heart.

You are constantly wearing clothes that cling dangerously tight to your luscious body: lewd shorts, soft tanks, fitted t-shirts that show how your beautiful curves leisurely bounce whenever you move. The way you’re always warm, always shedding layers, tugging fabric down absentmindedly or pushing it back up makes his head spin.

You like cold drinks during these warm nights, condensation beading down the glass as you carry it back to bed. Sitting cross-legged on the mattress, or lying on your stomach with your feet kicking lazily in the air, you keep scrolling on your phone almost absently. When you’re tired, you turn off the light right away, rolling onto your side and leaving the glass on your nightstand—something to busy yourself with first thing in the morning.

Bucky hates how much he notices, how these seemingly stupid details carve themselves into his mind against his will. They feel earned, even though they aren’t.

Tonight, you are definitely not home.

Bucky furrows his brow, eyes flying to the clock on his kitchen wall again as if he didn’t check it merely two minutes ago. It’s past midnight, and your house has been dark since the moment you got out this morning for work. He tries not to let it bother him, because you are a grown woman with a career and it’s a Friday night. Maybe you are still at work, doing something that he hasn’t quite put a finger on yet, or maybe out with friends at a dingy bar downtown.

This doesn’t stop him from perking up like a dog at his owner’s arrival the moment he finally sees your car park in your driveway, his frown immediately deepening as a pair of headlights promptly follows close behind.

You’re not alone. 

Damn this neighborhood and its poor lighting. It’s almost impossible to discern your figure, much less one of someone he doesn’t know. It’s only when he reaches his bedroom after spending ten long minutes behind the curtains in his kitchen in complete darkness, trying to catch sight of you, that Bucky finally registers the mysterious companion’s face.

It’s a man, unrecognizable, only his arms visible as you’re half-naked on your bed, your bra tight against your breasts but your legs bare and parted. Your hand is curled in the man’s hair as his head works under your eager guidance.

Bucky watches you toss your head back and giggle, features crumpled in bliss. 

He rubs his eyes, certain the late hour must be playing tricks on him. Because there is no way his lovely, apparently innocent neighbor is getting her pussy eaten out with her window wide open.

The faint moans from your room inevitably filter into his ears, the shadow of the curtains and his dark room keeping him hidden as his blue eyes hungrily devour the sight. 

Still, an itch burns deep in his chest—an ugly, vengeful beast trying to claw its way out.

Your whimpers and breathy giggles haunt him long after your room has gone dark.

The worst part is that Bucky doesn’t stop there. Maybe he has become a masochist in his old age? Because he truly doesn’t know how to explain how he finds himself so enraptured by you, yet he can’t stop watching as each weekend a new man finds his way into your bed. At this rate, he’d need to make a dentist appointment just to make sure his jaw is still working. It feels permanently clenched these days, every muscle locked tight from the effort of keeping himself under control.

In theory, there isn’t anything wrong with what he’s doing, right? You leave your window open even while getting railed, you keep the lights on, you moan loud enough to attract his attention. And that makes him eventually cave, stroking his cock and coming all over his sweatpants when you’re riding your date of the week, your beautiful breasts bouncing with you as you chase your coveted orgasm.

The worst is that Bucky likes to pretend—in some deeply disturbed part of his mind—that you know he’s there, that you want him to hear. It’s not rare for him to wish your eyes would lock on his cock while you kneel on your bed to allow stranger after stranger to take you from behind.

What a miserable, old man. It’s so pathetic that at his age he’s been reduced to a lonely pervert spying his pretty neighbor while she fucks other men. It’s humiliating enough that he yearns to be in their place.

As much as Bucky enjoys the little shows you put on every weekend, though, the fact that you keep going on dates with random assholes is unbearable. He barely knows you yet he wants to punch in the face every single one of those bastards. Just hard enough to make their smug grin disappear, at least.

That intrusive thought, barreling towards the forefront of his mind before he even realizes it, leaves him with a bitter taste on his tongue. It’s unreasonable, he knows that. You’ve been living in this town for almost two months now and you’ve never exchanged a single word since the day he basically implied you make him uncomfortable with your little hello’s and good mornings’.

But these boys don’t know that you like to curl one leg up beneath you when you sit at your desk, squirming in the chair with a cute little frown until you’re balanced just right. They don’t see the way you pause every night before bed to straighten the trinkets on your nightstand, fingers lingering for a second too long on the framed picture placed there before you turn off the lamp.

They don’t know that when you get home from work you drop your bag by the door and go straight to your couch, stretching out flat on your back to stare at the ceiling. No phone, no music, no TV. Just breathing, like you need those fifteen quiet minutes to reset before the world can touch you again.

Bucky knows because these are the moments no one else stays long enough to notice. That realization sits heavy in his chest, equal parts guilt and something dangerously close to tenderness. 

And yet here he is, three months of unfamiliar men pulling up in cars he doesn’t recognize, of you stepping out onto your porch in the evenings dressed just a little differently than usual—shorter hems, softer fabrics, perfume he can’t smell but somehow knows is there. Of watching you laugh with them, lean in close, disappear inside your house while his stays dark and silent.

The possessiveness settles into him like an old injury: dull most days, sharp when he least expects it. He starts resenting how these assholes get to touch you in the most intimate of ways, how they look at you only to disappear before the sun has fully raised over the horizon. As if they have the right to use you and then run away like fucking thieves.

The first time he talks to you after his fiasco it’s late afternoon, the sky colored with shades of pink and orange, and cicadas buzzing loud enough to make his head ache.

Your lawn mower coughs and dies for the third time in a row. Bucky notices because he’s already outside, wiping sweat from his neck, pretending to not see you wrestle with the big device. You’re wearing shorts that keep riding up your thighs and a fitted top, skin warm and gleaming with what he assumes it’s coconut sunscreen.

Every failed pull of the cord makes your frustration more visible.

“C’mon.” You mutter, releasing a sharp exhale.

Bucky sighs, sharp and annoyed—at the mower, at himself, at the way his eyes have been fixed on your ass for too long.

He cuts his own engine and gets closer.

“That mower’s flooded.” He comments offhandedly.

You startle, turning abruptly to face him. You didn’t hear him approach, that’s obvious in the way your hand flies to your chest.

“Sorry,” you mumble quickly, then hesitate. “I didn’t know you were—”

“Pulling it like that won’t help.” He adds, softer this time, like he realizes how harsh he had sounded the first time.

You step back immediately, giving him room without being asked. 

You sigh. “I don’t really know much about engines.”

He crouches beside the device. “Most people don’t.”

There’s a pause in which you frown at his back, your lips pressed in a thin line. 

“You don’t have to—” You start.

“I can fix it,” he interrupts, then winces slightly, clearing his throat. “If you want.”

You study him for a moment with a crease between your brows, like you’re trying to understand if he’s either onto some cruel joke, or if he’s going to make you pay real money for it.

“Are you sure? I don’t want to bother you.” Your bashful tone lands wrong in his chest.

“It’s fine.” He mutters.

Bucky works in silence, fingers confident, movements fast but professional. You watch from a safe distance to not suffocate him, arms folded loosely across your chest, your weight shifting from one foot to the other. He’s acutely aware of your uncertainty, of the way the last sun rays gently caress the naked curve of your shoulders, and your teeth worry over your glossy bottom lip.

When he’s done, he stands and nods toward the handle. “Try it now.”

You pull once, and the engine starts immediately, without stuttering.

Your face lights up. “Thank you so much.”

He shrugs, suddenly very aware of how close you are. Too close.

Or maybe not close enough.

“Um,” you say, then smile sheepishly. “This is kind of embarrassing, but… I don’t actually know your name.”

His body stills completely.

“I mean,” you fret. “Everyone just calls you Barnes, and I didn’t want to assume—”

“James.” The word comes out before he can stop himself.

You blink, both your eyebrows raised in surprise. “James.”

He nods once, sharply. His ears burn at the way his name rolls softly on your tongue.

“Most people call me Bucky, though. My friends.”

Your smile turns into something less polite and more personal.

“Alright. Well, it’s nice to finally know.”

There’s another pause, a brief moment in which you simply look up at him with the same pretty eyes he has imagined full of tears as his cock sits heavy in your throat.

“You can call me whatever you want,” he adds quickly. “James or Bucky. Doesn’t matter.”

Your smile grows and the unfamiliar warmth of a blush starts spreading across his cheeks. His eyes jump away first.

“Thank you, Bucky.” You answer gently.

After that, it becomes a pattern: you need help? Bucky pops out of nowhere ready to resolve your current predicament.

Like the day your car won’t start. Your hood is popped open as you pace your driveway while on the phone with a mechanic, the guy from the night before leaning against the car door looking useless as he waits for his uber, because the bastard doesn’t own a car.

And neither a wallet since you had to pay the entire check by yourself at a rooftop restaurant that he chose because he apparently knew the owner.

Bucky observes from his kitchen window, jaw tight and arms crossed against his chest. He doesn’t like the way the guy talks over you, especially as you fold your arms, shrinking back slightly.

Bucky is there before he fully registers the decision.

“Move.” He grunts.

The guy steps aside, startled. You look stunned.

“Bucky, hi. What—”

“I’ll take care of it.” He mutters simply.

He fixes it in less than ten minutes, and the guy claps him on the shoulder like they’re longtime buddies. Bucky shrugs him off and stares him down like a rabid dog until the other man clears his throat, awkwardly kissing your cheek before stuttering about his uber waiting for him at the end of the street.

Your eyes don’t stray away from your neighbor.

“I really appreciated it.” You quip. “You keep saving me.”

He lightly shakes his head, shrugging uncomfortably. “I’m just good at fixing things.”

Sometimes it’s a loose nail on your porch steps. Sometimes a shelf that won’t stay level. Then it becomes a heavy package you can’t lift on your own, and too many shopping bags that you shouldn’t carry by yourself. Bucky always shows up like it’s coincidence, as if he wasn’t stalking you from his window five minutes earlier.

He never talks much, just grunts, nods, and mumbled greetings. But you don’t complain; not when you get to have a free front-row seat for his bulging arms as the fabric of his t-shirts fights for its life.

There are moments when you start doubting your own sanity. You swear you catch him looking at you. Not openly, or boldly like some of the guys who hit on you during your girls night at the local bar. Just quick glances that carry an unusual amount of intensity. Well, it shouldn’t come as shocking since your neighbor is indeed intense.

Whenever your eyes meet, however, he promptly looks away, cheeks turning a light pink shade and shoulders tense like he’s been caught doing something illegal.

You notice, but still, you keep your distance. You don’t hover, you just thank him, smile, and step back when he’s done. You don’t invite him to stay longer, nor do you push conversation. And Bucky realizes too late that this distance? He deserved it from the very beginning.

Bucky heaves a sigh of relief when he notices you are already tucked in bed tonight, covers pulled up to your waist and phone in your hand. The lamp on your nightstand casts a soft, golden glow that smooths your features. Even from this distance, he can see the sleepy droop of your eyes, and the way you stifle a yawn with the back of your hand before blinking at the screen.

He was out with Steve, Sam and Natasha for a rare night of beers and meaningless chat, the low hum of the local crowded bar wrapping around them like a familiar blanket. He listened more than talked, like always, nodded at the right moments and let the conversation wash over him.

Still, his knee didn’t stop bouncing under the booth.

Steve noticed first, ever the observant, and reached over at one point to press his palm on Bucky’s thigh to stop the frantic movement, his eyebrows lifting in a silent question.

He stilled for exactly ten seconds.

Natasha watched him over the rim of her glass, amused. “You got somewhere to be, Barnes?”

He grunted. “No.”

It’s a blatant lie, and they all knew it.

The truth was, the clock felt too loud tonight. Every minute stretched, every laugh from the table next to them grated on his ears. He checked his phone more than he should have, though there’s nothing on it—no messages, no missed calls. Just time ticking forward, daring him to miss it.

Because if he stayed out too long, he might not see you before going to bed.

Bucky finally made his excuses and left earlier than planned, ignoring Sam’s pointed remark, “You sure you’re okay, Barnes?” and Natasha’s knowing smirk.

The drive home was fast, his knuckles turning white at the tight hold he kept on the steering wheel.

It’s been a week. Seven days since he’s seen you with anyone. And the fear—that sharp, ugly thing moving in his chest—hasn’t still gone away. It’s just been waiting.

The moment he turned onto his street, his eyes went straight to your driveway.

Empty, except for your car.

Relief hit him so hard his chest hurt for a whole minute.

Still, he didn’t trust it. He knew better than to rely on that alone. One of the first guys hadn’t even had a car and had the nerve to force you to drive him home the morning after, like he had any right to ask such a thing. The memory made Bucky’s hands close into two fists, disgust curling hot in his gut. You shouldn’t have to play chauffeur for idiots who don’t know how to behave in front of a goddess like you.

He parked, cut the engine, and didn’t linger. Inside, he shrugged out of his jacket and tossed it on the couch, kicked his boots off without lining them up like he usually does, and took the stairs two at a time. His heart was beating faster than it should have for a man who claims he cares about himself alone.

Your light is on, and there you are.

No one else in your room, just you—alone, safe, winding down.

Bucky exhales, the sound slow and heavy, as if it waited all day trapped in his lungs. His shoulders loosen, and the tight knot in his ribcage eases just a little. He can tell that you are probably going to fall asleep in the next ten minutes, so he decides to look for the sweats and the old t-shirt he uses as pajamas in the meantime.

He’s in his boxers with his broad, hairy torso fully on display, when he commits the grave mistake of glancing out his window, a meaningless check that ends up punching the air out of his lungs.

The covers have been thrown back and your phone now lies forgotten on the mattress by your side because your hands are too busy fondling your breast through that stupidly thin camisole. Your panties are snuggled between the folds of your pussy, the fabric tight and wet. Your eyes soon squeeze close as your index fingers quickly flick over your nipples, making you flinch at every electrifying jolt of pleasure.

He’s seen you have sex plenty of times, but never succumb to your own insatiable need enough to play with yourself.

You pull your nipples harshly, your back arching up to follow your cruel fingers, before you start playing with them through the fabric of your top. As his boxers grow tighter and his breath labored, he wonders if you are pretending it’s someone else’s toying with your turgid peaks.

Bucky lets out a shaky exhale, his hands limp at his sides clenching into two perfect fists that turn his knuckles white. He could take care of your breasts: kiss the soft flesh until you are begging him to make the ache go away, and then spend the rest of the night worshipping your nipples with his mouth and the light scrape of his teeth. He could suckle on those pretty nubs and then flick them with his warm tongue until you gush in your panties, your tits numb and your pussy clenching around nothing.

What prompted this? Were you watching something on your phone and craved the same release you looked for after every date? Or were you sexting with the guy lucky enough to earn your attention these days?

Your chest heaves as both your hands trace their way down your sides, before hooking into the hem of your panties and throwing the fabric somewhere on the floor.

He wishes he could be there with you, letting his big, experienced hands work your curves. He wishes he could take the same panties you just discarded and bring them home with him, your unique scent still clinging onto the delicate fabric. Bucky would risk it all and bring them to the garage just to lock himself into the restroom whenever he misses you and jerk himself off with them wrapped around his cock. He would suck on the gusset and let your taste on his tongue and your scent on his stubble tease him throughout his shift, just to keep his half-hard cock in a taunting limbo of pain and bliss until he can come home and finally slide back into your wet warmth.

“Fucking hell.” He mutters, gasping as he palms his painful erection.

A low groan claws out of his throat as his hand meets wet fabric, precum steadily leaking from the tip and knees embarrassingly buckling.

Bucky watches in awe as you lift the hem of your camisole up until your collarbones, your eyelids fluttering shut in relief as your hands can finally feel your tits without barriers. He must look so pathetic as he strains his ears in hope to catch one of your sweet mewls.

Your fingers glisten after you touch your aching pussy. Your mouth forms a perfect circle when you play with your folds, biting your bottom lip as you inevitably end up stroking your throbbing clit.

Bucky can’t help it anymore as he shoves his boxers mid-thigh, allowing his fingers to wrap around his imposing length. His teeth draw blood from his bottom lip as he tries to muffle a loud groan when he falls into the rhythm of lazily strokes.

When your digits finally plunge inside, Bucky shivers with you. Fire burns in his belly wild and uncontrollable as he imagines splitting you open himself and watching you swallow up his long fingers. His eyes momentarily close at the thought of your folds under his tongue and the softness of your skin under his calloused hands.

When his eyelids flutter open again, you are sitting up. His teeth grind as his dark eyes follow the length of your gorgeous body. Then, you turn around, back to the window... and kneel.

His eyes trail the curve of your ass in awe, before a strangled moan almost makes him choke when you bend over, finally giving a clear view of your soaking folds from behind.

His breath hitches, lips parting when your knees spread until there is nothing else to hide. Bucky is one thread of self-control away from running to your door and begging you to let him kiss and lick your pretty pussy the way it deserves. He would nurse on your clit and guide your hips to grind on his face until you suffocate him with your thighs. His cock twitches at the sole thought of playing with you so good you end up squirting all over his face.

He would pay to live between your thighs and for you to use his body whenever, wherever and however you want.

His eyes eagerly follow the movement of your fingers as they are lightly dragged through your wet folds, his tongue lazily licking his lips as he notices your slick lewdly clinging to your skin. From this position, he can clearly see your thighs tensing as you dip your fingers back inside, your other hand snapping back up to grab one of your tits. Your fingers cruelly tug and flick your hard nipple, causing you to squirm at the double stimulation.

Bucky wonders if you would trash around just as much with his cock stretching you out. If your hips would fidget so cutely from how restless and cock-drunk you are; if you would like for his rough hands to press you into the mattress, forcing you to stay put and just take it.

His hand instantly matches your pace as you start to enthusiastically finger yourself, precum sticking to his palm as he uses it to make the glide smoother. It feels so good he wants to close his eyes and savor it. But he can’t, not when you alternate strong thrusts with harsh slap to your clit, almost to the point of pain, whining and gasping as you work yourself up.

Bucky licks his lips again, panting like a dog at the thought of having you on his bed for him to lick you everywhere. You’d be so fucking wet for him as he pounds into you, deep and hard just like he knows you need to be fucked. His ears would be blessed with your little, breathy whines and your nails would dig into his skin as he roughly throws your legs over his shoulders, leaving him to bear the visible marks of your wild love-making.

They would burn every time water hits them, a living reminder of your tight pussy.

Suddenly, you are squirming harder, and Bucky imagines your features go slack. Or maybe your eyes are rolling back as your lips part around a filthy moan muffled by those fucking sheets. He senses the pressure in his abdomen threatening to burst at the thought of how good you must feel right now, utterly lost in the throbbing of your pussy and the cruel thrusts of your own fingers. So engrossed that you couldn’t care less about exposing your bare, wet core to your open window, disregarding the fact that anyone walking by could accidentally look up and see your little debauched show.

Did you do that on purpose? Are you so desperate that you hope someone might see you and touch themself to you playing with your sweet pussy?

Bucky growls out a curse.

He can tell you are close by the way your hips keep jerking helplessly to meet your ruthless fingers.

When you finally come, it’s completely different from the previous times with your dates: your torso heaves dangerously fast and your body shudders and shakes as the electrifying climax claims you entirely. You end up gushing all over the sheets, crying out as your squirt sprays all over your hand, the inner skin of your thighs, the bed... It’s a complete mess and Bucky wants to punch a hole through the wall.

With a trembling breath, the pressure snaps for him as well. He comes with a deep groan, thighs shaking as hot spurts of cum coat his hand—some even land on the wall by the window. He doesn’t stop stroking yet, not when you are still kneeling on your bed, face pressed against the mattress as your fingers lazily tease your wet folds, your poor hole helplessly clenching around nothing.

When he can think clearly again, Bucky notices his sight is a little foggy. The intense release leaves his head spinning, and one of his hands has to shoot forward to balance himself against the windowsill. Yet he refuses to move from his favorite place until you sluggishly straighten up on your shaky arms. His breath hitches again at the weak, content smile on your face as you suck your fingers clean.

Tonight, he reflects with his eyes still hungrily staring at your naked breasts, his need for you has been sated. But Bucky knows this will never be enough.

That Sunday morning you hear on the news that it’s going to rain all day. The sun is out when you check on your flowers by the porch, still, you choose to not water them for now, glancing every few minutes toward the horizon where dark clouds have been slowly swallowing the bright blue sky.

By lunch, the air feels thick and humid against your skin, the familiar chirps of the birds going strangely quiet.

You are rinsing a plate in the sink when the first crack of thunder rolls across the neighborhood. It’s not close enough to be alarming, but you pause anyway.

A second rumble follows several minutes later.

Then a third.

And rain starts shortly after.

At first the sound of the fat drops tapping against the windows is kind of relaxing. You expected it to pass within twenty minutes, just like any other summer storm. Except the wind starts picking up, causing the trees behind your house to sway dangerously strong. Thunders grow louder and closer, and by the time you wander into the living room to look outside, rain is battering sideways against the glass violently enough to blur the entire street.

The power goes out merely five minutes after. One second the living room is faintly illuminated by the warm glow of your rose gold lamp and the flickering light of the television, the next everything vanishes beneath a blanket of darkness.

You have just finished lighting a candle when a deafening crack echoes somewhere outside, followed immediately by the unmistakable sound of wood splintering. The noise is so sudden and so loud that it tears a startled gasp from your throat before you can stop it, leaving you motionless in the middle of your living room with your pulse racing.

It’s the sharp sound of a knock that makes you flinch all over again.

For a brief, embarrassing moment you simply stare at the entryway, your imagination unhelpfully supplying every possible horror movie scenario before common sense finally reasserts itself. Nobody is wandering around suburban neighborhoods during a thunderstorm unless they have a very good reason.

The second knock comes almost immediately afterward, so you finally cross the room to open the door.

The sight of your grumpy neighbor is unexpectedly reassuring, even if he is the last person you expected to find standing on your porch.

Even if Bucky Barnes has slowly become a more regular presence in your life than either of you would probably admit, there is an abysmal difference between him helping when a problem presents itself, and him showing up at your front door in the middle of a downpour.

Rain has dampened the shoulders of his dark t-shirt and left small droplets clinging to his long hair, but he looks otherwise unaffected by the weather. His gaze lands on your face and remains there for a second longer than necessary, his expression carefully neutral despite the obvious scrutiny.

“Are you alright?”

You blink, caught off guard by the question. “Hi, Bucky.”

His mouth tightens slightly, and instead of returning the greeting, he asks again. “Are you alright?”

There is a note of urgency in his voice that immediately makes you straighten.

“Yeah,” you reply, clearing your throat to get rid of that hint of surprise. “Yes, I’m alright.”

His eyes briefly scan your face as though he’s verifying the answer for himself.

“Did the branch hit the house?” The question comes so quickly it almost overlaps your response.

“What?”

“The one that fell in your backyard.”

Your eyes widen. “What the hell?”

A small frown appears between his brows. “Didn’t you hear the noise? A tree branch came down a few seconds after the power went out.”

“Oh.”

That’s what that noise was.

“Did it hit anything?”

Your eyes land back on his solemn expression. “I don’t think so...?”

One of his eyebrows lifts. “You don’t think so?”

Despite yourself, a smile tugs at your lips. “Well, I haven’t exactly gone outside to conduct a thorough inspection. The weather’s been making that a tad difficult.”

For a moment he simply observes you in silence, before giving a short nod. The movement is subtle, but it carries an unmistakable sense of relief, and for reasons you can’t quite explain, that realization warms your chest.

Before you can ask if he needs anything else, a particularly violent crack of thunder splits the air. The sound is so loud it seems to shake the entire street, rattling the windows hard enough to make you flinch.

Bucky’s blue eyes instinctively drop to your shoulders, registering your reaction.

“My electricity’s still on.” He blurts out, the words almost sound as though they’ve escaped by accident.

You blink. “Okay?”

His gaze flicks briefly on your lips before returning to your eyes.

“If you want,” he starts, oddly careful. “You could come over until they fix it.”

Behind him, lightning illuminates the grey sky in a flash of white. You watch him shift awkwardly where he stands, and it occurs to you that he looks strangely tense, though not in the irritated way you’ve grown accustomed to over the past months.

If anything, he seems uncomfortable.

It’s such an unfamiliar look on the mean, old Scrooge of the neighborhood that it takes your brain a moment to fully accept it. In all the months you’ve known Bucky, you’ve seen him annoyed, impatient, guarded, even awkward on occasion... but you’ve never seen him hesitant.

The uncertainty beneath all that careful composure is unexpectedly endearing.

For the first time since you’ve moved in this small town, Bucky doesn’t look like a man trying to keep everyone at arm’s length.

He looks like a man hoping you won’t say no.

Bucky disappears into the kitchen with a muttered comment about making coffee, some of the tension that had accompanied the walk through the storm finally beginning to ease from your shoulders. The sound of running water drifts from the other room as you wander farther into the living room.

You have spent weeks wondering what his house looked like on the inside.

The answer, it turns out, is exactly what you should have expected.

Nothing about the room feels designed to impress anyone. There are no decorative pieces chosen because they match a color palette, no trendy furniture purchased from a catalog, no signs that he has ever stood in a home goods store and wondered whether a particular lamp would tie the room together. Everything appears to have been selected because it serves a purpose.

The couch is large and comfortable, upholstered in a dark fabric that would probably survive a natural disaster. The coffee table is solid wood, bearing enough small imperfections to suggest it was built by hand rather than purchased. A folded blanket rests neatly over one arm of the couch, and even from several feet away you can tell it has been folded the exact same way a hundred times before.

The room is clean but there are signs of life everywhere you look, none of them accidental, though. A mug sits on a side table beside an armchair. A motorcycle magazine has been left on the corner of the coffee table. A set of keys rests inside a ceramic bowl near the front door.

Every object appears to have a place, and every place appears to have been carefully chosen.

Your attention eventually settles on the bookshelf occupying most of the wall where the TV is located.

“Well,” you murmur to yourself, moving closer. “This feels promising.”

The shelves are packed tightly enough that some books have been stacked horizontally on top of others. Most of the collection is exactly what you would expect from someone like Bucky: history books dominate the upper shelves, many of them thick enough to qualify as blunt-force weapons; there are biographies, military histories, books about espionage, intelligence operations, and wars that lasted years. Lower shelves contain books about engineering, restoration projects, woodworking, mechanics, and enough technical manuals to make you wonder whether he has ever encountered a machine he wasn’t determined to dismantle.

The psychology section catches you by surprise.

At first you notice one or two titles.

Then five turn to ten.

Soon you’re standing in front of an entire shelf dedicated to trauma, memory, relationships, attachment theory, behavioral science, and enough books about human interaction to make you laugh quietly under your breath.

Your eyes continue scanning titles with a subtle admiration for the older man, until a pink cover makes you stop.

“No.” A grin immediately spreads across your face, because wedged between two thick books about obsessions sits a romance novel.

You pull it from the shelf and examine the cover, where a broad-shouldered man glares possessively while holding a woman against his chest.

“Oh, Bucky.”

You cover your giggle with your hand, sliding the book back into place only to discover other romance novels not too far away.

The revelation is so unexpected and so delightfully embarrassing that your hopes for this rainy afternoon have been restored.

You reach for one of them, intending to inspect the cover more closely, and that’s when something slips free from behind it.

The object hits the hardwood floor with a heavy thud.

Your smile falters, prompting you to briefly glance over your shoulder, but Bucky seems to be too busy to notice the noise.

Crouching down, you quickly reach for what seems to be a black journal that has inevitably fallen open.

You only glance at the page because you’re trying to close it, until your limbs freeze, because that’s your name written inside.

The handwriting is unmistakably Bucky’s—or well, it must be. Unless there is some roommate hidden somewhere who only comes out at night.

The page begins with a date, followed by a paragraph... about you.

You read the first few lines without fully understanding what you’re looking at, shaking your head in astonishment as your eyes go back to the beginning.

She spent most of the afternoon in her backyard in a red bikini pretending to read. I don’t think she made it through more than ten pages before she fell asleep. The book slid off her lap eventually and startled her awake. She looked around immediately afterward to make sure nobody had seen it happen. Looks adorable when her eyes widen in surprise.

As you turn the pages, confusion gives way to a sharp realization.

Every entry is about you.

Every. Single. Day.

Some are short, others span several pages, yet each one is carefully dated, documenting something from your life.

She came home later than usual tonight and sat in her car for eleven minutes before going inside. I don’t like to see her exhausted. Whatever happened at work must have been bad because she didn’t even stop to check the mail as usual.

As usual?

How many times has your neighbor watched you to take on your little unconscious habit?

Your eyes move lower.

I almost walked over and punched that asshole in his teeth. Didn’t. She probably wouldn’t appreciate that.

The entries continue. Page after page after page.

The yellow sweater again. I still think it’s her favorite. Is yellow her favorite color?

She talks to her flowers when she thinks nobody is listening.

Murray spent twenty minutes talking to her today. I couldn’t hear the conversation and I hated that more than I should have.

You swallow thickly, your breath hitching at what comes next.

Another date tonight. He arrived late and she apologized to him for being too early. I still don’t understand why she lets people walk all over her.

Your eyes momentarily look away with a sigh. 

It’s been weeks from your last date, and though it’s not that long, it still feels strange, noticeable in a way you don’t quite know how to explain.

You haven’t heard back from anyone. Not the guy from the wine bar who made you laugh until your cheeks hurt, not the one who talked about books like they were old friends. A few polite follow-up texts went unanswered, a couple never even shown as read. One morning, you realized that someone had blocked your number altogether.

You know dating is messy, and chemistry isn’t guaranteed. Honestly, you never truly clicked with most of them. There was always something missing—an ease that never quite settled, a spark that fizzled before it could catch.

Still, it stings. Because they appeared charming, funny, attentive. They looked at you like they wanted to stay, like the night spent together between your sheets meant something more than a couple of pleasantries the day after, at best. And then they were gone by morning, disappearing completely from your life. You still had fun, sure, but it left you wondering if you’d imagined the connection at all. Until you’d started to wonder if the problem was you.

You swallow, shaking your head lightly as you go back to the next page.

She came home smiling, but it wasn’t real. I know the difference.

You gasp at the next paragraphs.

I couldn’t stand it anymore. I did it. I went over to that asshole and told him to not come back. He ran away. Filthy coward.

I threatened two other guys. I know she would probably hate me for this, but they never wait for her to wake up, and my girl deserves better.

His girl?

The farther you read, the more obvious it becomes that these aren’t mere records of an unstable, bored neighbor.

She bought a new sundress. Nothing too different from the others, but this one is a shade lighter of blue. Like the one covered in small daisies (the same one who hugs her prefect cleavage tightly). Nobody else would notice the difference. I did.

I heard the sound of her laugh from my room yesterday night. I never slept so well.

This morning I caught a whiff of her hair as she greeted me before going to work. Did she change shampoo?

There is something painfully intimate about the way Bucky writes about you, as though every insignificant moment has been carefully preserved and revisited later. He notices things your friends probably don’t register until you are the one telling them. Things you don’t notice about yourself but that completely make sense.

This notebook is not a simple log. It reads like devotion twisted into something unhealthy.

Your fingers tighten around the cover as you turn another page.

I should stop looking for her every night.

The handwriting grows slightly messier beneath that sentence.

I should stop wondering who she’s with when she doesn’t come home until late. I should stop thinking about her when I’m trying to work. I should stop imagining conversations that never will happen. I should stop watching her when she comes out of the shower.

I should stop. But I don’t want to.

By the time you hear footsteps approaching from the kitchen, your pulse is hammering hard enough to echo in your throat.

When you lift your head, you find Bucky standing in the doorway holding two mugs of coffee.

The moment his eyes land on the notebook, every trace of color drains from his face.

“James.”

This mountain of a man actually flinches, his eyes wide on the object in your hands. His jaw tightens when he notices your expression—furious, eyes blazing.

“What is this?” Your voice comes out far quieter than you intended. Still, your hands snap the journal close with a sharp thud.

That seems to unsettle him more than if you had shouted.

Bucky carefully sets the mugs down on the nearest surface before dragging a hand over his jaw.

“You weren’t supposed to see that.” He replies tiredly.

You let out a disbelieving laugh. “That’s what you have to say right now? Seriously?”

His expression tightens. “No.”

“You’ve been literally documenting my entire life like I’m some kind of lab project.”

His jaw tightens. “It’s not—”

“Don’t,” you cut in sharply. “Don’t start minimizing it.”

He swallows thickly.

“You…” Your voice shakes. “You’ve been watching me like this the entire time? Every day?”

“I didn’t—” Bucky starts, then stops again, as if he can’t find a version of that sentence that could help him. “I wasn’t—”

“You weren’t what?” You laugh, caustic and humorless. “Do you have any idea of how I feel right now? It’s fucking insane to find out that the same man who ignored me for months and barely acknowledged I existed, has written pages upon pages describing my fucking perfume and confessing to threaten the people I bring home.”

His gaze drops again as he steps back half a pace, visibly restraining himself. You can see it in the way his hands flex, the way his shoulders rise and fall with controlled breaths.

“Do you do this with everyone?” You press, words coming faster now, sharper. “Is this some kind of fucked up hobby of yours? Being a shitty neighbor until you decide to start… what, cataloguing people?”

His jaw clenches, but he doesn’t interrupt.

“You are so fucking confusing.” You continue, voice rising. “One minute you won’t even look at me, and the next you’re mowing my lawn, carrying my groceries like it’s your job—”

“I just wanted to help you.”

“—and for fuck’s sake, you were threatening my dates!” You shriek. “What do you want from me, Bucky?”

The room is plunged into an uncomfortable silence, the only noise being the gentle pitter-patter of the rain from the opened window in the kitchen.

Bucky takes that moment to let his eyes wander over you. Your chest is heaving with distress, your eyes shining slightly… and still, you look fucking gorgeous, wearing one of your stupidly short sundresses that leave everything and nothing to the imagination. His gaze flicks away like the sight burned his pupils, then comes back on your face, darker.

“I just want you safe.” He states roughly, like it costs to say it out loud.

You scoff. “From what? Dating?”

“From them.” He growls, frustration finally cracking through the composed, grouchy facade. “From men who don’t deserve you.”

You blink astonished. “You don’t get to decide that.”

“They take what you give them and then run away,” he shoots back. “They leave before morning like you’re something they’re ashamed of. Like you’re disposable.” His voice lowers, growling with conviction.

You look momentarily taken aback by the abrupt change in his behavior, yet you refuse to back down.

“That still doesn’t make it right for you to meddle in my personal life.”

“I know,” he stresses, stepping closer despite himself. “But watching you give your time so easily to guys who don’t even have the decency to say goodbye before disappearing like fucking criminals—who can’t see how lucky they are for you to spare them even one second of your attention… sweetheart, it drives me fucking insane.”

You can feel a certain wetness spread across your panties at his growl, but your brows furrow in irritation. “You don’t even know them.”

“I know enough.” Bucky answers fiercely. “I know none of them are good enough for you.”

Silence slams down between you, his words hanging in the air like a challenge.

“I didn’t ask for... whatever you are doing.” You whisper eventually.

“I know.”

“Then stop deciding things for me!” You bark. “Stop acting like you know me when you never even bothered to introduce yourself in the first place!”

Bucky steps closer again. Now you can feel the heat radiating off him, smell oil and soap and something unmistakably him. Your anger is still there, hot and bright, but there’s something far too dangerous curling underneath it.

His eyes drop to your mouth, and his nostrils flare.

“Every time you bring home someone,” he starts quietly. “I tell myself it’s none of my business. Every damn time.”

“And yet.” You mock ironically.

“And yet,” he admits through gritted teeth. “I lose my fucking mind.”

Your heart stutters. “You don’t get to be jealous.” Swallowing, you try to steady yourself, though your voice wavers toward the end.

“You don’t get to act like this when you’ve never given me anything back.”

His hand lifts, hesitating before your wrist, then drops again at his side like it’s taking all his restraint to not touch you.

“I’m trying,” he hisses. “I swear to God, I am.”

“Trying what?” Your jaw clenches.

“To stay away from you.”

You take a step forward, chest nearly brushing his. “Then why are you still standing here making excuses?” You provoke, slightly tilting your head.

For a heartbeat, neither of you moves.

Bucky’s brain is screaming at him to step back, to put space between you, to remember every reason this is a bad idea—your anger, his obsession, the line he’s already crossed a dozen times without touching you once.

But all he can think about is the way your eyes are bright with fury and something almost playful, daring, that makes heat coil low in his gut. He’s spent months watching you from a distance, telling himself proximity is dangerous, and now you’re right here, beautiful and fierce, challenging him.

His jaw tightens as he fights the urge to close the last thread of distance between you. His hands curl into fists at his sides, nails leaving behind crescent shapes like that would be enough to hold himself back. His ears are ringing, completely drowning out reason, his heart pounding with the knowledge that one wrong move will ruin everything—or change it beyond repair.

God, he wants you so bad.

He wants to grab, to pull, to prove that this isn’t just mere jealousy or some twisted sense of protection. That it’s been you, all along, settling into his bones without his permission.

He dips his head just enough that his breath ghosts over your mouth, his hands reaching for you like it’s instinct, like gravity has finally won. One hand cups your jaw, coarse and warm, his thumb lovingly stroking your cheek.

“Tell me to stop.” His voice is rough, and that’s when you really notice how close he is to losing control. 

His chest rises too fast, too deep, just like yours; his fingers sport a faint tremble that reflects weeks of barely contained desire—it’s so intense that you can feel him everywhere without him completely touching you. The weight of his attention has a sudden warmth creeping up your neck, his blue eyes flicking to your mouth like this is the most beautiful mistake he’s about to make.

Bucky’s been fighting this longer than you have, and every step he’s taken toward you these last months has cost him something precious.

His sanity.

And instead of frightening you, it makes your breath hitch.

Because you need this.

You want the man who’s been watching from the sidelines, holding himself back, burning quiet holes into the space between you. You want the restraint to snap, be the thing he finally stops denying himself.

Your hands are aching to touch him, to guide his palms everywhere and see what happens when he finally understands that you’ve been craving him just as much. Yet you stay exactly where you are, refusing to give him the out he’s begging for.

The journal is long forgotten on the ground by the time hunger flashes across his eyes, and Bucky finally makes you his.

The kiss is exactly what you imagined before falling asleep every night: pent-up and desperate and full of everything he’s been swallowing down for months. His mouth claims yours like he’s afraid you’ll disappear, more teeth and tongue than lips. You moan quietly at the feeling of his hands moving frantically and certain—one still gripping your jaw while the other fists the fabric at your waist like he needs to anchor himself. 

It’s rough, urgent... too much and still not enough.

You gasp against his lips, the sound swallowed at once when he deepens the kiss. Delicately tilting your head back, he looms over you as his arm tightens around your torso with a low groan. 

Your hands come up without thinking, clutching his shirt as you kiss him back just as hard, just as recklessly, anger and longing blurring together until there’s nothing but your mouths moving against each other and the frenzied pull of your clothes.

Bucky breaks away just enough to press his forehead to yours, breathing heavily while his hand cups your cheek like he needs to make sure you’re real.

“Shit.” He mutters, wrecked. His lips are on yours again, slower this time but no less intense, as though he’s trying to memorize the shape with bruising urgency.

His hands wander everywhere they shouldn’t like he can’t decide what to hold onto first, a low sound out tearing out of his chest when he squeezes the flesh of your ass.

“You know how hard it was watching that?” He speaks against your lips.

You blink dumbly and he laughs once, short and bitter, like the sound hurt him. His grip tightens. 

“You have no idea, do you? I had to stay put and watch them have you. Watch you smile at them, touch them...” His jaw flexes. “Do things I could only live in my wildest dreams.”

You press a hand to his chest, firmly. “Bucky.”

For a moment, he looks like he might shut down completely. His shoulders tense, eyes flicking away before forcing themselves back to yours when that rare pink blush appears high on his cheeks. 

“I started that journal because I thought it could keep me sane.” He swallows. “I didn’t mean to watch you at first. It just… happened one night. And then I couldn’t stop.” His voice drops, raw and shaky. “Every night. I knew your routines, when you were alone... when you weren’t.”

Your fingers curl into his shirt, and you gulp before peering up at him through your eyelashes. “I know.” You admit softly.

“I apologize for how you had to find out but not for doing it—” He stills, eyes widening slightly. “What did you just say?”

“I hoped you would.” Your voice is steady, even as your pulse races. “Every time I took them home, I wondered if you were there.”

Bucky surges forward before he realizes it, kissing you roughly as his arms squeeze your waist, pressing you firmly against his chest. Beneath your hands, he feels warm and strong in the most reassuring way. His body carries the strength of someone who has spent a lifetime working with his arms, thick muscle hidden beneath a layer of softness that only makes him feel impossibly solid.

“What was that little act you put up here just now, huh sweetheart?” He pants against your mouth. “All this time I’ve been beating myself up over it.” His lips move on your neck, making you gasp. 

“An old, dirty creep jerking off to his pretty younger neighbor fucking other guys, imagining I was the one driving my cock into her sweet pussy.” You shiver as his palm spreads over your asscheek again, squeezing until it leaves a light sting behind. 

“But you are just as filthy as me, baby.” 

Your heart is desperately trying to get out of your chest, excitement and anticipation swirling wildly in your belly at his rougher treatment. 

His other hand grips your jaw sternly to force you to meet his eyes. “Am I right?”

Your fury is now reduced to a distant, fading hum. You don’t stop him when his hand ends up under the short hem of your dress, encouraging you to spread your legs a little. 

“Bucky.” You moan as the tips of his fingers tease your inner thigh. “S—Someone might see.” You protest weakly.

He briefly glances around, noticing the sun is finally out again and you are both standing in the middle of his living room, right before the window overlooking the main street and the sliding ones leading to his backyard, directly attached to the rich couple’s house. 

“Better stay quiet then.” 

And his fingers slide in your panties to play with your folds, his other hand still fondling your ass. 

Your back arches when he circles your clit with slow yet firm pressure. 

“There we go, sweetheart.”

You tilt your hips into his hand in a silent plea for more, and Bucky obliges with a low snicker. 

“How were they?” He mumbles against your collarbone, surprisingly put together as he lowers your panties until they fall, pooling at your ankles. “Did they know how to touch you? Did they make you feel this good?”

You shake your head, eyes squeezing shut as two fingers spread you open without warning. His other palm comes down on your ass, heavy and unforgiving, making you whimper.

“Answer me.” 

“Not—not like you.” You admit, head falling forward with a gasp as his thumb works over your throbbing nub, rubbing it with a steady rhythm. “Oh my God.” 

“Good girl, right answer.” He growls out, attacking the slope of your neck with kisses and bites. “That’s why you put on a show for me every weekend. Those bastards weren’t satisfying you, so you needed your grumpy ol’ neighbor to touch you in front of the whole neighborhood.”

Your fingers dig into his forearms as you feel your climax approaching, raw and electric.

“Don’t be so full of yourself.” You manage, voice shaking and face still hidden against his shoulder.

“Hm, I’ve indeed a thing full just for you, doll.” He smirks, his unoccupied fingers curling around your wrist to yank it on his jeans-cladded crotch, the heat of his cock pressing insistently against your palm. Your eyes go wide at the imposing shape.

Your fingers twitch, squeezing his bulge as his tip leaks under the fabric, eliciting a low noise out of his throat that surprises you. 

“What? Cat got your tongue now?” His hot whisper tickles your ear. “That’s right, feel it sweetheart. That’s all for you, look what you do to me.” He grits out.

His fingers pressing rough and insistent on your sweet spot make you whine, a high-pitched sound that he immediately silences with his lips. 

“Quiet. The kitchen window is open, and that asshole Murray could come out any minute.” He murmurs against your mouth. “Unless you want him to see you like this.”

You can’t elaborate a logical answer, even if you want to scream that no, you only want Bucky’s attention, though the possibility of being caught with him fingering you right in the middle of his living room only makes you clench harder around his digits. The bastard has the nerve to grin at that, curling inside you in perfect tandem with the dizzying friction of his thumb on your clit.

“C’mon, doll.” He pushes, panting as your fingers keep toying with his erection. “Come prettily around my fingers and I’ll let you touch it.”

Your thighs tremble under his relentless pace. “I—fuck!” You moan, tossing your head back as your orgasm finally hits you, your eyes squeezed shut and your hips desperately following his hands as Bucky keeps thrusting into you, until you slump forward exhausted, forehead colliding with his firm pec.

“This is what you wanted?” Bucky murmurs on the top of your head, voice cocky as his fingers slide out gently, leaving you empty but tingling.

He barely puts effort into hiding his smug smile, leisurely looking out of the window for any nosy pair of eyes while he adjusts your dress with such nonchalance. As if he didn’t just make you come on a random Sunday afternoon.

You shake your head, and when you glance back up at him, Bucky’s breath hitches at the sight of your bitten-raw lips and hazy eyes. 

“Need more.”

He makes sure to keep your jaw in place as he thrusts his tongue in your mouth, just like he promised he would do with your pussy. A whimper escapes your throat at the depraved action before Bucky pulls back to study your features, a string of saliva connecting your shiny lips.

“Stay put.” He commands, gently guiding you back until you are bending over the windowsill. 

His muscled arm comes over you and opens the window, leaving your torso exposed to the driveway. 

“Such a messy girl.” He mutters to himself. It sends little shivers down your spine, your face hot as he parts your folds with his thumbs. 

He promised he would let you touch it. 

“Don’t whine. I have to make sure she’s ready for it, sweetheart. How else is my fat cock gonna fit in this tight little pussy?” 

You nod dumbly, biting your bottom lip when the gentle breeze caresses your face, a brutal reminder of your debauched position. You can’t believe you’re really here, bent over his open window for anyone to see. It’d be pretty obvious to anyone walking by what’s going on, since you are literally in Bucky Barnes’ house—the same person who would prefer listening to a chainsaw go off all night rather than say hi to a fellow human being—and your lips keep parting around shameless moans.

It could take anything to make your neighbors across the street look out of their window and see you.

“Bet our dear neighbors would die of heart attack if they could see you crying for a grumpy, old man’s dick.” He taunts, spreading your legs apart as he kneels behind you, softly kissing the inside of your thighs. “Such an adorable angel, so innocent and polite... who likes getting her pussy pounded by mean, cranky Barnes for everyone to hear.” 

His fingers spread through your folds, exposing your core to the humid air to take a tentative lick. “I knew you’d taste fucking delicious.”

“Careful, old man.” You pant shakily, eager to see him lose control. “At your age you can’t go that hard. Heart attacks, herniated disks, cramps... anything can—Bucky!”

Two of his fingers slide inside your hole at once, leaving you gasping and holding onto the windowsill for dear life as your legs tremble embarrassingly hard.

“Ah.” He chuckles, feeling your body gradually melt under his hands. “You just need to have something inside you to shut the fuck up, right sweet girl?”

You nod whimpering, resting your cheek on your crossed arms. It’s incredible how well he knows where to touch, when to tease, what to say to turn your brain into pure mush.

His hands are relentless on your poor body, kneading the flesh of your thighs as your hips literally hump his face. 

“She’s so pretty.” Bucky pants, thumb circling your clit while he watches your slick soil your inner thigh. “Look at your puffy clit, babygirl, throbbing for my attention.”

You squirm a little at his quiet, filthy words, heat already rising violently on your cheeks.

“Perfect pussy,” he breathes out, giving your nub another little lick. “Perfect ass. Perfect tits.” He squeezes your butt. “You’re perfect everywhere, doll.”

A quiet moan falls from your lips as Bucky leaves soft kisses along your core, his salt-and-pepper stubble scratching slightly at your sensitive folds, but the sensation only makes your hole clench desperately around his motionless fingers.

Finally, his mouth closes around your nub, suckling on it gently.

“She’s all sticky and messy because she loves when I play with her, right baby?”

You nod even if he can’t see you, sniffling but still trying to hide your face against your arms resting on the windowsill. It’s only then that your eyes snap open at the sudden loss, hearing Bucky standing up with a little, pained groan. 

He fumbles with the button of his jeans, crudely leaving them and his boxers hanging mid-thigh. His cock stands hard and heavy against his belly, the tip flushed and leaking. Relief washes over him as he strokes it a few times, while his other hand parts one of your asscheeks to expose your core. It would be so easy for him to come all over your ass and your pretty dress, to mark your skin with his cum. He could literally empty his balls over and over again by simply watching you like this: bent over his open window, shameless and needy.

“Did they fuck you raw?” He rasps out, the storm inside him instantly calming down as you eagerly shake your head.

“Good girl.” Your eyes roll back at the praise, shivering when the fat head glides through your swollen folds. “‘M gonna ruin you for anyone else, pretty girl.”

The tip catches on your hole, and your body instantly goes rigid.

“Big.” You gasp out with your eyes squeezed shut. 

Bucky simply chortles, cooing at your shaky breathing.

His hands soothe your hips, trailing up and down your sides absently as his eyes stay locked on your entrance perfectly stretching around his girth.

“You can take it.”

Bucky’s breath hitches as he forces himself to nudge his length gradually in, letting you savor every vein dragging along your sensitive walls, and allowing your body to adjust to the burning stretch. Your toes curl in bliss when you decide to focus on the sensation of being stuffed full, quietly taking a deep breath as his cock twitches softly inside you.

“Look how well you accepted me.” He grunts, a layer of presumption in his words as he draws back gently, fingers gripping the bunched up fabric at your waist to push back inside, his tip now bullying directly your sweet spot. 

You clench around him with a little whimper, relieved that Bucky uses his hands to keep you pinned on the windowsill as he gradually builds a steady rhythm with his hips. He fills you so wonderfully, burying his cock deep enough to make your vision blur. 

However, the sharp sound of your hand smacking against your mouth to stop the squeaks and moans from spilling out is a severe reminder of the unusual silent afternoon.

“It’d be enough for our neighbors to take a peek outside of their window, and they’d catch you like this, whimpering around a fat cock like the little slut that you are.”

You gasp, flinching when his fingers start working over your clit, firmly but not too fast—just how you like it.

“Some of them could be watching right now.” He taunts you in your ear, his other hand harshly squeezing your breast, before yanking the front of your dress down as if the fabric just offended him and his whole family. 

Your pussy makes a squelching, humiliating sound as more slick gushes out at his teases, promptly met by his mocking laugh. “Yeah? You like that? I knew my sweet girl likes to be watched.”

You nod again, drooling at the way his abraded fingers tug and flick your nipples, the stimulation so different from your smooth hands. Bucky’s palms are weathered and callused from his job—he’s always been a little gruff, so there’s nothing gentle about the way he cups your tits while thrusting into your pussy.

It’s primal and fast, overwhelming enough that you sob, loud and breathless and so, so close.

“Feeling good, hm?” His voice drops to a low rasp, chest heaving as fast as yours, even if he keeps up his arrogant facade. “My pretty dirty slut who likes to show everyone how good I make her feel. Jus’ need a thick cock inside her and she’s gushing like a little fountain.” He snickers.

Your entire body locks in at his dirty words, spine arching and hips rolling back, frantic and needy and utterly soaked. You’re pretty sure the mix of soppy sounds of his cock fucking you, and the slapping of your flesh meeting resonates loud and clear across his front lawn.

“Yes yes yes!” You mumble deliriously into your arms. “Right there, Bucky.”

He groans against your neck, sucking and nibbling the sensitive skin.

“Gonna come, oh God, please please don’t stop.” You whimper.

“Fucking hell.” He chokes at a particular hard thrust that makes you tighten. “Sweetheart, if you keep clenching like that I’ll make you leak for days—”

“Please!” You blabber louder, completely forgetting about the fact that you’re getting fucked raw for anyone to see. 

Your eyes roll into oblivion as your climax washes over you, violent and endless. You shatter with a cry of his name, body trembling as each wave of bliss has your hips desperately twitch in his hold.

“That’s it,” he draws out. “That’s it, she’s tightening so good around me. Now it’s my turn, gonna fill you up so good you’re gonna feel me for days.” His fingers are insistent on your clit, making sure to prolong your climax.

“You’ve been so fucking good for me. Keeping your curtains open so I could empty my balls to the sight of these pretty tits…” He keeps rambling, panting against your cheek.

“She’s all full now, hm?” He grits through clenched teeth as you nod eagerly. “But I wanna see her drool, my dumb baby too full of me to keep it inside.”

“Bucky…” You mumble lightheaded. “Gonna come again.”

“Yeah?” His smile is depraved. “Creaming my cock once wasn’t enough? Need to mark what’s yours, babygirl?”

“Yes!” You wail out, falling over the edge for a third time. Your eyes cross as you sob out a string of breathy whines, still clenching, still gushing around him.

This particular orgasm is so powerful that your head starts spinning.

“I’m coming too, baby. Shit—” He groans, loud and broken. His cock throbs, spurting rope after rope of warm cum, his fingers digging into the skin of your waist painfully as he keeps thrusting into your warmth until he is flinching out of sensitivity.

You are grateful for his possessive hold on your body since your legs seem to be too weak to fully support you. Meanwhile, Bucky is still trying to catch his breath against your nape, careful to not put all his weight on you, even if his muscles are starting to hurt because of the strain.

Maybe you were right…. maybe he really did get a cramp.

When Bucky slides out, you let out a pitiful whimper at the loss, pulling a chuckle full of mirth out of him as he carefully helps you in an upright position. Who knows how long you’ve been bent over, too lost in his touch, his words, his cock, to acknowledge your sore joints.

A sharp sting prickles, indeed, your lower back, yet you couldn’t be more satisfied—another reminder of how thoroughly you just got fucked.

“Took me so well, sweetheart.” He mutters, turning you around and letting you collapse against him despite his own exhaustion.

He hums into the soft kiss on your forehead, before his fingers gently cup your chin to press a peck on your lips. Sighing content, his eyes close, allowing his lips to gently ghost over your temple.

“Finally mine.”

The months of stolen glances and burning, unspoken desire have finally paid off. Now it’s just you, Bucky, and no stupid dating app in between.

Still... sometimes you sit right in front of your window, legs spread and eyes fixed on him while your boyfriend sits in his own chair as he strokes his cock to your fingers fucking your pussy. Occasionally, it’s some hefty dildo, or a small vibrator pressed against your clit that is powerful enough to make your eyes roll back.

And although this little game of yours never fails to end with Bucky almost ramming your front door to get to you, his pants shamelessly unbuttoned as he crosses his driveway... Well, it’s not nearly as satisfying as doing it together.

— ⟢ END NOTES: thank you so much for reading 🩶 my masterlist → winteryn's masterlist

🏷️ general bucky taglist: @itzzkayla @randomfanpage @astraea-and-her-novels @heavenlypjm @spinsteringintoamillionpieces @pandasslol @wildflowersandvibranium @scribblesandquotes @beans-and-toast @singulartoast @gentlelimerence @secretxion14wells @maplesyrizzup @phantom-wolf-girl @norucking @punkh3arted @r4isins @doctorbitchcrxft @butterfly-lover @secretdream2 @sambuckystony @cowboylikeh @jasontoddswhitestreak @shrupshrooms @bibiishin @sheriff-bodecker @ninauh @metal-armed-muse @mehmeh331 @iloveshawnieboi @namjoohnie @onyx8514 @nash-dara @tt-bby @midnightmondaykiss @mikonawa @oomexluvsseb @floraslcve @erina00 @clover1004 @eatingyourboyfriend @starfire-irl @phoenix-in-writing @shyshyraven-writes @thegirlfatherr @jamesbbcrnes @yapeez @jynx-the-dynx @verss88 @yustlove13 @love4lando @wiltedfae @oomexluvsseb

[lexlikestoread]

You know what, I too would react the same if neighbour!bucky was keeping a little diary on me 🙂‍↕️

[thecorpsethatwalks]

re-watching the original trilogy is great because you really get a sense for how weird luke skywalker is, just how quickly he becomes that weird AND how quickly he commits to it. Like he's honestly pretty chill in a new hope, but the absolute INSTANT he figures out he can move shit with his mind he goes full send on the cryptic off-putting bullshit. Walking around in full black robes, speaking in riddles, aura farming and backflipping whenever physically possible. He's clearly annoyed when he first meets yoda in empire, but he dismisses that pretty quickly in favour of ALSO becoming an over-dramatic space wizard. The combination of his two teachers being yoda and obi-wan kenobi and him being the son of anakin and padme creates the single most intense and fundamentally kind force sensitive perfectly embodying the heart of the jedi order whilst also serving egregious amounts of cunt and being bizarre to be around. He would have THRIVED as a jedi master during the high republic. he would have been every padawan's favourite and every other master's worst nightmare

[padmestrilogy]

it is so so cool how the first ever mention of padme comes at the tail end of rotj, just a half-memory from leia (“beautiful, kind…but sad”) that luke desperately clings to. and then the first ever onscreen appearance of padme comes from a screen-within-a-screen as she threatens the trade federation (“its queen amidala herself!”) in queen regalia so elaborate it masks her identity. we see padme through the eyes and faded memories of others before we get to know her as a human being. she barely steps out of that imperial queen persona for the whole of tpm, and then by the time we do get to see who padme really is and what she’s like with the queen mask off (aotc, rots), we find out she is, in fact, the sum of both her kids. she is endlessly forgiving and very smart and she burns for justice but is forever marked by war. she is her son, she is her daughter. you have this urge to see more of padme throughout the films, then by the time she’s telling vader she sees the good in him, you realize you’ve known her all along:) and luke’s response of “i have no memory of my mother, i never knew her” hits a million times harder, because he didn’t need to know her to carry out her legacy. it’s loose and a bit clunky but this is the magic to star wars releasing in backwards order, you get to find out padme never died!

[inklessdevotion]

Meg Myers.

[catchymemes]

[eldritchdemigodskywalkers]

been having thoughts about broken heart syndrome being a real-life medical condition

[chimyku]

Against my better judgement my hands reached for the sketchbook to draw for Vaderdala Week 2026

Day 5 - Haunted

@vaderdalaweek