32yo Female *18+* 🚫minors DNI
Lover, reader, writer, and reblogger for all Chris Evans, Henry Cavill (especially Syverson) and Sebastian Stan characters! I’m mainly here to read other’s work and reblog my favorites!
Hi! Welcome to my tumblr blog and thank you so much for being here! This is an 18+ blog so please know that you are responsible for your own consumption of reading materials.
I'm a newbie at all of this so if the links don't work, please message me. I'm hoping I can turn this blog into a little slice of heaven with all of my favorite things. Show kindness or show yourself out! I won't tolerate online bullying and will not hesitate to block. If my writing is not your thing, that's totally okay. I hope you find something that is. Don't be a hater :)
I plan to write about Chris Evans Characters, Henry Cavill Characters, possibly some Sebastian Stan and Glen Powell.
Just thinking about teasing Steve throughout the day, like brushing against him when there's plenty of room to walk by, moaning when taking slow bites of your food, bending over right in front of him to pick things up.
Just for him to edge the fuck out of you for teasing him all day and-
But hear me out, I would bet everything I own, that Steve absolutely melts when you wear his clothes.
So suddenly you start walking around in one of his sweatshirts, and like panties or short shorts. Just casually grab a banana from the kitchen, with all the avengers present. And you have to reaaaaach to grab that darn banana, so his sweater slides up to reveal what you have on underneath.
Oh my!!! 100% this!!!! It’s definitely going to have to from 0 to horny faster than the speed of light.
If at least one of the avengers don’t wolf whistle to get under Steve’s skin, I’ll eat my shoe.
Also asking him if something is wrong in the most 😇 face and tone, as if both of don’t know the game you’re playing.
Bonus if you dance away from his touch or keep contact really short - Steve is tactile and now he’s deprived of even small touch to tide him over until he can get you alone.
STEVE ROGERS never gets your references and takes you out for coffee dates too much, but what he can do is lay down some killer pipe. you weren’t sure about him at first, he seemed like the type to say he prefers friendship or he’s staying single to better himself - or whatever. you thought that he was too good to be true because of how reserved he was, but after you coaxed him out of his shell—and got him up to your room—you were pleasantly surprised. all that weight on you, every poised muscle dedicated to using those seven inches to their fullest, grunting out of his slack lips as he hovers his chest over yours n curls his hips in a way that rolls your eyes into the back of your head. he’s a little more quiet that you would’ve hoped, but you can learn to appreciate it, all your focus is on the way your core feels getting filled up. his brows furrow, a chuff escaping his nose as he raises himself up. big hands clamp onto your hips to bring you with him, sitting on his haunches while he lifts your tailbone, realigning, and returning to the pace he set. his biceps swell as he moves you, reminiscent of some toy, his abdomen n chest flex n the dull light catches on their curves. there’s sweat in his hair, hanging down into his eyes as they’re downcast - you’re not exactly sure what they’re looking at. you can’t even form a sentence, you just enjoy the ride.
Series Summary: Steve Rogers is good at being good. In public, he is calm, kind, untouchable - the man everyone trusts, the hero everyone believes in. To you, he is something else entirely: the man who comes to your apartment when the world becomes too heavy, sleeps in your bed like he belongs there, and still calls you his friend when anyone else is watching.
Wordcount: 11.8k
Series Warnings: angst, no happy ending, toxic situationship, emotional unavailability, emotional manipulation, undefined relationship, fwb dynamics, public denial of private intimacy, Reader being used as emotional support, gaslighting-adjacent behavior, miscommunication, public confrontation, hurt no comfort, Reader has anger issues/explosive reactions, Steve is OOC, Steve is not portrayed as a good partner, emotional heartbreak, implied sexual relationship (not explicit), power imbalance in emotional investment, no use of y/n, inspired by good guy from against the current
Pairing: Steve Rogers x Female Reader
A/N: After feeding you all with some really sweet Steve in Carry You Home, it was high time I published this small series (it was supposed to be a one shot, but no way in hell am I fighting tumblr to post a 40k story) where Steve is... well. You'll see. Beta read as always by the amazing Cassie.
Masterlist - Series Masterlist - Next
The knock came at 1:17 in the morning.
Not loud. Never loud. Just three measured raps against your apartment door, careful enough that anyone else in the hall could have missed them, but distinct enough that you woke almost instantly, your body already knowing the sound before your mind fully caught up.
For one disoriented second, you stared at the ceiling, the red glow of the clock bleeding into the dark, and felt that stupid, bruised twist low in your chest. Then you pushed the blanket back, slid out of bed, and crossed the apartment barefoot without turning on the main light.
You did not ask who it was.
You already knew.
When you opened the door, Steve stood in the hallway with the posture of a man trying very hard to remain upright out of habit rather than conviction. He still wore most of the black tactical layer from the mission, though the jacket hung open and one sleeve was darkened near the shoulder, either from blood or grime or both. His hair was damp at the temples. There was a cut along the line of his jaw, shallow enough not to matter, and a split across one knuckle that had already started to close. He looked clean in the way he always somehow did, even after a bad night – clean enough for strangers, at least. But you knew better.
His eyes looked wrong.
Not injured. Not unfocused. Just tired in a way that had nothing to do with sleep.
He did not say hello.
He looked at you for half a second, his gaze moving over your face like he was making sure you were there, really there, and then dropping, almost apologetic, to the floor between you.
“Hey,” he said.
His voice was roughened by exhaustion. That was all.
You leaned against the doorframe and took him in properly. “You look terrible.”
It was not a question. It was not particularly kind, either.
Something almost like a smile touched the corner of his mouth and disappeared just as quickly. “Yeah.”
You should have made him explain.
You should have asked what happened on the mission, whether he was hurt, whether anyone else was hurt, why he had come to you in the middle of the night instead of to medical, or his own floor, or one of the dozen people who would have opened their doors to Captain America without hesitation.
Instead, you stepped aside.
Steve hesitated only long enough to register the invitation. Then he walked in without a word, and you shut the door behind him with the soft click of a ritual that had repeated often enough to become muscle memory.
The apartment was dim except for the lamp over the kitchen counter and the line of city light creeping through the blinds. You kept your place small by Tower standards – one bedroom, narrow galley kitchen, living room that doubled as a workspace whenever you brought files home, books stacked in horizontal piles because you had run out of shelf space months ago. It never looked like a show apartment. It looked lived in. Used. Yours.
Steve liked that about it.
You saw it every time he came over: the way something in him loosened the second the door shut behind him, like he was setting down a weight before he even realized he was doing it. It happened now too. Not dramatically. Steve never did anything dramatically when other people were around, and apparently “other people” included the version of himself he wore out in the world. But his shoulders eased by a fraction, and some of the strain in his face lost its edge.
He stood in the middle of your living room, broad and silent and making the place look smaller than it was, while you locked the door and turned back toward him.
“You need a doctor?” you asked.
He shook his head once.
“You bleeding on my floor?”
Another near-smile, gone just as fast. “No.”
“Great. Then you can keep standing there looking tragic, or you can sit down.”
He exhaled through his nose, almost a laugh, and lowered himself onto your couch. He sat forward first, elbows on his knees, hands hanging between them, his head bowed like he had run out of strength halfway through the act of being a person. You had seen that posture enough times now that it no longer startled you, though it still did something ugly to your heart every time. Nobody else saw him like this. You were nearly certain of it.
The world got the straight back, the measured tone, the impossible calm. The world got Captain America.
You got the man who showed up after midnight and forgot how to hold himself together.
You went to the kitchen, filled a glass with water, and brought it back to him. He took it without looking up.
“Thanks.”
You hummed and perched on the arm of the chair opposite the couch rather than sitting beside him immediately. That was part of it too – knowing when not to touch him yet. There were nights when Steve came to you taut as wire, every muscle in his body still wound around whatever the mission had demanded of him, and if you put your hands on him too quickly he went still in the wrong way, like he was bracing out of instinct. Other nights he came in already half-collapsed, all but reaching for you before the door was shut.
Tonight was the first kind.
So you let the silence settle.
You had gotten good at that, maybe better than anyone. Not because silence came naturally to you – it didn’t; your temper was quick and your mouth quicker – but because Steve’s silences had texture, and after enough nights like this you had learned to tell one from another. There was the clipped, irritated silence that meant someone had pushed him too far and he was still trying to be fair about it. There was the cold one that followed bad press or bad calls or bad meetings, the silence of a man trying not to let anger become something useful. There was grief, which sat lower and deeper and made him look older than he was and younger too, somehow, like history had folded him badly. And then there was this.
This was aftermath.
This was adrenaline gone sour in the bloodstream. This was his body having done what it had needed to do and his mind only now beginning to collect the cost.
You watched him drink half the water in one go. He set the glass carefully on the coffee table. His hands were steady. Steve’s hands were always steady, which made it easier for everyone to pretend he was.
“What happened?” you asked eventually.
He was quiet long enough that you thought he might ignore the question. Not out of disrespect. Steve never ignored you to be cruel. He just had a gift for letting things slide past him unanswered if answering them would require more honesty than he was prepared to give.
“Mission went sideways,” he said at last.
You snorted softly. “That narrows it down.”
One shoulder lifted, then dropped. “Intel was wrong.”
It tracked. You were the one who usually cleaned up after wrong intel – cross-checked it, mapped the gaps, built a report no one read until something exploded. You knew how often field failures began with a desk somewhere deciding uncertainty was close enough to accuracy.
“Anyone dead?” you asked.
He shook his head. “No.”
“Injured?”
“Nothing bad.”
Not no one. Nothing bad. A distinction. You filed it away.
Steve leaned back at last, his head resting briefly against the couch cushion, eyes on the ceiling. The line of his throat worked once, like he swallowed something he did not want to put into words.
“You want the official version,” you said, “or the one you came here with?”
His gaze shifted to you then, slow and tired. For a second, something naked moved behind his expression – surprise, maybe, or simple recognition. The acknowledgment that you knew the difference.
“The second one,” he said.
You nodded once. “Okay.”
He closed his eyes.
For a while, that was all there was. The low hum of your refrigerator. The traffic far below. The muffled groan of old pipes in the walls. Steve breathing through his nose, deep and controlled, as if even now he was trying to keep his body from taking up too much space.
Then, because eventually he always talked if you let him arrive there in his own time, he said, “There were civilians still inside.”
You said nothing.
“We were told the building had been cleared.” His voice stayed even, but only because he held it there by force. “It hadn’t.”
Your jaw tightened.
Steve opened his eyes again, though he did not look at you. He kept them on the dark line where wall met ceiling. “A kid came out of a stairwell after the first breach. Maybe ten. Maybe younger.” He paused. “Then two more.”
You could see it without wanting to. The chaos, the recalculation, the ugly second in which a plan stopped being viable and started being about damage control. Steve in the center of it, adapting because that was what he did, absorbing consequences because that was what people expected of him.
“Everyone made it out?” you asked.
“Yes.”
But he still sounded like a man standing in smoke.
You rose from the armchair and crossed the space between you, sitting beside him on the couch this time. Slow. Deliberate. Giving him the chance to shift away if he wanted.
He didn’t.
Your thigh touched his. Not much. Just enough to bridge the distance. You reached for his hand and turned it palm-up over your knee. The split across his knuckles looked ugly but superficial. You dabbed at the dried blood there with your thumb.
“You saved them,” you said.
His mouth pulled tight. “We should’ve known they were there.”
There it was.
Not relief. Not even delayed anger.
Guilt, because of course it was guilt. It followed him home more reliably than anything else.
You looked down at his hand in yours, at the calluses and old scars and the fresh half-healed injuries layered over them, and felt the familiar rush of irritation so sharp it nearly disguised itself as tenderness. Steve had that effect on you. He made you want to be gentle and furious at the same time.
“You can’t fix bad intel by hating yourself harder,” you said.
That got his attention. He turned his head and looked at you properly for the first time since he arrived. Up close, the exhaustion under his eyes looked bruised.
“I know,” he said.
“No, you don’t.”
A beat passed.
Then, because with you he sometimes dropped the act of already understanding everything, Steve let out a breath and said, “Maybe not.”
It should not have mattered as much as it did, hearing that from him. It was such a small thing. Barely an admission. But Steve did not give people that kind of openness lightly, and when he did, it landed in you like trust.
That was part of how this kept happening. Not just the sex, though that would have been easier in some ways. Easier to dismiss, easier to resent cleanly. It was the way he let you see him in pieces no one else got. The way he came to you with all the edges sanded off and all the damage exposed, and then looked at you like he already knew you would not look away.
You stood to get the first aid kit from the bathroom.
When you came back, he had shifted deeper into the couch, one arm thrown along the back cushion, his head tilted slightly as though the effort of staying awake had become negotiable. You set the kit on the table, took his hand again, and cleaned the blood from his knuckles properly this time.
He watched you in silence.
The cut on his jaw needed a strip, nothing more. You stood between his knees to reach it, one hand braced lightly against his shoulder while you pressed the bandage into place. He smelled like rain, sweat, metal, and the clean industrial soap from the Tower locker rooms. Underneath all that, unmistakably, he smelled like Steve.
His hands settled on your hips with absent familiarity, as if they had every right to be there.
You did not react at first. You finished smoothing the strip over his skin and pulled your hand back.
“Hold still,” you murmured.
“I’m holding still.”
“You’re distracting.”
That finally got a real smile out of him, small and tired and gone before it fully formed. His thumbs moved once against the fabric of your sleep shirt.
It would have been smarter to step back then.
You didn’t.
The space between you changed the way it always did: not suddenly, not even dramatically, just with the quiet inevitability of something well-practiced. His hands stayed where they were. Your gaze caught on the cut at his jaw, then his mouth, then his eyes. Steve looked up at you with that familiar, devastating restraint, as if he were asking a question he had no right to ask and already knew you would answer anyway.
“You should sleep,” you said.
“Probably.”
Neither of you moved.
Your laugh came out soft and humorless. “That wasn’t an invitation.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
His fingers tightened slightly at your waist. Not enough to trap. Just enough to make it clear he was there. “You want me to go?”
It was unfair that he could ask that so gently. Unfair that he could put the decision in your hands as though that absolved him of wanting anything.
You looked at him for a long second. “You came here at one in the morning, Steve.”
“I know.”
“No, I really don’t think you do.”
His gaze flickered, something like apology crossing it, but not enough to become words. That was another pattern. Steve apologized rarely and incompletely, and somehow that only made the rare occasions when regret showed on his face feel more intimate than a hundred empty sorrys from anyone else.
You should have pushed him on it.
On why he came here. On why it was always here. On why he could show up at your door looking wrecked and let you put him back together with your bare hands, then stand three feet away from you in the Tower kitchen the next day and call you a friend with that same impossible calm.
Instead, you reached up and slid your fingers into the damp hair at the nape of his neck.
His eyes closed immediately.
That did something painful to your chest.
Steve leaned forward until his forehead rested lightly against your sternum, his hands still warm at your hips, and for a moment the two of you stayed like that in the middle of your living room – him seated, you standing between his knees, both of you balanced in the quiet of something that had long since become too intimate to explain away and still remained stubbornly nameless.
You stroked your hand through his hair once, then again. Felt the tension in him ease by slow, reluctant degrees.
“Bad?” you asked quietly.
His answer came muffled against your shirt. “Yeah.”
“Did you get hit?”
“Nothing that matters.”
You let out a soft, irritated breath. “You say that like it means anything.”
This time his mouth curved faintly where it rested against you. “You worry too much.”
“I absolutely do not.”
“You do.”
“You show up bleeding after midnight and say three words in fifteen minutes. I’m not worrying too much. I’m being reasonable.”
At that, he lifted his head and looked at you with enough warmth to make you regret the entire shape of your life.
“Reasonable,” he repeated.
“Don’t sound so surprised.”
“I’m not.” He paused. “Maybe a little.”
You rolled your eyes. “You can leave.”
His hands slid from your hips, but only to catch your wrists and hold them gently, keeping you where you were. “I don’t want to.”
There was the truth. Plain and quiet and infuriatingly partial. Never the whole of what you wanted, always enough to keep something inside you reaching.
Your expression must have shifted, because something in his did too. Some awareness of the line you stood on. Some recognition, dim but real, that there was more here than he ever let either of you say out loud.
Then, as if afraid of what might happen if the moment stayed verbal for one second longer, he kissed you.
Steve always kissed you like he was trying not to ask for too much.
He started gently, his mouth warm and careful, one hand sliding back to your waist while the other stayed around your wrist for another second before releasing it. You kissed him back with less restraint than that, because you were tired and he was here and some mean, foolish part of you wanted to punish him by making him feel exactly how much you had already let him have.
He made a low sound in his throat, barely audible, and rose from the couch enough to draw you closer. The angle was awkward until it wasn’t. Until you were in his lap, one knee pressing into the cushion beside his thigh, your hand at his jaw while his settled at the base of your spine.
By then there was no point pretending this was the first time.
You knew how he moved when he was still half in his own head, the way his body stayed controlled even while his breathing changed. You knew the exact point at which his hands stopped being careful and started being honest. He knew the places at your waist that made you shiver, the way your temper surfaced in little bites when you were trying not to feel too much, the fact that if he kissed the corner of your mouth and not your mouth itself you would catch his shirt and pull him back like you were irritated rather than gone for him.
This had been happening for months. Long enough that your body no longer startled at his in your bed. Long enough that he knew which cabinet your clean towels were in and where you kept the extra t-shirts he sometimes slept in. Long enough that you had stopped telling yourself there would be some clean line between the nights he needed somewhere to land and the nights he wanted you.
Maybe there had never been one.
He carried the weight of the evening with him into the bedroom. Even when his hands were on you, even when his mouth softened and his shoulders finally gave way under your touch, some part of him remained braced against memory and consequence. But with you, eventually, he let go of enough. Enough for his breathing to roughen. Enough for his forehead to press to your shoulder afterward, his pulse still hard under your palm. Enough for the war in him to quiet down to something almost human.
It was never casual. That would have been simpler too.
When it was over, the room settled into the dark, the city beyond the blinds reduced to distant light and glass and the occasional flash of headlights across the ceiling. Steve lay half on his side, one arm across your waist, his breathing evening out faster than yours. His body was a furnace against the sheets, heavy and solid and impossible to ignore. You stared into the dark and listened to the familiar way the apartment changed when someone else was in it: deeper breaths, shared warmth, the mattress dipped under another person’s weight.
After a while, you thought he had fallen asleep.
Then he said, so quietly you almost missed it, “I’m sorry.”
You stiffened before you could stop yourself.
For what?
That was the problem with Steve. An apology from him could mean a dozen things and answer none of them. Sorry for showing up. Sorry for bleeding on your couch and your peace. Sorry for using your bed as if comfort were a resource he had any right to tap. Sorry for how this kept happening. Sorry for the morning that would come after.
You turned onto your side to face him. His eyes were open in the dark, fixed somewhere near your collarbone rather than your face.
“For tonight?” you asked.
A pause.
“For waking you.”
That almost made you laugh.
Not because it was funny. Because of course that was the thing he chose. Not the need. Not the habit. Not the whole impossible shape of whatever this was between you. Just the hour.
“Steve.”
His hand flexed once against your waist. “You looked tired.”
“It’s one in the morning.”
“I know.”
You looked at him for a long moment, wanting very badly to be reckless enough to ask one direct question and strong enough to survive the answer.
What are we doing?
Why me?
Why only like this?
But the exhaustion on his face, the residual strain in his body, the fact that he had come here at all – it all worked on you the way it always did. It made confrontation feel ugly. Selfish. Poorly timed. It made your need for clarity seem small beside whatever unnamed thing he carried home from nights like this.
So instead you sighed and brushed your thumb over the uncut side of his jaw.
“Go to sleep,” you said.
This time he did.
Steve slept harder than he admitted to sleeping anywhere else. That, more than the sex, more than the late-night visits, more than the way his hands knew your body in the dark, was what convinced you this had crossed into dangerous territory a long time ago. He trusted sleep badly. You knew that. You had seen what his nights did to him, how lightly he rested in the Tower, how every strange sound seemed to pull him half alert. Here, with his face turned into your pillow and one arm across you like his body had made its own decision, he went under with a depth that always felt less like victory and more like surrender.
You lay awake longer.
That was another habit.
You watched the dim shape of him in the dark, listened to the slow pull of his breathing, and thought all the thoughts you never let yourself say when he was awake. Thoughts with edges. Thoughts that asked whether you would have let any other man into your apartment, your bed, your life like this if he insisted on treating every morning after like an administrative inconvenience. Thoughts that called this what it was and then flinched from the answer.
At some point close to dawn, sleep finally took you too.
When you woke again, pale morning had already crept through the blinds, striping the room in cold grey-blue. For one half-blind second, before memory returned, you only registered the warmth at your back and the heavy arm around your middle.
Then Steve shifted.
You went still.
There it was. The tiny moment every time. The thin seam between night and morning where something real still lingered, soft and unguarded, before the day came in and rearranged him into someone easier to survive.
Steve inhaled, deeper than sleep, then exhaled like a man surfacing. His arm tightened very slightly around you, purely instinctive. His nose brushed the back of your neck. The gesture was intimate enough to make your throat ache.
You should have stayed asleep and let the illusion keep breathing for one more minute.
Instead you opened your eyes.
He felt it immediately. Steve’s body always knew when you were awake. His arm loosened, not abruptly, not coldly, but with just enough awareness to tell you the transition had begun.
“Morning,” he said.
His voice was lower from sleep. Warm. Human. Too soft.
You stared at the wall. “That depends.”
A beat passed. Then, because he recognized the shape of your moods almost as well as you recognized his silences, he asked, “On?”
“Whether you plan to do the thing where you act like none of this happened as soon as your feet hit the floor.”
Silence.
Not long. Just long enough.
You rolled onto your back and looked at him.
Steve was already propped on one elbow, the sheet low on his waist, his hair a mess that would have looked unfairly good if he weren’t wearing that familiar guarded expression around the eyes. Not closed-off, exactly. Not yet. But smoothing out. Reassembling. You watched it happen in real time and hated that you had gotten good at spotting the stages.
“I don’t act like it didn’t happen,” he said.
Your laugh was short and sharp. “Really?”
His jaw tightened by a fraction. “That’s not fair.”
“No?” You pushed yourself up against the headboard, dragging the sheet with you. “You show up here in the middle of the night, sleep with me, sleep here, and then the next morning you turn into…” You waved a hand at him. “Whatever this polished, impossible version of you is.”
His gaze held yours steadily. “I’m still me.”
“Yeah, that’s kind of the problem.”
Something flickered in his face then – annoyance, maybe, or hurt, or simply the first warning sign that he was about to retreat into patience and make you feel unreasonable for having a pulse. It was always hard to tell at first.
He sat up properly, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. “I didn’t come here to fight.”
“And I didn’t invite you over for a sleep study, but here we are.”
That got a breath out of him, not quite a sigh. He looked tired again, though in a different way now. Less stripped down, more defended. “You know that’s not what this is.”
Do you? nearly came out of you.
You bit it back. Barely.
Because this was how it happened. One wrong turn and suddenly you were no longer talking about him arriving at your door like your apartment was some private fallout shelter he kept for himself. You were talking about tone. Timing. Whether you were making too much of things. Whether now was really the moment.
Steve stood and reached for his clothes. He moved without hurry, every action composed, efficient, familiar. It should have been ordinary. Instead it felt like watching a wall go back up brick by brick.
You stayed in bed, arms folded over your knees, and watched him become public-facing by degrees. Shirt. Holster. Belt. Every layer another inch of distance.
When he had dressed, he picked up the glass you had given him the night before and carried it to the kitchen sink. Even that made something sour twist in your chest – how natural he looked in your apartment, how deeply he fit nowhere visible.
He came back to the bedroom doorway fastening the watch at his wrist.
“There’s a debrief at ten,” he said.
Of course there was.
You stared at him. “You mean the one where we go back to pretending we’re just exceptionally committed colleagues?”
A muscle in his jaw jumped.
“Don’t do that,” he said quietly.
You laughed once, incredulous. “Do what? Say it out loud?”
His eyes met yours then, and for a second you saw the night version of him buried underneath the morning one – tired, complicated, wanting something he refused to touch directly. Then it was gone again beneath restraint.
“We’ve talked about this,” he said.
That was almost enough to make you angry for real.
No, you thought. He had talked around it. Reframed it. Deferred it with that maddening calm of his until the conversation came out looking like your inability to accept what was already obvious and reasonable.
“Yeah,” you said. “You say it’s better this way.”
His expression did not change. “It is.”
“For who?”
That landed. You knew it did because he went still in a way he only did when a question struck somewhere he had no immediate answer for.
But Steve Rogers had made a life out of surviving the pause between question and answer.
“For everyone,” he said at last.
You smiled without humor. “Right.”
He took a step into the room. “You know I care about you.”
There it was again. That carefully measured offering. Just enough truth to hold you in place. Never enough to free either of you.
You looked at him and thought, with a kind of exhausted clarity, that if he had said less it might have hurt less too.
“Do me a favor,” you said.
His brow furrowed slightly. “What?”
“Don’t use that line like it’s supposed to fix anything.”
Something sharpened behind his eyes. Not anger exactly. More the beginning of it, buried under discipline. “I’m not trying to fix anything.”
“No,” you said. “You’re trying to smooth it over.”
“That’s not–”
“It’s always what you do.”
He stopped.
Silence swelled between you, heavier now than any of the quiet from last night. This was not his aftermath silence or his grief silence or the silence he wore when he came to you frayed and honest at the edges. This was the one he reached for when emotion threatened to become inconvenient. The one that let him stand very still and force everyone around him to hear themselves too loudly.
You hated that silence most.
Finally he said, “You’re upset.”
You blinked at him. “Wow. Good catch.”
His mouth flattened. “I’m trying.”
“No, Steve.” You slid out of bed and stood, gathering the sheet around you because you had no interest in being half-naked for this part. “You’re visiting. There’s a difference.”
That landed too.
Good.
He looked at you for a long second, and something in his face closed the rest of the way. Not cruel. Never obviously cruel. That would have been easier to fight. Just distant enough to remind you that daylight belonged to a version of him who knew exactly how to survive difficult conversations by becoming calmer than the person having them.
“I should go,” he said.
Of course.
Your laugh came out low and disbelieving. “Yeah. You probably should.”
He inclined his head once, almost formal now, and moved toward the front door. At the threshold he paused, one hand on the knob, and glanced back.
“I’ll see you at the Tower.”
Not I’ll call. Not are you okay. Not we’ll talk later.
Just that.
The place where both of you would go back to your assigned roles. The place where his voice would flatten into professionalism and your anger would have to hide under sarcasm and clipped reports and whatever scraps of dignity you still had the energy to preserve.
You looked at him and thought about all the ways a person could make something feel real in the dark and unreal by morning.
“Sure,” you said.
Steve stood there one second longer, as if he wanted to say something else and did not know how or had already decided against it. Then he left.
The door closed softly behind him.
And just like that, the apartment changed.
It always did.
The air felt too cool without his body heating the space. The room looked larger, emptier, vaguely embarrassed in the morning light. Your pillow still held the shape of his head. One of his bandage wrappers sat in your trash can beside a wine receipt and yesterday’s notes. There was a damp imprint on the bathroom sink where he had washed his hands. Tiny traces everywhere, intimate and useless.
You stood in the middle of the apartment wrapped in a sheet and listened to the silence he left behind.
This was the worst part. Not the leaving itself. You could have handled leaving if it had been honest. It was the split – the way the night could hold one version of him so completely and the morning could strip it back without ever becoming cruel enough to justify your anger cleanly.
That was what made it dangerous.
If Steve had been careless in obvious ways, if he had been crude or dismissive or openly ashamed of you, you could have hated him and been done with it. But he never gave you anything that simple. He came to you tired and real and aching in ways he showed no one else. He let you see his silences. He slept in your bed like trust came naturally there. He said things with his hands, his mouth, the weight of his body beside yours that would have sounded like love in any other language.
Then daylight came, and everything softened into something deniable.
Something reasonable.
Something that would look, from the outside, very much like friendship if you ignored the fact that he knew the inside of your thighs better than most people knew your last name.
You let the sheet fall long enough to drag on clean clothes, then walked into the kitchen and found the glass he had rinsed and left upside down to dry. Such a Steve gesture. Thoughtful. Neat. Infuriating.
On the counter beside it lay the spare keycard you sometimes used for the archive floor. Your phone buzzed with an overnight Tower memo. Somewhere several floors above, in another part of the same city, Steve was probably already back in motion – shower, coffee, debrief, clipped assessment of a mission gone wrong delivered in that level voice everyone trusted.
By noon, he would look like himself again to the rest of the world.
Maybe he already did.
You braced both hands on the counter and bowed your head.
The feeling that settled in your chest was familiar enough to be almost mundane now, which only made it worse: not heartbreak exactly, because heartbreak implied climax and clarity and some spectacular moment of damage you could point to later. This was quieter. Meaner. The hollow after. The space left by something real that no one would ever admit had been real at all.
Last night had happened. His body in your bed had happened. The apology in the dark had happened, however partial and cowardly. His hands at your waist, his head bent against your chest, the way he had looked at you like coming here had been as instinctive as breathing – that had all happened.
And in a few hours, once you were both back in the Tower, it would feel like a secret he had not exactly asked you to keep and would still expect you to carry.
You closed your eyes.
Somewhere between the knock at your door and the click of it shutting behind him that morning, you always let yourself believe, just for a few stolen hours, that what existed between you might be too intimate to dismiss forever.
Then morning came, and Steve left you with the same old truth: whatever this was, it was real enough for the night and nowhere near official enough for daylight.
By nine-thirty, the Tower had already swallowed the night whole.
That was one of the things you hated most about it. Not the speed exactly – though that too, the relentless forward motion of briefings and reports and coded updates and coffee going cold beside someone’s keyboard – but the way it erased aftermath. Blood got washed off. Suits got repaired. Official statements got drafted. The building learned how to absorb disaster and return polished surfaces to the world by morning.
You stepped out of the elevator with a tablet tucked under one arm, a coffee in the other hand, and four hours of sleep sitting behind your eyes like broken glass.
No one would have guessed.
You were good at that part too.
Not graceful, not serene, not particularly elegant, but good at moving as if exhaustion were a personal insult you intended to outwork before lunch. Your heels struck the floor with brisk irritation as you crossed into Intelligence and Operations, the section of the Tower most people only noticed when something had already gone wrong. The glass walls here looked out over the city and reflected rows of screens, shifting maps, biometric readouts, streams of intercepted chatter, the kind of information other people got to call “support” because they liked pretending heroism happened only where bullets did.
This was where the patterns lived.
This was where you lived.
The analysts on morning shift glanced up as you came in. A few nodded. One brave soul offered a cautious “Morning,” in the tone of someone checking whether you were going to bite today.
You gave him a flat look over the rim of your coffee. “That depends.”
He grinned nervously and turned back to his monitor.
Good. Fear kept people efficient.
You dropped your bag by your station and woke the bank of screens with a practiced touch. Overnight packets populated in layers: mission debrief, satellite lag reports, revised extraction times, local police response delay, collateral estimates, witness summaries, three preliminary assessments from people who did not know how to write clearly and one from Maria Hill’s office that somehow managed to be both concise and quietly threatening.
You scrolled through them fast, scanning for gaps.
There were always gaps.
The mission from last night had already been reduced into clean language. Civilian presence unaccounted for prior to entry. Tactical deviation successful. No fatalities. Moderate injuries. Ongoing review of intelligence pipeline failure. It read like a problem solved at the cost of a few procedural notes. You could almost admire how efficient institutions were at laundering panic into bullet points.
Your jaw tightened.
A soft knock sounded against the side of your desk. You looked up to find Maya from threat assessment standing there with her own coffee and the cautious expression of someone approaching a cornered animal.
“You look homicidal,” she said.
“I’m at work.”
“That wasn’t a denial.”
“It never is before ten.”
Maya smiled and leaned one hip against the neighboring desk. “Hill wants an updated risk cascade on last night before noon. Regional partners are already doing the thing where they ask if we’re absolutely certain the error came from local intel and not ours.”
You snorted. “Of course they are.”
“And Stark wants a simplified version for PR.”
That made you finally look away from the screen and stare at her in open offense. “Simplified?”
“He said and I quote, ‘Make it something the press can read without developing a tactical fetish’.”
You pinched the bridge of your nose. “I hate this building.”
“No, you don’t.”
“No,” you said, “I hate the people who insist on making me translate reality into language investors can consume over lunch.”
Maya’s mouth twitched. “There she is.”
You waved her off and started pulling files into a live working spread. On the central screen, the building schematic from the mission site rotated slowly, your annotations from six hours earlier still marked in red. Entry points. Civilian choke possibilities. The blind gap in the clearance data that should have been flagged and wasn’t. You traced it again with your eyes and felt a flare of anger so quick and clean it almost steadied you.
This was your actual job, in all the ways people never glorified. Not just gathering information. Not just filing it neatly. Understanding where things frayed. Reading the shape of mistakes before anyone else bothered to see them as shapes at all. Human behavior, geopolitical pressure, compromised chains of custody, falsified signals, timing discrepancies, emotional spillover from command decisions – all of it fed into the same machine eventually, and you were one of the people who knew how to listen when it rattled wrong.
You were good at your job.
More than good. Essential, on the days anyone bothered to admit it.
You built profiles that prevented bad alliances. Predicted escalation windows. Flagged diplomatic failures before they became body counts. Cut through grandstanding and bravado and beautiful field reports until only the useful truth remained. Half the people in this building would have been dead or fired or globally embarrassed at least once without the work that happened on your floor.
But no one put analysts on posters.
No one applauded a well-caught inconsistency. There were no cameras for the woman who noticed that a six-minute discrepancy in a regional police response time meant there were still civilians inside a supposedly cleared structure.
There were, however, plenty of cameras for the men who kicked the front doors in once the rest of you had done everything possible to make that survivable.
By ten-fifteen, you had three models open, one running risk projection and two mapping the failure cascade back through the source chain. Your coffee was cold. Your temper had not improved. A junior analyst from the west station asked if you could review his work on a new asset triage and received, in return, nine concise reasons why his confidence intervals were garbage.
He blinked at you. “I thought it was fine.”
“It is, if your goal was to make everyone feel included instead of right.”
He opened his mouth, closed it, and took the tablet back.
Maya, two desks over, muttered, “You know HR has a file on you.”
“HR has a file on anyone useful.”
A laugh went up around the station. You ignored it and kept working.
That was the thing people got wrong about you. They thought the temper came first. The sharp mouth, the impatience, the way your irritation surfaced almost as quickly as thought. But what actually came first was accuracy. You hated sloppiness. You hated ego where precision should have been. You hated being expected to soften a conclusion so it would land more comfortably in someone else’s lap. Most of your explosiveness was just refusal, badly disguised by a personality no one would ever call easy.
You knew how you were perceived. Too blunt. Too intense. Difficult in meetings. Brilliant, yes, but sharp-edged enough that people remembered the cut before they remembered the competence. You had long since stopped trying to polish yourself into something more digestible.
It would not have helped anyway.
Not in a building full of exceptional people where “valuable” and “visible” were never quite the same thing.
At eleven, you took the debrief upstairs.
The conference room was already half full by the time you walked in – Sam leaning back in his chair with one ankle propped over the opposite knee, Natasha somehow sitting still enough to look bored and alert at the same time, Rhodey with a tablet in hand, Tony flipping through a holographic display he was very clearly not reading, and Steve at the far end of the table looking exactly like he always looked in daylight: composed, clean, broad-shouldered, impossible.
If you had not woken up with the imprint of his body still warm in your sheets, you might have believed the act yourself.
He glanced up when you entered.
That was all. Just a glance.
Not too quick to seem avoidant, not too long to seem personal. The exact right amount of acknowledgment for a trusted colleague entering a room.
You hated how good he was at that.
You moved to the screen without looking at him again, docked your tablet, and brought up the map spread. “The fault line started here,” you said, zooming in on the compromised source channel. “Local clearance confirmation came through two minutes before our internal verification window closed. It should have been flagged for manual review. It wasn’t. That created the false assumption that the building had been evacuated.”
Rhodey leaned forward. “Human failure or system failure?”
“Both,” you said. “Human first. System second. Somebody trusted a source that hadn’t earned it, and the automation wasn’t built to compensate for that level of stupidity.”
Tony looked up. “See, that? That’s why your reports don’t test well with sponsors.”
You turned to stare at him. “I will gladly create a sanitized version for your donor-adjacent bedtime story after the grown-up review is over.”
Sam coughed into his fist, badly concealing a grin.
Tony, naturally, looked delighted. “You know, every time you say things like that, my instinct is to promote you purely out of self-defense.”
“Do it,” you said. “Then I can insult people with a better office.”
A few people laughed. Even Rhodey’s mouth twitched. The tension in the room eased for half a second, the way it often did when your temper became useful entertainment instead of a personnel concern.
You kept talking. Walked them through the chain. Showed where the assumptions calcified into risk. Showed where the field team adapted fast enough to prevent fatalities. You were careful there. Fair. Whatever else you felt this morning, the team had done what they were supposed to do once the error was visible.
And Steve…
Steve had done what Steve always did.
He had held the line and absorbed the consequences with that impossible blend of decisiveness and restraint people found so comforting. Watching him from the front of the room, listening to him answer two follow-up questions in that low, steady voice, you could understand exactly why the world trusted him on sight.
He looked like integrity.
That was the problem.
He thanked you after your summary. Calmly. Sincerely. “Good work.”
Just that.
No one else in the room would have heard anything strange in it. Why would they? He thanked people all the time. He respected competence openly. That was part of the legend too – Captain America, gracious in victory, decent in defeat, unfailingly courteous to the invisible machinery around him.
You met his eyes for one beat too long and felt the heat of last night turn into something acidic under your ribs.
Good work.
As if he had not had his mouth on your throat six hours ago.
As if he had not slept with one arm over your waist like your bed belonged to him in the dark and no one in the room now would ever guess.
“As always,” Tony added, because he had never seen a moment he could not make worse, “our terrifying little intelligence goblin remains the only person in this building I want grading my bad decisions.”
“I charge extra for repeat offenders,” you said without missing a beat.
It should have been routine after that. It was routine. Timelines, next steps, follow-up coordination with outside agencies, media exposure probabilities. You spoke when needed. Took notes. Answered questions. Ignored the fact that every time Steve said your name in that room, he used the exact same tone he used for everyone else.
Professional. Respectful. Untouched.
By the time it ended, you wanted to throw your tablet through the glass.
Instead, you collected your things with the clipped efficiency of someone who had learned long ago that visible emotion became gossip faster than data.
“Hey.”
You turned. Sam stood near the door, hands in the pockets of his jacket, smile easy.
“What?” you asked.
He nodded toward the screens. “That was good work.”
You narrowed your eyes. “If this is one of those weird morale moments people do before asking me for something, I’m leaving.”
He laughed. “No ask. Just saying. You caught the miss fast.”
“After it missed,” you said. “Which was the issue.”
“Yeah, well.” He shrugged. “Still mattered.”
The thing about Sam was that he knew how to make sincerity sound casual enough to survive contact with people like you. You appreciated that despite yourself.
“Thanks,” you said.
He tipped his chin once, then glanced over your shoulder. His expression shifted – mischief, mild and harmless on anyone else.
“Speaking of patterns,” he said, “you and Rogers got that whole old married couple thing down when you’re arguing over intel.”
Your grip on the tablet tightened.
It was not the comment itself that hit. It was how light he made it sound. How utterly innocent. How rooted in a world where your connection with Steve could be observed only as banter, friction, professional familiarity. Nothing messier than that. Nothing with teeth in it.
You kept your face still. “If by old married couple you mean one of us is right and the other one has a heroic jawline, sure.”
Sam laughed. “See? That.”
He moved on before you had to answer, heading out with Rhodey and Natasha. You remained where you were for one beat too long, pulse unhelpfully loud in your ears.
Then you heard Tony, still near the table, say to Steve, “Careful, Rogers. Another few months of that and people are gonna start thinking she actually likes you.”
There was a short pause. You could not see Steve without turning your head.
Then he said, easy and warm and perfectly measured, “She’s a friend, Tony.”
You went completely still.
Friend.
Not even hesitation. Not even enough discomfort to suggest the word cost him anything. Just that same calm, decent voice, the one that could make almost any sentence sound harmless.
Tony snorted. “That’s adorable. Wrong, but adorable.”
“She is,” Steve said.
And because the universe had a mean sense of timing, you turned just in time to see the expression on his face as he said it: open, untroubled, almost fond. Nothing sharp enough to betray him. Nothing a single person in the room could have read as false or defensive.
Just Captain America talking about someone he respected.
A trusted colleague. A close friend.
Someone safe to name because she cost him nothing in public.
You could have stayed and made a scene then. You could have let the anger come up hot and immediate, could have said something cruel enough to slice through the room and leave everyone staring. That would have been easier in some ways. Cleaner. At least then your humiliation would have had the dignity of being visible.
Instead, you left.
You made it all the way back to your floor before your temper actually hit.
Maya looked up the second you came through the doors. “Oh, no.”
“What?”
“That face means one of two things,” she said, slowly lowering her headset. “Either legal called, or somebody said something terminally stupid.”
You set your tablet down on your desk with more force than strictly necessary. “Is there any coffee left?”
She blinked. “That bad?”
You laughed once, humorless. “I’m deciding.”
Maya, who had worked with you long enough to know when not to poke a live wire, slid a fresh cup across the desk divider from her station without another word. You took it, muttered thanks, and sat down hard enough to jolt your chair.
The rest of the afternoon blurred around the edges.
You worked because that was what you did when you were angry enough to splinter. You buried yourself in projections, in revised partner requests, in a brief on a Balkan network acquisition that required enough attention to almost cauterize the rest of your brain. People approached you carefully, asked concise questions, left quickly. Sometime around three, one of the field liaisons tried to explain away a gap in his report by saying the details “weren’t operationally relevant,” and you took him apart so efficiently that Maya kicked your chair afterward and informed you that while you had been technically correct, you had also been, quote, “kind of a nightmare.”
“I contain multitudes,” you said.
“No, honey. You contain knives.”
By five-thirty, the floor had emptied enough for the ambient noise to soften. Evening light turned the windows gold, then copper, then dark. You stayed because leaving at a normal hour felt intolerable and because there was still work to do and because, if you were honest, you did not particularly want to run into Steve in an elevator while your anger was still sitting this close to the surface.
That plan failed at six-fourteen.
You walked out of the secure archive room with a stack of printouts in one arm and nearly collided with him just outside the glass corridor.
Steve stepped back immediately to make space. “Sorry.”
The stupid thing was that he sounded sincere.
Of course he did.
He had changed out of tactical gear. Dark henley, jacket, sleeves pushed up, hair dry and neat again. The cut at his jaw had been cleaned. If you had not put the bandage there yourself, you might have missed it entirely.
For one ugly second, all you could think was that your fingerprints were probably still on his skin under that strip and he was standing in the hallway looking at you like there was nothing intimate in the world between you at all.
You shifted the papers higher in your arm. “You’re in my way.”
One corner of his mouth moved, almost a smile. “Good to see you too.”
There it was again – that infuriating gentleness, as if your sharpness were weather and he had all the patience in the world for storms that never actually inconvenienced him.
You brushed past him.
“Can we talk?” he asked.
You stopped.
Not because you wanted to. Because the request, quiet as it was, came with that familiar low pull in your chest. The one that remembered him in your bed, remembered the weight of him half-asleep and unguarded. The one that made leaving harder than anger should have.
You turned slowly. “About what?”
His gaze held yours. “You know what.”
“No,” you said. “Actually, I don’t. Narrow it down. The mission? Your debrief voice? Or the part where I get demoted to friend every time there’s oxygen in the room?”
His expression changed by less than a degree, but you saw it. A flicker of caution. Maybe irritation.
“Not here,” he said.
You almost laughed.
Of course not here. Never here. Never anywhere with witnesses, never anywhere that might force the issue into shared reality. Privacy, with Steve, had long since stopped meaning intimacy. It meant containment.
You adjusted the printouts in your arm and started walking again. He fell into step beside you.
By the time you reached one of the smaller empty conference rooms overlooking the west side of the city, your temper had sharpened into something more dangerous than heat. Heat burned out fast. This was cleaner. Controlled enough to cut with.
You set the papers on the table and turned to face him.
He shut the door behind him. Not locked. Just closed. Deliberate. Soft.
For a moment, neither of you spoke.
Steve stood near the door with his hands loose at his sides, shoulders broad beneath the dark fabric, face composed in that careful way you had begun to hate. Not cold. Never cold enough to justify the full extent of your resentment. Just measured. Considerate. Prepared for difficulty.
You crossed your arms.
“Well?”
His eyes moved over your face, searching. For the right tone, maybe. The safest entry point. “You were upset after the meeting.”
You stared at him. “Thank God you’re here. I never would’ve solved that mystery alone.”
A breath left him, not quite a sigh. “I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
He took a step closer. “Tony was joking.”
“You think I care about Tony?”
“No.” Steve’s voice stayed even. “I think you care that I said you were a friend.”
There it was. Plain enough to sting.
You looked at him for a long second. “Do you ever hear yourself?”
His brow drew slightly. “What does that mean?”
“It means,” you said, forcing your voice lower before it could spike, “that you came to my apartment after one in the morning. You slept in my bed. Again. And then by noon I got to hear you call me your friend like that’s the whole story.”
His jaw tightened, only briefly. “You are my friend.”
The laugh that escaped you had no warmth in it. “That is insane.”
“It’s true.”
“Is it your favorite part of the truth?” you asked. “The part you can say out loud without risking anything?”
Steve’s expression hardened by a fraction. “That’s not fair.”
“There it is,” you said softly. “I was wondering how long it would take.”
His eyes narrowed, not in anger exactly but in restraint under pressure. “I’m not trying to fight with you.”
“No, you’re trying to smooth this over until I look unreasonable for being pissed.”
“That’s not what I’m doing.”
“Really? Because from where I’m standing, it looks exactly like what you always do.” You uncrossed your arms and gestured between you. “You come to me when things go bad. You stay. You let me…” You cut yourself off before the sentence got too raw. “And then the second there are other people around, I’m your friend. Your colleague. Somebody safe and neutral and easy to explain.”
He went still.
“It’s better this way,” he said at last.
You blinked at him. “There it is.”
Steve held your gaze. “You know why.”
“Do I?”
“Yes.”
His certainty made something bright and ugly flare under your ribs. “Enlighten me, then.”
His mouth flattened. “We work together. We live in the same building. The team doesn’t need–”
“The team doesn’t need what?” you cut in. “To know you sleep with the people you trust? To know Captain America has a private life? To know you’re capable of wanting something messy?”
His voice did not rise. That only made it worse. “It complicates things.”
You stared at him. “For who?”
“For everyone.”
“That is such bullshit.”
He inhaled slowly, like a man choosing patience in the face of a problem designed to test it. You hated that too. Hated the way his calm made every spike in your voice sound like overreaction by comparison. Hated that you could already feel the argument slipping toward familiar territory, where your anger became the event and his choices remained abstract.
“I’m not saying you don’t matter,” he said.
You laughed again, sharper this time. “You don’t get points for not saying the quiet part out loud.”
His jaw flexed. “That’s not what I meant.”
“No,” you snapped, “what you mean is always nicer than what you do.”
Silence cracked between you.
For the first time since you shut the door, Steve looked tired instead of simply composed. Not exposed, not soft – just worn around the edges by the conversation. If you had not known him so well in private, you might have mistaken it for vulnerability. But you did know him. You knew how often exhaustion and decency wore the same face on him. You knew how effectively he could make gentleness function like evasion.
When he spoke again, his tone was quieter. “I care about you.”
And there it was.
That maddeningly partial thing. The sentence designed to sound intimate while answering nothing that mattered.
You actually pressed your lips together before you trusted yourself to speak. “You cannot keep saying that like it means what I need it to mean.”
His eyes sharpened. “I never said more than that.”
That one hit.
Not because it was new. Because it was honest.
The words seemed to hang there in the room, plain and devastating. He had never lied outright. That was one of the reasons this hurt as badly as it did. He never promised you a future. Never asked for exclusivity. Never said you were anything official. He simply took every soft thing you offered in private and left you with the cheapest defensible version of it in public.
He watched the impact land in your face and, for one split second, looked like he regretted it.
Then he stayed where he was.
No apology. No step toward you. No attempt to call the cruelty by its name.
You nodded once. “Right.”
“That’s not what I–”
“No, save it.” You held up a hand. “You don’t get to stand there and tell me I matter while making sure I never matter in any way that would cost you something.”
His expression cooled, not dramatically but enough. “That’s not true.”
“Isn’t it?”
“It isn’t.”
“Then next time somebody says something, correct them.”
He said nothing.
The room went very still.
You took a slow breath through your nose. “Yeah,” you said. “That’s what I thought.”
Steve’s mouth tightened. “You’re asking me to make this public.”
You stared at him. “I’m asking you to stop acting like I’m some private coping mechanism you keep in your back pocket.”
Color rose hot under your skin the moment the sentence left you. Not because it was wrong. Because it was too close.
He heard it too. You saw the impact in the brief shift of his eyes, the way something guilty and defensive crossed his face at the same time.
“That’s not what you are.”
“Then what am I?”
He opened his mouth.
Nothing came out.
For one insane second, hope rose anyway – mean, stupid, involuntary. Hope that he might finally say something real because he had run out of polished alternatives.
Then Steve looked away.
That was worse than any answer.
You laughed, soft and disbelieving. “Unbelievable.”
He brought his gaze back to you, frustration finally surfacing under the calm. “You’re turning this into something bigger than it has to be.”
There it was.
The shift.
The moment your pain stopped being a problem he might have contributed to and became, instead, an issue of scale. Tone. Management.
You felt your temper kick hard in your chest. “Bigger than it has to be?”
“Yes.”
“God, you really do this every time.” You stepped toward him then, not close enough to touch, just close enough that your anger no longer had to cross the room. “You do exactly enough to make me feel insane for calling it what it is. You come to me when you can’t sleep, when you can’t shut your head off, when you want somewhere to fall apart where nobody can see you. You let me pick up every piece you don’t want the world looking at. And then you stand there and tell me I’m making it too big because I don’t enjoy being introduced like I’m just one more trusted friend in the building.”
His face had gone very still.
“Lower your voice,” he said quietly.
You laughed in his face.
“Of course.” The bitterness in your mouth tasted metallic. “That’s really the issue here.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“No, you just always act like it.” Your hands came up and then dropped again because if you pointed at him right now you were going to start shouting and you were not there yet, not quite. “I ask one real question, and suddenly I’m too emotional, too loud, too much. Meanwhile you get to stand there being calm and noble and disappointed in my tone.”
Steve’s eyes flashed. “I’m not disappointed in your tone.”
“You should hear yourself.”
“And you should hear yourself.”
That did it.
You took another step closer, your pulse loud now, heat climbing your throat. “I hear myself perfectly. I sound like someone who’s tired of being good enough for your bed and not good enough for daylight.”
The silence after that was absolute.
Steve looked like he had been slapped.
For one heartbeat, you felt it too – the line crossed, the rawness of the truth exposed in a room too bright for it. But you could not take it back, and some dark part of you was glad.
His voice, when it came, was low and controlled to the point of strain. “That’s not fair.”
You smiled, ugly and sharp. “You really need a new sentence.”
He looked away first this time, jaw set hard enough to show at the hinge. The hand at his side flexed once and stilled. You knew that tell. It meant he was angry and absolutely unwilling to let the anger show in any form that might become usable against him later.
When he turned back to you, the calm was back in place. Worse than before now, because you had seen the effort that built it.
“I’m not doing this with you while you’re upset.”
You actually recoiled half an inch, not physically so much as internally. There it was. The move. The cleanest, cruelest one of all. Not yelling. Not cruelty. Just enough dismissal wrapped in composure to make you look like the unstable variable in an otherwise rational equation.
“Wow,” you said softly. “That’s… wow.”
His expression did not change. “I’m serious.”
“No, I know you are.” You nodded once, hard, because suddenly if you did not move you were going to break something. “That’s what makes it so disgusting.”
Something flickered in his face then – hurt, maybe, genuine this time – but you were too angry to care.
You stepped back, reached for the stack of printouts you had abandoned on the table, and gathered them with shaking hands you hoped he did not notice.
“Are we done?” you asked.
“Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“This.”
You laughed, too bright. “You’re gonna have to be more specific. Apparently I make everything bigger than it is.”
His mouth tightened. “You know I didn’t mean it like that.”
“You always mean it in some nicer version that magically leaves me feeling exactly the same.”
“That’s not true.”
You looked up at him. “Then tell me I’m wrong.”
He said nothing.
Again.
And because you were not going to cry in front of him – not in a conference room, not under that maddeningly controlled stare, not while he still had the nerve to look wounded by your reaction to his choices – you hitched the papers higher against your chest and moved for the door.
Steve caught your wrist before you got there.
Not hard. Never hard. Just enough to stop you.
Your entire body locked.
For one terrible second, neither of you moved.
His hand was warm. Familiar. The same hand that had been on your waist in the dark, the same grip that could make you feel steadied or trapped depending on the hour. He seemed to realize all at once what that contact meant here, in this room, in the wake of everything you had just said, because his fingers loosened immediately.
But not before it hurt.
“Don’t leave like this,” he said.
You turned your head slowly and looked down at his hand on your wrist, then up at his face.
“Like what?” you asked. Your voice came out frighteningly calm. “As your friend?”
Steve let go.
The look on his face then – God. Not guilt exactly. Not enough. Something more helpless, maybe, or more frustrated, as if you had dragged both of you to the edge of a thing he had no intention of naming and resented you for making visible.
You pulled the door open.
“Next time,” you said without looking back, “pick one.”
Then you left him standing in the conference room with all his careful restraint and nowhere to put it.
Outside, the hallway felt too bright.
You made it halfway to the elevators before Maya appeared from nowhere like a vulture with excellent instincts and a clearance badge.
“Oh, absolutely not,” she said, taking one look at your face. “Who do I need to kill?”
You jabbed the elevator button hard enough to make it regret existing. “No one.”
“That answer has never been less convincing.”
The doors opened. You stepped inside. Maya followed, because of course she did.
She looked at the papers clutched against your chest, then at you, then at the sealed expression you had arranged over your face with sheer force. “Was it Rogers?”
You said nothing.
“That’s a yes.”
You laughed once, short and ugly. “I need everyone in this building to develop a serious fear of minding their own business.”
Maya’s eyebrows climbed. “That bad?”
The elevator began to descend. Glass walls flashed by in strips of silver and gold.
You stared straight ahead. “No,” you said after a moment, your voice flat enough to sound almost calm. “That’s the problem.”
Because bad would have been easier.
Cruel in the obvious ways would have been easier. Shame, dismissal, anything ugly enough to point at. Instead, Steve kept doing what he always did: taking too much in private and leaving behind something perfectly defensible in public.
Something that made you look dramatic for calling it by any harsher name.
When the elevator doors opened onto your floor, you stepped out without another word. Maya let you go.
Back at your desk, the screens still glowed with maps and profiles and all the hidden architecture of disaster. Somewhere above you, in another wing, Steve Rogers was almost certainly already back to being everything the world expected of him – steady, kind, impossible to fault. Maybe he was training. Maybe he was in another meeting. Maybe he was telling someone thank you in that same low voice he used when he wanted to sound sincere without promising anything.
You sat down, set the papers beside your keyboard, and tried to focus on the work.
For a while, you almost managed it.
Then your gaze snagged on the mission schematic still open on the far-left monitor, and all you could think was that at three in the morning he had stood in your apartment looking hollowed out, let you touch the damage no one else ever got to see, and by lunchtime he had reduced you to something safe enough to say in a room full of people.
Friend.
You leaned back slowly in your chair and stared at the city beyond the glass.
That was the real cruelty of Steve, you thought.
Not that he lied.
That he never had to.
He only took the parts of you that could survive in private, then left you the cleanest possible version of the truth in public and trusted his own decency to make the difference sound unreasonable.
And the worst part – the part that made you angrier than anything else – was that by tomorrow night, if he knocked on your door looking tired enough, some traitorous piece of your heart would still remember the man who came apart only with you.
Which meant the damage was not just what he was doing.
It was that you still wanted what he only ever gave in the dark.
Jake Seresin had a spare room. You needed somewhere to stay for the last stretch of training. Base housing was full, every decent rental nearby was either taken or stupidly expensive, and your uncle had apparently decided this was the neatest solution.
You had asked him twice if Jake knew you were coming.
Both times, Maverick had said yes.
You should have known better.
The house was nicer than you expected. Not flashy, but clean, with a small front porch, neat grass, and a truck in the driveway that looked like it had been washed that morning. You dragged your suitcase up the path, phone in one hand with the door code Maverick had sent you.
He’d added one final message beneath it.
Don’t let him wind you up.
That was not reassuring.
You punched in the code, waited for the lock to click, then pushed the door open. “Hello?”
No answer.
You stepped inside carefully, pulling your suitcase over the threshold before shutting the door behind you. The house smelled faintly of clean laundry and coffee. There were boots by the door, a set of keys in a ceramic bowl, and a sweatshirt thrown over the back of the sofa. Someone definitely lived here.
You called out again. “Hello? It’s me. Well, not me. You don’t know me. It’s Maverick’s niece.”
Still nothing.
You stood there for a second, feeling very aware that you were in a stranger’s house with a suitcase and no plan beyond try not to look weird. You were about to text Maverick when you heard movement upstairs.
A door opened.
Footsteps crossed the landing.
You looked up just as Jake Seresin appeared at the top of the stairs, shirt half on, hair damp, one arm still shoved through a sleeve while the other side hung loose. He froze when he saw you.
You froze too.
For a few seconds, neither of you said anything.
Jake looked down at himself, then back at you. “You lost?”
You blinked, then held up your phone like it was evidence. “Unfortunately, I think I live here.”
His eyebrows lifted. “Do you?”
“I bloody hope so, because if not, your security is terrible.”
That got the corner of his mouth to twitch. He pulled his shirt on the rest of the way, taking his time because of course he did. “You Maverick’s niece?”
You tried not to look embarrassed and failed. “And you must be the spare room.”
Jake came down the stairs with the kind of confidence that made it very clear he was used to people looking at him when he entered a room. “Hangman.”
“Your actual name, ideally.”
“Jake.”
“I know.”
“Then why ask?”
“Because calling my new landlord Hangman feels like a mistake.”
He stopped a few feet away from you, close enough that you could see he hadn’t shaved properly and there was a faint crease on one cheek from sleep. He looked like he had been woken up, which made you feel worse. He also looked amused, which made you feel annoyed.
“Mav said you weren’t arriving until six,” he said.
You checked the time on your phone. “It’s half five.”
“Exactly.”
“I’m early, not breaking in.”
“You used the code.”
“That he gave me.”
Jake folded his arms, leaning back against the bottom of the stair rail. “Did he also tell you to just walk in?”
You hesitated.
He smiled.
You narrowed your eyes. “He said you were expecting me.”
“I was. Just not while I was getting changed.”
You felt your face warm despite yourself. “I didn’t see anything.”
“You hesitated before saying that.”
“I was being polite.”
“You were staring.”
“I was shocked.”
“By the house or by me?”
You stared at him for a second. “You always like this?”
Jake’s smile widened. “Usually worse.”
You could see why Maverick had told you not to let him wind you up. The man was clearly built for it. He looked relaxed in a way that felt deliberate, like every part of him had decided there was nothing in the world worth getting flustered over. You, meanwhile, were stood in the hallway with your suitcase still upright beside you, suddenly very aware that you were tired, hungry, and not in the mood to be charming for a stranger with wet hair and a good jaw.
You picked up the handle of your suitcase. “Can you just show me the room?”
That seemed to knock the grin down a little. Not gone, but quieter. “Yeah. Come on.”
He took the suitcase before you could argue, lifting it easily and heading up the stairs. You followed, trying not to stare at his shoulders. That lasted about three steps before you caught yourself doing exactly that and looked sharply at the wall instead.
Jake glanced back. “Careful, there’s a step.”
“I can see the stairs.”
“Just being helpful.”
“You’re being irritating.”
“Same skill set.”
Your room was at the end of the hallway. It was plain, but clean. Double bed, empty wardrobe, small desk near the window, and a set of towels folded at the end of the mattress. Someone had cleared space properly, not just shoved things into corners and called it done.
Jake put your suitcase by the wardrobe. “Bathroom’s across the hall. I’ve got the room at the other end. Kitchen’s downstairs. Use whatever, just write it on the list if you finish it.”
You looked at him. “There’s a list?”
“On the fridge.”
“Very organised.”
“I’m a delight.”
You gave him a flat look.
He nodded toward the desk. “Wi-Fi password’s written down there. Spare key’s in the top drawer. If you’re out late, lock the door behind you. If you’re bringing anyone back, don’t.”
You laughed once. “Excuse me?”
Jake shrugged. “House rule.”
“Bit controlling for someone I met three minutes ago.”
“It’s not a moral judgement. I don’t want strangers in my house.”
“I’m a stranger in your house.”
“You’re Maverick’s problem. Slight difference.”
Your mouth opened, then closed again. “I’m not his problem.”
Jake’s expression shifted.
It was tiny. Barely anything. But it was the first time he looked like he’d actually heard you instead of just enjoying the conversation.
“I didn’t mean it like that,” he said.
“Sure.”
“I didn’t.”
You looked away first, annoyed at yourself for reacting. It had been a long day. Longer than that, really. Weeks of trying to prove you deserved your place and not just your surname. You had heard every version of it already. Maverick’s niece. Mitchell’s girl. Nepo baby if someone was feeling brave after a drink. Most of them smiled when they said it. That didn’t make it better.
Jake was quiet for a second.
Then he said, “Mav told me you’re in final training.”
You nodded.
“That why you needed the room?”
“Yeah. I was commuting from the motel outside town and it was a nightmare. Base housing is full, and apparently your spare room was available.”
“It was.”
“You sure? You seem thrilled.”
He gave a small laugh. “Mav said you were quieter.”
“I am. Usually.”
“You walked into my house and insulted my security.”
“You came downstairs half-naked and accused me of being lost.”
“Half-naked is generous.”
You looked at him before you could stop yourself.
Jake noticed.
Of course he did.
He smiled slowly, and you immediately regretted everything.
You pointed toward the door. “You can go now.”
“Yeah, probably should.”
He didn’t move right away. For the first time since you’d stepped inside, he looked a little less like Hangman and a little more like someone trying to work out what kind of person had just been dropped into his spare room by his commanding officer.
“I’ll let you unpack,” he said. “Mav’s coming by later?”
You frowned. “Is he?”
“He said he might.”
“That means he will.”
Jake nodded like he already knew that. “He also told me not to be weird.”
You stared at him.
His face stayed completely serious for about two seconds before he cracked.
You couldn’t help it. You laughed, short and reluctant. “He actually said that?”
“Several times.”
“Good.”
“Good?”
“You heard the man.”
Jake leaned one shoulder against the doorframe. “For the record, I’m extremely normal.”
“You introduced yourself by callsign.”
“That’s normal here.”
“You asked if I was lost in a house I had a key code for.”
“You looked lost.”
“I was being polite.”
“You keep saying that.”
“Because you keep being difficult.”
Jake smiled again, but there was less bite to it this time. “You’ll fit in fine.”
You didn’t know why that made your chest loosen a little. It shouldn’t have. It was barely anything. But there was no edge to it, no little dig about who you were related to, no suggestion that you were only here because Maverick had pulled strings.
You looked down at your suitcase. “We’ll see.”
Jake pushed off the doorframe. “Dinner’s at seven if you want some. I was making enough anyway.”
You looked up. “You cook?”
“Try not to sound so shocked.”
“I’m just surprised there’s more to you than standing on stairs making people uncomfortable.”
“That was a one-time welcome package.”
“Lucky me.”
He stepped back into the hall. “Seven. No pressure.”
You nodded. “Thanks.”
He was almost gone when you remembered something. “Jake?”
He turned back.
“I really wasn’t staring.”
He looked at you for a moment, then smiled like he absolutely did not believe you. “Sure.”
You shut the door before he could say anything else.
For the first time all day, you leaned back against something solid and laughed properly.
Only once.
Then you looked around the room, at the empty drawers, the folded towels, the sunlight coming in through the blinds, and let yourself breathe. It was temporary. That was all. A room for a few weeks. A place to sleep, eat, train, and keep your head down until you passed.
You could do temporary.
You were good at temporary.
Downstairs, something clattered in the kitchen, followed by Jake swearing under his breath. You smiled before you could stop yourself, then pushed away from the door and started unpacking.
By the time Maverick arrived just after seven, you had managed to get most of your clothes into the wardrobe and had changed into jeans and a T-shirt. You came downstairs to find him in the kitchen with Jake, both of them standing at opposite sides of the counter like they had been caught mid-argument.
Maverick looked over as soon as you walked in. “You settled?”
“Mostly.”
“Room okay?”
“It’s good.”
Jake leaned against the counter, arms folded. “Don’t sound too pleased. I’ll get emotional.”
You ignored him and looked at Maverick. “You told him not to be weird?”
Maverick winced slightly. “He told you that?”
“Immediately.”
“Of course he did.” Maverick turned to Jake. “I said one thing.”
“You said it four times,” Jake replied.
“Because I know you.”
Jake looked offended. “That hurts.”
“Good.”
You tried to hide your smile and failed. Maverick caught it, and something in his face softened a little. He had been hovering since you got assigned to the final training phase, careful not to push too much and bad at hiding when he wanted to. It was sweet. It was also suffocating.
You liked Maverick. You loved him, really. He was the only reason you had kept going some days. But being his niece on base came with a weight you hadn’t expected, and neither of you had quite worked out how to talk about it without arguing.
Jake slid a plate toward you. “Eat.”
You looked down at it. Chicken, rice, vegetables. Not fancy, but it smelled good.
“You cook like this for all your tenants?” you asked.
“Only the ones who break in before six.”
“I had the code.”
“You keep saying that like it helps your case.”
Maverick looked between you both. “You two already start?”
“She accused me of being half-naked,” Jake said.
Your eyes went wide. “I did not.”
Maverick closed his eyes. “Seresin.”
Jake pointed at you. “She said it first.”
You pointed back. “Because you were.”
“I had shorts on.”
“Bare minimum.”
Maverick pushed away from the counter. “I’m leaving.”
You laughed. “You just got here.”
“And somehow I already regret all of this.” He kissed the side of your head as he passed, quick enough that you couldn’t dodge it. “Call me if you need anything.”
“I’ll be fine.”
“I know.”
You gave him a look.
He held his hands up. “I know.”
Jake watched the exchange quietly. You noticed because he was rarely quiet for long. Maverick stopped at the door, then looked back at him.
“Take care of her,” he said.
Your stomach tightened.
“Uncle Pete.”
“I mean the house,” he added too quickly. “Make sure she knows where things are.”
Jake’s face didn’t change, but you could tell he understood what Maverick had really meant. “She’s got it.”
Maverick nodded once, then left.
The door shut behind him.
You stared at your plate for a second, appetite fading a little.
Jake noticed. “He worries.”
“I know.”
“Does he always do the hovering thing?”
“He thinks he’s subtle.”
“He’s not.”
“No.”
You sat at the counter and picked up your fork. Jake stayed on the other side, eating standing up like he didn’t fully believe in chairs.
You ate a few bites in silence before he said, “For what it’s worth, I know you’re not here because of him.”
You paused.
Jake didn’t look at you, which somehow made it easier. He kept his attention on his plate as he spoke.
“Mav asked about the room because he’s your uncle. He didn’t get you through training. He didn’t sit your exams. He didn’t land anything for you. If you’re here, you earned it.”
You swallowed the lump in your throat with a mouthful of rice and nearly choked. Very graceful. Really impressive start to cohabiting with someone who looked like that.
Jake looked up. “You good?”
“Fine.”
“You sure?”
“Rice betrayed me.”
He huffed a laugh and slid his water across the counter toward you. You took it without thinking, drank half of it, then realised what you’d done.
“Thanks,” you said.
“No problem.”
You expected him to make a joke. He didn’t.
That somehow annoyed you more than if he had.
You set the glass down. “I’m not fragile, by the way.”
Jake looked at you then. “Didn’t say you were.”
“People hear Maverick’s niece and decide I’m either spoiled or need protecting.”
“I don’t think you’re spoiled.”
You waited.
His mouth twitched. “Jury’s still out on protecting.”
You rolled your eyes. “Brilliant.”
“I’m joking.”
“No, you’re testing.”
That made him pause.
You set your fork down. “You want to know if I’ll bite.”
“And?”
“I will.”
Jake smiled a little. “Good to know.”
You shook your head, but you weren’t really angry. Not yet. He was a lot, and you knew that was probably intentional, but he didn’t feel cruel. He pushed, but he watched where things landed. You were used to people pushing and only caring if it got a laugh.
This was different.
You didn’t know whether that made it better or worse.
After dinner, Jake showed you where everything was. Laundry. Cleaning stuff. The spare key for the back door. Which cupboard stuck unless you lifted it slightly. He told you the shower ran cold if the dishwasher was on, then immediately admitted he only knew that because he had made the mistake twice.
You found yourself laughing more than you meant to.
It was annoying.
At half nine, you went upstairs with the excuse of an early start. That part was true. Training began at six, and you had a full day of checks, simulator hours, and one evaluation you were trying very hard not to think about.
You had just changed into sleep shorts and an old academy T-shirt when your phone buzzed.
Maverick.
All okay?
You typed back quickly.
Yes. Room is good. Jake is only moderately annoying.
The reply came back less than a minute later.
He’s on best behaviour then.
You smiled, plugged your phone in, and sat on the edge of the bed.
The house was quiet beneath you. Not silent. You could hear Jake moving around downstairs, rinsing dishes, shutting cupboards, something low playing from the living room TV. It should have felt strange to be in his house, listening to his life happening around you.
It did.
But not in a bad way.
You lay back and stared at the ceiling, telling yourself you would sleep soon. You didn’t. Your brain kept circling tomorrow, the evaluation, Maverick’s face when he tried not to look worried, the way Jake had said you earned it like it was a fact, not a favour.
After a while, there was a knock at your door.
You sat up. “Yeah?”
Jake opened it only an inch, keeping his eyes politely on the wall opposite. “You decent?”
“Enough.”
He looked in then, holding a mug. “Tea. Mav said you don’t sleep before evaluation days.”
You stared at him.
He lifted the mug slightly. “Unless that was classified niece information.”
You got up and took it from him. “He told you that?”
“He told me a lot of things I pretended not to listen to.”
You looked down at the tea. It was made exactly how you liked it.
Of course Maverick had told him that too.
“Thanks,” you said.
Jake nodded and stepped back. “Night.”
“Jake?”
He stopped.
You leaned one shoulder against the door. “You don’t have to report back to him.”
His expression softened slightly. “I know.”
“I mean it.”
“I know.”
You searched his face, trying to work out if he was just saying that because it was easier.
Jake seemed to read that too. “You’re my tenant, not my assignment.”
You let out a small breath. “Good.”
“And before you ask, no, I don’t normally make tea for tenants.”
“I wasn’t going to ask.”
“You were thinking it.”
“You’re very sure of yourself.”
“Usually right.”
“Usually irritating.”
“There she is.”
The phrase made you pull a face before you could stop yourself. Jake caught it immediately.
“Not that?” he asked.
“Not that.”
“Noted.”
You blinked, surprised he’d accepted it so quickly.
He tapped the doorframe once with his knuckles. “See you in the morning.”
You nodded. “Night.”
He left, and you shut the door softly.
For a few seconds, you just stood there with the mug warming your hands.
You had expected awkward. You had expected cocky. You had expected to spend the next few weeks gritting your teeth and reminding yourself that cheap rent was worth a bit of discomfort.
You had not expected Jake Seresin to notice a flinch in your face and adjust without making a big thing of it.
That was inconvenient.
You got into bed and drank your tea while your phone sat quiet on the nightstand. Downstairs, the TV volume lowered. A door shut. The house settled.
Pairing: Spy!Steve x Spy!Reader
WC: 10.5k
Warnings: enemies to lovers, loosely inspired by mr. and mrs. smith, the avengers are not super mainstream in this, sexual tension, shower scene, makeout, jealousy, mean!steve at times, brat!reader, eventual smut (dry humping, fingering, unprotected p in v, edging, creampie, steve eating you out within an inch of your life (munch steve come homeeeeeeee), doggy style, tonguefucking), mentions of voyeurism, surveillance, size kink, miscommunication, angst-ish with comfort.
Summary: You and Steve are voluntold you're married for an undercover mission. Should be easy, except you hate each other.
+fran: this is the opening showing of the Captain Americana Film Festival and my humble contribution to Steve's birthday!!! I cannot tell you how much it filled me with joy that I sat down to write this on the 4th and actually spat out 10k words. WE ARE SO BACK!!! Happy 108th to the man who will always have my heart, has been the gold standard against which I measure every man, (this is blond man propaganda) and also my astrological twin <3 no one gets me like he does fr.
⤷ you should go listen to the incredible playlist named "mr and mrs smith [john and jane]" by marybatz on spotify
"Absolutely not!"
Fury had the timing of a tax audit to a billionaire CEO. Of course, of course, you'd be stuck playing this mission with fucking Steve.
One second you were minding your business, enjoying what was left of your coffee and your relatively peaceful morning, and the next Nick Fury was informing you that you would be spending the foreseeable future pretending to be happily married to Steve Rogers.
"You're going." Fury didn't even break stride. He rolled his eye and kept walking down the hallway toward the conference room, clearly done entertaining your complaints before you'd even finished making them, with you hot on his heel.
Your footsteps echoed in the wide hallway as you walked backwards, facing Fury. "Can't I marry someone else for this?" You pondered. "What about Barnes?"
Fury stopped so suddenly you nearly tripped. "You want to pretend to be married to Barnes?"
You opened your mouth, immediately closed it, thought for a second and shrugged, squeezing your eyes shut. "That's not the point."
"That's what I thought."
The polished floors reflected the overhead lights as the two of you moved through the hallway. “Nat, maybe? Some of those married dudes would eat up girl-on-girl and spill the beans right away. Mission would be so quick!”
Fury walked with the patience of a man who'd dealt with far worse than you. The fact that he hadn't strangled you after years of working together was honestly kind of impressive, a little endearing almost.
Both of you quickly arrived at the conference room door, Fury stopping with his hand on the handle, turning his face to you and letting our a frustrated sigh. "Do you like working here?"
You rolled your eyes, "Yes, sir." What kind of question was that?
"And what's your title?" His brow quirked up.
A confused look plastered all over your face. "Agent."
He leaned down to talk to you closer, almost like explaining rules to a petulant child, "Then be an agent." and proceeded to push the door open and hold it for you, giving you full view of Steve Rogers sitting at the head of the table with a sour expression on his face, just as displeased to have to pretend to love you for the mission.
The training room should've been empty half an hour ago, and technically, everyone was done for the day.
It should’ve been quiet—mats wiped down, lights dimmed, everyone gone for the night.
Instead, the air was thick.
Heavy with sweat, heat, and something sharp enough to make the back of your neck prickle. The entire team and a couple recruits were watching you.
Well, you and Steve.
At first not openly—no one was stupid enough to make it obvious—but they lingered. Leaned against walls, sat on benches, hovered just close enough to pretend they had somewhere else to be.
It started as any other training session did, you rotated partners, almost like shark bait: in and out, partner after partner cycling through you while you stayed planted on the mat, pushing your stamina, your endurance, your patience.
Until you ended up on the other side of the mat from Steve.
Barefoot, sleeves rolled, skin already lightly sheened with the littlest bit of sweat that somehow made him look betterinstead of worse—which was deeply, personally offensive.
Here's the thing: he was a super soldier. He had endless stamina, super strength, reflexes that outmatched 99% of the population, and he had it all with perfect blond hair and barely breaking a sweat on his sculpted body.
It infuriated the hell out of you.
He blocked every kick, every punch, and when he didn't he wasn't even phased.
It made you go harder, to the point where you found yourselves now: almost trying to hurt each other.
By then, no one was even preteding to be occupied by anything else, shamelessly staring at the two of you at the center of the mat like Oppenheimer waiting for a bomb to go off.
Steve had stopped treating you with the same careful restraint he used with newer recruits. He'd throw you harder into the mats, knock the wind from your lungs, shove you back with enough force to remind you exactly how much stronger he was, and you'd borderline play dirty.
Every hit had a little more weight behind it. Neither willing to back down. Neither willing to lose.
Sam was sitting backwards in a chair, chin propped on his arms, watching like he had front row seats to the best show of his life; Natasha looked delighted; Bucky looked concerned, brows drawn, arms crossed tight over his chest, like he was trying to decide whether to step in or let you both learn your lesson the hard way.
Steve stood opposite of you, his feet staggered and his arms up, making a "come at me" motion with his fingers. His hair was slightly mussed, a damp strand falling forward over his forehead.
"Come to daddy."
The entire room held their breaths, and you saw red.
In hindsight, you should've planned a better move than to just charge at him, the strength in your muscles and bones not being able to match his. You should've thought of something tactical, something smart.
But also… you fucking hated his guts.
Which is exactly how you ended up with your cheek and stomach pressed to the sweaty mat, with Steve's whole weight on your back, your wrists pinned between the two of you and his right arm laced under yours and up your back, hand holding your neck down.
His hands caught you mid-motion, grip iron-tight as he twisted, using your momentum against you with terrifying ease, his grip locking your body in place, the angle just shy of painful.
"You need to work on your psyche. Mind over matter." His stupid voice right in your ear made goosebumps bloom up your spine, so you did what any reasonable person would do.
You flexed the knee that was between his spread legs hard enough that you hit him square in the balls, giving you the out you needed.
You straightened on your feet, pushing damp hair back from your face, a breathless, borderline feral grin breaking across your lips as he winced on the mat in pain.
"Who's your daddy now?"
Your breathless laughter was cut short, Fury's booming voice breaking through any pain or enjoyment present in the room. "You do know domestic violence is not part of your cover story, no?"
Both of your heads whipped in the direction of his voice.
He continued to walk in your direction, dropping two folders in front of your feet, and Steve, who was still kneeling down on the mat. "Shower this off. You leave in the morning, lovebirds."
The neighborhood looked like the kind of place where people complained to the HOA because their neighbor's hydrangeas were the wrong shade of blue.
Every lawn was trimmed within an inch of its life, sharp lines cutting through impossibly green grass like someone came out with a ruler every morning.
The mailboxes all matched—sleek, black, expensive-looking—and every driveway held something polished and obscene:luxury SUV or a car that definitely cost more than your first apartment.
The houses themselves were enormous. White trim, brick facades, wraparound porches, massive windows that left little room for privacy on a street that looked like it loved to mind every business but its own.
You sat in the passenger seat while Steve drove to your home, the undercover file open across your lap like a book while your bare feet rested on the dash.
Because annyong Steve was free, and your favorite past time. "No feet on the dash."
You turned a page, ignoring him. "They're staying." You read more of the file. "It's more comfortable that way." Your light blue summer dress was bunched up higher across your thighs, and he did a double take before taking a right turn to your house block.
He sighed. "If we crash—"
"Just look at the road instead of me and we'll be fine." That made him shift in the driver's seat, straightening his posture and looking ahead, his Adam's apple bobbing in annoyance.
What irritated Steve about you was the fact that these comebacks never even seemed to make sense or be thought of, it just rolled off your tongue, almost just for the plot. And you didn't even care.
He didn't even know why you hated him so much in the first place, but he reciprocated the feeling as soon as he saw how insubordinate and bratty you were.
Steve sighed the long suffering sigh of a man questioning every life decision that had brought him to this moment. "You're impossible." Muttered under his breath.
"You're a Senior Project Manager at your own company, honey!" Fake admiration and praise filled your voice. "Oh, you proposed quick! Only a year after our first date." You turned to him, your first real smile plastered on your face. "You're so down bad."
The car came to a stop in your driveway, and Steve turned it off, unclipping his seatbelt. "Put your shoes on, we're here and I feel eyes already."
"Bossy." You muttered, doing exactly as he said. As you got out of the car, your voice went up an octave, carrying through the humid summer weather.
“Ready, honey?” you asked, slipping the word out effortlessly, like you’d been saying it for years.
He opened the front door for you, making sure whoever was watching heard him just as well, possessive in a way that made your breath hitch before you could stop it.
“After you, sweetheart.”
You'd barely had enough time to figure out which bedroom closet was yours before the doorbell rang.
ding-dong. ding-dong.
You froze in the middle of the bedroom, one hand still gripping a hanger, Steve somewhere down the hall filling a modified cabinet with all sorts of concealed weapons.
You dropped the hanger onto the bed without another thought, smoothing your hands down your dress as you moved. Steve stepped out of the kitchen at the same time, wiping his hands on a dish towel like he’d been doing something domestic instead of checking sightlines and exits.
Ben and Julie Poindexter stood in your porch like they had been plucked straight out of a catalog. They were ones you hoped to make the acquaintance of quickly, as he was the right hand of the big druglord you and Steve were tasked with making an airtight case on.
Years of field work had taught you that monsters were rarely obvious, still, some primitive part of your brain always expected criminals to look like criminals.
Instead, Ben Poindexter looked like somebody who coached Little League and had multiple PTA moms undoing extra buttons in their cardigans to get his attention. Beside him, Julie beamed, already leaning slightly forward like she couldn’t wait to know everything about you.
“Oh my goodness,” she breathed, eyes lighting up. “You must be the Adlers!” You felt Steve shift beside you, his hand coming to rest warm on your back with an ease that shouldn't be there in the best of actors.
He smiled, and it was a good one. The kind that made people relax immediately. The kind that five years ago made you—
“Guilty,” he said easily. “Frank.” Right. Frank Adler.
He extended his hand and Ben took it immediately, introducing you then. “I’m Dex,” the shorter blond said in return, just as easy. “This is my wife, Julie.”
“Hi,” you said, stepping forward like you hadn’t been mentally preparing to dismantle her entire social circle for intel. “It’s so nice to meet you.”
She lit up.
“Oh, you are just adorable,” she gushed, reaching out to squeeze your arm like you were already best friends. “We saw the moving truck this morning and I told Ben, I said, ‘We have to go introduce ourselves before everyone else gets to them first.’”
You faked confusion. "Ben…?"
He chuckled lightly in response. "That's me, I… uh… Ben's really only for her and my parents. Friends call me Dex."
You smiled back in understanding. “We appreciate that,” he said smoothly. “It’s been a bit of a whirlwind getting settled.”
“So,” Dex cut in, tone casual but eyes observant, “what brings you two here?” There it was. The first test.
You felt Steve’s thumb twitch slightly against your back. A cue , or maybe just instinct. “Work, mostly,” he said, not missing a beat. “I just transferred to oversee a new branch out here.”
Julie gasped softly. “Oh! That’s right, you’re the project manager, right? We heard something about that—”
Of course they did.
You tilted your head toward Steve, letting your smile soften just a touch as you looked at him. Pride, affection… Just enough to sell it.
“He won’t say it, but he’s very good at what he does.” You interjected, turning your sweet smile to your nosy neighbors again.
His hand pressed a little more firmly into your back before easing again. “Someone has to pay the bills,” he joked lightly, glancing down at you.
"It's a 50/50 relationship," you shot back, nudging his side with your elbow just enough to look playful. "You earn money, and I look pretty in the things it buys." Your hand reached up to scratch the freshly shaven skin of his chin.
“Wow,” Julie breathed, practically vibrating with delight. “You two are so cute.”
You laughed, soft, a little embarassed… and completely fake. Dex watched that exchange carefully. His smile stayed in place, but his eyes sharpened just a fraction.
“New couples usually take a while to settle in around here,” he said, tone still easy. “But I think you two will fit right in.”
“Well,” you said lightly, leaning just a little closer into Steve without thinking about it, “we’re counting on our neighbors to help with that.”
Julie clasped her hands together. “Oh, you have to come to dinner this weekend! Everyone’s going to be there—it’s kind of our thing.”
“We’d love to,” Steve said, lightly nodding.
Both of them smiled in satisfaction, briefly saying their goodbyes and we'll let you get settled. As they started to step back, Julie waved enthusiastically. “Welcome to the neighborhood!”
Integration happened faster and easier than either of you expected. Almost like… bait.
It started with waves.
Small, polite acknowledgments from across driveways—neighbors watering already-perfect lawns, women in linen sets pausing mid-walk with their equally curated dogs. At first it was just smiles, quick introductions repeated twice because no one actually listened the first time, or maybe they expected you to slip up.
Names, occupations, how long you planned to stay.
Somehow, without either of you saying much at all, your lives had already been filled in for you. Steve—Frank—was “the project manager from the city.” You were “so sweet” and “adjusting beautifully.”
It was unsettling.
Steve got pulled in first.
Dex made it look casual—leaning over the fence one late afternoon while Steve pretended to struggle with a hose attachment he absolutely knew how to fix.
“Couple of us head out to the club on Saturdays,” Dex had said, like it wasn’t a test. Like it wasn’t an invitation into something much bigger. “You golf?”
Steve had shrugged, wiping his hands on a towel like the answer didn’t matter. “Enough not to embarrass myself.”
Dex chuckled. “Good. Fisk hates losing.”
That was how Steve Rogers found himself in pressed polos and quiet greens, standing under the sun with a man who ran half the city from behind clean hands and cleaner money.
Wilson Fisk didn’t look like a monster either. They never did.
From the sidelines, it would’ve looked normal—three men talking shop, trading easy laughs, the soft crack of a golf ball slicing through the air.
But Steve came home with tension in his shoulders that hadn’t been there before, and eyes that thought too much.
You were integrated differently. Faster, deeper in a sense. If you wanna know a man, you need to know the woman in his life first. Julie took one look at you and decided you were hers.
Brunch turned into wine nights, which turned into yoga classes and impromptu shopping trips where you learned which women talked too much, which ones listened too closely, and which ones pretended not to notice everything while noticing everything.
You laughed when you were supposed to, touched arms at the right moments, let yourself be pulled into conversations about renovations and charity events and who was “having trouble in their marriage” this week.
You played the part. Perfectly.
But you also listened. And Julie talked, about Dex, about their marriage, about his schedule, the men he worked with, his "job".
About Fisk in a careful, vague way that told you she knew just enough to be useful and not enough to be dangerous.
Inside the house, however, nothing really changed. You were in bliss whenever Steve was anywhere outside of the five thousand square feet of the house. And in hell when you could hear his footsteps through the hallways.
“Why are your shoes in the middle of the hallway?” “Because I took them off.”
“You put a gun in the cereal cabinet.” “It was concealed.”
And yet, somewhere in between the arguing and the slammed cabinets and the pointed silences, you moved around each other.
Steve adjusted the cuff of his polo as he stepped out onto the green, the sun warm against the back of his neck, the grass trimmed so perfectly it almost didn’t look real. Somewhere in the distance, a fountain trickled softly—controlled, decorative, intentional.
Everything here was curated, including the people. Dex stood a few feet ahead, already mid-conversation with a Fisk, Steve immediately recognizing his big frame.
“Frank,” Dex called easily, turning just enough to wave him over. “Glad you made it.”
Steve walked up at an even pace, shoulders loose, posture relaxed, every movement deliberate in its lack of tension. “Wouldn’t miss it.”
Dex clapped his hands lightly. “Let’s see if you actually know how to swing that thing.”
The game itself was uneventful on the surface, small talk, a couple of drinks over a few holes, business talk, the kind of conversation that never said anything directly but still managed to reveal everything if you knew how to listen.
Steve pretending to be worse than Fisk at golf remembering what Dex said about him not liking losing.
Well, who does? He thought.
He missed a shot he could’ve made here and there, fake grimace on his face to help sell the lie, burrow himself deeper in the web.
Dex talked the most—easy laughter, casual stories, the kind of man who filled silence before it could become uncomfortable.
Fisk didn’t, he was quieter, more measured. Almost amused.
By the ninth hole, Steve could feel the shift, the attention settling more fully onto him. He was past the evaluation phase and onto something else.
Fisk set his club aside after a clean shot, stepping back as one of the attendants moved to retrieve it. He didn’t look at Steve immediately, instead adjusting his cufflinks with slow, precise movements.
“Beautiful house you’ve got,” Fisk said finally.
Steve shrugged lightly, taking a swing of his beer. “Got lucky to swoop in right when it went on the market.”
Fisk hummed. “I find luck tends to favor the well-prepared.” Steve didn’t respond, Fisk’s gaze lifted then. “You and your wife settling in well?”
For some reason, hearing such a dangerous man mention you made him uneasy. And it shouldn't, because he hated you. Steve forced his expression to remain easy. “Yeah. She likes it here.” He paused for a second. “She’s… adjusting.”
Fisk’s lips curved slightly. “Is she?” Steve’s grip on the club in his hand tightened just a fraction.
Dex shifted beside them, glancing between the two, something quieter settling over his usual ease.
“You know,” Fisk continued, tone almost conversational, “I take a great interest in the people who choose to live in the neighborhood.”
Steve tilted his head slightly. “Seems like a lot of effort.”
Fisk chuckled softly. “It is if you don't have the… resources.”
Steve didn’t like the way he said that, didn’t like the weight behind it.
The back nine loosened things.
Or at least, that’s what it looked like.
Dex got louder, a little more relaxed with each hole, his posture easing into something casual as the game stretched on. Drinks appeared somewhere around the seventh—cold, expensive, handed off by staff who moved like ghosts—and by the tenth, the conversation had shifted.
Way less about business.
Dex snorted at something one of the other men—some hedge fund name Steve hadn’t bothered to remember—had said, shaking his head as he lined up his shot.
“I’m telling you,” the man continued, grinning like he thought he was hilarious, “if you’re doing it right, she’s not walking straight the next morning.”
One of the others chimed in with something worse, cruder. The kind of joke that got easy agreement and knowing looks passed around like currency.
Steve didn’t react, just stood there, one hand resting loosely on his club, gaze fixed somewhere out over the green like he wasn’t listening.
“C’mon, Adler,” Dex called, nudging him lightly with his elbow. “You’ve been real quiet over there.”
Steve glanced over, trying to seem unbothered. Like he didn't want to roll his eyes at everything coming out of that prick's mouth. “Just listening.”
“That’s not how this works,” the hedge fund guy said with a smirk. “You gotta contribute. You’re married, right?”
“Familiarity,” Fisk continued, almost thoughtfully, like he was discussing market trends instead of people, “breeds a certain ease.”
“Guess some guys are just more private.” Steve chimed, moving as to redirect the conversation, walking a couple steps to the next hole. "I don’t feel the need to talk about my wife like that."
Silence fell upon the group for a second, Dex interjected to change the subject quickly, but the way Fisk looked at Steve the rest of the time made he hairs on the back of his neck stand up.
Steve unlocked the kitchen door, toeing his shoes off as soon as he stepped inside. The house was clean, marble countertops reflecting the golden light coming through the curtains.
A candle burned on the center island that made the house smell like a bouquet of fresh flowers, blooming in deepest winter.
The door clocked shit behind him with a soft, controlled click, as he called out "Babe?" while letting his keys rattle against the marble.
He stepped further into the kitchen, eyes sweeping automatically—back door locked, blinds angled just enough, nothing out of place. The cabinet he’d modified earlier sat closed, unassuming, hiding everything it needed to.
He called out for you again, "Sweetheart?", feet padding into the house and when he got to the bottom of the stairs, he heard the shower running on.
Steve's mind kept replaying the interactions he'd had that day, how Fisk seemed to have too much knowledge of his dynamic with you to not have—
Of course.
A man like Fisk wouldn't just intentionally have a blind side.
The motherfucker had surveillance on your house.
In your house.
The sound got clearer and clearer as he moved up the stairs. The hallway stretched ahead, quiet and sun-dimmed, and then right outside of the bathroom door, steam curling underneath it. Steve paused just outside it, his hand hovering near the frame, his head tilting slightly as he listened.
You were humming, soft and absentminded.
Like you weren’t in the middle of a mission that had just taken a very sharp turn.
He exhaled softly through his nose, dragging a hand down his face, fingers catching briefly on the tension sitting heavy there.
He should wait, he knew he should. Whatever he had to say could wait ten minutes.
Five.
Hell, two.
But the words Fisk had said—had implied—sat in his chest like a weight that refused to settle. So if Fisk had creepily put surveillance in your home like Steve was 98% sure he had, you were gonna have to roll with the punches.
Steam hit him immediately, warm and thick, fogging the edges of his vision for half a second before it cleared.
Stripping his shirt, kicking off the rest of his clothes in a blur of motion that would’ve felt ridiculous under any other circumstance.
He walked into the shower, watching you let the water trickle over you, over your face, your neck, your chest, and he thanked every God he could think of that his body was cooperating and he did not have more than a half-hard on right then and there.
Which meant that you finished rinsing your shampoo off and opened your eyes to find a very, very naked Steve Rogers encapsulated by the shower stall glass around you.
With you.
All naked, and very wet, and very naked, and—
"Ahh!" You shrieked in surprise, stumbling back half a step, water splashing over him as your hands came up instinctively. "What the f—" Steve put his index finger on his lips with one hand, the other motioning to his ear and out.
We're being listened to.
"Honey," You immediately switched into your undercover tone, "you scared the crap out of me!"
Steve stepped closer, couldn't risk his voice being any louder than absolutely necessary to get you the information right then and there.
His frame in comparison to yours felt even bigger now, steam curling around him like vines. You'd blame the way your nipples hardened at the sight on the water.
“Fisk,” he whispered, barely audible over the spray. “He knows something’s off. Pretty sure we’re wired. The house is.”
Your breath hitched.
Absolutely having nothing to do with the fact that you were trying very hard not to stare at his— "Where?"
"Everywhere." He confirmed.
Water ran down both of you in steady streams, heat curling between your bodies, steam thickening the air until everything felt too close.
“Well,” you murmured, louder now, just enough for anyone listening to catch it, your tone dipping into something softer, more playful, “next time, maybe knock?”
Steve huffed out a quiet breath that could almost pass for a laugh, his forehead dipping closer to yours, but not touching, droplets of water falling from his hair onto you.
“Didn’t think you’d mind.” One of your hands braced lightly against his chest, the other gripping his arm as if for balance.
Your hand slid up to the nape of his neck, pulling the hair there enough to make him hiss. “Oh, I mind,” you said lightly, your fingers threading just a little deeper into the short hair at the nape of his neck. “You’re lucky I like you.”
You were pretty good at… faking it.
Night settled over the house smoothly, the sun bleeding into deep indigo slowly and surely until stars littered the sky and you all you could hear was the fair sound of nature beyond the glass.
The neighborhood dimmed in stages—porch lights flicking on one by one, warm squares of yellow glowing through wide, uncovered windows. Somewhere down the street, laughter carried faintly. A dog barked once, then twice, then went quiet again.
As your brain processed the information Steve had given you, you moved through the motions anyway.
Teeth brushed. Face washed. Lights turned off and on in the right order. The kind of routine that would look normal from the outside, mundane and unremarkable to anyone paying attention.
The thought sat in the back of your mind, somewhat panicked and loud, but also a constant, steady pressure.
You dried your hands slowly on a towel, eyes flicking briefly to the mirror. Your reflection stared back—hair dried and silky, skin still warm from the shower, expression carefully neutral.
Steve stood near the dresser, back half-turned to you, pulling a t-shirt over his head. The fabric stretched sinf— normallyacross his shoulders before falling into place, softening the sharp lines of him into something more… domestic.
You watched him through the mirror without meaning to, picking up a book, turning on his bedside lamp, and crawling under the covers of your bed, letting the light comforter rest on his legs and hips while he flipped through the pages with his back resting against his pillows and the headboard.
You bit your lip, thoughts blooming fast and messy under your skull, and flicked the lights in the bathroom off, walking towards your side of the bed.
Your short camisole shifted through the air as you moved, light and soft, brushing against your thighs. Steve's eyes immediately clocking your bare legs before he forced them onto the words in front of him.
You laid onto your side and closed the distance between you in one smooth motion, your body fitting against his side like that's where it was always supposed to be.
Your arm slid across his waist, your cheek pressed lightly against the plane of his pecs, and you felt the very warm, solid, real muscle of him under your face go completely still.
Not in any subtle way, you could feel the exact moment his brain short-circuited.
He turned his face just enough to look down and meet your gaze. His expression screamed an unfiltered "what the hell?"while yours softly said "we have to sell it."
He shifted, turning just enough so he wasn’t facing away from you anymore, his arm coming up—hesitant for half a second—before settling around you, his hand resting on your forearm, thumb tracing soothing patterns on the soft, moisturized skin.
As you laid there, the cogs in your brain turned. You bit the inside of your cheek lightly, the more he believes it, the quicker we get out.
You moved forward, your hand pressed against his chest, using him for leverage as you pushed yourself up, swinging one leg over his hips in a smooth, deliberate motion until you were straddling him.
The poor book slid uselessly to rest on the mattress on the other side of his body. You nuzzled your face into his neck, pretending to pepper kisses on the skin there, and Steve stiffened up.
His hands instinctively came up, not grabbing or even stopping you, just hovering at your waist like he didn’t know where they were allowed to go.
Your mouth lingered by his pulse point just long enough to make it convincing before you spoke, your breath hot against his skin. "Play along." You whispered.
You felt the tension in him—every muscle coiled, controlled, restrained in a way that had nothing to do with the mission and everything to do with the position you’d just put him in.
“Sweetheart,” he said, louder now, his tone shifting seamlessly, to something warmer, rougher, like it belonged to someone else. “You trying to kill me?”
From the outside, it sounded like a joke. A husband amused by his wife.
You tilted your head, letting your lips ghost just below his ear. “You just been working so much lately,” you murmured, just loud enough to carry.
His grip on you flexed, and he leaned into it.
“I know, baby, I know,” he said, voice dropping, threading something you hadn’t heard from him since he had your face pressed into a sparring mat through it as his hands settled more firmly at your hips, anchoring you there. “I’m sorry, sweetheart.”
Your stomach flipped, shameful heat pooling low in your core even though you tried to ignore it and call it by a different name.
His fingers pressed just slightly, grounding, guiding, selling the illusion with an ease that made your pulse stutter.
Steve moved, fast as always, one second you were on top of him, the next your back hit the mattress, making it dip hard beneath you as he flipped you with practiced ease, your breath catching as his weight settled above you, caging you in without quite touching.
His face dipped toward yours, close enough that your noses almost brushed.
“What you’re doing,” he murmured against your ear, his breath warm, controlled, “is reckless.”
Your fingers curled slightly into his shirt, heart beating too fast, and you tilted your head just enough to whisper back, your tone soft and teasing, so low he almost didn't hear it. “So is getting caught.”
You tilted your neck up, and your lips connected with his.
It had been weeks of little pecks, prim and proper kisses in front of your neighbors, just enough to sell it on the outside.
Holding his face in your hands and actually kissing Steve Rogers felt like a completely different experience.
His tongue licked into your mouth with an intention you never really expected from Steve. Specially a Steve that was faking it. Your hands roamed the plane of his shoulders, trying to make it seem like the actual rustling of sheets one would expect of a couple who was going to—
He should really take this shirt off.
And so your hands went to the hem of his white cotton shirt, pulling it up. Steve reluctantly let you take it off of him, leaving him only in the grey boxers that let you see he wasn't faking that much.
"Oh my God," You whispered. "Are you serious?" That was more of a hiss. Was he seriously getting hard right now?
"I know," He whispered back, annoyed, frustrated, "I know. Just shut up about it."
Oh.
He wanted you to shut up about it. He wanted you to—
The petty part of your brain took over, and before you couldn't think of a less reckless thing to do, you squeezed your legs tighter around him, bringing his bulge flush against your clothed pussy.
"O-oh—" Steve was surprised, not about the pettiness, but at the action itself. You bit your lip, almost proud of yourself, and tilted your hips up.
That earned you a scolding look.
"Mmm," you breathed, just loud enough to carry, your voice shifting instantly to a soft, breathy, higher pitched version of yourself. "Fuck, baby, right there."
Steve's ears were ringing. Mostly because he didn't know what to do with his hard cock rubbing up and down against you. “Relax,” you murmured against his jaw, barely moving your lips. “You sound like you’re filing paperwork.”
He huffed softly, turning it into something that passed. “Maybe I like paperwork,” he muttered.
You scoffed. “You do not.”
“You don’t know that.” He whined softly against you.
"You need to actually move your hips, Steve. Video needs to look like you're fucking your wife." You whispered in his ear.
It's not like he couldn't feel how wet you were, slick pressing through the cotton of your panties and onto his underwear, darkening a spot there.
“You’re unbelievable,” he breathed low, close to your ear.
“Say it louder,” you shot back quietly.
“You’re unbelievable,” he repeated, louder, tone shifting, like it meant something entirely different now.
Your heels dug into his ass cheeks, pulling him closer and closer to you, and closer and closer to the edge.
You could feel the length of him twitch with each pass of his hips, and you pictured the leaking head of him making a mess out of the inside of his boxers, precum slicking him all over.
“Okay—” he muttered quickly under his breath, breaking the moment before it could stretch too far. “We need a time frame. We can’t just—keep going forever.”
“Two minutes,” you whispered. “Make it believable.”
“Two minutes?” he echoed, actually offended. “That’s insulting.”
The thought of it sent heat down your core. His face was buried in your neck, your lips brushing the shell of his ear as your hands threaded through his hair. "Talk about me." Another perfectly placed thrust that nudged your clit. "'bout how I feel."
Steve grinded his teeth like he was fighting a mental battle between letting himself be consumed by this moment, and being proper.
You nudged him again with your heel.
"Nice and tight, sweetheart." He let his voice carry, surprisingly unwavering for how close he was. "Never get enough of your pussy."
What in the fuckity fuck?
Steve?
He almost said your name, your very real name, too lost in himself, letting his rhythm build up much too realistically, his thrusts deeper, the bulge now rubbing and nudging your clothed entrance as well.
Your could hear the sound of wet fabric shifting, your panties getting caught and letting one lip slip out of safety and closer to Steve's leaking cock.
"Frank," You said loudly, trying to catch his attention without success. "Frank." You tried again, more stern, being met with the same squeezed-shut eyes you tried to get an answer from. You dropped your voice low, hushed like a secret. "Steve."
That made him open his eyes, powder blue irises staring at you as his thursts hit a spot that had him moaning, stuttering over his own breath.
And spilling all inside his boxers, looking right into your eyes.
His hips stuttered, almost as if his body wanted to milk itself dry, and his breathing slowed.
You were speechless, big wide eyes looking up at him, genuinely not knowing what to say.
Both of you stared at each other in shock, horror, confusion as to why it felt so good to do that without someone who managed to get under your skin without even trying.
You stayed like that until you felt the warm trickle of his seed seep through the cotton of his boxers and onto the front of your panties.
Steve dropped back to his side of the bed, and both of you avoided each other's gaze, just staring at the ceiling.
"Are we—"
“…go to sleep,” you muttered.
Whatever Fisk needed proof of, seemingly he got it, since both you and Steve got invited the the biggest 4th of July bash of the neighborhood.
Right at the belly of the beast.
The whole backyard looked like something out of a magazine.
String lights draped across the perimeter, glowing warm against the deep navy of the night sky, fireworks already starting to crackle faintly in the distance.
The lawn stretched wide and immaculate, dotted with clusters of people holding drinks in delicate glasses, laughter spilling easily between them like nothing in the world could touch this place.
It was loud, busy, perfect, and underneath it all— wrong.
Steve had light wash jeans and a light blue polo on, you had a strapless summer dress and one of his linen shirts on, the shirt unbuttoned to give the air of a casual outing.
You stood near one of the long tables, fingers loosely wrapped around a Moscow Mule you hadn’t touched, your eyes scanning without looking like you were scanning. Steve was across the yard, pulled into a circle of men near the grill, one of them mid-story, the others laughing at something you couldn’t quite hear from this distance.
And there she was.
Blonde, tall, and much too interested in your— Steve.
Her hand landed on his arm like she’d been waiting for an excuse, your eyes narrowed at her as you shoved a piece of salami and cheese into your mouth.
“That's Sharon.” Julie’s voice chimed in beside you, far too cheerful for how observant she actually was. “She's new. Came to stay with her aunt a bit, they live a few strees back. Divorced. Which means she’s—”
“—looking,” you finished lightly, before finally taking a sip of your drink like you hadn’t already clocked every detail.
Julie laughed. “Exactly.”
Your eyes flicked back to Steve. He hadn’t moved away, hadn’t stepped back, hadn’t even noticed.
Of course he hadn’t.
He was listening—really listening—to whatever the man next to him was saying, nodding slightly, relaxed in that effortless way that made people lean in closer without thinking about it.
“Oh, don’t worry,” she said, lowering her voice just enough to feel conspiratorial. “If he's anything like Dex, he's clueless. They don’t even realize when they’re being flirted with.”
You hummed softly. "He is clueless, alright."
“He’s very charming,” Julie added, watching you now instead of them. “Frank, I mean.”
Your lips curved. “He has his moments.”
Julie giggled, and you finished downing your drink, making your way to him, wrapping a hand around his perfectly sculped bicep and turning on your smile to the sweetest setting possible.
His body reacted immediately, adjusting to your touch like it always belonged there. His gaze dropped to you, surprise flickering for half a second before smoothing into something softer.
“Hey,” he said, one hand coming up to rest at your hip without thinking about it.
“Hi,” you replied, tilting your head up toward him, your smile warm in a way that felt almost too real. “Sorry,” you said sweetly, not sounding sorry at all. “Am I interrupting?”
She blinked, then smiled tightly back at you. “Not at all.” Steve’s hand pressed slightly into your hip, a silent question that you answered it by leaning just a fraction closer into him.
“We were just talking about the neighborhood,” she continued.
“Were you?” you asked, your tone light, but your grip on Steve tightening just enough to be felt.
“Oh—yes,” she said, glancing briefly at him. “Frank was just telling us about his work.”
“Mm,” you hummed, eyes flicking up to his. “He works too much.”
Steve’s brows lifted slightly. “Oh, I do?”
“You do,” you said simply, sighing longingly, your fingers sliding absently against his side like it was second nature. “I barely see you anymore.”
Sharon laughed softly. “That’s a shame.” Steve lifted the beer up to his lips and took a swing.
“It is,” you agreed, smiling again. “But I make sure he makes up for it.”
Steve choked on his drink. Actually choked. Coughed once, quickly covering it with a laugh that didn’t quite hide the surprise.
His hand flexed at your hip. “Yeah,” he said, voice dropping just slightly as he looked down at you, something new threading through it. “I do.”
For a moment it didn't feel like pretending, but it also didn't feel real. It felt like a limbo much too similar to five years ago, when he first recruited you into SHIELD by accident.
FIVE YEARS EARLIER
Colombia had been too hot. The humid, muggy weather made your skin sticky, a sheen coat of sweat all over your arms and legs, even though you were only wearing a white tanktop and a flowy, maxi floral skirt.
Music was bleeding from open windows, people crowding narrow streets, making it the kind of place where mistakes didn’t just cost you the mission.
They cost you everything.
You’d been handling it just fine, up until you weren’t. The intel had been wrong. Or incomplete. Or leaked.
You didn’t know which yet—only that the second you stepped into that dim, crowded cantina, something in your gut twisted. Too many eyes, too many men pretending to drink, too many sharp ears and even sharper looks.
You were planning an exit strategy, a way to get out of here with as few scratches and as many of these men killed. Mid counting how many thing you could use as a weapon, in walked a picture perfect specimen.
Muscles everywhere, blond hair lightened even more by the sun, the faintest sunburn across his nose and cheeks making his blue eyes stand out more.
You turned slightly, lifting your drink to your lips like you were just another woman trying to cool off, not someone seconds away from deciding how many people she might have to kill.
He clocked the men immediately.
And then he clocked you. His broad frame faked a smile at you and stepped quickly to stand beside you at the bar, hand resting on your hip.
“Don’t,” he muttered under his breath, pretending to try to get the bartender's attention.
“Don’t what?” you shot back just as quietly, adjusting your sunglasses on your head like you were annoyed at them and happy to see him, not seconds away from being cornered.
“They’re looking for someone,” he said.
“I know.” A beat where he leaned down to whisper in your ear.
“They’re closing exits.”
And you responded through gritted teeth and a smile. “I noticed.” You let your body rest closer to his, feeling the heat radiating off of him.
Outside, thunder and lightning started, and a summer storm came pouring down.
“Babe,” you said, loud enough to carry, tilting your head up at him like you were teasing. “You said one drink.”
He leaned into you, his hand sliding from your waist to your lower back, pulling you closer in a way that felt practiced.
“Yeah?” he shot back easily. “Thought you wanted to see more of the place.”
“Oh, I do,” you laughed lightly, fingers curling into his shirt. “Just… from inside a bedroom window right now." You leaned in closer, lowering your voice just enough to make it look intimate, like you were sharing something private instead of tracking his every movement.
“Relax your shoulders,” you murmured.
He huffed softly—almost a laugh, almost something else—and adjusted just slightly, his grip tightening at your lower back like he was settling into the role instead of fighting it.
A beat passed between you—quick, sharp, charged—and then he leaned in closer, his mouth ghosting just along your temple.
“Storm’s our out,” he whispered. “We gotta go.”
“Come on,” you said, tugging gently at his shirt, turning your body into his as thunder cracked loud enough to rattle the windows. “I am not ruining my hair for this.”
“Tragic,” he murmured, letting you pull him toward the back hallway.
The rain hit hard the second you stepped out of the main room—heavy, sudden, loud enough to drown out most of the noise behind you. The narrow corridor smelled like damp wood and cheap liquor, dimly lit and barely used.
Perfect.
Your hand stayed fisted in his shirt as you stumbled slightly—just enough to sell it—as he caught you, his arm tightening instinctively around your waist.
“Careful, sweetheart.” he said, louder now, for anyone who might still be listening. “You’re gonna slip.”
The back door burst open under his hand.
Rain poured down in sheets, warm and relentless, soaking the edges of your skirt instantly as you both stepped out into the alley behind the cantina.
Steve looked around to make sure no one followed, he kept you closer than necessary as you moved, your bodies angled into each other like you were shielding yourselves from the storm instead of disappearing into it.
One block, then another, until you were far away and safe in the back alley of the Sofitel. Your clothes were soaked, as were his, your shirt basically see through, you kept moving, pulling him down the short hallway and into the first unlocked door you found—some storage room or unused guest space, it didn’t matter.
The door shut behind you with a soft click. Steve walked in last, and you didn't put distance between you two, though right now looking at him through wet lashes you wish you did.
His eyes reflected the gloomy sky outside, his lips were pink and plump, and you felt yourself being drawn closer and closer to him, as did he.
The storm outside cracked again, lightning flashing briefly through the thin curtains, illuminating the space in stark white for half a second, loud thunder taking you out of your trance, Steve jerking away like he was burned.
"I, uh… I think we lost them." Your voice was shaky and unsure.
“Not bad,” he added, quieter now, his eyes flicking over your face like he was reassessing something.
You scoffed lightly. “High praise.”
PRESENT
“Fireworks are about to start,” someone called from across the yard.
And just like that, the moment broke, and your attentions turned to the mission at hand: while everyone is distracted, get into Fisk's office and copy all of his intel.
Steve leaned down slightly as people shifted away in the direction of the fireworks, his lips brushing near your ear, voice low. “You’re laying it on thick.”
“Am I?” you murmured back, sly smirk playing on your lips.
“A little.”
You pulled back just enough to meet his eyes. "You should go for the office. I'll keep watch."
Steve looked at you like he wanted to say something, but nodded and snuck away, your eyes immediately making sure all persons of interest were accounted for and not in the office.
The party swelled around you.
Fireworks cracked overhead in bursts of red and gold, laughter spilling across Fisk’s perfectly manicured lawn, glasses clinking, music humming low beneath it all.
Steve had been gone for about five minutes when you noticed Dex was gone mid conversation with Claire and her husband Matthew. You saw the little flop of blonde hair make its way into the house and your blood ran cold.
Steve.
“I’m gonna grab another drink,” you said lightly, lifting your empty glass as proof, bee-lining up the stairs on the porch and to the kitchen.
You moved like you weren’t tracking footsteps that weren’t yours, counting seconds, mapping distance in your head.
You slipped inside through the side door, heels soft against polished floors, your breath steady even as your pulse kicked harder.
You moved faster, turning the corner just in time to see the office door slightly ajar, light spilling out onto the hallway, and footsteps approaching from the opposite direction.
You pushed the door open and slipped inside, Steve standing by the big mahogany table with a thumbdrive pluggesd into the desktop, downloading everything.
“What—”
“Dex,” you cut him off, already crossing the room. “Coming.” His expression shifted instantly, worry, anxiety, combat.
A shadow passed the crack of the door and you closed the distance between you, pushing yourself to sit on top of the table and pulled Steve to stand between your legs. Your hands grabbed his shirt, yanking him down toward you hard enough to make him stumble.
He exhaled harshly the second your lips touched, tasting the vanilla macadamia flavor of your lipgloss. Your tongue licked into his mouth and one of his hands found the plane of your back, the other bracing against the desk behind you as he backed you further into it, the impact soft but enough to sell it.
“Mm—” you exhaled softly, the sound slipping out before you could stop it.
Your fingers thread through his hair as you sighed against him, losing yourself in the cedarwood of his cologne, the taste of beer on his tongue, and—
The door creaked open lgithly with someone's breathy "oh." coming through at the sight.
You didn't pull away, didn't even flinch. If anything, you leaned in more, your body pressing fully into his, your mouth lingering just long enough to make the moment undeniable.
You heard a the sound of someone clearing their throat, and that made both of you break apart. Your lips brushed his once more before you turned your head, like you’d just noticed her. “Oh—” you said, a little breathless, but smiling.
“Sharon,” your eyes widened slightly when you looked behind you, a flush creeping into your expression like you’d been caught.
Her gaze drifted from his hands on you to the hem of your summer dress, pulled up and draped high on your thighs, then up to your hands in his hair and Steve's face — his expression a mix of very confused, flustered, and fucked out.
Steve cleared his throat, stepping back just slightly, like he was trying to recover something that had already slipped.
“We were just—”
“—busy,” you finished easily, sliding off the desk but not moving far from him.
“…right,” she said after a second, her lips pressing into something that wasn’t quite a smile. "Well, enjoy the, uh… the party."
You stifled a laugh, biting your lip, as she walked away leaving the door open behind her. You hopped off the desk as Steve got his brain working again.
“What the hell was that?” His voice cut through it, low and sharp.
You shrugged. "Saved your ass, you're welcome." You smoothed the hem of your dress against your thighs and walked around the desk, making your way out the door as Steve hushedly called out for you, swiming the thumb drive into his pocket before following you out of the house.
Your heels hit the pavement in sharp, even beats, your jaw locked, your eyes fixed straight ahead like if you didn’t look back, he wouldn’t follow.
Fuck him and his long legs that caught up to you as soon as you reached your lawn.
You stormed into your kitchen, pushing the door closed quicky to slam it behind you, but making it hit Steve on the shoulder as he crowded the space behind you. “Hey—” he pushed still, stepping closer. “No, seriously. What was that?”
You still gave him nothing, your jaw tightened. You stood with your back to the kitchen island, fingers gripping the marble, biting your own cheek. Your gaze stayed anywhere but him.
“That wasn’t about getting caught,” he said. “You knew she—” Then it seemed to dawn on him. “You kissed me to make her jealous.” His voice was incredulous, almost like he solved a decade long mystery right then and there. "You were jealous."
You scoffed, still not meeting his eye. "Jealous? Over you? Plea—"
He crowded you even more now, bending down to look for your gaze and force you to meet his, sly smile playing on his lips. "You were jealous."
You huffed, finally looking into his eyes, sunlight playing on his face making the blue just a tad lighter. Steve had his bottom lip trapped between his teeth, almost waiting for a response from you.
For what it felt like a second and a day all at once, your brain went numb.
And then your hands were on each side of his face, bringing his lips to crash into yours.
Steve's lips were warm against your mouth in the same way they were minutes ago. He stepped forward, towering over you making you tilt your head up to keep the kiss going, his hands grabbing your hips as he pressed you against the counter.
He licked into your mouth and your hands fell to the nape of his neck, his shoulders, and finally his arms.
Steve leaned over, pushing you back further, until you had no more oxygen to burn in your lungs and you broke the kiss, making him kiss your jaw, below your ear, and down your neck. "You had no reason to be jealous, you know."
He grinded his hips against yours, letting you feel the length of him hardening by the minute. "'M not jealous." You felt underwater, dizzy, borderline having fuzzies in your vision.
Steve chuckled against your neck, the warm breath making shivers run down your spine, his hands dropping to graze outside of your thighs. "Mmhmm." His right hand brushed over your thigh and made it way to your core, tickling the skin of your inner thigh.
His fingers quickly found the wet spot on the front of your underwear, kissing his way back towards your lips. When he pressed deep circled into it, he felt you sigh into his mouth.
"Steve… People might see…"
"Don't care" he pressed his fingers harder, until your hips were bucking to get more friction, and you were whining against him. Words came muffled against your mouth. "Not jealous, huh? Didn't want me a single bit, right?"
You scoffed despite youself, "You're the one that came into your pants the other day."
That did it.
Skin to skin. His rough fingers sliding through your soaked slit, dragging your arousal across your folds, teasing you right at the entrance. You broke off mid-sentence, a soft whimper catching in your throat.
His thumb easily found your clit, and one of your hands squeezed around his bicep while the other pulled at the hair at the nape of his neck, your moans getting breathier and breathier by the minute.
His fingers thrusted in and out of you bringing you to an edge so close you could taste it, letting out little pants by the crook of his neck, inflating Steve's ego, making more blood rush south. "Wanna try that again?"
He curled them just right, your slick coating his knuckles as your hips twitched against his hand.
Your head fell back, lips parting on a desperate moan. "N-not jealous…" through gritted teeth, making him click his tongue.
"Suit yourself." And just like that, his fingers were gone, slick mess on your thighs and an unsatisfied beast inside of you.
"Steve, what the—"
He pulled away the slightest bit and bent down, lacing his arm around your legs and throwing you over his shoulder, walking away in the direction of the stairs.
Steve nudged your bedroom door open once you got upstairs and flopped you down on the bed, making you bounce on the mattress.
He hovered over you, settling between your legs and rubbing the heat of him against you, while one if his hands snuck to the back of your dress and pulled the zipper down. He pulled the clothing item down your body as he kissed the same path, and soon you were only in his shirt and a thong.
Your legs opened to accommodate him further, thighs falling to your sides, and he slotted himself chest to mattress, lips barely an inch away from your pussy. Steve kissed your inner thigh once, then again, and your fingers threaded through his hair.
"She's wetter than that night," He spoke softly, but his voice had a dark tone to it, blue eyes staring up at you. "Can't blame me from coming in my boxers when," and a bite to your flesh. "you were grinding a wet spot onto me, honey."
Fuck him and that nickname.
His middle finger came to curl beyond the hem, pulling the sticky wet fabric down your thighs, and both of his thumbs spread your lips, watching your hole clench around nothing.
His gaze once again reached yours, almost asking for permission.
You didn't seem to be able to find it in you to say anything, not a single word but a quiet "Please." leaving your lips.
The second his tongue touched your slit, you were all the way back in that mission in Colombia. Wet, horny, and almost begging him.
At the first taste of you, one would think Steve got possessed, quickly settling further into the mattress and wrapping his arms around your thighs, holding them open. "F-fuck, Steve—"
He groaned against you, the vibration going through you like electricity through water. His tongue traced your entrance, nose nudging your clit, and your back arched off the bed slightly, pushing your hips closer to his face.
Steve's fingers pressed against the tops of your thighs with bruising strength, not that you minded.
Not at all.
He licked zigzag patterens up and down your slit, and then would circle your clit with his tongue, sucking the nerves into his mouth and flicking it. "O-oh my God."
He chuckled into you, "Stop squirming."
Like you could help it. Like it was your damn fault he let Sharon touch him and flirt with him and all but forced you to make sure everyone bought this sham of a marriage.
"Easier— fuck me, easier said than done, Rogers." Your nails scratched deeper into his scalp.
Steve angled his head differently so he could tense his tongue and fuck you while his thumb moved from your thigh to rub quick circles onto your clit.
Your thighs closed around his head, eyes squeezing shut as you heard him breathe heavy against you. Steve's other hand landed on your breast, kneading the skin there, pinching and pulling a nipple drawing a mewl out of you.
"Steve, Steve, I'm— fuck, I'm gonna—"
You really shouldn't have told him, though he'd know you were close judging by the little flutters of your walls around his tongue.
He pulled away harshly, chin slick and lips swollen, his hair a mess from you running your fingers through it.
He stood by the foot of the bed, stripping down to nothing watching your dumbfounded fucked out expression. Your hair was matted, your nipples were hard, and there was a wet spot on the white comforter under you.
In front of you, though, stood 230lbs of pure, unadultered, perfectly sculped by God, blond 100% American Prime Steve Rogers.
Standing naked, tall, thick and proud.
And hard.
Your mouth salivated at the sight, looking at the leaking head of him appear and disappear inside his fist with each slick stroke he gave himself. Steve caught your ankle with his other hand, and pulled you to the edge of the bed, your toes touching the soft carpet of the bedroom.
He turned you around, fingers gripping the linen of his shirt you had on, dragging it down your arms but not over your wrists, twisting the fabric around his own fist.
And just like that, you were face and shoulders down on the mattress with your wrists tied behind you, feeling him rub the head of his cock up and down your puffy slit, coating himself in your wetness.
Steve heard a muffled whine from you, any words being impacted by the fabric of the bedding, "What was that, sweetheart?" He leaned over you, the tip of him notching just a smidge further.
You turned your head to the side. "Steve, please…"
He clicked his tongue again. "No, you didn't want me, remember? Think I shouldn't even be doing this to you."
He motioned to pull out and you whined louder. "She— she was all o-over you…" Tears pricked your eyes from the pressure in your chest, from the ache between your legs, from the desperation of being kept at the edge.
“Steve, please put it in…”
"Yeah?" He gave you the cue to keep going, pushing in unbearably slow and barely any.
You nodded against the mattress. "Pissed me off." You gulped. "Please, please don't leave me like this…"
"All you had to do was stop being such a brat about it."
And then he thrust in enough to knock the air out of your lungs. The squelch of his cock pushing into you was obscene. And in your mind every inch he pushed after that thrust had one though going through your head:
There's more?!
"Oh God…"
That made Steve chuckle. "Just me, baby."
"Is— is it all in?" Your voice trembled, and if you had a mirror you'd see Steve's evil smirk as he dragged your wrists down to where your bodies connected, arching your back and hurting you with the stretch, only to wrap your delicate hands around what was left of him.
"Barely half." He grunted.
You whimpered, both in fear and anticipation, and Steve took the queue to push the rest of the way through, until your hand was flat on his pelvis, and then he let you rest against the mattress again.
"So fucking good." He gave a couple tentative thrusts. "Can feel you gripping me like you don't wanna let me go."
You moaned at the feel of him hitting that sweet spot inside of you, making your eyes roll. "So— hah! Good, Steve…"
After he felt your pussy get used to the size of him, that when he really stopped playing nice.
You could feel every ridge of him, every vein, the length of him pulsing and pulsing inside of you, throbbing against the spongy spot that made you see stars.
“Steve, please, please let me—“
Another harsh thrust interrupted you. “Tell me the truth then.”
You whimpered. The bastard was really going to make you admit it.
As you tried to think through it, brainless as you were, he slowed down, and down, until you could feel the pulse of his cock inside of you just as he could feel your walls flutter around him.
You whimpered, cheeks blushing at the thought. “I was jealous! I was jealous, okay?!” You pushed your hips into him, chasing friction harder, deeper.
“She thought she could have you and— and—“ He picked up the pace, your brain mush as your neck strained to keep your voice from being muffled. “And you’re my— Oh— oh my God!”
“Yeah?” Steve leaned over you, fingers finding your clit with ease. “I’m your what?”
You could cry. You could cry right no— oh you had tears streaming from your eyes onto the bedding. “Steve…”
His eyes rolled to the back of his head.
“That’s right, I’m your Steve.” His fingers picked up speed as did his hips, lips kissing your shoulder blade. “Come for me, pretty girl. Come all over my cock.”
“Mmmmngghhh—“ your vision went white, your body clenching tight around him and pulsing, as your moans got drowned out outside by the fireworks still going.
Steve slammed his hips deeper into you, to the point of almost painful, muttering curse words in sequence of “fuck, fuck, fuck.” until you felt him spill thick ropes of cum inside of you, filling you up until it dripped onto the floor.
As you both caught your breaths, you heard the wet schlick of him pulling out, dropping himself on the bed with a bounce.
After a minute, you spoke. "There's gonna be so much paperwork to explain all this..."
He looked at an imaginary watch on his wrist, turning to you with that boyish smile of his, sheen coat of sweat on his chest and hairline. “Got time for a couple more rounds before all that. You tapped out?”
You smirked at him, using your arms to push yourself up, hands on his chest for leverage as you straddled him, slick pussy on top of his hardening cock.
“I could do this all day, Cap.”
final thoughts: this started as me and Maddie just thirsting over the shower scene, and then... yeah... heh
bucky x blackwidow!reader
You and Bucky Barnes go undercover as a married couple, but when a fake kiss gets too real, he unexpectedly finishes in his pants—leaving you both stunned.
── tags ✩
18+ content minors dni, smut, fem reader, dry humping, blindfolding, handjobs, fondling, nudity, dry humping, blowjob, grinding, female masterbation, soft dom vibes reader, soft sub vibes bucky, bucky is touch starved, premature ejaculation, clothed ejaculation, reader has dubious methods of coping, previous sa of reader and bucky, ex black widow reader, mentions of red room, very consensual, safe words, use of safe word/motion, kissing, panic attacks, bucky barnes needs a hug, undercover missions, missions gone wrong, vomiting/puking, overstimulation, crying, teasing, if you squint, there's some plot, fluff, angst, bickering, major arguments, sparring, training, mentions of alcohol, injury, bloodr, eader is lowkey depressed, trauma. mentions of past violence, death and war, no use of y/n, mood boards do not represent reader's appearance, lmk if i've missed anything - will be updated with each part
─── main masterlist ✩
─── PARTS [6/7] ✩
✩ part one
✩ part two
✩ part three
✩ part four
✩ part five
✩ part six
Your lives have always moved in parallel: close enough to touch, yet separated by an irreconcilable distance. Bucky is a prince and you are his sister's lady-in-waiting. But love ignores rank, and so does the kingdom's newest desire-inducing substance.
▸ PAIRING: Prince!Bucky Barnes x Lady-in-Waiting!Reader
▸ WARNINGS: NSFW 18+, dubcon because of sex pollen, so much yearning, slight hurt/comfort, public sex, porn with too much plot tbh, possessive!bucky, degradation, filthy talk that border on dubcon but know that she wants to be there as much as him, breeding kink, insecurities, both virgins, bucky is nasty and a lil mean under the influence, probably a lot of historical inaccuracies
▸ WORD COUNT: 16.1K
▸ A/N: "this will be a short pwp," i say, famous last words. thank you so much to @iamthatonefangirl and @barnesonly for organizing this collab. dedicated to @artficlly in honor of pursuit of jade episode 37 iykyk — i'm gifting you the sex pollen by the stream that we never got <3 hope you enjoy this baby of mine. if you do, please let me know your thoughts (even if they are incoherent) through reblogs, comments, and likes!!
↤ main masterlist | bwat summer masterlist
Princes James Buchanan Barnes has everything he could ever want. A palace fit for the king that he will eventually become. Mountains of jewels that shine brighter than the sun and all the stars combined. Bespoke dress uniforms made from the finest fabrics, adorned with elegant aiguillettes and medals of his valor in battles fought and won. Countless women and men alike throwing themselves at his feet for the opportunity of him even sparing them the briefest of glances.
But the only one he truly wants, the only person he truly wishes to hold, is the one thing he cannot have — and it’s you.
You’ve been destined to become Princess Becca’s helper since you were born. Your mother had served the family for two generations; you were born in the palace, raised in the hustle and bustle of the castle with all the live-in staff. You spent years refining your cooking skills in the kitchen that seemed to function twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, decades toiling away in the garden with the landscaper to take care of the queen’s prized roses, and occasionally sneaking into the palace library for a quick novel or two when your mother took her eyes off you.
It was a natural pathway for someone who wasn’t born to nobility yet was constantly surrounded by it.
Fortunately, growing up in this kingdom that is governed with kindness and compassion means that there are paths to advancement that you never anticipated, mainly becoming Becca’s lady-in-waiting. The two of you had been raised together, joint at the hip, to the point where you may not even distinguish which of you is the real princess. The king and queen had welcomed you as if you were one of their own.
Of course, you know that it’s far from the truth. Despite their accommodations and generosity, you’ve always known your place in society. There is a reason why Becca is the one covered in silver and gold, while you’re handstitching the holes in your clothes. She’s seated at a table for twelve with a wide array of dishes and pastries all created to her liking, while you join your fellow staff members for a family meal, cramped together in a table meant for half of you.
You’ve always drawn that line, regardless of how many times Becca tries to cross it.
“Come now, you must come with me to Viscountess Romanoff’s ball!” She huffs, stomping her feet as she always does when she does not get what she wants.
You let out a sigh and Becca’s face falls as she prepares herself for your disappointing response. “Princess—” she glares and you bite your tongue, “Becca, that is not my place.”
“Of course, it is! Many ladies-in-waiting go to these balls.”
“Ladies-in-waiting that were born into nobility,” you correct her with a look.
“It doesn’t matter. You’re my lady-in-waiting and I need you there to— to— fix my dress!”
You know it isn’t true — well, it is only true to the extent that Becca may become ridiculously inebriated and has to be stowed away before she can go as far as risk the royal family’s reputation, and you somehow have become the most reliable person for those circumstances.
However, there are many there that will surely keep her on her toes — literally, including her brother.
“Did you hear that? She needs you to fix her dress. You simply have to attend now.”
The interruption brings both of your attention to the door where Bucky is leaning against the doorway, a smirk curled on his lips. His eyes skip past Becca and land on you and — heaven almighty.
He drinks you in, you in your simple gown, yet his sapphire eyes warm all the same. They darken like the evening has arrived far too early and the moon is nowhere in sight. His smile dims slightly, if only for him to clamp down on the inappropriate sound that climbs up his throat.
Bucky has never been good at subtlety.
You drag your eyes away and back to the lady that you’re supposed to be waiting on. The lady who is currently huffing and puffing as she plops down on the sofa with a scowl. “Will you please convince her to come, Buck?”
He steps further into the room. The air is a little heavier, like his presence has sucked all the oxygen out of the space — but only for you. Your fingers twist quietly together in front of you as you force yourself to stand upright, force yourself to keep looking ahead when his arm brushes yours — an inappropriate proximity for a prince and a member of the staff.
Discreetly, you take one step to the side, just enough to put distance that allows you room to breathe, lest you risk Becca suspecting something transpiring between the two of you.
“You should come,” Bucky murmurs. His gaze is warm on your cheek. His blue eyes no doubt soft as they take you in.
You resist and instead address Becca. “That would be unacceptable, Pr— Becca. Please. The crown prince will be in attendance and the viscountess’ staff are more than capable. I’ve met many of them and you will be in good hands.”
“Well, the crown prince would appreciate his ability to drink the viscountess’ liquor supply for the night without worrying about whether his dear sister can control her alcohol,” Bucky chimes in, which earns a roll of the eyes from Becca.
“I can control my drinking, Bucky. Can you control your deviant desires in the presence of all the other women in the ton?”
Your heart skips a beat. A little nick in your chest to draw blood. You can practically hear the smile wipe off Bucky’s face, his face red as he grits his teeth. “You know that’s not true, sister dear. I’ve never once laid a hand on them.”
“Doesn’t mean you don’t try,” Becca shoots right back.
Another scratch, enough to peel back another layer to your bleeding heart.
It shouldn’t — doesn’t — matter. There has never been anything between you and Bucky. He is the crown prince and you were born to be a lady’s maid at best; it was only the queen’s philanthropy and Becca’s friendship that you were granted this promotion.
Bucky is meant to marry a princess from another kingdom, or at the least someone born to a proper, respectable family with titles.
Neither of which is you.
“Rebecca Marie Barnes.” Bucky’s voice is sharp; it slices through the air and straight towards Becca whose face goes cold the moment it lands.
Becca’s lips purse in annoyance. “I’m going to look for a dress for tonight.” Then she’s lifting her dress and stomping away.
You make a move to follow, only for Bucky to swiftly take your hand. You don’t turn. Bucky forces you to when he tugs you towards him, spinning you around so you land against his chest. You’re quick to flatten your palm on it to push yourself away, but instead, he catches your hand and presses it over his heart.
“It’s not true,” he murmurs. “I’ve never once shown any of them any interest.”
Don’t cry. You’d be a fool to cry over a prince. You steel your gaze as you look up at him. “It would be in your right to do so. A crown prince is meant to take a wife.”
Irritation flickers across his eyes. “There’s only one woman I wish to take as a wife but she seems to deny me that right at every turn. What say you to that?”
“A crown prince is meant to take a proper wife. One fit for the ton.”
“I don’t give a damn about the ton.”
“Bucky!” The chiding comes out on instinct, his name sliding on your tongue like water. Habit — one that you should’ve curbed a long time ago if it weren’t for the two of them always insisting that you call them by their names.
Bucky’s face thaws, mouth curving into a delighted smile. You try to extract yourself from his grasp again but fail to do so when he ducks his head, lips brushing the shell of your ear. A shiver snakes up your spine as he drags you closer to him. “I love when you say my name. I’d love it even more if you called me your husband.”
Your traitorous heart slams against your ribs. Foolish desires plague your very being. It’s been decades since you were first introduced to Bucky, ten years since you first defended Becca against Bucky’s teasing, and far too long since you first fell for the crown prince.
It’s not as if your feelings are not reciprocated; Bucky has made it clear from the start that he adores you dearly. Adores you in a way that is far from acceptable for a prince. But your mother has reminded you time and time again that, no matter how intimately acquainted you are with them, you will never be one of them.
And Bucky deserves a partner — an equal. Someone who can stand tall and proud beside him without the risk of gossip and mockery. You would only give him grief and he would certainly bore of you in the future once the thrill of the chase is done.
So you exert more effort this time to push him away. “Prince Barnes, I must ask you to maintain some semblance of decorum. If you’ll excuse me, I have to tend to the princess.” You do a small curtsy, ignoring the flash of pain in his eyes as you walk away.
This is how it’s supposed to be. This has always been your fate.
“You have to try this on. Please? For me?”
It begins as an innocent enough request. Becca was in the midst of selecting her gown for the evening and that meant that you were right by her side, providing her with the necessary words of affirmation for her to make a decision.
These are the most challenging questions that royalty have to deal with. Sometimes you dream of living such a comfortable life, pampered daily with the sweetest of treats and lavishing yourself with the praise of society. However, you know that things aren’t so simple. There are restrictions that come with being part of this family.
You saw firsthand how many classes Becca had to take as part of her education — in addition to the typical academic courses, she had to spend hours learning proper etiquette, how to sew, how to play a musical instrument, how to entertain and host a gathering. They had to prepare her for her future as a wife. While options are limited for women in society, they are practically a straight-line path for a princess who is not in line for the throne.
Her career, her future, her partner — everything is almost pre-destined.
One day, Becca will marry someone. While she dreams of a happily ever after, she also understands the political nature of matrimony. To maintain power, you have to seek power. She may not be here a few years from now when she’s officially married off to extend her father’s reign. Her parents have insisted that they would never force her to marry, but Becca has always had a strong sense of responsibility.
You both admire and hold sympathy for her.
Unfortunately, in this very moment, you would like to push her out of the carriage so you too could make your escape. Somehow, she has managed to rope you into going to the ball — in one of her dresses.
“This is completely inappropriate,” you hiss. “I should not be here.”
“I want you here.”
“Becca,” you exhale deeply, “if your parents knew about this.”
“It’s a masquerade ball! Nobody will know.”
“I’m coming with you! I fear that makes it quite obvious.”
“I’ll tell them you’re one of our very distant cousins — one from a land far, far away.”
You pinch your nose as the carriage rattles, the silk of your glove glides along your skin. Pulling your hand away, you can’t help but look at the delicate fabric on your skin.
When you first tried the clothes on, you could hardly believe your eyes. You didn’t even look like… you. Gone were your well-worn gowns. The tightness of the corset has you a little breathless, but the dress adorned with intricate sequins and embroidery sliding over your body like water. The silver shimmers underneath the moonlight that spills past the curtains of the carriage, white camellias sewn in a river down your shoulder to your waist.
You reach up to tuck your hair behind your ear, only for your fingers to brush over the diamond necklace that Becca has so thoughtfully loaned you. The gems catch light, winking at you as if they’re letting you in on a secret. Then your fingers catch on your mask, a combination of beads and lace trimming, the same flowers framing the corners of your eyes.
In all your life, you could never have even dared to dream of wearing such things. You never imagined that you would be swimming in such luxury.
If your mother could see you now, she would absolutely murder you. She would bury you six feet under before the royal guards could even get to you.
You know that neither the queen nor king would mind, but what would the rest of them think if they knew? What if they found out that you were no more than a girl born into somewhat fortunate circumstances? That your blood was redder than most of them. Common.
A hand lands atop yours. Becca peeks at you with a nervous smile. “Hey, it’ll be fun. You’ve never been to one of these. Please try to enjoy yourself. I promise that nobody will say a thing.”
“What if I stand out? What if they know that I don’t fit in with the rest of them?” You whisper.
Becca squeezes your hand. “If you stand out, it’s because you look far more beautiful than the rest of them. If you stand out, it’s because they are looking at you with envy. You could’ve easily been the diamond of the season.”
Warmth creeps up your neck as the carriage pulls to a stop. You can already hear the music filtering through the entrance; the sound mingles with the fast rhythm of your heartbeat in a symphony that echoes through your mind.
“Showtime,” she beams.
Now, as someone who has been directly involved in the planning, decorating, and organizing of the extravaganzas, you’ve seen your fair share of ridiculously opulent displays. The palace is, after all, renowned for hosting the grandest of balls, bringing together only the who’s who of society. The guest list is selective, both for security and exclusivity reasons. It is the most sought-after invitation of the season. So when you walk into the viscountess’ home, you didn’t think you would be impressed.
However, you have never been happier to be proven wrong. Every inch of this place has been meticulously swathed in a color scheme perfect for the summer. Florals in every shade of the sunset draped across banisters, hanging over the staircase leading down to the dance floor, and standing tall in structures that do not look humanly possible.
Butlers and maids dressed head to toe in fine fabrics float around the room carrying hors d'oeuvres that look more like miniature works of art. Macarons that match the colors of the flower arrangements, tarts with crusts that crumble perfectly on your tongue, bonbons in perfect spheres dusted in cocoa, and fruits plucked from the vines at their ripest, sweetest point.
The stars twinkle above you to complement the tiny candles that string across the railings to illuminate the room, only outshone by the chandeliers with flickering flames hanging above you. Guests in their Sunday bests drift around the room in excited chatter, spreading the newest gossip that will surely make the papers by morning.
Heads turn as you and Becca enter the room and, before you can duck behind her, she’s linking her arm through yours and pulling you forward into the crowd.
“Becca—”
“Breathe, this will be fun. Enjoy the treats and the wine. The viscountess has exceptional taste, she has gathered the best chefs in the kingdom in her kitchen. Mother simply adores visiting her for tea for the food alone.”
Becca walks through the room with the confidence of someone who owns it. Everyone knows her as the princess even hidden behind the mask, murmurs of awe rippling across the crowd. The men pay particularly close attention, eager to get hers. The women speak of her in resentful admiration.
Becca — the belle of the ball. You, her companion.
“They’re looking at you,” she giggles quietly in your ear.
“No, they’re looking at you, Princess.”
“I’ve been in enough of these rooms to know when people are looking at me. While some are focused on me, most of them are keeping a close eye on you.”
“Likely to see when they would have the opportunity to speak to you alone no doubt,” you mutter under your breath.
Becca frowns at you. “Must you be so cynical? You look absolutely stunning. If you gave the room a chance, you’d know how many of them are keen on dancing with you. In fact, why don’t we put it to a test?”
Right as you’re about to ask her what she means, Becca moves away from you, pretending to be drawn by the dessert that appears to be running away from her. Her name leaves your mouth but you don’t get very far when three men approach you. All of them impeccably dressed, all of them handsome — at least, from what you can see with the mask.
“My lady, would you grant me the honor of joining me for a dance?”
Your lips part in surprise, eyes darting around the room to search for the princess. Becca stands off in a corner, grinning proudly to herself as she nibbles on a cream puff. You bite down the urge to curse before politely turning to the men. “My apologies, I should be getting back to my companion. I can’t leave her for far too long.”
You take a step and one of them moves directly in your path. “I’m sure she’ll find the company of others just as pleasant. Please, you must grant each of us a dance. It would be a privilege for us.”
Although you’ve danced before, it’s mostly to help Becca with her training. You have no idea how these dances work during the balls — the coordination, the etiquette. Your heart begins to race as your throat closes in a panic.
“I can’t—”
“One. One song is all I ask.”
“Then mine next.”
“And then me.”
Your chest flares as you search around the room for Becca again but she is nowhere to be found. Your skin begins to burn as your survival instincts kick in. The last thing you need is for these men to notice and question how they’ve never seen you before at such events, and you would have to craft a convoluted fib that you would be forced to maintain.
Just as you are about to deny them again, a hand presses against the low of your back.
“My lady.”
The voice grounds you in a familiar presence. You look up to find Bucky — even through the mask, you’d know it was him. His favorite cologne clings to the threads of his jacket and his hair, thick and styled, is one you can practically feel on your fingertips. Those days spent by the riverbend, his head on your lap as you read him sonnets—
No. This is not the time to be sentimental.
“Your royal highness.” The men stumble over each other to greet him, their energy shifting to nervous jitters as they look amongst each other.
“I believe the point of the masks is anonymity,” he says smoothly. “Now, if you wouldn’t mind, I would like to invite this lovely lady to a dance.”
He doesn’t wait for your answer, he simply takes your hand and whisks you into the crowd. You don’t have time to think about the consequences of this, more relieved that you’ve escaped that sticky situation.
“Thank you,” you breathe out.
“I believe I should be thanking you for this dance,” he grins.
“How did you find me?”
“I could find you even if you were across the world, mon cher.” You roll your eyes and Bucky huffs a quiet laugh. “I don’t think you’re supposed to respond that way to the crown prince.”
“Perhaps if the crown prince didn’t use such predictably embarrassing lines.”
His lips curl again. “I noticed you the moment you walked into the room. Most beautiful woman tonight. Most beautiful woman I’ve ever known, in fact.”
“Haven’t you been taught that dishonesty is unbecoming on a man?” You snip back.
“You wound me,” he gives a little shake of his head, “Out of everyone, you know that you would be the last person I would attempt to bathe in false affirmations. I know you can see through those pretenses.”
“Then why try?”
“Oh ye of little faith. If you wanted praise from me, you could just say so—”
You balk, snapping back in surprise. “That was not my intention!”
Bucky squeezes your hand as he shifts you around the room. It is then that you realize he’s been guiding your movements all along, every one of your steps falling in line with the others around you. He’s always been a good dancer, far better than Becca who had resisted these lessons for the longest time.
“You look absolutely ravishing tonight,” he ducks his head to whisper in your ear. The smell of him infiltrates your senses, his warmth, the brush of his hair against your cheek. “Of course, you could’ve worn nothing at all and you would undoubtedly still be the most fetching person in this room.”
“If I wore nothing at all, then I’m sure I would fetch the eyes of everyone in this room,” you tease with a small quirk of your lips.
Bucky goes momentarily taut, stiff as he spins you and then pulls you in even closer. His hands tighten around you, like he’s fearful you would slip away at any moment. “Thank the heavens you opted for clothing today. I would rather not imagine anyone else seeing you in such a state. I’d have to dramatically increase this kingdom’s beheading rate. If I do that, what kingdom would I have left to rule?”
“Because you’d have to eliminate the witnesses to my humiliation of the royal family?”
“Because I have limited self-restraint when it comes to you.” You cock an eyebrow in question. “I would have to eliminate anyone who has ever seen you in such an intimate state. I’m a tad possessive you see, I’d rather be the only person alive who’s ever seen you in all of your raw beauty.”
Heat flushes along your skin, a sudden rise in temperature that rarely occurs at this time in the evening. “You’ve never seen me in such a state.”
“I would be the first and the last, my dear. I’ve never been very good at sharing.”
“I am not an object to own, your royal highness,” you bite out with a sour curl of your lips.
“You’re not,” Bucky murmurs softly, “but my heart belongs to you and I was hoping that yours to me — and your affection is the one thing I refuse to ration.”
You look up to meet his eyes. Earnest blue eyes that are far too honest for your liking. That gaze that’s dripping with the kind of affection he cannot counterfeit. Your movements nearly falter, your knees suddenly weak, but Bucky holds onto you even tighter.
“Bucky, I—”
Your gaze snags on the view behind him — a line of women watching the two of you, glowering green seeing your frame tucked against Bucky’s. Women who undoubtedly come from near and far in search of a notable husband to match or increase their standing in society. What better catch than a prince?
Instead of investing his time looking for a proper candidate for a wife, he is instead wasting these minutes with you. It’s been three songs, far from appropriate for two acquaintances, suspicious enough that you can hear the whispers of speculation begin to circulate the room. As the song comes to an end, you’re quick to curtsy in front of him.
“Thank you for the dance.”
You whirl around before he can say another word and disappear into the throng, leaving Bucky to be swarmed by women who are far better suited for him.
Becca stands by a corner, having watched all of this transpire. She’s barely paying any mind to the gentlemen suitors around her. When you come around to her, she’s immediately distancing herself and rushing towards you. Her gaze is eager, far too eager.
She’s had at least two drinks then.
“How was it? I saw you out there.”
“It was fine,” you mutter.
“You’ve only had one dance and it was with my brother. Methinks it’s time to expand your registry. How about the Duke? I hear he gets a little bit handsy and a little fun can do no harm.”
After your conversation with Bucky, you seriously doubt that. You would rather avoid this ball turning into a beheading festival tonight — or Bucky ruining his pristine reputation with society when he decides to do an execution in the middle of the dance floor.
Bucky is many things but he is not a liar. Whether he exaggerates is up for debate but that is not a theory you want to test tonight.
“Or shall we have a few more to drink in the meantime? Their champagne is quite lovely. I heard the viscountess had sourced all of the vintages from her favorite year.”
“Ladies.”
Speak of the devil. The two of you find yourselves in front of the viscountess. Even beneath the mask, her vibrant ruby hair is an easy identifier. She is cloaked in a glimmering black fabric with touches of red, breasts pushed up with the tight wrap aroung her waist. Spiders are stitched into her mask, crawling up the sides.
“Lady Romanoff,” Becca cheers, “what a lovely ball you’ve thrown. This is stunning, our chefs simply must learn from yours, otherwise I’d be tempted to sneak a few of those macarons up my sleeve before I leave.”
The viscountess laughs. “Princess, if you desire the macarons, I shall ensure that they are delivered to the palace by the morning. I believe your queen mother is also rather fond of the bonbons I source from France, I’ve already arranged for it to be sent tomorrow and I’ll make sure we include your macarons with that delivery.”
“You are most kind and gracious.”
Then she turns her eyes to you and you freeze. “And I do not believe we’ve met. Your name, dear?”
Your eyes flick to Becca momentarily before returning to her. You should lie. You should give her another name, but the viscountess has been known to be shrewdly intelligent. If you were caught in a fib, you would likely have your tongue cut out. There have been rumors of what she has done outside this kingdom, things that are far from proper; still, nobody has been brave enough to validate any of that gossip.
So you tell her your name.
“And I presume you are the princess’…” she trails off for a second and you go rigid once more, her gaze sharpens a fraction. “…cousin from far, far away?”
“Um, yes! She has decided to do an impromptu visit because she missed me so. I hope you don’t mind my bringing her, my lady.”
Lady Romanoff smiles like she knows — and you have a feeling she does. She simply doesn’t care. After all, she has always danced to her own tune, including how she’s wearing all black tonight that would be typically reserved for funerals.
“Not at all. I hope you enjoy your visit and my ball tonight. I would avoid Lord Smith, he’s in desperate search of a wife and may latch on to the one new face who appears unaware of the reputation of his temper.” Then she laughs.
“Fair advice, Lady Romanoff, thank you,” you murmur.
With one last squeeze of your arm, she brisks away from the two of you. As you follow her movements, you also spot Bucky as he makes his own escape with a few of the gentlemen you’ve seen come around the palace. He turns in time to catch your eye, his mouth curling into a smile as he winks at you from the distance, right as he disappears out the door.
“Now, shall we indulge in more treats?”
You’ve always been a quick study and there are three things that you now understand about the nature of these functions.
The first is to eat your fill — between the champagne and the specially mulled wines, intoxication is a friendly foe that rears its head far too fast. You have to learn to balance properly.
The second is that the marriage market appears dreary. None of the ladies are interested in the gentlemen, no matter how desperately they try. It appears that the women in the room aren’t too afraid of waiting a tad bit longer if it means they could find the one. This means that the gentlemen are far too preoccupied with harassing the help to keep themselves entertained, not that Lady Romanoff tolerates that behavior; she’s kicked out a number of them already.
Last but not least is that Becca is a social butterfly. While you’ve always been familiar with her friendly nature, seeing her out and about like this, crafting budding friendships with every single person in the room, you’re once again reminded of why the two of you were fast friends. Becca has always been more welcoming, conquering all five love languages on top of the three spoken and written ones that she’s already studying. However, following her around, you are also reminded that you are, in fact, not like her and these interactions are beginning to wear you down.
There are only so many ways you can talk about your dress before the discussions start to sound inane.
There are also so many times you can tolerate the way these women look you up and down. What happened to camaraderie? The catty looks are one thing you don’t expect. In your eyes, you’re a nobody who just happened to be playing dress-up thanks to a good friend. However, you can see how you seem from their perspective — close enough to the princess to attend this ball, apparently attractive enough for the crown prince to steal you for more than a handful of minutes.
You swallow the urge to scream, “I’m nothing more than the help!”
“The prince does have peculiar taste, doesn’t he?” One of them comments and you have to resist rolling your eyes, lest you offend her publicly.
“What do you mean?” Becca asks as she nibbles on her third tart of the night.
Expectedly, the girl’s eyes flick to you for a brief second before her lips stretch into smirk. “I assumed he would take a wife by now. Have an heir to continue the lineage. However, it doesn’t seem that anyone in this room suits his preferences. He hasn’t asked anyone to dance yet — and not for a lack of trying from our part.”
“He did have one dance—”
You clear your throat to interrupt Becca. She looks at you quizzically.
God bless her heart. Becca means well but sometimes she misses some of these cues; she’s too trusting, which is why you have to be the exact opposite.
“Apologies, I meant a dance that would count—” she smiles saccharine sweet. “—that would matter. You’re a visiting relative, right?” This question she directs towards you.
All eyes turn to you. The attention has your cheeks burning. “Correct.”
“She’s actually a very dear friend, but she’s practically family. She knows Bucky very well.”
“Is that so?” You don’t appreciate the way the woman’s gaze flashes with something akin to amusement. “Practically a sister then. I don’t believe I recall where you’re from. I haven’t heard anyone speak of you either.”
“I didn’t say.” Your lips twist up in an irritated smile.
Awkward tension falls upon the conversation. Becca looks nervously between the two of you; this cue is far too hard to miss. “That doesn’t matter! What matters is that we are here now. How about we get some lemonade? It’s quite warm here, isn’t it?”
As Becca busies herself with resolving the tension, which is the last thing a princess should be doing, you take this opportunity to slip away from the suffocating atmosphere of the room.
Perhaps the garden can be healing this time of night.
Bucky would rather be anywhere else but here. Let him correct himself — there is exactly one place he would rather be than here and it would be to be back inside. With you. Dancing. Fetching you drinks. Keeping those overly-excited, unworthy vultures away from you.
The moment you stepped through those doors, he knew he was in for a long night of suffering. Time and time again, you’ve rejected his advances. He knows you feel the same way, has felt you leaning into his touch before you would pull yourself away. Your stubbornness has always been endearing, but Bucky yearns for the day when he finally breaks through those walls.
It’s not an if, it’s a when.
Because Bucky has always achieved everything he’s dreamed of and you are his most important one.
However, for now, he is instead subjected to the debauchery of his peers. Dukes, viscounts, and fellow noblemen who have far too much time on their hands to be exploring substances that shouldn’t be explored. Sam is in the midst of lecturing their tight-knit group about this vial he procured while out in the countryside, some fermented liquid that supposedly produces the most vivid, imaginative visions that have you questioning reality.
The others ooh and aah in fascination but Bucky’s eyes continue to stray towards those double-doors where you stand on the other side.
“Your royal highness, I have something that may be of interest to you.”
To that, he does turn with a raised brow.
“I specifically obtained this one for you. I am sympathetic to your cause—” Sam teases and Bucky responds with a withering glare that does nothing to deter his friend. “—and when the time comes and you hope to last, this will be immensely beneficial.”
“His cause is hopeless if he doesn’t do anything about it,” Steve laughs.
“I appreciate your vote of confidence, Rogers. Believe me, it’s not for a lack of trying,” Bucky mutters as he leans back against the stone pillar.
Sam grabs his hand, slips it into his palm and closes his hand around a small tin. “Very potent. I wouldn’t recommend more than a pinchful at a time. A pinchful should last you through an hour, but what a delicious hour it will be.”
He doesn’t know how to tell him that Bucky doesn’t need this sort of chemistry to make him last. Every time he’s near you, his pants tighten like a schoolboy again. Thirteen and realizing that this desire to kiss you isn’t a result of friendship. As he got older, he realized that these urges aren’t those that should be held against his sister’s lady-in-waiting.
Urges that blossomed into far more when he feels his chest constrict, breath stolen from his lungs, whenever he catches a whiff of that perfume. Or how he can’t resist peeking at you from around the corner whenever you sneak into the library, wondering what book has absorbed you this time, how quickly he could read it to spark conversation with you. Or how desperately he tries to make you laugh just to hear that tinkling melody that loops like the nation’s best symphony in his mind.
There are days that Bucky wishes he wasn’t born into this family, that he could be normal, so he wouldn’t be forced upon societal standards that he has no desire to follow. He could pursue you and you wouldn’t constantly put this chasm between you.
But then if he hadn’t been born into this life, then he would’ve never met you. He would have never known what it means for love to consume his very soul, how one person could mean the world to him, to a point where he would give it all up — the riches, the rule — to be with you.
Fate is a funny thing.
“I don’t need this, Wilson,” Bucky grunts as he tries to push it back into Sam’s hands.
Sam raises them. “No, sir. Think of it as an early coronation gift. Perhaps once you can change the rules of the kingdom, you would be inclined to follow them too.”
“Think he’s a jester,” he mutters to Steve with a roll of his eyes.
“In another life, my prince, perhaps in another life,” Sam grins cheekily. “You simply have to breathe it in. Like the usual stuff. Again, very powerful so be careful. Otherwise, you’d be trapped in that state for hours on end and your only relief would be to…”
Bucky’s eyes rise to meet his. Sam only wiggles his eyebrows in response. He makes a face of repulsion. “That’s how you rid yourself of the effects?”
“The more you finish, the lighter the effects will be. However, if you don’t find any form of… relief, then it could last for hours and you’d be hurting everywhere — and I do mean everywhere. It’s the strongest form of desire that can be relieved if you fulfill it.”
Bucky looks down at the tin again. Unassuming. Small. How powerful could this little thing be? He tucks it inside his coat, if only to appease his friend, and lets them resume with the conversation.
By the time they adjourn, Bucky is sufficiently exhausted. All he wants is to go search for you. It’s only been an hour and he already misses you. What a fool he is — if only the kingdom knew that the crown prince’s only weakness is a woman who doesn’t even want him.
As the other men filter back indoors, Bucky moves to follow. That is, until your perfume tickles his senses. You’re outside. He whips around to try and find you but you’re nowhere in sight.
Perhaps this is his chance. The two of you would be in Lady Romanoff’s prized garden, far away from the prying eyes of the palace or the rest of the ton. He looks at Steve and Sam, waves them away. “Go on. I’ll enjoy the fresh air a little bit more.”
“Alright, don’t look too thrilled that all those women inside are waiting for their prince to return.”
Bucky winces. Of course, he’s felt their hungry gazes all night. All of them practically vibrating where they’re standing, fanning themselves a little faster, batting their eyelashes a little more rapidly. He has zero inclination to humor any of them because the one person he wants to dance with is the one who won’t even look at him.
With one final gesture, he begins to prowl further into the grounds, further away from the mansion, to find you.
Little does he know that the tiny tin rattles like a cry against his chest, lid loose as he walks at a pace that’s far from careful.
After exploring the gardens for a bit, you almost wish that Lady Romanoff would adopt you under her wing to understand her excellent taste in design and decoration. The architecture is as old as time. Each brick feels intentionally placed like it’s meant to be part of history. The stream that sits quietly further away from the palace brings a touch of natural life to the otherwise manmade masterpiece.
A boat sits swaying in the gentle evening breeze and you’re half tempted to paddle yourself out to the middle to find some form of peace. However, given how deep it is into nightfall, you assume you’d have to eventually make your way back to find Becca. She’s promised not to touch another drop of champagne for the evening so you trust her to make good decisions.
Just as you turn to begin your journey back to the mansion, the last person you expect is standing before you.
“Bucky, what are you doing here?”
In the darkness, he stumbles towards you, mumbling incoherently. You strain your ears to decipher him but it’s near impossible when his words blur together. He’s clearly intoxicated. You wonder how much liquor Steve and Sam have fed him and lord knows what else.
When he finally stands where the moonlight shines across the concrete, you see the flush that sprawls like an illness across his skin. His breathing is labored and his fingers continue to tug at the collar of his shirt, clawing almost desperately. With his mask long gone, you can see how his pupils are blown wide as they drink in the sight of you, a mix of relief and desire in the constantly shifting shades of his ocean eyes.
He breathes out your name like a prayer when he sees you. “Gods, you look…” he trails off again as he moves towards you, walking side to side as if his legs can’t bear the weight of him.
You catch him before he can topple over, his entire body draped over yours. You thank the heavens that you’ve done enough manual labor in your life that you’re able to prop him up, pushing him up against the wall. Your hands on his shoulders as you frown at him.
He doesn’t smell too heavily of liquor but there are strange particles on his coat that you suspect are the reason why he’s behaving like this. You bite back the urge to scold the crown prince of all people to be more responsible. When you look up at him, he’s looking down at you with a lazy smirk.
“Bucky, what did you take?”
“Y’smell…” he leans forward again, nearly tipping over but his nose ends up buried in your neck. You feel him inhale, deep, before a long, extremely indecorous moan rumbles against your skin. Heat slithers up your spine, pushing your blood south between your legs. “Fuck, you smell so good.”
Biting your tongue, you try to push him back against the wall but he’s faster. His arms wrap around you, holding you tight against his chest as his mouth trails warm against your skin. He whispers your name again — like a promise. “Bucky, please, I can’t help you like this.”
“Need—” he chokes then, whimpering.
“What do you need? Tell me.”
“You.”
You stroke his hair gently as he continues to mumble words you cannot hear against the pulse in your neck. “I know, I’m here. Tell me what you need.” Worry torments your heart as you press the back of your hand against his forehead. “Heavens, you’re burning up.”
“So hot,” he whines, “so, so warm.”
Without removing himself from you, he begins to shed off his tailcoat first, casting it aside. Then his fingers reach for the buttons of his waistcoat, fingers seemingly too uncoordinated to undo them.
“Please. Help,” he pleads.
How can you say no when he asks so sweetly? But at the same time, you really shouldn’t be doing this. “Bucky, this isn’t a good idea. I don’t think you should—”
“Help me.”
Gods, you’ve never been good at saying no to this man, not when he sounds like he’s in pain. Your gloved hands reach towards him as you begin to unbutton him slowly, revealing more and more of the linen underneath. Then Bucky pushes it off his shoulders.
“My shirt next.”
“Bucky!” you gasp, “That’s completely out of the question. I couldn’t possibly.”
“It’s so warm, mon couer. Please.”
He’s never played a fair game, but particularly when he addresses you so charmingly in French. You remember when he first started calling you those terms, practicing the foreign language on his tongue in a way that had you leaning in to listen for more. You asked him what they meant, and he said, “Only the truth.”
My love. My heart. Your heart feels like it’s been lit on fire when you read the translations.
You never questioned it further. Becca always took it as teasing, like Bucky’s being his usual charismatic, mischievous self. But every time he calls you that, you know that it is the truth. A truth you keep contesting for the sanctity of your mind.
Because if you accept that you are his love and that you are his heart, you don’t know how much of your resolve would be left.
And Bucky deserves more than that. He deserves the world, which he already has. You can’t be the reason that he loses all of it.
“We should head back. Becca’s going to be wondering where we are.”
“Becca can be patient,” he murmurs as he finally finds the strength to rip his shirt open, the buttons flying off as the fabric is torn off his body, leaving him bare in front of you. His abdomen ripples with the kind of muscles that come from the hours spent training, the hours you spent watching him practice.
Saliva pools on your tongue and you feel like a dog taught to drool at the sight of its master. You’ve seen him shirtless before, of course — god knows the man loves to be fully exposed to the sun in seasons like this. However, something about him is different this time. He’s practically soaked through his shirt, his body glows with a sheen layer of sweat.
“You have a fever, Bucky. You need help.”
“Need you,” he repeats, clearer this time. His brows then meet in the middle as he looks down at you. He tugs the mask off your face, letting it drop to the floor as he searches your eyes. Deep blue, bluer than the summer sky. “There you are,” he says softly.
Your heart stutters as you shy away from his gaze, his fingers catching your chin to tilt you to face him again. His eyes fall to your lips, your lips separate, sticky with whatever Becca had swiped onto you earlier.
Then he slants his lips over yours and you feel the fireworks explode inside your chest. Bucky’s moan spills down your throat as he kisses you deeper, harder. Ravenous is the only way you can describe it. He’s chasing after your lips like you’re the last drop of water for a parched man. He breathes the air from your lungs, an intimate exchange that has noises you’ve only made in the quiet of your room — alone — rising from your stomach.
It’s everything you’ve ever imagined, and so much more. You spent nights picturing what this could feel like in painstaking detail, hoping that it may happen one day — in the slightest of chances.
But then that anxiety seeps back in, creeping under your skin enough to wake you from this dream.
“Bucky—” He kisses you again, quashing whatever rational thought you’ve only just begun to formulate.
“Tastes so sweet, even better than I thought,” he murmurs. “So sweet, my love. Gods, I could kiss you for days and I’d never tire of it.”
“We shouldn’t—” Your protest once again dies in your throat as Bucky begins to kiss along your jaw, placing a wet trail of fire as he mouths down your neck, counting your racing heartbeat. Your palms flatten against his chest, damp and humid. He’s sweating bullets but you don’t get the chance to interrupt again.
“I need you,” he groans, “lord, I need you.” His fingers catch your hand and press it against his chest. Your heart pushes against your ribs. “You smell so good. I can’t stop thinking about you. Thinking about what it would be like to kneel at your feet, your leg over my shoulder, and bury my face in that pretty pussy of yours.”
A gasp wrenches from your throat as you jerk back. “Bucky, that is— oh my god, that is unacceptable!”
“It’s the truth,” he growls, “I can practically smell you between your legs, your sweetness on my tongue. I want you to press your hips against my face and let me feast like a king. Slip my fingers in there and feel how you resist me, how you act like you don’t want this but you’re dripping all over my fingers.”
The moan that climbs out your chest is involuntary and it’s all Bucky needs before he’s flipping you around and he’s pressing your back against the pillar. A gust of wind blows, providing some semblance of reprieve to the sudden sweltering heat that blankets you. It does nothing to soothe Bucky who looks at you like you’re the perfect prey, skin exposed to him with your hair twisted up like the forbidden fruit.
Bucky isn't a godless man, but in that moment he swears there isn't a higher power who could stop him from having you.
He silently asks the heavens to turn their gaze away from the sin he's about to commit. Because whatever happens next, he won't be seeking forgiveness.
He will only offer his thanks.
He kisses you again, tongue slipping past your lips just as he swallows your surprised sound. His tongue strokes against yours, licking up and pressing against it until you’re trembling against him.
You no longer have authority over your body, how every ounce of energy dissolves into thin air against him, knees nearly sending you crumbling to the ground if it weren’t for his own strength holding you up. One of his hands is ont he back of your neck, keeping you close, and the other on your hip. His mouth continues to move against you as if he’s savoring every inch of you.
Distracted by the taste of him and his seemingly contagious fever, you barely realize when Bucky peels back layer upon layer of your eveningwear. The weight of the fabric pools around your feet with a soft thump. His fingers are frantic as he pushes each piece off your shoulders, leaving you only in your shift and your stay. The corset is tight around your body and Bucky snarls to himself when he can’t seem to untangle the loops.
Then you hear it, the sound similar to clicking tongues as Bucky tears it off your body. When the haze clears just enough for you to realize what’s been done, you shove him away from you, but your power doesn’t throw him very far.
“Bucky, this is indecent. I can’t be—”
“We’re too far past decency, my love.” He stalks back towards you, capturing your lips in a languid kiss that eviscerates your objections into ash. “Beautiful. You had the eyes of everyone in that room tonight. I loathed seeing you surrounded by all those men earlier. Undeserving creatures who think that they have an opportunity with you.”
“I—I wasn’t interested in any of them,” you whine as he works his way down your neck, teeth and lips marking slow, deliberate claims against your skin. Ones that spell out mine.
“I know,” he murmurs against your pulse, smiling as if the answer was never in doubt. “You don’t need to fret. You’re mine. I wouldn’t let them near you. I wouldn’t even allow you to look their way.”
His mouth drags lightly over your skin again. Unhurried, certain.
“Only me. Always me.”
It’s not a question, nor an order. He’s stating a fact. For as long as you can remember, regardless of how many handsome bachelors walk through the palace doors — or even through the staff entrance, you haven’t spared any of them a second glance. Your heart and eyes have always belonged to him.
Bucky takes your hand and gently removes your gloves. He brings your hand up to his lips, placing one gentle kiss after another. First on your wrist, then up your forearm, to your bicep, until he’s on your shoulder. He moves this final layer to the side just enough for him to press wet kisses on your collarbones.
However, despite his attempts to divert your attention away from the actual matter at hand, you can’t help but worry. His temperature is a far cry from normal, you fear what would happen if he weren’t observed and provided the necessary remedies.
“You’re sick, Bucky. Please let me take you back to the palace. Let me fetch your carriage so we can at least summon the royal physician to assess you.”
“No, won’t help,” he grunts, “need to— need to—” and the next word that slips from his lips has your heart slamming against your ribcage— “fuck.”
Your mouth dries and your own desires begin to overwhelm you. This isn’t right. He’s not himself. He’s not in his right mind. What he needs is a doctor and a bed and—
“Sam said,” he exhales harshly, “I need to get it out. To stop this.”
“Get what out?”
“Need to finish.”
Finish. Fuck. Your throat suddenly feels like sandpaper.
He needs to climax.
“Don’t think I’ll be satisfied with finishing once,” he huffs honestly as his hands reach up to cup your breasts. He lets out a little pleased noise as he feels up your soft flesh, the shape of your breasts molding to his hand as he massages them. With only one barrier left between the two of you, it feels as if there’s nothing at all there. “My gorgeous girl with her gorgeous tits. I always knew you’d fit so perfectly in my hands. You don’t know how many times I’ve dreamt of this, putting my hands on them, pinching these lovely pert nipples—” he moans as he tugs on your nipple, electricity coursing through you in a zing straight down to your core. “How it would feel to have my cock tucked in between your tits.”
You don’t have the voice to argue, nor the mind. All you can think about is how delicious it feels for Bucky to be touching you. Your head leans back as your eyes slide shut, your mind lost in the sensations of his touch.
“Please, let me have you, my love. I need— I need you.”
His hand doesn’t wait for an answer, they begin to bunch up your skirt, pinning them against your hip with his wrist as his fingers trail up your inner thigh. You fight against your shudder and he lifts his mouth back to your lips to kiss you, just as his fingertips make contact with your core.
You’re sticky down there already, a mess from the proximity and his scent and his feverish warmth. This is still Bucky — your Bucky — but he’s also different, like all of the chains that have held him back, that have granted him the patience all these years, have been shattered. This is the result of all the times you’ve rejected him again and again and again. All of the times that you have rejected these feelings within yourself.
Now the dam has been destroyed and all those times you’ve swallowed your pride and your wants, they’re finally being released and they completely drown you.
The moon reflects off the water, illuminating Bucky’s face in a shifting series of ethereal colors. Even with the glimmer, his eyes are dark. A fog clouding his judgment. His desire is unwavering. The more you touch him, the more you let him touch you, the stronger the effects of his fever.
If possible, he grows even warmer. His skin practically searing against yours but nothing burns more than his fingers between your legs, the delicate stroke of your lips, moist with the evidence of your lust.
“You’re drenched down here, my sweet girl,” Bucky moans, “is this all for me? Were you thinking of me the same way I was thinking of you?”
“Bucky, please,” you jolt, hips rising when he dips a tentative finger inside you.
It’s almost embarrassing how easily he slips himself in there, aided by the slick between your legs. He pushes a finger in as he gulps down your pleasured sound, a desperate little cry as his fingers stretch out your insides.
You’ve never had anyone else touch you like this. You’ve barely even touched yourself like this; even when left to your own devices with nothing more than your imagination and the lingering scent of Bucky’s cologne on your threads, shame still restricts how much pleasure you allow yourself.
However, out there, with Bucky in control, you relinquish that power to him. You let him determine how much pleasure you experience, how much gratification you can get under his ministrations.
Bucky’s fingers are skilled as they work you open, scissoring you open until your teeth sink into his shoulder. “My pretty girl, look at you. I want to hear you cry for me, want to know how good I make you feel.”
Obediently, your lips split open in a wail that shakes the air.
“Let me have a taste of you,” he murmurs and draws his hand away from you. The loss is almost instantaneous, a sudden chill where his touch had been, but it’s replaced by the fire that burns bright in your gut the moment he drags his wet fingers along his lips. He breathes it in like he’s memorizing the scent of you before he slides his fingers over his tongue. “God, you’re perfect. Sweet, as I expected.”
Then Bucky sinks to the ground and there’s something about the crown prince on his knees before you that has you faltering. Someone whose blood is bluer than the ocean shouldn’t risk scraping his knees for a mere maid — and yet here he is.
“Hold your skirt up for me, sweet girl.”
You want to protest. You want to say no. You want to remind him again that this isn’t a good idea but there’s determination in his eyes that have you whimpering, fingers reaching for the hem of your skirt to reveal yourself to him.
Bucky drags a finger along your slit again, collecting the moisture and wiping it on his tongue with another moan. He leans forward and your eyes slide shut, heart thrumming in anticipation with the steady pulse in your veins. He kisses you slowly at first, making his way up your thigh but his patience is thin and soon enough he’s burying his face between your legs.
His tongue strokes up your pussy, legs still clamped shut in your apprehension. Bucky looks a little irritated when he can’t seem to properly taste you so, with one hand, he holds one of your legs up by the thigh and opens up your leaking cunt to him. He curses under his breath when he sees you glisten in the flickering night.
The stars in the sky blend in with the ones behind your eyes when he finally lays his lips on you. He mouths at you hungrily, like he’s wolfing down his last meal. His tongue presses eager strokes along your walls that have your legs closing in around him again — only for his hand to pry them open once more to grant him access to the nectar between your thighs.
“So sweet, so soft,” Bucky groans against your pussy. His lips suckle eagerly, the lewd slurps ricocheting off the surfaces in this quiet night. In the distance, the music continues quietly, but here — you’re accompanied by the sound of your quickening heartbeat and Bucky’s delighted grunts.
Each time he licks you, he buries himself deeper and deeper, until his nose bumps against your clit and his face glistens with your arousal. Your fingers tangle in his thick hair, damp with the sweat from his fever. When you tug on it slightly, Bucky sticks his face in even deeper, moans even louder.
You can see how his erection only grows underneath his trousers, needy for attention, and yet satisfied all the same by your own pleasure. He tilts his face to reach new angles, his fingers pushing inside of you to keep you full while his tongue flicks that sensitive bundle of nerves.
It doesn’t take you long fall apart, walls closing in around his tongue and his fingers, spasming with your orgasm — the first of the evening.
For a moment, guilt enters your system and you’re forced to look down at Bucky remorsefully that he didn’t even achieve what he set out to do. However, you notice the shaking of his shoulders, a shudder wracking through him as his hips twitch upwards. A pulse down there.
“Y-you finished?”
Bucky nods, unabashed as he comes to a stand. “Do you see what you do to me? Cumming untouched in my trousers like a prepubescent boy who can’t even control himself.”
“I didn’t— I mean, you didn’t even touch it.”
“The mere thought of you finishing around my mouth like I’ve always dreamed is enough for me, my love.” He tucks a loose strand of your hair, one that have fallen loose from your updo, behind your ear. “However, I’m far from done. This fever — I can’t break it without you. I have to have you.”
Again, he doesn’t wait for your permission as he steals the air from your lungs with a passionate kiss. This time, you can taste the sweetness of champagne on his tongue along with something a little more unique. Something that belongs solely to you and now also belongs to him.
“I’ve been leaking for you all night, sweet girl,” Bucky mumbles, “I couldn’t stop thinking what you look like underneath this dress. How soft and supple your body would be. Apparently, everyone else had the same thought. I could see how they looked at you. I should have them all stripped of their titles and banished from the land.”
“Bucky,” you chide, warmth flaming your cheeks. “That would be incredibly rude. Nobody did anything.”
He rolls his eyes as he presses you back against the pillar, reaching down to his pants. You hear the fabric shifting as he holds you up and frees himself. You’ve never seen one in real life before, only those diagrams that Becca likes to tease you with.
And the real thing looks far more intimidating.
It stands upright, a thick vein running along the top as the head strains red. It looks almost as if that line pulses, encouraged by the purplish lines that sit underneath the surface. A new pearl sits at the tip of him, pearlescent as it rolls down the length of his cock, already sticky and stained creamy white from the mess in his trousers. It’s fat and it’s long and you can’t imagine that fitting inside you.
You must’ve voiced your fears aloud because Bucky is then saying, “Don’t worry, mon couer. We’ll make it fit.”
He lifts you up, drawing a squeal from your lips, as he wraps your legs around his waist. The head rests against your entrance, the sight of it already has your pussy drooling over the tip, like it’s preparing for his cock.
“She’s excited to have me,” he muses quietly, “she’s dripping. So eager to have me. You haven’t been filled before, have you? You’ve never had another man touch you?”
You must’ve taken a moment too long to respond, too preoccupied with the incredulity of the situation.
The low roar sounding from Bucky’s chest has you looking at him. Fury claws at his eyes, the usual bright blue shifting darker as he sneers. His hands tighten around your hips. “Has anyone else touched you? Who is it? Is it the stableboy? I’ve seen the way he looks at you. I’ve been meaning to replace him—”
“Bucky, god, no. Nobody!” You pant, “Where would I find the time?”
“You wouldn’t lie to me, would you? I know your good heart would want to protect them.”
Your lips curl. “No, I would have no reason to lie to you.
“Good, because I fear the dire action I would’ve had to take if you told me otherwise.”
“I’m not yours to own, Bucky,” you snap.
“That’s where you’re wrong, sweet girl. You’ve always belonged to me, whether you knew it or not. You’re mine and I’ll kill anyone who even dares to think about you.” Another surprised sound escapes your lips and Bucky only smirks. “This pussy especially. I’ll shape it to the size of me, you won’t ever know pleasure with anyone else. I’ll train her to only please me and only me.”
Before you can admonish him for acting so barbaric, Bucky notches the tip into you. You can already feel the stretch, your pussy resisting the entry of something so… large. So imposing. But he pays it no mind; instead, he uses your own juices to lubricate his entry as he pushes slowly into you, inch by inch.
He drives deep inside of you, swift and merciless the first time, to yank a gasp from your throat. Another expletive leaves his lips as his head rolls back, eyes slamming closed as he relishes in the feel of your cunt wrapping around him.
Your entire body is under a spell, experiencing something otherworldly that no language you know could describe. It burns like you’ve been placed on a stake to be set ablaze, like every atom in your body is being torn apart and rearranged. It’s divine deliverance in the pain, but one that provides you with the kind of relief you don’t expect.
“You feel so—” he chokes as he drags himself out before pushing back in, faster this time, the slide easier. The ache still screams between your legs but you let them fall apart anyway, allowing Bucky to take control over the situation.
His name falls from your lips — this time as a plea, but you can’t tell if you’re begging for him to stop or to go faster. You want to get past the hurt, want to feel the sort of pleasure that you’ve only heard whispers about. But at the same time, a small piece of you relishes in that pain — it reminds you that you’re human, that this is new, that this is real, and that Bucky is right here with you.
“So tight, so fucking wet. You’re completely soaking my cock, sweet girl. I always knew you were meant for me, this pussy was made for me. No one else can ever see you like this, do you understand me?”
Bucky jerks his hips forward, his arms under your knees, hands on your ass as he presses you against the wall. The surface is solid against your spine, holding you upright as he fucks up into you. His grunts are muffled into your neck as he breathes you in, like your scent fuels the fire in his veins.
When you don’t respond, too drunk off the sensations of Bucky driving into you at a pace that has you delirious, he punctuates one thrust particularly hard.
“I asked, do you understand me?”
A sob crawls out of your throat as you nod, tears leaking down your eyes. He doesn’t apologize for your cries, he knows you better than that. These tears are from the overwhelming waves of emotion, the heightened tension that grips your lungs until you can’t seem to find the capability to breathe.
“You feel like heaven, my love. I’ll fuck you to the shape of my cock, until you can’t take anyone else but me — until you won’t even consider taking anyone else. I’ll ensure everyone in this kingdom knows that I’ve defiled you, that you’ve taken my mark on your skin and inside of you. I’ll ensure that you will only be mine.”
The shame settles hard and fast in the pits of your stomach. If everyone could see you like this, pinned outside against a wall by the prince, fucked like a whore in heat with your pussy clamping down around him, you could never show your face again. A desecrated maid who couldn’t keep her legs shut for a prince.
Anyone would be lucky to have him, but no one in their right mind would let even the crown prince take them before marriage. They would rather die than be labeled a slut. A harlot. You would be the bane of your family, no one would speak of you again and you would be banished to the outerlands.
But this is Bucky and even the concept of him keeping you as his dirty little secret only sends thrills through your veins.
“Bucky, you can’t—”
He laughs, dark and sinister. Like the idea of him unable, unallowed to do anything is absurd. “I’m the crown prince, sweet girl. I am the future of this kingdom. What I say goes. If I say you are mine then it is true. No one will come within a foot of you. Not after I’m done with you. I’ll make sure everyone sees the marks of my affection for you. I’ll imprint them in places everyone can see and other places that nobody will ever see.”
His words have your heart clenching in mortification and a humiliating level of arousal. The debasement of your character, the degradation of your morality — apparently none of it means anything if it means you have Bucky between your legs and his cock buried deep inside your cunt.
“I’ve laid my claim on you. No one else will ever touch you. You—” thrust “—are—” thrust “—mine.”
Staying true to his promise, his fingers dig deep into your flesh. Deep enough that you’ll surely carry those bruises with you for some time. The litter of prints on your neck and above your breasts will have to be covered by your high necklines, gowns that would only raise suspicion in the summer.
But most of all — the taking of your virginity, your purity plucked from your hands and placed into Bucky’s — is the kind of mark you will never undo.
Bucky is too lost in his own pleasure, too focused on delivering you to your second peak of the night to recognize the telltale signs of your climax approaching. Your whines crescendoing, the stutter of your heartbeat as your fingers sink into his shoulders. His name spilling from your mouth in an uneven rhythm.
“I will cum in you, sweet girl. I’ll fill you up with so much cum, I’ll have you dripping all the way home, I’ll make sure you’re leaking all over the carriage before I take you again in my chambers. Gods, I’ll tie you to my bed, make sure that you’ll never deny me again.”
Your heart smashes into your chest, threatening to catapult out with his warning. For some godforsaken reason, the idea of being Bucky’s plaything — tied up with no other purpose than to serve his pleasure — has you gasping in desire, your legs closing in around him as you feel your senseless craving crescendo.
“You want that, don’t you? You just want to be my pussy. Keep your legs open, this pretty cunt dripping yours and my cum all over my sheets. My darling girl is nothing but a whore who wants cock to keep her plugged up at all times. You won’t have to worry about a thing ever again.”
“Bucky, please—”
“I’ll breed you until you carry my heir.”
That jars you awake and you’re scrambling, a conflicting concoction of pure, unadulterated want with the terrifying fear of the consequences to follow. “You can’t! Bucky, you have to stop. You can’t get me—” you hiccup, “—you can’t get me pregnant. Your heir has to come from a proper bloodline.”
“I no longer care about propriety and bloodlines. They have kept us apart long enough. I’m the crown prince and, what I want, I get. What I want is you and you alone. Why would I need some uptight, prissy noblewoman who doesn’t know how to cum around her husband’s cock?”
“Bucky!” You gasp as he fucks you hard and fast. His pace is unrelenting and every slide of his cock inside you scrambles every single sensible thought in your mind.
“And I have you — I can feel your pussy choking me. You — while you’re getting fucked outside with the risk of someone finding us. Yet, look at that, you’re squeezing me even tighter, my love. I always knew you were made for me. Every inch of my depravity, you take it even further. You complete me.”
Your stomach coils with something deep and tight, an unknown force set out to subject you to the strongest cut of humiliating pleasure. As a proper woman, you shouldn’t take such words, even from a prince. You shouldn’t stoop so low as to attain this form of high.
However, your mind and your body and your heart do not align. While your rational mind screams at you to put a stop to this, your adoration for Bucky — now forced to surface after years of stomping on it and swallowing it with guilt — and your pure primal need — what many consider to be your purpose — join and meld to push you to keep going.
To chase after this sought-after pleasure that few can even dream about. If the cost of is to reduce your dignity and pride, then so be it.
“And now, I will complete you,” Bucky murmurs sweetly before he shoves himself inside you over and over again until you’re a weeping mess, your legs quaking as your body slides up against the wall with every thrust. Tears leak down your face, destroying Becca’s efforts to make you look beyond yourself.
But all that physical destruction is worth it when your insides are being remade.
With one final thrust, Bucky spills inside you. Warmth coating every part of your walls, thick, clinging onto your skin like it’s marking you with a permanent mess. Your second climax twists inside your gut, rising up to your chest to constrict your lungs as your pussy curls tight around him. His need to complete you is complemented by your own need for the same. Your walls keep him in, trapped, until every single drop is milked from his cock and buried deep inside your cunt.
Bucky doesn’t let up, he fucks into you until he’s groaning sensitive against your neck. His breathing is even hotter than before, each exhale like a furnace in the middle of the desert.
“I’m not done with you yet.”
Those words no longer spark fear, but zealous anticipation.
Then Bucky takes you again — you on your feet, him behind you as he fucks you against the wall, your breasts in his hands to hold him steady as he cums into you again, the milky white seeping out from where you two are joined. But then he misses your face too much so he grabs your chin, turns you to face him, and devours you in a messy kiss that has your teeth clicking almost painfully.
Then he has you laid out over his clothes, your back on the floor, your knees and thighs against your torso, as he fucks deep inside you, promising you that it’ll take this time. That he’ll try as many times as he needs to until his seed takes.
Then you’re on your hands and knees as Bucky pounds into you from behind, his thighs slapping against yours, his fingers reaching around to your clit in intentional circles that have your body quivering underneath him, and he doesn’t stop until you’re cumming around his cock and he’s filling you up with another load.
Then you’re cleaning him up, the taste of his cum and your pussy a more potent substance than all the liquor in the nation combined. The thick liquid spurts down your throat like you’re being fed your dessert, a treat for having done so well.
And again and again and again.
For a while, you forget that Bucky is relentless only due to the poison in his veins, his depraved hunger only exacerbated by the delicious textures of your cunt around his cock. An addiction that he could never suppress.
When both your limbs finally give and enough of the toxins have been excreted — inside you, mind you, the two of you slump down on top of both your clothes. A mess of damp fabrics and fluids that even the best solvents in the kingdom could never remove.
Bucky turns over to you with a groan — the same sound that’s been rattling inside your mind, the same sound that will surely affix to every crevice inside your brain for weeks, if not months — and slumps an arm over your waist.
He nuzzles his face against your cheek, a small chuckle tickling your face. He hums, pleasantly exhausted. You’re a disarray of tangled limbs and gummy skin. You can’t help but laugh too.
“Why are you laughing?” He smiles, leaning down to press a kiss on your bare shoulder. Somewhere along the way, you’ve stripped yourself of your final layer too, leaving you completely nude.
The circumstances are far from believable. If you had told yourself that this was how your night would end, even your wildest imagination couldn’t have conjured up this conclusion. “I can’t believe we’re doing this in the middle of Lady Romanoff’s ball.”
“She would skin us alive if she knew,” he smirks.
“Yes, she would.”
The third, unexpected voice has the two of you jumping, your fingers immediately reach for more clothes to cover you up, at the same time Bucky also drapes his jacket over your body.
Lady Romanoff stands closer towards the land, where the water doesn’t extend. She then approaches, oil lamp in hand. You can’t unriddle whether her expression is contemptuous disgust or unpredicted amusement.
Meanwhile, the two of you are still clad in nearly nothing, only the moonlight to cast shadows that cloak you.
“Lady Romanoff, I apologize profusely. We didn’t mean any disrespect—”
Bucky’s quick to interject. “It was entirely my fault. I have been subjected to… urges that were outside my control. It was a substance, you see.”
His words have your heart palpitating in an uneven rhythm. The words land unexpected sharp, like a piercing wound straight through your beating organ.
Urges that were outside my control.
This was never meant to happen. You and Bucky. This night. All of it is a fever dream. A product of your desires catalyzed by a chemical compound. Bucky never would’ve done it otherwise; the two of you have always run in parallel lines, never meant to intersect.
All of his words — sweet nothings.
Just like this evening.
“I’m fully aware of the substance you speak of, I am frankly surprised that you would be so careless as to consume it at such a public place, your royal highness,” Lady Romanoff muses.
Bucky winces, scratching the back of his ear awkwardly. “I stumbled and the container had been loose. Unfortunately, I was forced to consume nearly all of it — at least, what didn’t end up on my clothing.”
Lady Romanoff only hums thoughtfully. “If I remember correctly, the aftermath to this substance would be a deep sleep. Rather fast, I’m afraid.” This time, she turns to look at you. “I shall set up a room for the two of you — you can enter through the back. Most of my regular staff is gone and I’ll arrange for my lady-in-waiting to prepare it. She is most discreet.”
“We can—” Bucky stops then, seeming caught off guard by the sudden dizzying spell. He sways slightly, words slurring together in a jumbled mess before he falls against you. His breathing even.
“It appears my memory serves me well,” she says, voice tinged with unexpected pride. “Come, my dear.”
As promised, most of the party has dwindled down to a few inebriated guests that Lady Romanoff organizes to be delivered home in their respective carriages. You and Bucky have been set up in a wing far from the prying eyes, this is where they’ve restricted most of Lady Romanoff’s staff, only the trusted are allowed.
Her lady-in-waiting and her most trusted butler had been sent to help carry Bucky back — of course, after you properly dress him. No explanation was provided beyond the crown prince getting “ill from the food”, but you assume that they suspect something else is at play, particularly when you yourself look like you’ve been mauled by a wild beast.
After Bucky has been settled into his room and you’ve been provided your own as a guest, which you insisted against, but Lady Romanoff insisted against your insistence, her staff is sent away. Bucky snores quietly on the bed, he’s been in and out. He was somewhat awake long enough to help the butler walk him back into the mansion, enough to plop himself down on the mattress.
Your heart is uneasy with worry but Lady Romanoff touches your shoulder. “He should be fine. He has most of it out of his system, I presume?” She cocks an eyebrow. Heat crawls up your neck as you nod. “Then he will recover by morning. He may be weary for a while but he’s in good hands.”
“Thank you for your generosity, Lady Romanoff,” you murmur, “I do apologize for the inconvenience and my… impudence.”
“No apologies needed. I spoke to Wilson and he’s received an earful from me about bringing untested substances — in unsealed containers, at that.” She pauses then turns to you, “You’ve been quite the kind… relative, for a distant one.”
She knows. You know that she knows. She knows that you know that she knows.
This is a mess.
“Yes, I’m rather used to caring for him,” you clear your throat, and then realize what you’ve just said. “In a way where he’s almost like my brother. We grew up together.” And that one isn’t a lie per se.
“I’m sure,” she says with a twinkle in her eye. “Well, take my words with a grain of salt, but I would like to ask you to proceed with caution. You seem to be a smart woman, I’ve seen you with Becca, how you manage to fit right in with society. While I am a romantic at heart, I am also a realist — and the truth is that the challenge will lie with you. As the crown prince, he will be untouched. Unharmed. The realm will protect him before it will protect a woman.”
“I understand that,” you nearly sigh, glancing back at Bucky.
It’s what you’ve always known — your position in society. It’s why you never accepted Bucky’s advances, nor your own feelings regarding him. It’s easier to pretend that it doesn’t exist, that you aren’t in love with the crown prince as a mere maid — even if it hurts.
“But his royal highness is also a good man. I’m sure he will choose wisely,” Lady Romanoff smiles. “Now, please rest. I will arrange for separate carriages to deliver you both home in the morning.”
“I should return now—”
“What you should do is rest,” she presses with a pointed look. “Furthermore, I believe he could use some tending to tonight — in case he wakes or has… remaining urges.”
She’s teasing you, and it’s working because your face feels like it’s been trapped in a heatwave all day. “I’ll make sure he gets through the night and will depart first thing in the morning. I wouldn’t want to inconvenience you any further.”
“No inconvenience. This has perhaps been the most entertaining occurrence this season.” Her eyes are practically twinkling in delight.
Your teeth sink into your bottom lip. “Lady Romanoff, please forgive me for overstepping, but if I could ask for your discretion regarding this matter—”
She waves you off with a reassuring smile. “You need not ask. I understand the position you are in and I would never trouble another woman more than necessary. I also would not enjoy making an enemy out of the palace and I doubt the crown prince would let things slide if anything were to happen to his precious lover.”
Your mouth opens to correct her, she gives you a look that tells you not to even attempt to lie to her. You technically wouldn’t be fibbing.
After all, it was only his urges that allowed him to do such things to you tonight. At the end of the day, you’re still nothing more than a maid — a member of the royal staff. A lover is what you are not.
“Have a good evening, dear.”
“You as well, Lady Romanoff.”
Once she leaves the room, you go to check on Bucky one last time before you move to your own room; it is an adjacent space, connected by a door should you need access to his room. That distance, while small, still feels much too large.
You pull the blanket up higher on his waist, brush the wet strands away from his face as you check his temperature again. His fever has come down plenty, he’s at least broken through it and now he’s simply sweating out the rest.
With that, you pull your hand away and ready yourself to move to your own room.
Except, you don’t get the chance, not when you feel those familiar fingers wrap around your hand before you could move. You whirl around to find Bucky drowsily looking up at you. His eyes glow in the moonlight spilling through the massive windows.
“Stay,” he murmurs.
“Your royal highness, I should return to the chambers Lady Romanoff has provided. If the staff were to return, I wouldn’t want to have to explain the circumstances.”
“How many times have I told you not to call me that?” He says, but there’s no bite to his words, only affection.
You swallow thickly, chancing another look at your door.
“Stay,” he insists again, “please.”
Who are you to deny the crown prince? Your frail heart can’t seem to do that, not when it could be your last evening with him.
So, you slide under the covers when he makes room with a giddy little smile. He tucks you into his chest and kisses the top of your head. “Sleep, sweet girl.”
And for once, you listen to him.
Come morning, the reality of the situation has carved itself deep into your bones. While you wake up in Bucky’s warmth, his arms around you and your legs on top of each other, you know that this is the last part of your dream. The epilogue. This will be nothing more than a memory, maybe even the figment of one.
You swiftly clean yourself up, ensuring that you are properly clothed and presentable before you make your way to where Lady Romanoff had directed you. She is nowhere to be found but a carriage has been arranged to take you back to the palace. The sun hasn’t even risen when you slipped out of bed.
With one last look at Bucky who’s still sleeping peacefully, you take your leave.
You’re back early enough that none of the staff are awake yet, but you also can’t bring yourself to sleep. The gown Becca had lent you hangs by your door quietly, a stark reminder of the evening you thought you had crafted in your mind. You turn over to ignore it.
However, slumber doesn’t find you and so you begin your duties early. The princess’ gown, the tea, everything a lady-in-waiting should do in the palace.
It’s expected that Becca has questions about where you went last night. She was frantic with worry at the thought of losing you somewhere, or if something had happened to you that she refused to leave.
“Lady Romanoff informed me that you and Bucky had returned earlier because he was ill,” she says, forehead creasing with lines, “I apologize that your night was ruined by my brother. I was hoping you would enjoy the remainder of the ball.”
“I enjoyed it plenty already, don’t worry,” you smile. “Thank you for giving me that opportunity.”
“Well,” she eagerly presses, “were there any handsome bachelors that caught your eye?”
Only one and he is the one you certainly cannot have.
“No, I believe we were out there to assess the men for your own relationship.”
Becca blushes, fanning her face. “No, no one of importance.” She’s never been a good liar. “Okay, there was one but Bucky would kill me if I tried. Have you ever noticed how attractive Lord Rogers is? He also has such a kind heart.”
If he had a kind heart, he would’ve stopped Bucky from taking that ridiculous substance, you think bitterly, unfairly.
“I’m sure he is,” you only say.
“How was your evening then? Did you really not see anyone to your liking?”
You smile softly at her. “Princess, even if there were, it would not be my place.”
“That’s rather unprogressive of you! I’m sure there are suitors who would care little about such trivial things.”
Naive, hopeful Becca. This is why you love her.
Before you can respond, Becca perks up and waves behind you. You turn and that’s when you see him — Bucky. He’s crossing the ground with long strides like a man possessed. He’s a man on a mission as he wastes no time at all in closing the distance.
He looks furious.
He also looks an outright mess — shirt unbuttoned, sleeves haphazardly folded, hair sticking up at odd angles. It looks as if he rolled right out of bed at the Romanoff house and came straight here. Here to this garden that you’re walking with Becca.
You have a feeling that that’s exactly what he did.
“Brother, you’re looking much better—”
“You left,” he instead speaks directly to you.
You grit your teeth, doing your best to avoid Becca’s look of utter confusion. “I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean, your royal highness.”
“I thought we’ve established that we’re past that level of formality,” he snaps, “I’m not letting you escape this conversation. If you’ll excuse me, sister dear, I need to have a little chat with this one.” His hand covers yours, none of the gentleness from last night, instead he squeezes it tight like he’s afraid of you slipping away again.
Becca doesn’t follow, she’s too busy gaping and slowly piecing things together.
All the while Bucky is dragging you stumbling and tripping over your own feet towards a more secluded part of the gardens, away from the curious eyes.
You’re trying to pry his fingers off you to make your escape. “Bucky, stop. Stop this.”
He does stop dead in his tracks but he immediately spins around to face you. “No, you stop,” he growls and the sound shoots straight for your chest. “After last night, after everything that’s happened, you simply – what — leave? I woke up and you were nowhere to be found. Lady Romanoff was the one who had to tell me that you departed earlier.”
“I had to return to my duties first,” you say brusquely, “I have responsibilities to tend to, your royal highness. It also would have been inappropriate and highly suspicious if we arrived at the same time.”
“Damn propriety,” he barks, eyes glowering, “I think you should cross that word off your vocabulary after last night.”
Said last night flashes before your eyes, like paintings that could force a priest to pray. You’re warm all over now, the ghost of his touch on your skin, his mouth mapping out every inch of you like he’s memorizing the dips and curves of your body. The feel of his cock, hot and wet, sliding inside you, spilling evidence that took you far too long to clean last night.
Even now, you can almost still feel it dripping down your legs.
“You left,” Bucky presses.
“You weren’t yourself last night. Like you said, they were urges as a consequence of the substance you accidentally took. It was nothing more than a fulfillment of the circumstances.”
He scoffs, “I said that to Lady Romanoff, not to you. I did not want her to hold you responsible for the state we were in. To me, last night was— last night was everything.”
The lump in your throat only grows, tears prick your eyes. He can’t do this. Not now. You’ve made your decision to let that dream go.
“It shouldn’t have happened,” you whisper.
“Shouldn’t have happened?” He echoes, aghast. “Is that regret I hear in your voice?”
“Bucky…”
“Because I don’t regret it. Not a single damn thing. I want you, I’ve always wanted you. I’ve made it very clear that I love you and there’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you. If I had to give it all up, I would — if that meant that I could finally hold you.”
“You can’t say such things!” You hiss, “You are the crown prince!”
“And sometimes I wish I wasn’t! Because it would make this easier, wouldn’t it? You wouldn’t have to restrain yourself every time you speak with me. You wouldn’t have to call me such ridiculous titles when all I want is for you to say my name. Because I know you love me, I know you do. You can’t look at me the way you do and expect me to believe that you don’t feel anything for me.”
Your heart splits down the middle, parts of it chipping away. “I— it doesn’t matter how I feel or what I want. You have a long line of noble ladies waiting for you to make your choice—”
“I’ve already made my choice and damn anyone else who gets in my way. I’ve already had a taste of you, my love. I’m never letting you slip through my fingers again. I’ll speak to my parents—”
“Don’t!” You interrupt. “Please don’t. It’s— it won’t be you who would suffer the consequences. If they know of what… we did, if they know that it goes far beyond the previous evening, it wouldn’t be you they punish. My mother and I…” Your sentence trails off as your voice cracks.
Bucky cups your face, presses his forehead against yours. “I wouldn’t dare let a thing happen to you.”
“It’s not your choice.”
“It is. If they want me to be their heir, this is my choice. They have to make theirs.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“No, that’s love.”
You swallow thickly as he leans back only slightly, pained like he can’t even bear this amount of distance between the two of you.
“I love you. I love you and that’s a fact truer than the sun that spills light onto this earth. I won’t let anything happen to you. I promise to care for you, to cherish you. I promise to be a man fit for you. I won’t be perfect because god knows nobody in this world could deserve you, but I’ll always try my damndest to make you happy.”
“Bucky,” you breathe out..
“Say yes. Say you’ll be mine. You’ve made me wait all this time. All these years wasted. Don’t let us forego anymore.”
Could you really do this? It would be a risk — not only to you, but to your mother, to the staff. They would be questioned if they’ve ever encouraged your entanglement with the prince. Becca — oh god, what would Becca even think? It would be an incredibly selfish decision.
“Don’t do that,” Bucky murmurs as he tightens his fingers around your face, “don’t think about anyone else. Think about you and what you want.”
You want him. You do.
“You’re mine regardless, sweet girl. I’ll protect you no matter what you decide. My heart is yours.”
“Yes,” you whisper and the answer comes easier than you think, “yes. I’m yours.”
Bucky lets out a wet laugh, blue eyes glistening as he presses his lips against yours. “You’re mine. I’ll protect you, I swear it.”
“I’m scared.”
“I know,” he rasps, “I know. Thank you for trusting me. I promise to do right by you. No matter what happens, know that my entire life is yours. I’d burn the kingdom down before I let anyone lay a finger on you.”
“Becca might get to you first,” you choke out a laugh.
Bucky swipes the tears from your cheeks with the pads of this thumb. “Then maybe I will have to take your protection first.”
“Deal.”
+ sam: my google searches from this are so embarrassing but hey i tried. i havent written bucky in a hot second but this one took me by the throat so i hope you enjoyed it!!! i love hearing thoughts so please share them if you liked it <3
May I pretty please request a short blurb of Bucky with a reader who has an abnormally high sex drive?
Bucky With a Girlfriend Who Has a High Sex Drive
WC 919 (yay I’m getting better at writing shorter fics!)
TW established relationship, super-soldier stamina, very very suggestive
Bucky thought he had a high sex drive.
He had enhanced stamina, enhanced recovery, enhanced everything, and for a while he assumed that meant he was a problem. He wanted you too much. There would be too many mornings where he woke up hard against your thigh, too many nights where kissing you once turned into him pinning you beneath him until the headboard creaked.
He had even warned you when you first started officially dating.
He did it like he was admitting to a terrible flaw instead of looking at you with those beautiful blue eyes and telling you he wanted you all the fucking time.
“I’m not exactly normal about… sex,” he’d said, thumb dragging over your wrist. “The serum changed things. Stamina. Appetite. Um… drive.”
Your mouth had twitched into a smile. “Appetite?”
His ears had gone pink, but he held your stare. “Yeah.”
You had looked him up and down, shameless enough to make his teeth clench.
“Hm,” you’d said. “We’ll see about that.”
Bucky had been so sure. He really thought the serum meant that he’d have to tone it down.
Then, after months of being friends with benefits, he learned what you were like when you were in a relationship.
You might have an even higher sex drive.
You’re not exactly louder about it. Sometimes you were sweet. Domestic and barefoot in the kitchen, wearing one of his shirts, humming into your coffee like you hadn’t dragged him in bed three times yesterday.
But then you’d look at him over the rim of your mug.
That look.
Bucky would recognise the mischief in your eyes low in his stomach before you even opened your mouth.
“Buck,” you’d say, soft and sweet.
And he’d groan like a man already defeated.
“Again?” he asked once, voice rough, half laughing into the crook of your neck while you climbed into his lap like the answer was obvious.
You blinked at him, looking at him with innocent eyes and bare thighs bracketing his hips. “Is that a no?”
His hands tightened on your waist so fast it gave him away.
“No,” he said immediately. “No, of course it’s not a no.”
You smiled, smug and pretty, and rocked down against him until his head tipped back against the couch.
Bucky had been tortured, frozen, shot at, thrown through walls.
Nothing humbled him like you wanting him.
You got him messy. Everyone thought Bucky Barnes was disciplined, but you got him undone.
You got his mouth open. You got his hair ruined. You got his metal hand gripping the couch hard enough to make the frame creak while his flesh hand slid between your legs and found you already soaked for him.
“Jesus,” he breathed, forehead dropping to your shoulder. “You’re gonna kill me.”
You hummed, pleased, rolling your hips against him. “I thought you had enhanced stamina.”
His laugh came out broken. “I do.”
“Then keep up.”
His eyes went dark.
“Yeah?” he murmured, and the next second he had you under him, your back pressed into the cushions, his body heavy between your thighs. “That what you want?”
You reached down, wrapped your hand around him and watched his eyes nearly roll back.
Every time, that was your favourite part.
That ruined, hungry look when he pushed inside you and had to pause like he was praying for control he didn’t have. Not that you even wanted it.
“Fuck,” he whispered.
You smiled against his mouth, moving around him just to feel the shudder move through his whole body.
“Still think the serum makes you special?”
Bucky groaned, dropping his forehead to yours.
Then he started moving.
Slow at first, because he was still your Bucky, because your pleasure was a mission he intended to complete with military precision. But then you hooked your legs around his waist and pulled him deeper, and the sound he made was almost inhuman.
“You’re greedy,” he said, kissing your jaw, your throat, and the corner of your mouth.
“You love it.”
His hips snapped forward harder, and you gasped.
His mouth brushed your ear.
“Fuck,” he admitted, voice low. “I do.”
Boy did he love being wrong about your sex drive.
He loved that you wanted him past the point of reason. He loved that you could make a super soldier sweat, make his thighs shake, make him press his face into your neck and laugh breathlessly.
He loved dragging you into bed after dinner because he had looked at you too long. Loved waking up to your mouth on his throat and your hand sliding beneath the waistband of his sweats. Loved the mornings where he ended up late because you had tugged him back by the chain of his dog tags and whispered, “One more.”
One more was never one more. Bucky learned that quickly. Not that he would have it any other way.
And every single time, he pretended to complain. He’d groan your name, call you trouble, tell you that you were going to get him fired from the new avengers, as if they could ever afford to fire him.
Still, his hands would already be on your waist, his mouth already open against your skin.
He would already be hard again, heavy and flushed between your thighs, because the truth was embarrassingly simple:
Bucky thought he had a high sex drive. Then he met yours.
He realised, very quickly, that he had been outmatched.
—
Note : I’m supposed to post a John Walker kofi request today, but I'm still unhappy with it so I’m gonna look at it with fresh eyes. Probably going to post that Sunday/Monday now!
After Y/N's job declares that employees may continue working remote for as long as they want, she wonders if this is sign from the universe to take a break from New York City. When her crazy cousin finds out, she begs Y/N to spend a year with her in Texas. For some crazy reason, Y/N agrees. A true city girl and a northerner, Y/N immediately feels like a fish out of water in the south. And her cousin's friends enjoy teasing her for all their differences – especially a certain Ethan Syverson.
A/N: this will be a collection of vignettes instead of an episodic series with a through-line.
vignette: Y/N gets horrified when she learns that some women are fine with not being... satisfied.
words: 2,300+
warning: no smut, but a lot of talk about sex and sexuality
masterlist
“Please, please, please, please, please!” Layla was begging Y/N.
The two of them decided to as lay out in their bathings suits on the dock in Aiden’s backyard. It was scorching outside, and Y/N refused to leave the air conditioning unless there was a close body of water she could jump into to cool off.
“Layla, it’s your ten-year reunion!” Y/N laughed at her cousin’s ridiculousness, per usual. “I didn’t go to your high school. I’m not even from the same state as you, let alone the same region of the country. Just take Aiden.”
Layla groaned, “He’s older than us and already went to his own reunion. He thinks he’s above showing face again.”
“Guess he didn’t really mean the whole ‘in sickness and in health’ bullshit in his vows,” Y/N teased.
Layla punched her arm.
“Ow! What the fuck!”
“He didn’t even say that in his vows, you stupid bitch.”
Y/N giggled.
Layla let out a heavy sigh. Clearly, she was genuinely stressed about this reunion.
“Why don’t you just not go?” Y/N offered. “It’s not like you talk to most of those people anymore. Most of your friends are from surrounding towns, or you went to college with them, or their Aiden’s friends' wives and girlfriends.”
“It’ll be worse alone. At least we could laugh at everyone together.”
Y/N sighed. A part of her still felt like she owed Layla so much. After all, her cousin let her stay with her rent-free for an entire year. And if Layla hadn’t begged her to do so, Y/N never would’ve met Sy.
Layla has never held It over her head and she never would.
But a chill goes up Y/N’s spine every time she thinks about how her life would be if she never found Sy. So, she felt like she owed Layla the same happiness she’d gained.
“Is it an open bar?” Y/N asked while looking at the lake.
Layla sat up straighter. “Of course.”
“Fine. I’ll come.”
The next thing she knew, Y/N was being tackled by Layla in a vice-like hug.
Y/N giggled at her cousin’s reaction. “OK. OK. OK. Get off me.”
Layla pulled away and grabbed her cellphone, calling someone.
“Who are you calling?” Y/N asked with confusion.
But Layla ignored her. “Hello my sweet, sweet, handsome hubby.”
Y/N rolled her eyes and looked behind them at the house that sat up the hill, 50 yards away from them.
“Could you make us some margaritas or bloody marys or even micheladas.” Then she added ever so sweetly, “Pleassseeeeee?”
Y/N rolled her eyes at Layla’s act.
Aiden must’ve submitted because Layla then cheered and practically squealed, “Thank you!” Then hung up, looking very pleased with herself.
Y/N lifted her sunglasses and narrowed her gaze on Layla. “I can’t believe that poor bastard is stuck with you forever.”
Layla rolled her eyes. “Oh, please. I spoil him just as much. And who are you to say anythin’? Syverson treats you like a damn queen.”
Y/N tried to hide her smirk and pulled her sunglasses back down. “It’s not like I ever asked him to…”
Layla giggled, “No, you don’t. But the man can’t help himself, now can he?”
15 minutes later, Aiden came down with a pitcher of frozen margaritas and two glasses already salted.
Layla gave her husband a passionate kiss not meant to be done in front of others. So Y/N made a point of making a gag noise at the two of them, earning her another punch to her arm from Layla.
––––
As soon as Y/N walked into a random dive bar in Layla’s hometown, she knew she had made a mistake.
Her and Layla stuck out like a sore thumb.
“We should’ve pregamed,” Y/N muttered quietly to her cousin.
The two of them made a point of trying not to overdress: Layla in a cute dress and Y/N with simple jeans and a cute top. But somehow they still looked like they were going to a completely different event than the rest of the women at the reunion.
“Shots. We need shots,” Layla blurted out before tugging her to the nearest bar.
It only took a few minutes for some of Layla’s old classmates to find her and attack. Some of them already knew Y/N was her cousin. And it was clear many of them thought it was weird – the nicer ones thought it was fun.
But it took a bit of alcohol and time for others to start thinking Layla was her girlfriend.
“Layla why didn’t you come out in high school,” a former mean girl asked, her words slightly slurred.
Layla had told Y/N her name was Caylin. A couple of her minions were by her side, clearly never having gained their own independence – even after high school and college.
Layla tried not to laugh. Honestly, she was kind of flattered.
“Yeah, why didn’t you come out in high school?” Y/N asked, giving no help.
Caylin got closer, eyeing the two of themm and lowered her voice, “Is it true?”
When Y/N and Layla shared a look of confusion, Caylin added even quieter, “You know… that the sex is so much better.”
“Oh, yeah,” Y/N answered without hesitation, voice quiet but excited, as if were some kind of scandalous secret. “It’s sooooo much better.”
The women were even more intrigued and gathered closer.
“Do you really…” the girl hesitated. “Do you really cum every time?”
Layla looked concerned now. “Are you tellin’ me that you ain’t cummin’ every time? Haven’t you been married to Chad Keen for like 5 years?”
“Most of the time it doesn’t happen,” Caylin shrugged. “But that’s normal.”
Then she looked at her friends for confirmation, and none of them look horrified like Layla and Y/N were.
Mother of God. Someone help these women.
Y/N couldn't help herself as she asked, “So you just… fake it all the time?”
It was hard to even ask the question, the idea was so upsetting to her.
“I’ve never even orgasmed before,” one of the minions commented.
Layla’s jaw dropped. “OK. Georgia. That is not some sort of humble brag.”
Y/N whipped out her phone. “OK. I’m going to need everyone’s addresses so I can send all of you a box of sex toys.”
“Sex toys!?” Caylin hissed as if Y/N has just told her she murdered someone.
“Are you telling me you masturbate, too?” One of them asked in disgust.
“Ummm. Everyone should be masturbating,” Y/N preached.
“Gross. I don’t do that,” Georgia chimed in again waving her hand and cringing.
“How the hell ya’ll expect a man to please you if you ain’t know how to please yourself?” Layla yelped.
Caylin gave them a cocky smile. “I’ll have you know, my man is very satisfied.”
“Who gives a fuck if he can’t return the favor?” Y/N spit out without thinking.
“Oh, look at that,” Layla looked down at her phone dramatically. “Aiden is here to pick us up.”
And with that, Layla tugged Y/N out of the bar. “So nice seeing you girls,” she managed to call over her shoulder.
By some miracle, Aiden drove up a few minutes later. But unbeknownst to Y/N, Layla had texted him half an hour ago that they needed to Irish goodbye soon and he promised to be their get away driver earlier that day.
However, Aiden didn’t expect the two of them to be so drunk.
“My God, Layla,” he laughed when they struggled to climb into the truck. “I didn’t know y’all were fixin’ to get toasted at this thing. It’s only 7 o’clock.”
“Mind your business, Aiden.” Y/N growled before falling into a fit of giggles.
“Yeah, let us live our lives,” Layla added.
Aiden shook his head, but smiled. “Well, alright then. Does livin’ your best lives’ include gettin’ somethin’ to eat?”
––––
Half an hour later, Y/N was being delivered to Syverson’s home with a bag of fast food in one hand and pushing Aiden away with the other as he tried to escort her to the front door.
“Scared I’m gonna get lost?” Y/N laughed as she shoved a frie in her mouth.
“Just tryin’ to make sure you don’t fall and break somethin’. Sy would kill me.”
Aiden knocked on the front door.
“Oh, please,” Y/N rolled her eyes. “He’s not even that scary. It’s all a front.”
Syverson opened the door and it only took a second of looking at Y/N to say, “Ahh hell. What did ya’ll do to my girlfriend?”
“This would be my wife’s doin’,” Aiden chuckled. “Just makin’ sure she got home safely.”
“Thanks, Aiden. ‘ppreciate it.” And he gently pulled Y/N into the house.
Aiden nodded. “See ya around, Sy.”
“I brought you some food!” Y/N cheered as Sy closed the front door.
Sy subtly smirked. “Well, that was mighty kind of you, darlin’.”
He followed her as she walked crookedly to the living room and fell onto the couch to continue her feast.
Sy slowly sat down next to her.
Then Y/N suddenly remembered something. Her eyes widened and she turned to him. “Oh, I have quite the horrifying story for you."
Sy listened as Y/N retold the strange conversation she had with Layla’s old classmates. He didn’t interrupt or show any strong reactions. But she could tell he was paying close attention to not only the story, but also Y/N’s reaction to it.
Once she was done, Y/N let out a heavy sigh, “I swear Sy…sometimes the people here make me feel like I’m in a different world.” She shook her head. “Like, those dudes might as well just marry a sex doll. Clearly they wouldn’t know the fucking difference…”
She had sobered up a bit since eating her food and Syverson shoving a large glass of water at her. And somehow the subject got her so fired up that it was like it burned all the alcohol out of her system.
“Well, you’ve been awfully quiet,” Y/N coed as she poked Syverson's shoulder. Then she teased, “What? Are you one of those guys who’s intimidated by a woman’s sex toys?”
Sy gave her a look as if saying, ‘I’m warnin’ you, darlin’.’
But Y/N wanted to play, so she kept poking. “Oooo. The big, bad Ethan Syverson is scared of them.”
To her surprise, Sy’s response was grabbing Y/N and pulling her on top of his lap, giving her no choice but to straddle him on the couch.
No matter how long they’d been together, Y/N still got surprised when he manhandled her like this. Not that she minded. Actually, she was obsessed with it.
“Darlin’,” his voice was deep, giving her chills, “I’ve seen that vibrator of yours. And since then, I can’t stop thinkin’ about watchin’ you use it on yourself.”
Y/N felt her cheeks grow hot.
Another thing she’d probably never get used to: Sy’s directness when it came to sex. She couldn’t match it – and maybe she never would be able to. But that didn’t mean she didn’t love it from him. It just made her shy, but excited.
Sy studied her reaction to his words and waited for her to break the silence. When she didn’t, he got worried that he’d gone too far for her.
“Too honest?” He asked gently.
“No, no, no,” Y/N quickly answered. “Just…not what I expected you to say.” She gave him a shy smile and laugh.
While Sy’s hands gripped her waist, his thumbs traced up and down her sides in an effort to comfort her.
“Maybe for another time,” he told her softly.
Which was code for, ‘When you’re ready. But it’s OK if you never are.’
‘God, I love this man,’ Y/N thought.
“Any man that’s intimidated by his woman’s sex toys is no man at all. That there is a boy,” Syverson added for good measure.
Y/N nodded in agreement.
Then she suddenly realized that with all the talk of unfulfilled women, not one did Sy look stressed about it, not at all relating it to his sex life or their sex lives.
She leaned closer to her boyfriend, bumping their noses with a mischievous smirk. “Aren’t you going to ask me if I’ve ever faked it?”
Sy scoffed. It was an unusual sound, not often heard from him. “Don’t insult me, darlin'. You really think I wouldn’t know?”
Y/N giggled at how fired up she made him from a single sentence.
Then Sy jerked back to fully look at her. “And don’t you ever try to, ya hear me?”
She was caught off guard by the seriousness in his eyes and his military voice.
But she still answered with, “Yes, sir.”
“Good girl.”
Goosebumps and heat simultaneously rushed through Y/N at the comment. ‘That bastard, he knows exactly what he’s doing,’ she thought.
“After what you witnessed today, think I should remind you it ain’t somethin’ you gotta worry about, darlin’.”
Then his lips crashes against hers.
Y/N pulled away with a laugh. “And what exactly does that entail?”
“Not what, darlin’. How many.”
Jesus fucking christ.
He kissed her again and his hands moved under her top, starting to pull it off of her.
Once it was off and Y/N was left in just her bra and jeans, she paused their kissing. “Upstairs?”
Sy shook his head. “Nuh huh. Right here.”
Y/N felt sorry for those poor women.
–––––––––––
a/n: honest to god, this is a conversation my friend once had at a bachelorette weekend. half the women said they'd never had an orgasm, yet were all in long-term relationships. and they thought my friend owning a vibrator was gross and so was masturbating. when i tell you my mind was blown... and i thought it was so funny that it inspired me to write this.
vignette: Y/N thinks her relationship with Sy is going to end up like all the others in her past. After dealing with fuckboi after fuckboi, Y/N realizes she doesn't know what to do when a man might actually care about her.
words: 4,500+
warning: mentions of smut, but no actual smut
a/n: once again, a shoutout to @just-chirpin for letting me pick her brain.
masterlist
Y/N was woken up by someone’s tongue licking her entire face. And with the effort being put into it, she was grateful it was clearly a dog and not a human being.
She pushed whatever it was gently from her face and winced in confusion as she opened her eyes.
Aika was laying on the bed next her, panting happily and wagging her tail.
“What the fuck…” Y/N groaned, trying to put together where she was.
Oh. Right.
She glanced around, realizing that she was in Sy’s bedroom – more specifically, in his bed.
‘Fuck,’ Y/N thought. ‘I had no intention of falling asleep here.’
The old fashioned alarm clock on the nightstand said it was almost 7 o’clock at night. She looked out the nearest window and saw how beautiful the sky looked as the sun almost set. She swore the sunsets in Texas were far more beautiful than those in New York City.
Y/N looked down at herself and realized she was still naked, and only the white sheets of Syverson’s bed were keeping her modest.
As if Aika could sense her distress, she gently licked Y/N’s right shoulder.
This was all wrong. She wasn’t supposed to sleepover. She was supposed to book it as soon as the sex was over.
Then again, Syverson had really worn her out – in the best way possible, that is.
By some miracle, he was nowhere to be found.
Maybe he had chores to get to, she thought. And he probably thought she was lazy lump for falling asleep in his bed.
Y/N spotted her jeans laying discarded on the floor and jumped out of bed, suddenly rushing to find all her clothing to put back on.
Aika watched her from the bed with the tilt of her head and whined softly.
As Y/N dressed herself, she went over what happened earlier in the day. Syverson had picked her up from Layla’s house and hadn’t given her much warning. He had texted her before getting there and asked if she was busy. When she said no, he told her to be ready in an hour and to wear clothes for riding.
--
“We going riding?” Y/N practically skipped when they got to Syverson’s farm.
He smirked at how excited she sounded. “You are. But not on the trails like last time.”
She was suddenly confused. “What do you mean?”
“You’re gonna learn how to gallop.” He said it confidently, leaving no room for her to turn down the idea or argue.
“Oh, God,” Y/N groaned. “I’m gonna make a fool of myself.”
He chuckled at her reaction. “No, you ain’t. You’re gonna do great.”
And Syverson was quite serious about teaching her. He had a giant round pen on his farm that she hadn’t noticed before. He stood on the edge, giving her instructions.
Meanwhile, Y/N was at on top of Dolly, nervous as hell.
“What if I fall?” Y/N looked down at him and asked.
“You ain't gonna fall.” He pet the horse. “Ain’t that right, Dolly?”
The horse reached her neck out and bumped Sy’s face as if she were giving him a kiss.
Y/N felt like she was taking a proper class for horseback riding. Only her teacher was super hot and distracting, only making her task harder.
They started off with a walk. That was obviously easy. Then they moved on to a trot, which Y/N surprisingly got the hang of rather fast. Next was cantering, which was a bit more of a challenge. It was all easier for her than when she was a kid at summer camp. She had more weight on her bones now, not to mention some muscle and strength.
It took a lot longer to get comfortable with the cantering than she wanted.
But Syverson was so encouraging.
Every time he said something like, “That a girl” or “You got it, darlin’,” Y/N’s heart dropped and she tried not to focus on it too much.
When Syverson finally thought she was ready to up it to galloping, he grabbed his own horse, Skunk, and they left the pen.
“Ain’t enough space for galloping in there,” he explained to Y/N when she asked.
Syverson made Y/N practice trotting and cantering on their way to a spot he wanted to reach.
They finally reached a plain and boy was beautiful.
“Should be flat enough. Ain’t any dangerous divots,” Syverson explained.
“Are you sure this is a good idea?” Y/N asked nervously.
“Hell yeah,” he smiled back, hoping it would reassure her. “By the end of the today, you’ll be a proper cowgirl.”
Y/N couldn’t help but smile at his support.
“What I want ya to do is start off right by the tree and ride right across from me. That way I can see your form and we can go from there.”
Y/N nodded and directed Dolly where he had pointed to.
Earlier, Syverson said to fight the nerves and fear, that horses could sense it and that was no good. "You need to trust your horse and have them trust you in return," he'd said.
“Come on, Dolly. We can do this,” she muttered to the horse before lightly digging her heels into the horse's sides.
Dolly got the message and slowly moved from a trot, to a canter, and finally…to a gallop.
Y/N tried to remember all the pointers Syverson had given her. But she knew her riding was sloppy...because it felt sloppy. It was like she was going to fall off at any second, no control in sight.
When she reached the end of the path Syverson told her to follow, she slowed Dolly to a stop and looked up to see Syverson trotting up to them.
“That was bad, wasn’t it?” She asked meekly.
“Give yourself some credit, darlin’. This is all still new.”
He gave her a few more pointers.
From today, Y/N finally understood why Syverson would make a good captain in the military.
She had tried to subtly ask Aiden about it one night, understanding that Layla already told her all she knew about the military, specifically Syverson's history with it.
“Captains can be in charge of at least 60 soldiers, and that can go up to around 200,” Aiden had told Y/N. “And you don’t just wait for the promotion, you gotta work your ass off to get it. And it ain’t easy. Gets real competitive.”
“And what exactly did he have to do as a captain?” Y/N had pushed.
Aiden shrugged. “Training. Discipline. Keeping his unit’s morale up. Planning attacks. Executing operations. Preparing for big movements. And he was responsible for keeping track of all that fancy equipment our taxes pay for,” he ended with a chuckle.
Y/N saw Syverson’s commanding presence more than ever today. He was patient but firm with his teachings. And Y/N appreciated it, but she also knew she would never want to be on Sy’s bad side. She could only imagine how many young and naive soldiers had been terrified of him.
“Go on now,” Syverson waved her off.
Y/N laughed as she turned Dolly around to try again.
And this went on for an hour, and eventually Y/N got it down. She knew this wasn’t a one and done situation. But she had come so far. Except horseback riding was not like riding a bike: she’d have to keep practicing and practicing, or all this would go to waste.
But for now, Y/N was going to be proud of herself.
She galloped circles around Syverson with a beaming smile.
And true to character, he tried to hide his own.
“Don’t get cocky now,” he teased.
Y/N just giggled.
“Alright, hot shot, what about a race back to the barn?”
Y/N slowed Dolly to a trot, but continued circling around Sy and Skunk.
“I’m not entirely sure I know the way back,” she admitted.
“Ahh...That’s alright. ‘Cause you’ll be chasing after me the whole way.”
With that, Syverson made a clicking noise to Skunk and dug his heels in. And that’s all the horse needed to know that it was time to go – and to go fast.
Y/N’s jaw dropped and she took too long to recover as she attempted to race after him. But she knew it was useless. Sy was clearly not even trying, but he was still yards ahead of her. He probably didn’t want to lose her or be far away in case anything happened to her.
Obviously they made it back to the farm farm quicker than they left it.
And when Y/N slowed Dolly to a halt, both her and the horse were breathing heavily.
“You’re an asshole,” Y/N pointed to Syverson, who had a cocky smirk on his lips.
“Now, darlin’, I didn’t peg you for a sore loser…”
Y/N rolled her eyes, but laughed as she dismounted.
“Come on. Let’s brush ‘em down,” and Syverson nudged his head in the direction of the barn.
Y/N nodded and followed after Sy and Skunk, pulling Dolly alongside her.
Brushing Dolly and Skunk was probably just as relaxing to Y/N as it was for them.
A relaxed quietness had fallen over the two of them and the horses.
Once they got Dolly and Skunk water and food, Y/N shoved her hands in her jean pockets and toed her shoes in the ground, not really sure where to go from here.
Syverson stood in front of her.
“Thank–” But Y/N stopped herself, remembering her promise from the night of Layla and Aiden’s engagement party.
She smiled and tilted her head to press a slow kiss to Syverson's lips.
“I like those much more than your ‘thank yous,’” he mumbled to her with a spark in his gaze.
But Y/N wasn’t done being bold.
She took an exaggerated step back. “You might be able to beat me in a horse race...but can you win against me on foot?”
And before Sy had a chance to answer, Y/N was sprinting out of the barn and back towards the house.
“Oh, yer playin’ with fire, darlin’!” He called after her.
When he made it to the house, Y/N was hiding. Which was an even easier to do when half his house was covered in canvas or plastic from the construction.
But then he heard Y/N’s giggle and immediately knew it was coming from the doorway of the master bedroom.
Syverson was quiet, but there was no silencing the old creaks of the house.
However, he didn’t believe Y/N was aware of how close he was.
So he whipped around the doorway, making her yelp.
And the next second, he picked her up into his arms.
“Is this your way of playing hard to get?” He rumbled.
Y/N giggled, clearly not mad about being in his arms. “Mayyyybeeeee,” she sang.
To her surprise, he gently plopped her on top of his bed. And it was giant. Like, california king big.
“Do I smell like a barn?” Y/N asked, suddenly self conscious.
She had been snapped out of the moment as she realized how sweaty and gross she'd gotten from all the riding.
Sy smiled down at her. “Darlin’, you don’t smell nothin’ like a barn.”
Y/N giggled.
The sound made him freeze, hovering over her.
“What?” She whispered, self conscious once again.
“Nothin’. I just love that sound.”
Her face felt hot with embarrassment, but there was flattery under there, too.
Feeling bold again, Y/N’s fingers scurried underneath the hem of Sy’s t-shirt, slowly lifting it up. Her eyes flickered to his, silently asking if it this OK. Instead of answering, he just pulled the back of the neck with his right hand and yanked the shirt over his head.
No wonder he had no hesitation: Ethan Syverson had the body of a god. His pecks were huge and his six pack looked like it was made from stones. He was perfectly unshaven, with hair sprinkled on his chest and around his belly button, only to trail down further – almost teasingly.
“But now…” Syverson began, slipping his hand up her waist and going underneath her own t-shirt. “I’m interested in what other sounds you can make, darlin’”
Before Y/N could get nervous and abandon this intimate situation, Syverson locked her in a passionate and prolonged kiss.
But he was just getting started.
––––
Y/N finally managed to find all her pieces of clothing.
She tried listening to house to figure out where Syverson might be lingering. Hopefully, he wasn’t even in the house. Maybe he was doing chores around the farm.
“Aika, where’s your dad?” Y/N whispered.
But the dog didn’t seem to be on her side, just watching her.
By some miracle, Y/N’s phone was still in the back pocket of her jeans and there was 50% battery on it. She’ll sneak outside and then call Layla to come get her.
Not having a car here was really starting to annoy Y/N. But she was too cheap and lazy to lease one for the year. It seemed as if she might have to bite the bullet soon.
Y/N tiptoed down Syverson’s stairs.
Immediately, she heard soft music playing and guessed that it was coming from the kitchen.
‘Fuck, fuck, fuck,’ Y/N thought.
If he was in there, she’d have to slip right past him to get to the door. And she had 0 faith that she could sneak past a retired captain from special forces.
But when Y/N peaked her head around the corner, there was no one to be found. Maybe luck was on her side.
When she skipped to the door, Aika decided it was the perfect time to start barking. Damn that loyal guard dog. Apparently, she didn’t want the girl to leave quietly.
Y/N thought she was still in the clear when she reached the front porch outside.
Her foot was on the first step down when she heard, “Tryin’ to make a run for it?”
Her entire body froze.
Y/N looked to her left to see that Sy was leaning against the side of the house. He appeared amused by her failed attempt of sneaking out.
“Uhhh…” Y/N really had no clue what the hell to say.
Syverson pushed off the house and walked to her.
Y/N bowed her head, looking only at her feet. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to fall asleep.”
“Why’re you apologizin’?”
“Umm…” Once again, she had no idea how to respond.
“Y/N, I ain’t tryin’ to interrogate you.” Syverson tilted his head and crossed his arms. “So why don’t you tell me what’s goin’ on in that head of yours?”
“Nothing,” Y/N blurted out.
She didn’t make a habit of being honest and forthcoming with men she just had a fling with.
“Y/N,” Syverson warned, using what she assumed was his military tone.
It made her weak in the knees. Damn him.
“Look," she ran a hand through her hair. "I know how this works. It’s best if I just leave. I’ve quickly learned that no one really wants their one-night stands hanging around.”
His brows furrowed. What the hell was she on about?
“Do you…want to leave?” He asked her seriously.
She shrugged. “I figured that’s what we both wanted…”
“That’s not what I asked.”
She sighed and finally lifted her head. “I have trouble sleeping with other people – I mean, like actually sleeping. I’ve never passed out like that before. Sorry.”
“Will you quit saying sorry?” Syverson scolded her. "But I ain’t exactly surprised. I wore you out, darlin’ – in more ways than one.”
This man had the audacity to have a mischievous smirk on his lips.
And Y/N didn’t know if it made her want to smack him or kiss him.
Now Syverson stepped even closer, getting in her space.
“How about I tell you what I was planning on doin’ and then you can decide if you wanna stay? And if you don’t, I’ll drive you home. No questions asked.”
“Umm…o-okay,” she managed to stutter out.
Syverson nodded and continued, “I ain’t one to kick pretty ladies outta my house, especially ones who were just in my bed.” He paused to see her shiver from the subtle compliment. “But my plan was to wake you up, and ask you to stay for dinner. I just pulled some steaks outta the fridge.”
Y/N blinked at how forthcoming he was being.
“So how 'bout it, darlin’?”
Was this some kind of dream? Or a movie?
Y/N had the sad realization that Syverson was treating her more like a human being than all of her past flings combined. Was that her fault or theirs?
“OK,” she finally nodded.
He wanted more than that. “OK?”
“I-I’ll stay,” she agreed. “Can I ask a favor, though?”
Syverson couldn’t help but notice that Y/N only seemed to stumble over her words when she was talking to him. But he wouldn’t let himself linger on that right now.
“‘Course,’ he answered.
“Do you mind if I shower real quick?” She looked him up and down, noting that he had clearly showered and changed into different clothes.
Syverson smirked. “I think that’s a mighty fine idea. How ‘bout you get yourself a shower while I get started on dinner?”
Y/N smiled shyly, but nodded.
Syverson led her to the master bathroom as if she hadn’t been in his bedroom just moments ago.
“Those towels right there are clean,” he pointed. “Use anything ya want in the shower. And I’ll grab you some clean clothes.”
"Thank you."
Syverson raised an eyebrow.
And it took a second for Y/N to realize what she’d said.
But for some reason, something was stopping her from giving him yet another kiss.
Sy wasn’t one to push, so he just gave her a stiff nod and shut the bathroom door behind him.
A big sigh escaped Y/N as she leaned against the bathroom door.
She didn’t turn on the water until she heard Syverson reach the bottom of the stairs.
Y/N quickly showered. And when she moved back to the bedroom, she saw that Syverson had neatly made his bed, and left a t-shirt and shorts neatly folded on top.
“No underwear it is,” Y/N laughed to herself.
For some reason, showering at Syverson’s house was less stressful than sharing a home-cooked meal with him. And Y/N felt shaky as she made her way back down the stairs and moved to the kitchen.
“Can I help with anything?” She asked from the edge of the kitchen.
Syverson turned around and did a double take at her.
Yeah, he had been the one to give her his clothes. But seeing her in them was three times better than how he had imagined them looking in his head.
“Beer or wine?” He asked, completely ignoring her offer to help.
But that was probably for the best.
“Wine,” she answered.
Just as he started reaching for the bottle opener, Y/N shot forward.
“I may be useless in the kitchen, but I know my way around a bottle opener,” she told him and gave him an insistent look.
Syverson and Y/N chatted as he cooked. Eventually, she was able to convince him to let her stir or cut things. He didn’t even seem to mind how slow she was at the latter.
Slowly, Y/N’s anxiety from the situation disappeared. And in its place, she felt a new wave a calm fall over her.
It was something she’d never experienced with a man before, especially right after sleeping with them.
“This is...so nice of you, Sy. You really didn’t need to make me dinner,” Y/N told him gently as she took the first bite.
“Can I ask you a question?” Syverson asked carefully when he took a seat across from her.
He took a sip of his beer, giving her some time to think about it.
“Sure,” she laughed lightly.
Who knew where this was going?
“This really all that new for you?” He asked.
“What? Being wined and dined?” Y/N laughed.
But he didn’t join in, his face was serious as he patently waited for her answer.
“No," she admitted. "Men in New York...they get away with the bare minimum. There’s definitely no southern hospitality in that city – especially for one night stands.”
“One night stand?” Syverson repeated.
Y/N awkwardly clear her throat. “Umm…yeah?”
Damn this man. And damn his ability to make her feel so unsure of situations. She never felt this lack of control with any other man.
“Who said anything ‘bout a one night stand?” Syverson disputed.
Y/N just looked at him, wide eyed and utterly speechless.
Instead of telling her what this was, Syverson changed the subject and moved it to casual, get-to-know-you-more, dinner conversation.
And it seemed to finally relax Y/N a bit.
The talking kept going and going.
Y/N asked him more about his time in the house, his childhood, his family, what he planned on doing with the place, the farm.
The dinner went on for nearly 2 hours, even though they both had eaten their dinner rather quickly. They just continued to fill themselves with more conversation and alcohol than food.
“You need to get back home after this?” Syverson finally asked.
From his tone, he almost sounded disappointed by the idea.
Wasn’t this man sick of her yet?
“Not really,” Y/N shrugged. “Tomorrow’s Sunday, so it’s not like I’ve got work.”
Sy was more intrigued now that she wasn’t completely shutting down the idea of staying with him longer.
“Got plans with Layla?”
“Nope,” Y/N popped the p. “She’s got a date night with Aiden.”
Syverson noticed the hidden disgust in her tone. “And that’s a problem?”
Y/N sighed and let out a light laugh. “I love the crazy idiots. But I don’t know anyone who has louder sex than those two.”
“Oh, helllll…” Syverson groaned.
Aiden was one of his best friends. And Layla was practically a cousin or even a sister to him. He did not want to imagine either of them getting down and dirty.
Y/N laughed at his reaction. “Exactly.”
“So stay the night,” Syverson offered as if it were obvious.
She laughed again, thinking he was joking.
But when he didn’t join in, her laugh slowly came to a stop.
“Aren’t you tired of me?” She didn’t mean to blurt it out. It just happened.
And Y/N shrunk in her seat when Sy’s response seemed…angry?
He leaned towards her from across the dinner table, forearms digging into the wood.
His voice was low and evenly as he slowly asked, “What makes you think anyone would ever get tired of you, darlin’?”
Y/N gaped at his question.
But Syverson didn’t push her to answer the question. Instead, he just let it linger and process in her mind, making her think.
“I’d like to stay…if that’s alright,” she mumbled.
He gave her a small smirk and leaned back in his chair again.
“But I’m cleaning! And that’s that!” Y/N cried out before shooting up for her chair, as if her quick movements would set it in stone and prevent him from trying to help.
He just shook his head and laughed at her.
“Fine. I like the view from here anyway,” Sy muttered as he looked her body up and down.
Y/N was grateful that her back was to him so she couldn’t witness his ogling.
She liked to think she really made up for her lack of cooking skills with her fast and thorough cleaning.
“What now?” Y/N asked him as she leaned against his giant sink and dried her hands.
“How about a movie?” He offered.
She just looked a little surprised.
“What?”
“Nothing. I just…didn’t think you liked movies.”
“I don’t watch them a lot,” he admitted. “But who doesn’t like movies?”
What he really wanted to say was, ‘Yeah, but I know you love ‘em.’ However, he had quickly decided against that.
Y/N shrugged. “What do you wanna watch?”
“Got any recs?” He asked.
Her eyes lit up. “Do I have any recs!?” She mocked. “I’m like a walking movie and TV recommendation. Tell me what you’re in the mood for and I’ll figure one out.”
Sy slowly stood up as she made her way to the living room.
As Y/N passed him, he patted her on the ass.
It was light and playful. And it felt like something a boyfriend would do to his long-term girlfriend, not some girl he’d just slept with.
She feigned exasperation and offense, “Excuse me!”
“You’re excused, darlin’.”
Sy had a giant sectional in his living room that was a little beat up. So Y/N assumed Layla would force him to get rid of it at some point during the renovations. But it was fine for now.
After asking Syverson nearly 20 questions, Y/N started browsing through the TV apps to find the perfect movie.
“I think you’ll like this one,” Y/N explained why she personally liked the film without giving anything away.
Sy was listening, except he also couldn’t help but notice that she was on the complete opposite side of the couch.
“What do you think you’re doin’?” He asked just as she was about to press play.
She just looked at him, confused.
He clarified, “What are you doin’ all the way over there?”
“Oh,” she mumbled, eyeing the giant space between them on the couch.
But she didn't elaborate.
“Y/N, am I doin’ something wrong here?”
Her first instinct was to lie. That was her way of controlling the situation: don’t let them know how you’re actually feeling or what you’re really thinking.
But Sy had been nothing but honest and vulnerable today.
Didn’t he deserve the same in return?
“You umm…” she hesitated.
Fuck. Why was this so hard?
“I what?” He pressed.
“You make me extremely nervous,” Y/N finally confessed.
Syverson let himself think that over before following up with, “Did I do something to make you feel that way?”
“No. Well, at least not consciously, I don’t think. You just…make me unsure of myself. And I’m...I'm not used to feeling that way.”
“Well, if you asked my opinion, I’d say it’s ‘bout time someone got you outta that head of yours, darlin'.”
Y/N let out a laugh. Maybe he was right.
“So what’s making you put an ocean between us?”
She sighed. “I hate Netflix and chill.”
He nodded, slowly understanding what she meant by that.
“Come here,” he demanded, patting the spot right next him.
Y/N took in a deep breath before basically crawling to his requested spot.
She sat on her knees, waiting for him to speak.
To her surprise, Syverson cupped her cheek.
“I ain’t got no ulterior motives. Right now, I want to watch a movie with you. If I want to fuck you, I don’t need need a damn movie to make a move. You hear, darlin'?”
Little did Syverson know, his explanation made Y/N want to skip the movie altogether and return to the bedroom.
But she controlled herself and simply nodded.
“Now come here,” he instructed, lifting his arm closest to her.
Y/N may be dazed from his frankness, but she could still comprehend that he was offering to cuddle as they watched the movie.
She did as he asked, snuggling into his broad chest. And he wrapped his arm around her, hugging her even closer.
“Relax,” he mumbled into her ear before kissing the top of her head.
Fuck. Could he feel how tense she was?
The answer was: yes. Yes, he could.
Syverson realized he really must've been making Y/N nervous, because she passed out right before the end of the movie.
Her whole body was probably exhausted. A whole day of horseback riding, then sex, then anxiety. She finally allowed herself a break from the tension.
Now she had no choice but to fall asleep against Syverson.
And the man didn’t mind one bit.
When the end credits started rolling, he turned off the TV and picked her up in his arms.
Y/N slowly woke up when she felt herself being placed in bed again and Sy pulling the covers over her shoulders.
Her eyes peaked open to see him walking quietly around the room as he changed into his pajamas, which was really him just in briefs without a shirt.
And even in her half-conscious state, Y/N wondered to herself, ‘Is this what domestic bliss feels like?’
––––––
Please, please, please tell if if you liked it. And what you liked!
I'm sure some of you are bummed there wasn't actual smut written, especially new readers who don't know that I never write smut. But I promise that's for the best.
vignette: Y/N just couldn't leave Texas without seeing Sy one last time.
words: 2,300+
a/n: thank you @just-chirpin for basically being my interior design assistant. lol.
masterlist
Y/N pulled up to the giant farmhouse and all her bravery fled from her body and mind.
She threw the rental car in park, but her hands still gripped the steering wheel so tightly that her knuckles lost their color.
Aika was sitting on the front pork.
She barked at Y/N’s car, clearly on high alert.
To the dog, she was just another intruder.
“What are you doing? What are you doing? What are you doing?” Y/N whispered to herself as her eyes raced around the giant property.
A inner voice finally spoke to her, ‘Don’t be a fucking coward.’
And with that, she threw the car door open and stepped on the driveway.
As soon as Aika spotted Y/N and caught her scent, the barking stopped and the dog sprinted to her old friend.
Y/N laughed as the German Shephard almost tackled her to the ground.
“Hi. Hi. Yes. Hello. I’ve missed you, too.” Y/N kneeled down to appease the dog.
And Aika took that as an invitation to give her endless kisses.
Y/N laughed as she tried to lightly push her away. “OK. OK. OK.”
Then she looked up at the front door of the house, and was surprised that all of Aika’s barking hadn’t alerted Syveron and brought him to the porch.
Y/N stood up and looked around.
“Where’s your dad at? Huh?” She asked the dog.
Aika turned her head to the side.
But she seemed to immediately understand, because she barked and started running in the direction of the barn.
When Y/N didn’t start to follow, Aika barked at her, ran back, circled around Y/N, and then headed back toward the barn again.
Y/N laughed and followed after the dog, who would pause and make sure she was following every few yards.
When they were just a few yards away from the entrance of the barn, Aika started barking nonstop.
“Goddamnit, Aika! I swear… if you have another dead squirrel in tha’ damn mouth of yours…” Syverson growled from somewhere inside that Y/N couldn’t see.
The next second, he begrudgingly came charging outside of the barn.
But Syverson stopped dead in his tracks when he spotted Y/N.
However, he recovered quickly and controlled any reaction to her presence. And he started walking slower towards them.
“Thought you’d be back in New York by now…” Syverson muttered as he scratched the back of his neck awkwardly.
Y/N shrugged. “My flight’s not until until tomorrow afternoon.”
Sy nodded as he crossed his arms.
“Didn’t mean to bother you,” Y/N shifted nervously. “Layla mentioned something about the reno finally being finished,” she thumbed behind her at the house. “Just thought…I don’t know…that I could see it.”
Sy watched her for a moment, reading the situation.
They both knew the house wasn’t really what she was here to see.
He gave her a half smirk. “You ain’t ever botherin’ me, darlin’.”
“You’re working though. Clearly.” Y/N started walking backwards. “I shouldn’t have just shown up like this.”
“Y/N,” Sy said her name so firmly that it froze her in place.
There was that military authority. It revealed itself so rarely.
Syverson walked closer to her. “Relax," he requested.
Y/N’s shoulders did as he commanded, even if for just a few seconds.
Sy looked her up and down.
Y/N’s face felt hot as she realized she was wearing an oversized flannel that she’d stolen from Syverson. She had worn it so much since leaving that she had started to forget that it originally belonged to him.
Sadly, it had lost his scent not long after moving back to NYC.
“You look mighty cute,” Sy said with a smirk, knowing that she was embarrassed to be wearing his clothing in front of her by complete accident.
She scoffed, “Oh, shut it. You going to show me your house or not?”
Sy chuckled and nodded. “Well, come on then. Ain’t got all day.”
But when it came to Y/N, he did have all day.
Sy brought them back around the front to start with the main entry way.
Y/N’s eyes widened when she saw the first of the renovations.
Layla truly had a gift. She'd clearly respected the history of the home and all the details that could never be truly recreated in a modern home. The woodwork was raw, but absolutely beautiful.
And the colors they chose only brightened the once dark home.
There were knickknacks around that clearly had been in the family for decades, and Layla knew exactly how to stage them.
“Pops claims his great grandpa made this miniature ship,” Sy pointed out. “It was hidin’ in the attic, collectin’ dust. Layla just about lost her damn mind when she found it.”
Next, he took her into the living room. It was even brighter – thanks to all the windows – and welcoming.
The fireplace was beautiful, but Y/N’s northern self was struggling to think of a time when Texas was ever cold enough to light a fire.
The room surprisingly didn’t feel like only a man lived there, especially with all the candles and accent pieces through the giant room. Sy also managed to still fit in a giant couch for him to spread out on, and still keeping enough room for plenty of guests to fit, too.
“You light all these candles every night?” Y/N teased him.
But it was clear none of the wicks had even been touched yet.
“Think you know the answer to that,” he replied with his arms crossed.
Sy then brought her to a small library. It had been covered up every time she visited, making her oblivious to its very existence.
Y/N had never seen actually Sy read before. But he also always woke up before her, and she could somehow perfectly imagine him reading the newspaper or something with his morning coffee – all while she was still fast asleep.
The library was darker than the rest of the home, but very cozy – just like libraries should be.
Y/N couldn’t stop herself from imagining sitting on the velvet couch with a favorite book. Maybe even Aika would be sleeping at her feet.
She started walking through the room, her index finger tracing across the shelves of the bookcase. No dust in sight.
Sy leaned in the doorway, watching her with his arms crossed.
“Reading anything good?” She asked, fully expecting him to tell her no.
Before Syverson could answer, Y/N noticed a book on the coffee table near the sofa. And from the way it was placed, she could tell it was currently being read, and not just there for display. There was an even a bookmark placed 3/4 of the way through.
Y/N swore her heart had leapt into her throat as she read the cover: Men Who Hate Women.
It was the book she was reading the day they met.
Sy had caught her noticing it too, immediately seeing the shift in her body.
Y/N looked up at him, waiting for an answer to a question she never actually asked.
“Thought I give it a read,” was all he said with a shrug.
If Sy was embarrassed from getting caught, he did a good job of hiding it.
“And are you liking it?” Y/N tried to sound casual and only half interested.
A sound escaped his throat, close enough to be called a growl. “Makes me wanna punch a bunch a men, that’s for damn sure.”
Y/N giggled. “I appreciate you giving it a shot.”
Sy didn’t know how to handle the way she was looking at him, so he chose to avoid it.
"Come on,” he nudged behind him. “Let me show you the kitchen.”
The kitchen looked exactly like the plans Layla had showed Y/N when she had been started to brainstorm ideas for the redesigning Syverson’s whole house.
He looked around the room as if inspecting it.
“I always think ‘bout what you said,” Sy hummed.
Y/N tilted her head. “What I said?”
He nodded. “About kitchens.”
Y/N's body stilled for a moment when she realized what he was talking about.
He remembered that?
They had only looked at the first floor. But somehow the enthusiasm for the tour had suddenly subsided for both of them.
And therefore, they could no longer hide behind the distraction.
Sy saw Y/N’s nervousness slowly seep out.
“I talked to my mom this morning,” she mumbled.
But her eyes couldn’t look at him, only staring at the floor.
“Mhmm,” Syverson hummed casually, even though he knew exactly what she must have told her daughter.
“Said you told her that you love me.”
“I did,” he confirmed.
The quick honesty made Y/N’s gaze shoot up from the floor to meet his.
But Syverson didn’t back down. “Is that a problem?”
“No,” she exhaled. Even the single word was shaky. “It actually makes all of this less uncomfortable when I tell you…”
Sy took a step closer, getting into her space. “Tell me what?”
Y/N swallowed, buying herself some time to find the courage.
Then she looked into his blue eyes. “When I tell you that I love you, too.”
Without missing a beat, Sy responded by crashing his lips onto hers.
Y/N lightly moaned into the kiss, not expecting such a reaction from him. In fact, she had half expected him to tell her to get out and leave him alone for good.
Their closeness was somehow not close enough for Sy.
And he backed her up until her butt hit the kitchen counter. With hardly any effort, Sy gripped her waist and lifted Y/N, placing her on top of it.
Y/N made her intentions clear and started undoing Sy’s belt buckle.
She froze when he suddenly held her wrist in place, preventing her from ripping the piece of leather out of the loops of his jeans.
She looked up at him in fear, thinking Sy was about to reject her and it was just delayed response to the wild situation.
But Syverson smirked at her before saying, “You still ain’t even seen the master bedroom, darlin’.”
She gave him a relieved smile.
But wasn’t expecting Syverson to throw her over his shoulder.
Y/N couldn’t help but giggle.
And the sound brought something out of him: Joy? Playfulness? The first wave of relief he’d felt since she’d left?
Sy smacked her bottom.
“Ethan Syverson!” She scolded.
And just like, they were back to how they used to be and it was like no time had passed.
——
Y/N traced the shadows underneath Syverson's eyes.
Was he having trouble sleeping?
When she had been in Texas, it seemed like Syverson was able to operate on four hours of sleep and still be perfectly fine.
So, he must really be struggling if his body was started to show signs of exhaustion.
“I think you need some sleep,” Y/N pointed out gently.
“Don’t wanna,” he sighed.
“Why not?”
Sy looked at her for a moment before admitting, “‘Cause I ain’t about to give ya the chance to sneak off.”
That was fair, but it still hurt.
“Well, I’m not going to do that,” she promised.
But Sy didn’t seem fully convinced.
So he simply pulled her body closer.
And Y/N rest her head on his bare chest.
Sy was already a space heater, but when they were both naked, he felt even warmer.
They settled in quietness. Both of them were now tiptoeing around each other in a post-sex haze, scared to ruin the glow of it all.
“Why do you have an office?” Y/N suddenly asked him. “I didn’t think you’d need one…”
When Sy had thrown her over his shoulder, she had caught a glimpse of it at the top of the stairs. She swore before the renovations it had been another guest bedroom. But it seemed to be set up as an office space now.
Sy's breathing got quiet at the question, and Y/N felt his body tense.
She didn’t think it was a controversial question. She had just been curious.
But his reaction made her sit up to look at him.
It was hard imagining him needing one. All of his work was hands on and physical.
In fact, Y/N wasn’t sure she’d ever even seen Sy even write before or sit in front of a laptop. Did he even have a computer?
“I didn’t have a lot of thoughts on the house. I damn well drove Layla crazy,” Syverson muttered, his eyes staring out at nothing.
He took in a deep breath. “When all of it was finally done, you were gone. An’ one night, I just looked around at everythin’.”
Y/N watched him hesitate. What was he trying to figure out if he should say or not?
“And I realized I was–” He cleared his throat and scratched his beard. “Guess I was jus’ imaginin’ you here.”
Syverson finally met her gaze. “The office was for you, I guess.”
Y/N’s heart felt like it dropped to her stomach as she processed what he was telling her.
Sy hadn’t been building his home. He had been building their home.
And he hadn’t even realized it.
“We can’t leave each other again,” Y/N whispered, surprising herself with how it just escaped her without even thinking.
She buried her face into his neck, hiding from her confession.
Sy calmed her by weaving his fingers in her hair and massaging the back of her neck along with his combing.
“WelI, it’s good we agree," he muttered softly. "‘Cause I wasn’t plannin’ on lettin’ ya go another time.”
She pulled back to look at him. “Really?”
This woman… Sy thought. When would she stop being surprised that’d he do just about anything for her?
He nodded.
“It’s just…" She frowned. "I’m not ready to leave New York. Not yet.”
“I never told ya that ya had to give it up,” he clarified.
Y/N just nodded. “Are you sure?”
“Damn right I’m sure.”
She gave Sy a shy smile.
But Y/N seemed to be slowly shrinking into her own mind, getting drawn in my her chaotic thoughts and struggling to stay with him in the present.
“Darlin’?” He asked gently as he cupped her cheek.
“Hmm?” She sounded distant even though they were basically on top of each other, still naked.
“We’re gon’ figure it out, alright? And we don’t gotta solve it this instant. But we will. I promise ya.”
A closed smile slowly formed on her lips.
“Alright?” Sy urged.
She nodded. “Alright.”
––––––––
Let me know if you liked it. Also open to writing more vignettes – even if they take place before this certain one.
vignette: Y/N offers to help Layla with her next, big interior design job. And that job just so happens to be gutting the entirety of Ethan Syverson's house.
words: 5,100+
warning: my sad attempt at trying to write a texas accent. military talk, yet i know very little about the military. (once again, thank you @all1e23 for your help)
masterlist
“I don’t think I’m going be any help, Layla.” Y/N told her cousin as they drove. “I mean, I’ve never even owned a home. For year, I’ve been jumping from one shitty New York closet to another.”
“Give yourself some credit,” Layla argued. “You’ve got a good eye.”
Y/N gave her a shy but thankful shrug.
“Also, my crew is all made up of men. I need some female reinforcement!”
Y/N sighed, but didn’t argue further. She was actually more than willing to help Layla with her job, she just felt like she needed to clarify that she had no idea what she was doing.
Apparently Syverson had finally bit the bullet and hired Layla. And when she announced the new job during her celebration, Y/N was surprised the bachelor had any interest in properly decorating his home.
“It’s his family’s home,” Layla explained. “And it hasn’t been updated in decades.”
“Interesting,” Y/N hummed as she looked out the window.
“And the house is absolutely beautiful. I’ve been begging Syverson to let me help him for years.”
“Wonder what changed his mind finally…” Y/N thought aloud.
Layla managed to successfully hide her smirk or any other reaction.
Because she had a hunch.
And that hunch was also the reason that Layla convinced Y/N that she needed to accompany her to “help” on the job.
“Horses!” Y/N gasped and pointed.
“Jesus H. Christ, Y/N!” Layla yelled as she accidentally swerved the car a bit. “Do not fuckin' scream when you ain't the one driving the damn car!”
“Sorry! I just got excited,” Y/N laughed.
Layla shook her head. “Once a horse girl, always a damn horse girl.”
“You’re so spoiled,” Y/N snapped back. “You get to see them all the time! The only horses I get to see are the drugged out ones that take tourists around Central Park, and it’s depressing as fuck.”
“You’re so right,” Layla answered sarcastically. “I’ll be sure to appreciate the horses from now on, alright?”
“Whatever.” Y/N punched her arm. “If you had told me there were horses, I would’ve offered to drive so we got here faster…”
Layla just laughed and shook her head some more.
A few minutes later, Layla pulled onto a long driveway and Y/N’s jaw actually dropped when the house came into view.
Layla giggled, “Told you so.”
It was the most beautiful home Y/N had ever seen, a Victorian farmhouse sitting on god knows how many acres. There weren’t any neighbors in sight, which explained why it felt like such a long drive from Layla’s place. There were giant trees surrounding them, only proving how old all the property was.
Layla threw the car in park just outside the front door.
A giant german shepherd started barking at them from the wrap around porch, most likely alerting its owner to guests – welcomed or unwelcomed.
A few seconds later, Syverson came walking out the front door.
“There’s still time to back out,” Layla teased.
“Don’t make me regret this,” Syverson pointed at her seriously.
“My crew should be here in 30 minutes, I thought we could talk about any of your concerns or things you may be nervous about before they get there.”
Y/N smiled shyly. It was nice to see her cousin in her element. Layla turned so serious as soon as she was in work mode.
“Sounds good,” Syverson nodded.
Suddenly, the german shepard came bounding off the front porch, ran past Layla entirely and right to Y/N.
“Aika! Relax,” Syverson commanded.
Y/N jumped from his order more than the dog did. She had never heard him use that voice before. It was so severe and dominant.
“She won’t hurt you,” Syverson quickly told her, his voice gentle and calm now. “She just doesn’t know you.”
“Oh, it’s ok. I’m not afraid of dogs,” Y/N giggled and she bent down to pet the dog, whose tail was now wagging enthusiastically.
The dog was fighting the hold on her face, wanting to give Y/N an overwhelming amount of kisses.
Y/N was laughing at the dogs attempts. “What’s her name again?”
Syverson had said it so quickly a moment ago that Y/N hadn’t caught it.
“Aika,” he repeated, slower and softer this time.
“And you’re such a cutie, Aika. Aren’t you?” Y/N cooed.
“Aika, leave the poor girl alone,” Sy sighed. “Here.” There was that tone again.
But the dog instantly ran to Syverson’s side and sat down, looking up at him, and patiently waiting for her next command.
Syverson nodded towards the front door. “You ladies want anything to drink?”
“Water would be nice,” Layla chirped.
“I’m fine,” Y/N politely declined.
As soon as they walked into the house, Y/N understood what Layla meant when she told her that Sy’s family hadn’t changed the home in decades. The bones and structure of it were stunning. People paid thousands and thousands of dollars to try and replicated homes like this. But the decor and interior design of the house was severely outdated – and not in a charming way. Almost every wall had wallpaper, and most of it was pretty terrible. And the finishes on the woodwork were chipped and in need of a fresh coat.
Y/N watched Layla’s eyes brighten, clearly seeing the home as a blank canvas for her creativity to run wild on.
“So we’ve talked about budget,” Layla jumped right into it. “And with my plans, we should actually have some leftover and I had an idea…but I don’t know if you’re gonna like it.”
Sy crossed his arms and raised an eyebrow. “Mhmm.”
“The master bathroom. You have that giant circular window…”
He nodded.
“And it’s always covered with drapery that doesn’t quite fit it, right?”
“Yep.”
Layla smiled. “So my idea was to get a custom stained glass window. That way you don’t feel so exposed, even though you don’t have any neighbors. And it would be such a beautiful touch, dontcha think?”
Y/N couldn’t help but smirk at how passionate and excited she sounded.
Sy rubbed his beard. “Seems like such a waste, don’t it? I was thinking about getting rid of the clawed bathtub anyway.”
Layla gasped, “Don’t you dare, Ethan Syverson!”
“I never use it, Layla.”
“Oh, yeah. Well, what about your future girlfriend or wife. Don’t you think she’d appreciate it?”
Syverson sighed.
But he did know Layla had a point. He didn’t expect to live in this giant house by himself forever – at least he hoped that wasn’t the case.
“Sy,” Layla said sternly. “You hired me to make your house feel like a home, not a bachelor’s pad.” The she smiled. “And you’re lucky enough to have an interior designer who knows you. I promise I designed everything to fit you as a person. I want this place to feel like it’s yours, not like a house you’ve just been given.”
“You’re right,” Sy finally let out. “When I told people I hired you, they said I was just about the luckiest bastard in the county.”
Layla beamed at that.
“So, let’s go over the plans one more time.”
Y/N silently followed them around, sometimes trying to peak at Layla’s designs when she could, but not wanting to insert herself in any of the discussions. She just wanted to witness the experience of it all.
Eventually, they got to the kitchen. Which was actually the most dated room in the house and the biggest eye sore.
“I’m thinking wide wood floors and minimum color,” Layla explained with her iPad in her hands. “Let the food speak for itself, you know what I mean?”
Syverson nodded.
The sound of multiple cars arriving caught all of their attention.
“That’ll be my crew. I’ll be right back,” Layla said before going out the front door.
Syverson and Y/N were left alone for the first time that day – first time in awhile, actually.
“You have a beautiful home,” Y/N told him quietly.
“Thanks,” Syverson replied, almost awkwardly. He didn’t seem to take compliments well. “It’s old. Been in the family for quite some time. As you’ve seen, it needs some updating.”
“Old is good. New homes suck,” Y/N laughed.
Then her eyes took in the room. “The kitchen might end up being my favorite part, once Layla’s done.”
“Think so?” Sy shifted his weight and crossed his arms. “You a big cook?”
“No,” she chuckled. “I’m no good at it. And I really don’t enjoy it, either. I almost exclusively live off takeout or go out to eat a lot. Layla’s been spoiling me with all her cooking – she cooks, I clean. But it still doesn’t feel even to me.”
He smiled at her honesty. “So why the kitchen then?”
Y/N hummed, thinking about how to explain it to him.
“A professor of mine once said that the most important conversations happen in two places: the car and the kitchen. The car because you’re both looking forward, and not being forced to look at each other. There aren’t any interruptions, no one can eavesdrop.”
“Never thought about it that way,” Sy nodded. “And kitchens?”
“They’re comfortable. Kitchens are the communal and informal area of a home. Usually people are just eating or drinking something. And the conversations just…happen. They aren’t forced or awkward.” Y/N smiled. “Doesn’t matter if you cook or not, kitchens are the most important room in a house.”
Sy smiled back at her.
Their little moment was ruined by Layla directing her workers into the home and already giving them orders.
“I’m about to really get in the way,” Y/N told him quietly. “I think I’m gonna go outside. Call if you need help with anything.”
Syverson opened his mouth to tell her to stay, but she was already walking towards the door that led outside from the kitchen.
Aika whined as she watched her leave.
Sy couldn’t help but laugh at his dog. Seemed they had similar taste in humans.
“Go keep her company, girl.” He ordered.
Aika barked happily and sprinted out the doggy door, following after Y/N.
Sy watched through the window as he could hear Y/N’s laugh as Aika attacked her with love.
Layla reminded Syverson of drill a sergeant with how she carried out orders. It was entertaining to watch, that was for sure.
After about 30 minutes, Layla took a breath and watched as everyone was getting down to business.
But then she looked behind Syverson’s shoulder, clearly seeing something through the window.
“Oh, hell. She’s found the damn horses…”
Sy whipped around to see what Layla was looking at.
Y/N was gently petting one of his horses in the pasture. It was Dolly, a Palomino mare. She was an absolute sweetheart and loved people, always excited by new visitors. And she was clearly loving the attention Y/N was giving her.
“It’s fine. They won’t hurt her.”
“I know that," Layla answered. "She’s just a crazy fucking horse girl. You should’ve heard her when she first saw them when we got here. Nearly gave me a heart attack.”
Syverson had to stop himself from smiling too much. “I wouldn’t’ve expected that.”
“Oh, don’t let her fool you, Syverson. She may be a city girl, but she’s got some country hidin' in her.”
Layla observed in amusement as Syverson continued watching Y/N.
“You know, Sy, it might be best if you get out of here at this point.”
He quickly faced her. “What do you mean?”
“You’re paying me so someone else does all the work. You didn’t pay me so you would also have to work. Plus, I can tell that you’re already getting anxious and we haven’t even started the demolition. Might be easier if you didn’t watch us rip apart your family home…”
He just nodded.
“Go show Y/N around,” Layla playfully shoved him in the direction of the door.
“Alright. Alright. Give it a rest,” Sy groaned.
But he did as she said.
–––––
Y/N was on cloud nine as she pet the horse. She hadn’t been near a horse in years. And this one seemed to love her just as much as she loved it.
“You a Disney princess or somethin’?” A voice asked from behind her.
Y/N jumped and quickly moved away from the horse. She turned around to see Syverson watching her with clear amusement, his arms crossed and head titled a bit.
“W-What?” She asked confusedly.
“My dog is already mesmerized,” he nodded to Aika, who was laying at Y/N’s feet. “Now you’re making Dolly fall in love with ya.”
“Her name’s Dolly?” Y/N smiled innocently.
He nodded.
“Like, Dolly Parton?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Y/N had that little smirk on her lips again.
Syverson realized it was the same every time he said something southern that she wasn’t used to. Then he realized he also found it adorable. So he didn’t plan on stopping it.
Y/N turned back to the horse and started petting her again. “You got named after one of the baddest bitches in the world, you lucky girl.”
Syverson couldn’t hold back his chuckle.
“Layla kick you out?” Y/N asked when he moved to stand next to her.
“Somethin’ like that.”
Y/N just laughed. Typical Layla.
“Didn’t think you’d be a horse lover,” Syverson noted. “Most people who aren’t around them every day seem to be a bit afraid of the things.”
“True,” Y/N agreed. “But I used to go to summer camp when I was younger, and got to ride horses half the time. I wasn’t really that good. But I just enjoyed learning how to take care of them.” She looked away from Dolly and smiled at Sy. “Half my childhood was me begging my parents to let me get a horse,” she laughed.
“So when’s the last time you were on one?”
Y/N blinked, trying to think. “Jesus. Probably not since I was 13 or something.”
“So it’s decided,” Sy stated a bit louder and slapped the outside of his thigh.
Then he started walking away. And somehow Y/N knew she was meant to follow him.
“Wait what? What’s decided?”
“We’re going ridin’.”
The inflection in his voice was saying she didn’t have an option. It was an order.
Y/N nervously looked down at her outfit as they walked to the barn. She was wearing jeans, so that was good. But then she was wearing high-top converse. She basically wore clothes she wouldn’t mind getting dirty or paint all over them.
And all Y/N could remember from summer camp was that they just wanted the kids to have closed-toed shoes. They weren’t serious equestrians by any means. But Y/N assumed that someone like Syverson wouldn't think converse were sufficient.
“Umm…Sy?” She asked nervously.
“Hmm?” He barely looked over his shoulder.
“I don’t have boots or anything like that…”
He glanced down at her shoes. “We have a bunch of old boots laying around. My moms old ones might fit you. If not, you’ll survive with those.”
“O-OK.”
Turned out that Syverson did find a pair of boots that fit her. They weren’t his moms. But they worked, so she didn’t care who they belonged to.
“I feel like a real cowboy,” Y/N laughed as she heeled and toed them.
“Not quite,” he muttered and disappeared into the same small office-like room where he had found her a pair of boots.
Syverson returned with a cowboy hat that was clearly too small for him, and held it out for her to take.
Y/N beamed and did a little excited dance before taking it and placing it on her head.
“How do I look?” She asked.
There was no mirror for her to see for herself.
Syverson looked at her, trying to control his expressions.
Beautiful. Sexy. Cute. Badass. Adorable. Sweet.
“Like a real cowboy,” he finally confirmed.
She smiled even bigger at his answer.
Y/N patiently watched Sy saddle two horses – one of them being Dolly. Y/N wanted to offer to help him, but she was nervous she’d just slow down the process with him having to explain a lot of things she’d forgotten.
“Who’s this?” Y/N asked about the other one he was saddling.
The horse was a black pinto with a pink nose and much bigger than Dolly.
“This here’s my horse. His name’s Skunk.”
The horse neighed as if he was responding to his name being said.
“Well, isn’t he mean for calling you that,” Y/N told the horse sweetly, petting his neck.
“Hey now. He’s named after a 70s punk band from Austin.”
“Ahh. My apologies. I’m not on top of my game when it comes to obscure bands from around here.”
Sy smiled and brought over Dolly, lining up her saddle to where Y/N was standing.
“Now, you’re gonna wanna–”
But before Syverson could even finish one sentence, Y/N had grabbed the reins and Dolly’s withers with her left hand, and the end of the saddle with her right, put her left foot in the stirrups, and swung onto Dolly.
Syverson couldn’t hide how impressed he was with the smoothness of it all.
Y/N looked down at him with a crooked smirk. “What? I said I wasn’t good, not that I didn’t remember.”
“Well, aren’t you full of surprises, darlin’.”
Syverson didn’t waste any time and quickly mounted Skunk.
“Where we going?” Y/N asked, giddy with excitement.
Syverson just pointed to the opposite side of the barn that they had entered in.
Y/N turned Dolly with ease and walked her out.
Sy dug his heels into Skunk and clicked his tongue, quickly catching up.
“Sure you weren’t any good?” He eyed her now that they were parallel.
“Walking and directing is easy. It was the whole trotting and cantering and galloping that I wasn’t good at.” Then she thought about it for a second. “But to be fair, I probably weighed less than half of what I do now, so I was really bouncing around a lot,” she laughed.
“That’ll do it.”
Once they were a few yards away from the barn, Aika barked at them from inside.
Syverson turned Skunk to face his dog. “Aika, stay.”
The dog whined, but laid down and looked at them riding away longingly.
Y/N looked around at the property. “I didn’t realize you lived on a farm.”
“Been in my family a long time.”
“How do you take care of it all and have a job in construction?”
“I used to work construction. Not anymore. Now I work on the farm full time. I have some help. It’s not much, but it’s enough to live off of and make some money from.”
Y/N nodded, still taking in all the details.
“Can I ask you something?”
She sounded nervous and unsure of herself.
Once again, Syverson couldn’t help but notice that she only seemed to get that way around him. Clearly it wasn’t because he was man, she had no issues with his friends that he had gotten used to seeing her interact with.
“Sure.”
“Why didn’t you tell me you were in the military?”
Syverson was a bit confused by the question.
“I’m assuming you did construction after you served?”
He nodded. “I didn’t tell you because it didn’t come up. Everyone here knows that about me. It was…nice to meet someone who didn’t.”
“What’s wrong with knowing?”
Syverson sighed. “People treat you different.” He moved his gaze to the horizon. “And I’m sure you city folk have your thoughts on the military.”
“Believe it or not, I don’t have a lot of thoughts on it. No one where I’m from is in the military and no one in my family is either. I don’t really know much about it, if I’m being honest.”
“Well…what do you want to know?”
“Do you hate talking about it?” It wasn’t really her first question. She just wanted to make sure she wasn’t making him uncomfortable.
The truth was, she didn’t think any man should be forced to do what American’s military required of them. And what she did know about the subject was the psychological studies related to veterans – included, but not limited to, post traumatic stress disorder. But the actual life of being a soldier was something completely foreign to her.
“Depends,” Syverson tilted his head. “But why do you seem nervous about it?”
“I don’t know.” She shrugged. “I don’t want to insult you by asking something stupid or assuming anything.”
He smirked. “I think the fact that you’re worried about it proves that you’re not gonna do that, darlin’.”
She laughed lightly, seeing his point. “What…part?”
“You mean what branch?”
“Yeah, sorry.”
“It’s fine. I was in the Army. Special Forces.”
“Special Forces,” she repeated. “That’s kind of a big deal. Right?”
“It’s just the unit I was in,” he answered evenly.
Y/N might know next to nothing about the military. But she knew people. And that was enough to recognize Sy was being extremely modest. She’d have to google later or ask Layla about it – half the people she graduated high school with ended up in the military.
“Did you like it?” She asked carefully.
“That’s hard question to answer. It was my job. And it was my job for a long time. You just start looking at it that way – not thinking about if you like it or not. You just gotta do it.”
Y/N nodded. “That makes sense.”
She knew she was about to ask another dumb question, but she really didn’t know the answer to it.
“So are you…done? Will you ever have to go back?”
He smiled at the way she was talking. “You’re being real careful.”
Y/N groaned. “I know! I’m sorry. I’m trying to learn.”
“I signed a 18X contract – which is 6 years. That’s pretty standard, even for other units. Then I did 4 more after that.”
“10 years?” Y/N gasped. “Fuck.”
“It goes by real fast and real slow at the same time – a whole lot of nothing and then sudden moments of chaos – and those would really kick your ass.”
“You sound really…indifferent about it all.”
Syverson huffed out a laugh. “I guess that’s a good way of putting it.”
Y/N had a million other questions. But she didn’t think it was right to ask any of them. After all, the two of them were still practically strangers.
“Enough about me,” he said. “Why do you like New York?”
Y/N laughed at the question. “I mean, sometimes I don’t. Some days I hate it.”
“I think any sane person would say that about any place they live.”
“Fair,” she countered. “I don’t know…it’ll sound cheesy.”
“Cheesy ain't so bad,” he told her with a smirk.
“The obvious and cliche answer is art, music, fashion, and food. But it’s more complicated than that. I guess...” She thought for a moment. “You can be the weirdest version of yourself, and no one will blink an eye. And better yet, you’ll probably be able to make a friend who’s the same weird.” She sighed. “You can be as lonely or as un-lonely as you want.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“You can go to a crowded bar and not talk to a single soul. But you can also make a friend anywhere you are – if you go about it the right way. But it’s up to you, and I guess that’s the tricky part. There has to be an effort.”
Syverson nodded slowly.
No one had ever described New York to him that way before.
To him it was a tiny place. Overcrowded. Dirty. Smelly. Unforgiving. Frustrating.
But Y/N had a way of painting the romance of the city without being delusional about it.
“And why do you hate it sometimes?” He challenged.
Y/N took in a deep breath. “There are just times where I ask myself, ‘Is this Stockholm Syndrome?’ Every time I even just think about what it would be like to leave, I get this overwhelming feeling that I would be quitting. Like, I couldn’t handle it anymore and had to leave before it destroyed me.” She gave him a sad smile. “But those don’t happen a lot.”
Their ride continued and the subjects got a bit lighter.
There was a moment when Y/N remembered what Layla said about Syverson not talking. And it confused her even more now. Because the man was talking more than even that night he saved her and drove her home.
The two of them rode for about an hour. Syverson chose a shorter trail, not wanting to be gone from the house too long. But also the fact that Y/N hadn’t been on a horse in quite some time meant that she would probably be exhausted rather quickly.
When they finally got back, Y/N surprisingly asked Syverson if he would give her a tour of the rest of the farm.
“Do you need any help with anything?” She had quickly followed the request with the offer.
He couldn’t help but smirk at her enthusiasm.
Yeah, she was a city girl who wouldn’t probably know a whole lot about running a farm. But she didn’t seem to let that stop her. It was like Y/N was always proving that anyone could learn anything new at anytime in their life. You just had to be openminded.
Y/N just about lost it when she got to pet Sy’s cows and a pigs.
He forgot how much mundane things in his life could be new to others. Then he thought of how overwhelmed he would be if Y/N showed him around New York City.
‘What the hell are you thinkin’?’ His mind suddenly stopped him. ‘Who said anything about this woman taking you to New York?’
“You lazy asses done or does Y/N need to pet the stupid horses more?” Layla suddenly screamed from the side porch of Sy’s house.
Y/N looked around and realized that the sun was nearing the horizon. The day was almost done, and Syverson and her had spent most of it hanging out – or rather she had spent most of the day annoying him.
Layla clearly wasn’t annoyed by their absence. In fact, it probably made her job easier. Syverson wasn’t breathing down her neck and Y/N wasn’t asking her if she was doing something wrong every two seconds, which is what would’ve happened if the two of them actually stayed and helped.
“Y/N, you comin’? Or you movin’ into his barn?” Layla yelled again, smiling cheekily because she knew her teasing would earn her a glare from her cousin.
Syverson chuckled.
“Relax! I’m coming!” Y/N yelled back.
She started walking and then realized something quickly.
Y/N quickly turned around, but misjudged how close behind Syverson was to her. So she nearly ran into him when she pivoted. But he quickly caught her by the shoulders before she could fall backwards with her unsteady step.
“Sorry,” she muttered quickly, taken aback by how close they were now.
Syverson realized he still had a gentle grip on her shoulders, and brought his hands down, shoving them into his front pockets.
“Forget something?” He asked.
“I just wanted to…umm…” God damn it. Why did he have be so good-looking? “Just wanted to say thank you for taking me riding and showing me around your home and letting me cuddle with all your pets.”
Syverson was surprised with the look he caught in her eyes. There was some inner turmoil she was fighting in that pretty head of hers and he wanted it to come out.
But to his disappointment, she just took a shaky step back.
“I should…” She thumbed behind her. “Yeah.” She gave him one last shy smile. “Thanks again, Sy. Really.”
He nodded, waiting until she turned her back to him before smirking at her calling him by his nickname.
Y/N hurried towards Layla’s car.
He followed after her much slower, allowing her to put the distance between them she was so clearly desperate for.
Layla was giving Y/N the most wicked and smug look as she approached.
“Shut the fuck up,” Y/N warned and pointed to her, walking right past her cousin to the get to the stupid car.
Syverson stopped in front of Layla, who seemed to be waiting for him.
“Am I gonna have a meltdown when I see my house?” He asked.
She rolled her eyes. “When have you ever had a meltdown, Syverson?”
The woman had a point. Syverson was always cool, calm, and collected.
Layla smiled. “We’re saving the master bedroom and bathroom for last, after everything else is nearly finished. So, you have a bit of an escape from the construction.”
He nodded in thanks.
“You two have fun?” She cooed.
Syverson gave her a warning look, “Layla.”
“I was gonna offer a bit of advice is all…” she drew out the words teasingly.
Sy just released a heavy sigh. “OK. Let’s hear it.”
“Patience. She’s skittish, that one – only when it comes to men. But she’ll make a run for it if you push her too fast.”
Syverson had almost put that together for himself. It made her reaction just a few minutes ago make a lot more sense.
Layla did a little wave, starting to walk away. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Sy.”
But before she was too far, she turned back around. “Oh. And, Sy?”
“Yeah.”
“She likes you, too.”
“You two get home safe.”
When Layla got back into her car, Y/N seemed to be in a completely different world. She was staring out the passenger window. It looked like she was taking in Sy’s farm. But Layla knew she was actually lost in her head and far, far away.
“You OK?” Layla asked carefully.
“Yup,” she answered too quickly.
“Now, don’t you go overthinking.”
Y/N finally acknowledged her cousin. “What the fuck makes you believe I’m overthinking?”
“Ya got the look.”
Y/N rolled her eyes and scoffed in annoyance. “Whatever.”
They were halfway home before Y/N spoke again.
“What’s the deal with Special Forces?”
Layla didn’t tease her for asking the question, even though she knew why Y/N was asking it in the first place.
“I ain’t no expert by any means. But Aiden explained it to me a long time ago. Takes a strong person to join Special Forces. You can’t be scared of nothing, really. The training’s a bitch, too. I sure couldn’t handle any of it.”
“So…they’re all just like...macho alpha males?”
“Opposite actually,” Layla clarified. “Every one of ‘em I ever met was quiet and reserved. Not one was a cocky son of a bitch. They are on another level, but they never act like it. And they take real good care of one another. The units they join end up being like a second family to each other.”
Y/N was just quiet, not commenting or even reacting really.
Layla stole a glance at her cousin while she was driving. “You gonna tell me what you’re thinkin’?”
“I don’t know what I’m thinking…”
––––––––––
please, please, please let me know what you think. otherwise i will get discouraged and feel like no one is reading these silly little vignette.
the friend fic (part one) As the sister of Sy's best friend, at first you mainly tolerated Sy being around. Until that tolerance turned into a fondness. Until that fondness turned into a hidden crush. Until that crush turned into…something you didn't want to label.
Syverson x Reader, adult characters but with high-school flashbacks
Words: 2.5k
A/N: No warnings yet. Not sure how many parts it'll be, but probably about three or four.
A/N 2: is this me.....writing in past tense???
The Superbowl. The biggest game of the year. The time to overeat, to get drunk, to get loud. All over a bunch of men running back and forth on TV.
You couldn’t care less about it.
Yet here you were, anyway, wearing an oversized football jersey, eating your third plate of food, donning a neverending grin on your face at the corniest commercials. Sports or not, it was your best friend Katie’s house, surrounded by all your mutual friends, and there, you could be yourself. Best of all, your boyfriend was at his own Superbowl party, so you didn’t feel the need to behave a certain way or anything. You could be one-hundred percent you. No external judgment in sight.
You didn't dwell on the fact that maybe that wasn't an especially normal thought to have about a boyfriend.
It was easy not to dwell, anyway, when Sy's been next to you on the couch all evening. He was always so particular about having the seat on the left of the sofa whenever he came over to Katie's because it could recline, so before he even claimed it to start with, you chose the middle seat. And that's where you've stayed.
It was a safe distance away where only your knees touched from time to time, yeah, but it was still close enough. Comfortable. A comfort you haven't had in a long, long time, it seemed. The comfort of just…being near a person who understood you. The familiarity.
For as much history you two have had as friends–some good and some admittedly not so good–there was still that comfort there. Always would be, you thought to yourself.
Anyway, he just got up to walk into the kitchen with your brother, so, naturally, it was obvious what you were going to do. First, you stared at his back for a few minutes, and second, you scooted over to his recently-vacated spot on the couch.
Casually scrolling through your phone while keeping your peripheral vision tuned into the kitchen, you noticed the very second Sy started walking back to the living room, and when you saw movement in front of you, you acted like you ignored it. Even when Sy cleared his throat, you continued ignoring it, eyes glued to your phone.
Sy tapped your foot with his own. “I was sittin’ there,” he finally said when he was directly in front of you.
Still keeping your gaze averted to your phone, you shrugged and asked, “Were you?”
A pause. Trying not to smirk, you glanced up.
He simply gave you one little look, and your eyes got big while you froze. He wouldn’t dare.
Just as he started to lunge for you, you shrieked and leapt over the back of the couch. It made your phone fly out of your grip, but you didn’t care; you giggled maniacally as Sy tried to catch you. Joke was on him, though. He was too damn stocky to be a match for your agility. You quickly made it out of the entire room before he could even get close.
Or so you thought. Breathing heavily, Sy caught you in the hallway easily, and after he ran in front of you to block your advancement to the back door, he crouched down and wrapped his arms around your waist. When he stood upright again, it was with your entire body draped over his shoulder.
As he began marching down the hall like everything was normal, you pounded on his back with closed fists. “Sy!”
“What’s that noise?” Sy calmly asked himself under his breath.
“Let me down!”
Sy turned quickly to the left, and you almost knocked your head against the wall. “Who is that?”
“It’s me, you asshole!” you hit his back again and called out, almost laughing but not giving him the pleasure to hear it. “Let me down!”
“I thought I heard…” Sy turned again and finished walking down the hall, choosing to go into the dining room instead of the den where all the activity currently was. “Nah.”
“Syverson,” you firmly said while kicking your feet. “Let–me–down!”
“Sounds like someone’s sayin’ my last name, but I can’t…really…hear.”
Upside down, you could tell you were finally about to approach the back door. “Alright, alright, you win,” you told him breathlessly. “That what you wanna hear? You win.”
Sy let you down on flat ground again, and almost smugly, he smiled. “Always do.”
While all the blood from your head rushed back down your body, you stuck your tongue out at him.
"Dick," you muttered without meaning it at all, and he offered a smile.
After you opened the back door and walked outside to the deck, Sy followed you. “Don’tchu wanna go back in there and see the halftime show?”
“Ah, I don’t care," you said.
You took a seat on the outdoor loveseat while catching your breath, and Sy stepped closer to you while looking towards your lap for some reason. After a moment that couldn't possibly be hesitation but sure as hell seemed like it, he sat down heavily in front of you. His giant figure made the chair he selected look like it was designed for a child.
"Your band's playin', though."
Blankly, you stared at him.
"That band you saw in high school," he supplied.
"Gonna have to gimme somethin' more than that, Sy…"
While thinking, he waved his hand in front of him. "The--The fuckin'…The one from England. You know. You saw 'em before I–"
You tilted your head to the side.
"Damn, Y/N," he said incredulously, dropping his hand, "you don't even know who's playin' the Superbowl halftime show?"
Ooh. You knew which band he was talking about now.
And you knew why he cut himself off, too. He was about to say "you saw 'em before I shipped out". But he didn't. He didn't say that. And the reason why is because he didn't want to touch that subject. Didn't even want to risk bringing it up.
After all this time, you still haven't talked about the party the night before he and your brother left for Basic Training. Not a word. You've been pretending the night just…didn't happen. It was better that way.
-O-
In high school, your brother and Sy signed up for the fucking Army together, literally seconds apart, standing side by side in the cafeteria, using the same exact black pen and everything.
(You've since learned that the military forbids any type of pen that writes in any other color besides standard black.) (You've since learned more about the Army than you've ever thought to be possible, actually.)
Recruiters visited the school every year, dangling a bunch of promises and perks at seniors with too-few options of collegiate success, and they successfully made their pitch. They roped them all in. They got your brother. They got Sy.
The pep rally that hosted them encouraged the whole thing, cheering for the students who stood in a line in the middle of the basketball court with their hands clasped together at the smalls of their backs. The new class of recruits.
Before Sy and your brother left town, they'd thrown a party. A big one, a huge one, an epic one. A night that people still talk about an entire decade later. A barn party off the grid from any trouble from the law.
Over a hundred people were there, about the size of Sy's graduating class. Older than you. Cooler than you.
You'd tried hanging drink-for-drink with them–even did a keg stand or two away from the hovering watch of your brother–and you proceeded to get drunk. You proceeded to get embarrassingly, shit-faced, throw-up-in-the-grass drunk.
Sy had gotten a new girlfriend. Another one. That's what started the whole thing. Thinking about it now seemed so stupid because you'd never had any chance with him, but still–it hurt.
It hurt.
So the party was supposed to be a perfect opportunity to just…let loose. To just forget about the nonexistent chance with Sy. To forget that he and your brother were joining the fucking Army in the first place.
Sometime between beers five and six, you found a random pair of eyes looking at you from underneath a dirty ballcap, someone you didn't recognize. Someone from another school.
The outfit was the same as all the other guys, though. The same old generic blue-jeans, white t-shirt, and dark pair of boots. A look that screamed "I'm a lifetime sponsor of the FFA". You figured he’d do.
So you drank with him until that turned to laughing with him until that turned to touching until that turned to full-on sloppy kissing until that turned to groping one another without a care who saw.
Sy saw. Sy intervened.
“Christ. What the hell do you think you’re doin’, Y/N?”
Drunkenly, you slurred, “Whassit look like? Makin’ out with…” You giggled and leaned into the guy holding onto you. “What’s your name again?”
Before the guy could even answer, Sy simply pointed at him. “Go fuck off somewhere else,” he brusquely said over all of the loud noises of music and people shout-talking surrounding you, and, after very obviously looking down at Sy’s boots and then up his entire body until his eyes reached the ire of Sy’s eyes, the guy beside you took one large step back and then disappeared entirely from your side.
With your jaw dropped, you instantly turned to face Sy head-on, squaring your jaw and defiantly lifting your face. You pushed yourself up on your tip-toes to make yourself taller, but within seconds, you lost your balance entirely, falling into the brick-wall of Sy’s body.
"What tha fuck," you slurred. Why was he so firm.
Because over the past year he'd gone through a protein bar every single hour of every single day, bulking himself up for this specific day. The day he left.
Sy caught you at each of your forearms with two firm hands, and you gasped as he stared down at you with a mixture of disappointment and anger. It was an anger you could feel in the very grip of his hands, the fire from his eyes burning into your glossy ones.
The hard touch passed quickly, turning softer before releasing entirely, and you were drunk enough and confused enough to lean into him again on purpose just to feel it once more. He was leaving tomorrow.
But then he was crossing his arms, asking, “The fuck, Y/N?” and then you instantly turned mad.
"You're–" Leaving tomorrow, you finished your thought despondently. "You're….interruptin’ my night!”
"Your night?" Sy leaned his face down to speak to you through harshly-gritted teeth.
"I mean…Well, I know it's not my night–I just meant…"
Sy lowers his voice. “He was gropin’ your entire ass in front’a dozens of people.”
“Well, this ain’t church, Sy,” you countered while pushing yourself upwards again, lifting your face so it was within inches of his. “What d’you think people come to parties to do?”
“If that’s the case, then why don’tchu just go an' findju a good tree to hide behind, Y/N?” he asked. “Really go for it.”
After approximately five shock-still seconds, you pulled one of your hands back and slapped Sy's cheek as hard as you could. “You’re a fucking asshole,” you seethed.
He stood silently.
“Good God,” you heard from your brother nearby, quickly approaching you. "What the fuck, Y/N?"
"Why's no one stickin' up for me here?!" you shrieked, feeling ganged up on. "Why is everything my fault?"
Your brother grabbed your arm and walked you several meters away, out of earshot of Sy. He stared at you in disappointment so heavy you felt it on top of your skin.
“One night,” he said. “Just one night.”
“One night for what?” you repeated, now holding back tears.
“All I asked for was just one fuckin' night. It’s the last night before we’re goin’ out, Y/N.”
"I can’t help your friend is a dick,” you muttered, glaring at Sy in the distance. "He did the exact same thing with his girlfriend."
"How d'you know that?" your brother challenged. "Did you see?"
You rolled your eyes. "Seen it enough times to know."
"Well. That's funny, 'cause she ain't even here."
"Why?" you asked, starting to feel your body sway. "It's y'alls last night in town. Obviously he's--you know."
"He dumped her earlier today."
The world stopped. "Oh. Damn."
"Shit, Y/N," he cursed. "I can't do this kinda shit. Just fuckin' talk to him yourself."
"What does that even mean?" you slurred, starting to hiccup. "Why would I–Why would I talk to him…after he…”
After suddenly forgetting everything, you felt a shake on your shoulder. “Y/N,” Sy's voice said, then louder and more insistently. “Y/N, open your eyes.”
You squinted one open, and you found yourself laying down for some reason, Sy's face peering down at you.
“Thought you could keep up with the seniors,” he murmured, just in time for you to gice him the middle finger.
Immediately, you realized you were laying down in the backseat of a car. Your second realization was the motion of the car causing a queasy feeling to pass through your stomach.
An ill noise emitted out of your throat.
“Oh, shit,” Sy urgently let out. “Fuck–Here–”
You leaned over and threw up on the floor of the car.
The next afternoon, you woke up in your bed with your head weighing ten-thousand pounds. You didn’t see Sy again for another year. Didn't communicate with him, either.
-O-
The Thursday after the Superbowl, you found yourself at the usual bar with the usual gang at the usual time: Buffalo Wild Wings; your brother Nick, his girlfriend Lizzie, your best friend Katie, her boyfriend James, and Sy; 6:30pm.
You'd been staring at your beer glass while everyone around you talked until Sy's voice shook you out of your thoughts. “You really movin’ in with him?”
You ran your finger along the condensation on your glass and wondered how the hell he'd found out already. You certainly didn’t tell Sy you were moving in with your boyfriend, but you knew that these things got around. You had a close friend-group.
"Guess so," you finally replied.
“Well, you sound fuckin' pumped.”
Almost laughing at his dry delivery, you shrugged. “He’s got two other roommates.”
“Women?” Sy asked, and you looked at him curiously and shook your head.
“No,” you answered slowly. “They’re guys. Just some friends of his.”
Sy grunted.
“Yeah,” you agreed with the gruff sentiment. “And if they think I’m gonna be their maid now that I'm movin' in, they’re in for a surprise, ‘cause it ain’t happenin’.”
Barely discernible due to his large beard, Sy's lips curled up a little. You wanted to smile right there along with him, but you didn't.
You wished he would tell you that you were making a mistake. You wished that he’d convince you not to do it at all.
The serum amplifies everything that is inside, so good becomes great; bad becomes worse. This is why you were chosen. Because a strong man who has known power all his life may lose respect for that power, but a weak man knows the value of strength, and knows compassion. Whatever happens tomorrow, you must promise me one thing. That you will stay who you are, not a perfect soldier, but a good man.
HAPPY BIRTHDAY, STEVEN GRANT ROGERS (July 4th, 1918)
