Characters/Pairings: Bucky Barnes x Reader x Steve Rogers
Word Count: 7.2k
Summary: Bucky teaches his friend many of the finer techniques in his favorite hobby - pleasuring his wife. UNABASHADELY PORN WITHOUT AN OUNCE OF PLOT.
Warnings: Explicit Smut, threesome (no crossing swords), objectification, dirty talk, oral (male and female receiving), clit play, breast play, overstimulation, voyeurism, exhibitionism, dacryphilia, light choking, fingering, brief cum play, slight worship, multiple orgasms, Bucky is a complete menace, insatiable lust, super soldiers aka super sex machines
Author Note: When I wrote Tutorials in Precision for @writer-in-a-cryofreeze, quiiiiiiiite a few of you clamored for more. CAREFUL WHAT YOU WISH FOR.
↠ Main Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest
You’d expected a lot of things when you agreed your husband’s oldest friend should come spend the holidays with you, but not this: you naked and splayed open, your back against Bucky’s chest, and Steve knelt between your legs, focus absolute as they took you apart.
Bucky’s lips moved against your neck, not quite kissing, hand sliding to cup one aching breast. “You want to feel for the ridge, the soft roof inside. Feel it?”
Steve nodded, learning by the tremors that rippled through you.
And you? You could only moan as his fingers sought a place only Bucky had touched before tonight.
Steve’s breath ghosted along your thigh, cool in comparison to the heat pooling where his fingertips pressed. “Like this?” he asked, looking up, seeking confirmation from Bucky.
Bucky squeezed you, barely-there pressure, his thumb circling your nipple. “Yeah, there—you’ll feel it through the front wall. Little bump.”
Steve slid his fingers deeper, slow and careful, and you arched back against Bucky’s chest. The pressure inside shifted, molten but sudden, and you gasped at the feel of it when he found it—that ridge, the soft roof, as Bucky had described it. Steve’s big hand trembled just a little as he kept it inside you, gentle but greedy, desperate to get it right. The man was as worshipping as he was determined, brow furrowed, lashes dark against his cheek as he mapped each element of your reactions.
And Bucky watched, grinning against your ear, voice thick. “That’s it, Steve. Watch her face, see how her mouth falls open? Touch her there, a tiny bit harder, that’s it, yeah.”
He kept the pressure steady, calloused thumb skating circles over your clit while his fingers pressed up, learning you, working with the careful tenacity he applied to every complex operation.
Bucky’s own hand drifted lower, his touch rough at your hip, a grounding force. You couldn’t move if you’d wanted to, pinned between them, the air thick with sweat and something like ozone.
You bucked, pulse thumping in your throat, teeth gritty against a whimper. Steve’s eyes flicked up again, shining, hungry, and your swore you might come just on the taste of his focus. With every press against that spot, your vision stuttered out, blinking in firework-bright bursts.
Bucky’s voice pressed into the shell of your ear, low and lazy, but with that hint of command that still managed to thrill you, even after all these years. “She’s real sensitive right there, Steve. Just steady. Keep the rhythm—yeah, just like that.”
“Fuck, Buck—she’s gonna—” Steve’s fingers jittered, the tip of his thumb ghosting over your wet clit.
“Let her,” Bucky hummed, open-mouthed over her shoulder. His other hand covered her thigh, holding her so wide the ache felt like a dare. “Make her feel it.”
Steve’s hand was huge, careful, coaxing, until it wasn’t, until the motion grew greedy, needy. You’d never been shy with Bucky, but with the attention of two lovers you felt nearly too open and exposed, nerves sparking along every limb. Bucky’s thumb toyed with your nipple, drawing it taut, while Steve’s fingers pursued your impending orgasm relentlessly.
And the orgasm came with no warning, just an unbearable pressure and then a bright, skittering release, your vision white-out as you shrieked and clamped around Steve’s hand. He nearly lost his balance but Bucky steadied him—steadied you—bracing your shaking limbs as you rode the aftershocks. Even after the pleasure crested, Steve’s fingers didn’t stop. He worked you through every shudder, sucking a breath through his teeth, awed. His voice was a fervent whisper, “Jesus. You—fuck, you look good like this.”
“She always does,” Bucky replied, mouth slick on your jaw, catching the sweat there. “You wanna see her come again?”
Steve’s hand stilled, then slowly slid free, leaving you embarrassingly empty and sticky. He watched you with dazed awe, pink flush climbing from his collar to cheekbones, as if he couldn’t believe the thing he’d just made happen, for you.
“Yeah, I do. Will you let me?” he asked, eyes meeting yours again.
You nodded, voice gone to wool and cotton, incapable of anything but a whispered, “Please.” The word left your lips desperate, high-pitched, a note of wildness that made Bucky’s hand tighten against your thigh, a subtle anchor to keep you from dissolving completely.
Steve’s smile broke open on his face, that cocky little tilt that always got him his way. He ducked down and pressed his mouth to your thigh, some kind of benediction, before giving Bucky a look, a question you weren’t included in: permission, or maybe the next step in instructions. Bucky’s hand still gripped your thigh, and the pressure from his fingertips went from comfort to proprietary.
“Take your time,” Bucky told him, slow as syrup. “She’s got plenty more in her if you work it up right.”
You whimpered, and Steve’s hand found your knee, thumb brushing circles that didn’t seem to know whether they were meant to calm or tease. He spread you even wider, fingers delving again, but now the touch was softer, coaxing in a new way. He watched your face the whole time, never letting you look away, and the sheer heat of his attention made it impossible to catch your breath, impossible to be anywhere but here, between them, for them.
You let your head loll back on Bucky’s chest, and he inhaled you like a secret. Steve’s mouth ghosted over the inside of your knee, the lightest of touches, as his hand slid slick with you, coaxing you open again. There was awe in his expression, like he couldn’t believe the things your body was capable of. That he couldn’t believe you let him see it.
Bucky’s voice was right in your ear, velvet and wicked. “You love this, don’t you? How he touches you, how he looks at you?” His teeth grazed just below your pulse, almost biting, his metal hand now flat and heavy on your soft stomach.
Steve’s mouth found your clit then, hot and wet, and you bit your lip, trying not to break apart too quickly, but Bucky’s other hand snapped up to your chin, forcing your jaw open. He slid two thick fingers into your mouth, muffling your gasps as Steve reached for that place inside you again, a blunt presence that made your hips twitch uncontrollably, mouth kissing and lapping at your clit.
“Be our good girl,” Bucky murmured, voice a velvet drag along your nerves. “Let me hear you, sweetheart.” He pressed your lips open wider, thumb tight on your cheek. Everything about him said claim, but you felt less like territory and more like treasure—something precious they’d both agreed to share.
You moaned and sucked on Bucky’s fingers, desperate for something to hold onto. Steve’s tongue drew slow, wide circles, alternating with little flicks that made you see stars, and every time his fingers curled inside you, you wanted to shake apart. Bucky’s hand pressed at the base of your throat, a leash without pressure, just a reminder of where you belonged.
Steve’s tongue moved with a rough, hungry precision that made your lashes flutter, the strangeness of his mouth—different than Bucky’s, somehow broader and needier—forcing you up against the edge of your own appetite. He groaned into you, animal, and the vibration made your toes curl as your hips bucked, seeking more, seeking everything.
The sound of you—wet and needy—filled the room, obscene, and Steve was impossibly focused. You could feel the shift as Steve’s mouth grew unabashed, each lap and suckle more confident. He lapped greedily, not just at your clit but at the desperate, shuddering noises you made, feeding on them, letting them escalate him past any feigned self-control.
Bucky murmured filth in your ear. “Such a pretty thing, all open for Steve. He’s a fast learner, isn’t he?” His fingers slipped from your mouth, gliding down to squeeze your breast with proprietary delight. “Sensitive here, too, Steve. She likes it just a little mean when you bite.”
Steve’s lips left your cunt, replaced by the blunt, perfect drag of his teeth—just a graze, but amplified by the velvet heat radiating between your thighs. The wild sound you made told him everything he needed. He grinned, eyes bright, and gave you another drag with his tongue and the barest scrape of teeth. Your legs shook, clamped for a second around his broad shoulders as he tormented you, licking through the slick he’d made.
“She’s right there,” Bucky insists, “but don’t let up.”
You squeezed your eyes shut, chest heaving, as Bucky’s words poured through you, making it impossible not to want to give him everything, even the parts you thought you’d never let anyone else but him see. He tugged his hand from your mouth, and you gasped, “I’m close, I can’t—”
“Yes, you can,” Bucky coaxed, hand splayed again over your breast, pinching and then soothing. “Let him taste it. Let him taste everything.” He nuzzled the space behind your ear, catching the lobe between his teeth, a punctuation to his demand.
Steve’s hand, meanwhile, never stopped mapping you. His thick fingers curling again against that spot inside, a squirming, irresistible pressure, while his mouth closed around your clit and sucked, hard, and the world melted into a soundless scream in your throat. You bucked up, hands grasping at Bucky’s biceps, and came again, hard enough you thought you might black out.
This time Steve didn’t bother with awe, only a growl of triumph and gratitude as he licked you through every convulsion, not stopping until your thighs trembled against his head and Bucky had to murmur, “Enough, big guy, you’ll melt her.”
You didn’t remember the transition—somewhere in the haze of pleasure, Steve had shifted you onto his lap, his cock thick and leaking, pressed impossibly hard against your hip. Bucky sat facing you both on the foot of the bed, blue eyes greedy and soft at the same time, mouth slack with want. Steve held you to his chest, the thrum of his pulse wild and loud beneath your palm.
“Fuck, honey, you alright?” Bucky asked, thumb brushing along your jaw. You only nodded, eyes glassy, limbs a little insubstantial.
“She gets real soft after she comes,” Bucky explained. His metal hand stroked your cheek, thumb scraping your parted lip. “Steve, you ever eat a girl out til she can’t think straight, and then fuck her so good she gets slick again just from the memory?”
Steve’s gaze flicked down to your face, as if he needed to check in, as if the rules of this odd, shared gravity could change at your whim. But you only leaned harder into his chest, the memory of Bucky’s words blooming low in your gut. “Not like this,” Steve said quietly, the confession tumbling out like an apology. “Never had someone so slick and eager and pliant. She’s so fucking sweet.”
“She likes making a mess, especially when she knows someone’s gonna clean it up nice for her.”
It was obscene and beautiful in the same breath, the way your body pulsed and ached for these two men. You knew Bucky intimately, but Steve was still a new entity, it should be unbelievable what you were letting him do to you, and yet you were willing because Bucky said you could be.
“You wear her out, and she lets you do anything you want.” Steve pressed his lips to your temple, the gesture as tender as a prayer, but you could feel the tension in his body—like he was holding himself back as much as he was holding you up.
“Do you want him to fuck you?” It was as blunt as a knife’s edge; Bucky never did like to leave things to implication.
You meant to say yes, steeled and confident, but the only sound you could make was a whimper. Bucky grinned. “Use your words, honey. Steve’s been waiting a long time.”
Steve’s hands tightened on your hips. “Since your wedding,” he confessed, and you gasped.
Bucky nodded, proud, calm, even though this revelation was ricocheting through your mind. Steve had been overseas for years until just recently, and of course he hadn’t missed his best friend’s wedding—had been the best man—but it had also been the first time you’d met him.
You remembered the speech, the toast. Steve smiling at you across a room of strangers, nothing but friendship and pride in his voice, but now you wondered how long he’d been drinking you in, how long he’d been simmering in this kind of want.
You also remembered—vivid as if it bloomed on the backs of your eyelids—the way Steve’s eyes had lingered at the reception, how his hand seemed to swallow yours when he shook it, holding on a beat too long. You’d caught him watching you and Bucky slow dancing, his smile softer than it ought to have been, heavy with yearning. At the time you’d wondered if maybe he was just that kind of romantic, or maybe a little lonely after so much time away.
But now that memory rewrote itself, charged and electric, searing through you as Steve took your chin in his hand and kissed you—soft at first, learning the taste of you. His mouth tasted like you, and you shivered, deep in your bones, at being desired by these two men.
Bucky reached for you, steady hands bracketing your thighs, and you sank back against Steve’s chest. Your husband ducked lower, pressing a line of kisses from your hip bone to the soft, over-sensitive spot at the seam of your thigh.
You shivered as Bucky trailed his tongue through the wetness Steve had left behind, mouth hungry and reverent. He licked slowly, then nosed at your clit, already swollen and sore from Steve’s attention, and the jolt of sensation made you gasp into Steve’s mouth. He devoured your sounds greedily, tongue parting your lips as if he needed to taste how undone you were.
Bucky’s tongue was firmer than Steve’s, more insistent, and when he flattened it against you and sucked, you felt every vibration in your teeth. You whimpered into Steve’s kiss, and he swallowed the noise, hands squeezing your hips as you rolled against the heat of Bucky’s mouth, your body burning, melting, until there was nothing left but sensation.
You weren’t sure Bucky’s mouth could ever be called gentle, but right now it was a new kind of slow, each lap deliberate, stroking the sharp edge of oversensitivity and coaxing pleasure out of it until your eyes watered. Steve’s hand wound into your hair, guiding your head back against his shoulder, and you let him, lost in the heat radiating from both their bodies.
“She’s shaking,” Steve whispered, awe thick in his voice.
“She knows what she likes,” Bucky replied, voice muffled between your legs. His metal hand dug into your thigh, cool and greedy, while the other traced lazy patterns over your ribs, drawing your skin tight with anticipation for what would come next.
Bucky pulled his mouth away with a slick, obscene sound, smirking up at you. “You ready for cock?” he asked, and this wasn’t an idle question. Bucky wanted you to say it, wanted you to beg for it. Steve’s cock pressed up under you, thick and hot, and you could feel how desperate he was for it. You were too.
“Yes,” you said, or maybe just moaned it, letting your knees fall as wide as Steve and Bucky wanted them. “Yes, please.”
“Fuck, she’s polite,” Steve mumbled, hands already guiding you up, shifting you onto your knees, palms bracing the mattress as Bucky moved to the side of you, one hand fisting his own stiff cock, the other smoothing down your back and skimming over your ass. You could feel Steve’s cock, hot and insistent, nudging between your thighs.
“She likes a full feeling,” Bucky told Steve, the statement an offer and a warning both, and you blinked up at him, swallowing. “When you fuck her, you gotta go deep.”
Steve’s hands caught your hips, palms broad enough to span almost from waist to thigh. There was a reverence in his movements, but also the first hints of impatience—the way his fingers flexed, the way his cock jumped when it brushed against you, smearing precum along the seam of your body. He lined himself up and held, not yet pushing in, and the wait felt like another kind of pleasure, anticipation sharp as a blade.
Your chest seized—with anticipation or hesitation, you weren’t sure—as you realized Bucky was going to let Steve fuck you bare.
“He’s a big one, sweetheart,” Bucky warned, and you could hear the grin on his face. He planted a hand at the small of your back, keeping your spine bowed. “Nice and slow. She likes to feel every inch.”
You pressed your face into the pillow, bracing for a stretch that came slow and monumental—Steve’s cock parting you, nudging inside until you couldn’t breathe for the fullness, the hot-dull burn that quickly blurred into something sweeter.
“There you go, sweetheart,” Bucky murmured. “Let him all the way in.”
You were so wet he didn’t even need to force it; the broad head split you open easily. You heard Bucky’s purr, almost proud, as if he had made you this way, greedy for the kind of ache only they could give. Bucky loved to torment you with this kind of fuck when he slid inside you, so his direction for Steve to as well was to be expected.
Steve held, fully sheathing himself, body trembling with restraint. “You okay?” The sound of your name was different in his voice, kinder, stripped of any artifice.
You nodded, eagerly pressing your hips back, and the slide hit something deep, a place that made your toes flex and your mouth fall open. Steve’s hands stroked your hips, grounding you, his breath rough as he held as still as he could manage. Bucky’s voice was syrup-sweet at your ear, “Go on, Steve. She wants it.”
The first thrust was a slow, rolling motion that stole your breath. Steve drew out nearly all the way, then slid back in, the burn giving way to a greedy, clutching pleasure. You held perfectly still, squeezing your eyes shut, learning the new shape of yourself with Steve inside you. You keened, knuckles whitening in the bedsheets. Bucky stayed close, palm at the nape of your neck, his own cock hard and leaking, pressed to your shoulder as he watched Steve fuck you.
“She takes cock so well, doesn’t she?” Bucky crooned, his tone barely above a purr. “Bet you never seen anyone so hungry before.” His metal hand traced your spine, ratcheting the tension higher as he pet you and praised you, the words a molten thread tangled through every harder, deeper thrust. Steve’s hips pistoned slow, but with such force you swore you could feel it in your throat, each time catching a spot Bucky had mapped just for him.
Steve’s rhythm was a miracle of endurance, slow and deep, every thrust measured, watched, almost academic in its hunger. His hands never stopped moving, stroking your waist, your belly, your ribs, learning every inch of you as if he needed to memorize the route. His hips stuttered occasionally, evidence of his own struggle not to lose himself too quickly to the wet heat you offered him.
And he whispered your name between every other breath, like a vow, like he was kneeling in church.
Bucky’s hands grew rougher on you, easing your thighs farther apart, planting dirty encouragements in your head that made you slicker, filthier than before. “You should see her face, Steve. She’s so beautiful right now.”
Bucky coaxed your head up and to the side so Steve could see the exact, filthy pleasure contorting your features. And you felt it, the slide of your own tears, half-joy and half-overwhelm, as Steve picked up the pace, his thrusts deeper, harder.
Bucky wiped a tear from your jaw with his thumb, then sucked it into his mouth. “So beautiful when you’re ruined like this.”
Steve’s fingers dug into your flesh, and you could feel how close he was to letting go of decorum, of caution, of the last rags of self-control. You wanted it. You moaned for it. Your head swam with the ache of being so fucking full, of being seen and used and loved all at once.
“Not gonna last,” Steve groaned, the confession breaking at the seam. “Feels—fuck, Bucky, how do you keep your head—”
“I don’t, punk. That’s why I always make her come first.” Bucky’s laugh was sharp and breathless, the sound of a man profoundly in love with his own wife. He trailed a hand down your front, fingers gliding over the slick mess Steve had made of you. “And always make it up to her after, too. She loves that part too.”
Bucky’s hand found your clit, thumb and forefinger pinching, rolling it just this side of cruel, and you yelped, the sudden spike of pain-pleasure a match to the fullness Steve was feeding you, and your whole body shuddered. Bucky laughed—warm and wicked—and reached down, fingers sliding through the mess of slick and sweat and precum at the seam where Steve’s body split yours, then smeared it over his own cock.
He pumped himself once, twice, eyes locked on where Steve’s body met yours, and you watched, unabashedly.
Bucky leaned forward, mouth hot at your jaw. “You want me to fuck your mouth while Steve fucks you?”
The question, blunt and bright, sliced through your haze. You nodded, desperate, and Bucky grinned, wolfish. He pressed his thumb to your lips, smearing the taste of yourself across them, and then shifted around in front of you, kneeling up so his cock bobbed level with your mouth. It was already slick, the head flushed dark, and you opened for him automatically, tongue out, dutiful and greedy all at once.
“That’s my girl,” Bucky breathed, sliding in slow, letting you feel the heft of him as Steve’s cock ground into your cunt from behind. You could barely spare the coordination to suck and moan at the same time, the boundary between pleasure and humiliation dissolved.
Your throat worked, helpless, as Bucky fucked your mouth in shallow, reverent thrusts, and your jaw burned with the effort of taking him as deep as he wanted. He pulled back every time you gagged, not to spare you, but to watch the string of spit connect your lips to the tip of his cock. You blinked up at your husband, tears streaming freely now, and saw how it undid him—made him thrust a little deeper, fuck your mouth a little harder, hands cradling your jaw, both anchoring and guiding you.
“Pretty thing,” he muttered, almost gentle, “look at you. That’s it. Just like that. God, Steve, you’re going to love fucking her throat.”
“Buck, you can’t just—” Steve had to groan before he could finish his thought. “You can’t just say shit like that and expect me to last.”
You moaned, mouth full of Bucky and body full of Steve, your whole self strung taut between their appetites. The rhythm between Steve’s hips behind you and Bucky’s in front of you a terrifying, perfect sync.
Bucky smirked, thumb wiping spit from your chin, then dragged it down to your throat, pressing lightly so you felt the stretch of yourself inside. “Bet you want him in your mouth right after he fills you up, don’t you?” Bucky’s voice was honey-thick, tugging need like a thread from your cunt all the way up to your brain.
You nodded, desperate, and that was all it took—Steve’s grip on your hips locked down, his pulse a wild thrum against your skin, and he buried himself in you with one last, shuddering thrust. You could feel it, the way he pulsed and spilled hot inside, and the sound he made—it was raw, almost animal. He held inside, grinding so deep you felt it all the way up your spine, filling you so perfectly a whimper broke loose from your lips even with Bucky’s cock still in your mouth.
Bucky eased out of your mouth, palm still warm against your jaw, thumb stroking where his cock had just been. He grinned at you, all sweet-and-mean, then leaned in to press a kiss over your spit-slick lips. “That’s it,” he whispered, reverent, like he was kissing holy ground. “That’s my good girl.” The words landed low in your belly, twisting up with the mess Steve had left in you.
But his cock was still inside you, too, and he collapsed forward, chest to your back, his arms caging you in. You expected him to pull out, to give you a moment to recover, but instead he rocked his hips, slow and greedy, as if he couldn’t bear to lose the feeling of you squeezing around him.
And then, without warning, his hand slid under your belly, fingers finding your clit, already swollen and overstimulated. He drew tight, precise circles with the pads of first two fingers, not letting up, even when you whined and squirmed beneath him. Bucky’s hands held you steady, anchoring you so Steve could play your body like an instrument.
The friction was so good, so dirty, that your cunt clamped around him involuntarily, milked every last drop as Steve’s fingers worked you up again, your body already betraying just how ready it was to be used a second, third, hundredth time.
“Fuck, she’s insatiable, isn’t she?” Steve said, voice almost fond, the sound of it a pressure at the base of your skull.
“She’s always been that way,” Bucky answered, a frayed thread of pride winding through his voice. “After the serum, I never met a partner who could keep up with me until her. Like you were made for a super soldier, sweetheart.”
You laughed, or tried to, but it came out a shaky, desperate gasp as Steve’s fingers wrung another whimper from you. Your knuckles dug into the sheets, the only tether as your overstimulated clit set off sparks behind your eyes. “Bucky,” you croaked, barely audible, “I can’t—”
“You can, honey. You’ll show Steve just how much you can take.” His gaze was intent, and for a moment you remembered every night the two of you had built trust on, every whispered dare and secret need he’d coaxed from you, every time he’d made you shatter and put you back together.
You barely had time to brace—Steve’s closed closed hard and firm around your clit, pinching, sending a lightning bolt through you, and as your body seized, his mouth found the meat of your shoulder and bit down. Not a warning, not a tease—a real goddamn bite. It ricocheted up your spine and detonated any coherence you had left. Your vision went blinding white, then red, and you screamed, nails gouging at the mattress, his hardening cock still buried so deep inside you it felt like you were cleaved in half.
The orgasm hit different—shocking, jagged, beyond pleasure and into a place that was just sensation, raw and total. You were crying, you realized, drool and tears tracking down your chin, but you couldn’t stop, couldn’t get enough, not even when the world blurred and your whole midsection pulsed around Steve’s cock, milking him for everything he had.
Bucky held your gaze the whole time, watching you unravel, watching every second of you coming apart for his best friend.
“Never gets old,” Bucky said, voice ragged with want, “seeing you come apart.” He stroked your hair, gentling you even as Steve’s cock kept you pinned and shuddering.
Steve pulled out, finally, leaving a slick trail down your thigh, and you expected collapse—rest, maybe, or at least a breath of air.
You got part of what you wanted as you were manhandled with a gentle efficiency—Steve lowering you to the mattress and Bucky rolling you over onto your back. The two men bracketed themselves around you. Bucky’s thumb smoothed tears from your cheeks, his lips hovering at your brow. Steve’s palm swept your hair from your face, tucking the wild strands behind your ears, and he smiled at you, dazed and open and deeply, deeply gone himself.
“You okay?” he asked, voice so hoarse you wanted to laugh, if only you didn’t feel so utterly wrung dry.
Bucky’s hands mapped your body, stroking down your arms, your waist, as if to collect every piece of you that had scattered. “She’s perfect. She’s got a thing for being ruined,” Bucky said, rubbing his thumb hard across your jaw, “but it’s more than just the mess. It’s being wanted, isn’t it, sweetheart?”
You trembled, the answer right there but too big for your mouth. All you could manage was a soft, but firm, “It’s both.”
It was. The ache between your legs, the aftershocks twitching in your thighs, crescendoed in the knowledge that you belonged—here, between them—because you were wanted. Not just by Bucky, whose love for you was a still wildfire after the first few years of the life you were building together, but by Steve, the last person you ever expected to want anything at all.
They held you in the perfect kind of silence for a while. Bucky stroked your sternum with two fingers, tracing the rapid pounding of your heart, while Steve drew lazy patterns on your ribs, the gentle touch making your bones melt.
Steve was the one who broke the silence, voice still thick and slow. “I’m sure Bucky’s told you how everything feels amplified for us, after the serum?”
You nodded, not trusting your voice, but Steve caught your chin and made certain you were listening, blue eyes intent on the fall and rise of your chest. He thumbed the corner of your mouth, gentle in a way that didn’t match the bite mark blooming on your shoulder. “It’s true. Everything’s hotter, sharper. Smells, tastes, touch.” His hand wandered down your neck, tracing the chain of your pulse. “It’s like all the dials turned up past what they’re supposed to do.”
Bucky grinned, mouth curving against your temple, proud and a little feral. “It’s why we’re so good at this,” he said, and the “we” wasn’t just the two of them, but you too, looped into their satisfaction by being the one they found satiation with.
You remembered, dimly, what Bucky had once told you—something about how pain and pleasure were just colors in a spectrum for men like them, how sometimes the best you could do was grab hold of the brightest one and hang on until it faded.
You barely noticed when Bucky’s hand slid lower, two fingers sliding along the seam of you, dipping just inside. You’d thought you were emptied out, rung dry, but the dull ache at your entrance proved otherwise—the evidence of Steve inside you, the slow ooze of it, making your lashes flutter in a way that felt almost innocent.
“You want to keep going, honey?” He asked because this—the consent, the agency—was one of the roots of his pleasure. You nodded again, too spent for speech. “Yeah, you do,” he murmured, pressing his own cock flush against your thigh, hot iron against soft flesh. “And you want Steve to watch, don’t you?”
The way Bucky framed it, you didn’t just want to perform, to be seen—you wanted to be worshipped, to be watched while your body proved itself again and again. There was no performance anxiety; there was only the heat of two impossible men zeroed in on every twitch of your muscles. You felt your own slick between your thighs, the slow, filthy trickle of Steve’s cum pooling out of you, the ache where you’d been so thoroughly stretched.
“Sweetheart,” Bucky chuckled. “Words.”
You tried to say, “Yes, please,” but it came out as a sigh, and Bucky’s grin only widened.
Steve cradled your head like a priceless artifact, thumb pressing a sleepy circle against your jaw while his gaze moved between your eyes and the place where Bucky’s fingers cupped your cunt. You felt your hips roll up, wanton, trying to keep contact with Bucky’s hand even as he toyed with your entrance but never quite let you have the friction you needed.
“You want to show Steve how we fuck when it’s just you and me in the dark, how well you take me.” A statement, not a question.
“Mmmhmm,” you groaned, and Bucky pressed a kiss to your shoulder, then knelt up, hands guiding your unresisting legs apart. He knelt back on his haunches and pulled your hips close. You heard Steve’s breath stutter at the sight, and it filled you with a greedy, wild pride. Bucky teased the seam of you with the head of his cock, up and down, up and down, making you whine.
At the last moment, Bucky relented and pushed inside, filling you with a swift, brutal thrust that bottomed out in one motion. There was no slow stretch, no easing in—just the violent, relentless press of his cock, and you arched off the mattress with a helpless, desperate moan. Your body was made to take him, every inch of you was slick and trembling, so the pain blurred seamlessly into pleasure and back again until you weren’t sure which you preferred.
He moved slow at first, kneeling above you like a god, letting you feel the thickness of him as he rocked in and out, but it wasn’t long before he found the rhythm he liked—a rough, demanding piston that left you scrambling for breath, for touch, for anything to keep you from coming apart entirely. You felt every ridge and vein, every rutting pound as he chased his own need, each thrust fusing the two of you back together.
All you could do—wanted to do—was take it. The raw, pounding pleasure, the relentless stretch, the feeling of Bucky’s cock rutting into you deeply. You heard yourself sob—and it was not a neat or pretty thing, but a wrecked, raw sound that only made Bucky groan above you. He caught your thighs in his hands, spreading you wider, and you felt the obscene heat of the stretch, the way your cunt seized around him with each battering drive. The slick noise of it—your body, his cock, the fucking mess Steve had left in you—filled the room, a rhythm and a punctuation to Bucky’s breathing as he drove deeper, harder, faster.
Steve’s hand found yours in the sheets. He laced his thick fingers between yours and squeezed, grounding you, letting you feel the reverent awe rolling off him in slow, steady waves. But there was an unmet hunger still lingering there under the surface. You could feel it in the tense of his body next to yours, and when you turned your face, eyes seeking his, he met your gaze without hesitation.
Steve bent to kiss you, and there was no veiling tenderness or shy request for permission. His tongue pushed into your mouth, greedy and wild, tasting the ghost of Bucky on your lips, tasting the salt of your tears. You kissed back with everything you had, drawing another moan from your throat as Bucky pistoned into you, the force rocking your whole body up into Steve’s chest.
Bucky’s thrusts didn’t slacken—they were still relentless, still merciless—but as you and Steve kissed, the tempo oscillated into something deeper, a series of slower,seismic detonations. Each time Bucky bottomed out inside you, he held there, grinding, spine arched, as if the sight of you kissing Steve was as much a pleasure to him as the feel of your cunt squeezing him.
Steve groaned into your mouth, his hand coming up to cradle your jaw, and Bucky’s grip on your thighs tightened, like he needed to stake a claim even as he offered you up. With every new roll of Bucky’s hips, a different noise tore its way out of your throat—some for the pain, some for the pleasure, some for the blissful humiliation of being made a spectacle for their eyes.
“Fuck her mouth, Steve,” Bucky said, a low, hungry rumble.
Steve didn’t hesitate, and it was only for a fraction of a second before he was shifting up, the broad line of his thigh braced alongside your head. His cock was still half-hard, glazed with your slick and his own release. The sight of it, flushed angry-red and wet, made your cunt clench around Bucky. Steve cupped your chin, thumb curling along the hinge of your jaw, and you sucked him into your mouth, the taste salty and obscene.
You groaned around him, lips stretching, tongue flattening under the thick, salty weight. He barely thrust, just eased forward, but the size of him still made your throat protest. Bucky continued his slow, tortruous pace below, watching intently as Steve’s cock parted your lips, and the sight of it—his best friend fucking your mouth while he still pounded into your cunt—nearly undid him, you could feel it in the grip of his hands on your hips.
“Deeper,” Bucky ordered, and Steve obeyed. He slid in, careful but insistent, filling your mouth until you gagged, until your eyes watered anew. Steve slid in, your throat stretched, and the assault of it made you gasp around him, desperate for air, for mercy, for more. Steve petted your jaw, his other hand cupping the back of your head, and for all the brutality of the act there was infinite patience in how he held you there, letting you adjust, letting you learn the unique shape of his need. Somewhere above, Bucky laughed—a single breath of filthy awe, a marvel at the spectacle of you taking both their cocks at once like this.
The taste of Steve’s cum was thick in your mouth, the smell of sex and sweat and ozone burning in your nostrils. You wanted them both to know how much you liked this, how much you needed every inch of what they gave. So you hollowed your cheeks and sucked, rolling your tongue with just enough pressure to see the effect in Steve’s eyes—head thrown back, spine bowed glorious, hand clenching your jaw with a desperation that made you burn with pride.
Bucky’s cock pounded up into you from below, and Steve’s pushed into your mouth from above, and you—pinned, stretched, used—were nothing but bliss. The sensation was a hinge, your body swinging wild between the two of them. You felt the echo of your own heartbeat in your cunt, in your mouth, in every thrum of the mattress and grind of their hips.
Steve’s thrusts grew bolder, and at each push he eased a little deeper, patience thinning as your mouth softened to his shape. His voice, when it came, was raw and rough, “Fuck, fuck, you feel so good—” your name murmured as its own curse when it fell from his lips in this moment.
He spilled his seed down your throat, but not all of it. He pulled out and shot the rest over your breasts, warm rope after rope of it across your heaving chest as Bucky pistoned in even harder, the thudding slap of his hips the only sound in the world.
Bucky slammed harder, harder, until you felt the actual bruise of him inside you, some deep purple echo of the violence. He reached for your clit, pinched, and your body shuddered into another orgasm, spasms wracking you so hard you thought you’d bite your tongue. You moaned so sweet and so ruined as he flew over the edge.
Bucky’s cock throbbed inside you, a shuddering full-body tremor, and then he was coming, hips jammed flush as he spilled molten and messy into the deepest part of you. His moan was raw, unguarded, and he didn’t let up, kept grinding through every spurt, making sure you took every last drop. The pressure of it set off a chain reaction—your body seized, aftershocks tearing up your thighs and into your belly, squeezing around him in greedy, involuntary pulses.
Bucky’s head dropped back, his jaw flexing as he held your hips pinned. You watched him, glassy-eyed and adoring, as every muscle in his chest locked. “Christ,” he panted, eyes flickering to Steve, “This is unreal.” He pulled halfway out—slow, slow—then pushed in again, a wet, obscene sound marking every inch. “She’s still squeezing me, even after you ruined her.” Bucky’s grin was all teeth, all pride and filth. “Can feel your mess inside her, Steve. So fucking wet she’s dripping down my balls.”
You moaned in the hinge between them, wrung out and wild, as Bucky fucked you through the last quakes and Steve’s hand fanned gently against your throat, thumb pressing the pulse there like he wanted to count your heartbeats—maybe hold them for ransom.
Bucky let out a ragged exhalation and pulled out, the head of his cock dragging on hypersensitive nerves, leaving you gaping and gasping and dripping. Bucky didn’t bother to hide his satisfaction. Instead, he watched the spill with a sick, loving sort of pride, then reached down, scooped his own cum with his fingers and smeared it over your breasts, painting you in it, mixing it with his best friend’s seed until your whole chest was slick with it. He held you there for a moment, painted and panting and caught in the liminal pleasure, before tilting your face up and licking a stripe from your collarbone to your jaw, tongue lazy and flat. Bucky’s mouth found yours, and you tasted the salt of Steve and yourself on his lips. You kissed him like you were dying, and Bucky kissed you back harder, swallowing you whole.
Steve’s voice burrowed into your ear with shocking gravity, arms closing around your limp torso as if to protect you from the world outside this narrow, unrepeatable moment. “You are so fucking beautiful ruined like this,” he said, voice half-reverent.
Bucky’s thumb pressed under your chin, tilting your face: “You want more, don’t you?” You did. That was the devastating truth of it. Even as your body ached and stung from orgasm, you wanted all the ways they touched you, every version of this night.
“Are you sure, Buck?” Steve asked, incredulous.
Bucky’s laugh was a bright, sharp crack in the haze, so full of delight it rang in your bones. “Oh, sweetheart. Steve has no idea what you’re capable of after a few more rounds.”
He bent over you, hands braced by your head, and pressed a kiss to the center of your brow—a benediction at odds with the lazy trail of his hand down your body, cupping your breast, then skimming the mess he and Steve had left there. He rubbed their slick together with an idle curiosity, like a child finger-painting, until Steve’s hand joined his, pinching a nipple between two careful fingers and rolling it until you arched up, spent muscles clenching with electric aftershock.
“We could let her rest,” Bucky said, tongue laving your earlobe as he spoke, “but why waste a perfectly good afterglow when you haven’t even fucked my wife in the shower yet?”
WE ALL KNOW I'M RARELY CAPABLE OF CUTTING SOMETHING DOWN
SO
I HOPE YOU'RE ALL HAPPY/RUINED RIGHT ALONGSIDE ME.
↠ Main Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest
I do not do tag lists, but FOLLOW @buckets-and-stories and TURN ON NOTIFICATIONS to be updated any time I publish a new work!
summary: after a series of terrorist attacks in new york, an article you wrote calling out the cowardice of the organization's leader causes you to become a target, and frank castle is assigned to be your bodyguard. the resurgence of former flames and shocking sinister revelations will test just how far frank is willing to go to protect you. divulgences of his mysterious and convoluted past will make you question just how much you can actually trust him. will frank be your savior? or the reason for your demise?
a/n: a HUGE thank you to my love @thyme-in-a-bubble for that incredibly breathtaking header. this series was inspired by the absolutely lovely @lowkeythor's genius request for a bodyguard!frank x reader fic. it is a slow burn-so get comfy. this is a punisher series friends, so there will be mentions of violence and gore, as well as other mature themes. (there will eventually be spiciness bc i can't resist) if you'd like to be added to the tag list for updates, please let me know!
»— anything marked with an astrik contains explicit content. minors dni.
»— all work is my own. please do not repost anywhere else without my consent.
༊*·˚ main materlist | pete’s place’s opening night | the playlist ༊*·˚
⁀➷ previous chapter
✧.* ೃ⁀➷ pairings: ari levinson x female!reader
✧.* ೃ⁀➷ & future pairings:
jake jensen x female!reader
steve rogers x female reader
curtis everett x female!reader.
pete brenner x female!reader
lloyd hansen x female!reader.
(and others that will be revealed at a later date.)
word count: 17,875. | series rating: explicit. ༊*·˚
warnings: kidnapping, captivity, fingering, coercion, dub-con, rough sex, choking (if you squint, but not really), ari being mean, edging.
please let me know if i missed any, i am tired and i think i’ve listed everything.
this is a dark au. minors are not welcome here.
notes: holy. fucking. shit. here you go. the Ari chapter. it's the start, it's happening. he's here and he's mean but we love him anyway. pls pls pls let me know what you think. ik my smut isn't the best (still rusty) but have nearly 18k worth of smut anyway. mwah, mwah, mwah. i love u all.
also, as always, all mistakes are my own, the spacing is kinda wonky but i cba to spend lots of time fixing it, i'm sorry
tags: @fandom-meet-fanthem @epiphanyrogers
“Well, I already told you I’m not sleeping with you again,” You said, firm and final as you clutched the sheets against your chest.
Ari let out a huff and a small nod before standing straight.
“Fine,” He replied simply, no bite or malice, a full 180-degree shift to the man who moments before looked ready to lunge across the mattress. “Enjoy the extra day here, Sugar.”
“I’ll earn them off eventually.” You surrendered; a few extra days were better than giving him what he wanted.
Ari left without another word, leaving you alone in the gilded cage, soft sheets beckoning you into a false sense of security. You allowed yourself to fall into a restless sleep, spending the night tossing and turning till the delicate warm rays scattered on the wooden floor and touched your face. You had a few moments to groggily pull yourself up when the door swung open. Ari’s boots hit the carpet with a series of dull thuds, a tray of food in hand, and without a word, dropped it at your nightstand; coffee dripping down the sides of the mug and bits of egg falling off the side of the plate and left.
You stared after the shut door, pausing for a moment before picking up the mug from the nightstand and sipping on the warm coffee, and picking through your breakfast, leaving most of it on the plate. Your stomach still wasn’t playing ball on the appetite front. You eventually peeled yourself out of bed, freshened up, and found yourself standing in the center of the room, staring out the windows.
You wasted the day by picking through the bookshelf, meticulously analyzing each of the various dusty hardbacks and placing a few on your nightstand for later. You took a shower, popped open different bottles and smelled the expensive scents, and bundled yourself up afterward in a soft, fluffy robe before taking advantage of the walk-in wardrobe.
The men clearly had a particular taste.
Lacy, intricate dresses that would leave nothing to the imagination. Strappy kitten heels in different colors, various racks of lingerie, and, tucked away in the back, sets of matching loungewear, which made you sigh with relief. You were just sat on the edge of your bed, snapping the band of the sock around your ankle when Ari walked in, eyes glaring down at you with a tray in his hand.
“Change your mind?” Ari asked.
“Nope,” you responded, popping the “p” and getting up to take a few paces backward to emphasize your decision by putting as much space as you could between you both.
Ari huffed, swapped out the trays, and left without saying anything else. He returned a few hours later, when the sun was dipping low, sending amber shadows along the cream carpet and scattering across the walls. He was carrying two plates and made his way to the small table you had shared with Steve, watching as he took up Steve’s space, the chair creaking under his weight. Your stomach growled; the lunch he had left you earlier was untouched, and the savory smell beckoned you over.
You shuffled off the bed, snapping the book shut and swiftly made your way over to snag a plate, but Ari’s large hand wrapped around your wrist.
“Sit.”
“Why aren’t you eating with the others?” You asked, unmoved and refusing to give in without an explanation.
“My cousins are here, and they have a habit of getting on my nerves,” Ari offered, giving your arm a little tug and kicking out the chair.
“There’s more of you?”
“Plenty. Sit. Eat.”
“I will. When you leave.”
You tugged your arm away and sat yourself down, crossing your arms over your chest and looking out of the window, praying that he got the message and would leave.
His voice was a cold, stark warning. “You’re playing a dangerous game, Sugar. I’m not gonna keep having the same conversation with you.”
“I really don't give a fuck what you think.”
The air in the room didn’t just drop; it vanished, and to see a man such as Ari, one who moved through the world as a force of nature, towering over everyone he came into contact with, visibly recoiling was, to put it simply, a fucking sight to see indeed. He didn’t move physically, however, but his expression flickered— a momentary crack in the mask of the unbothered eldest brother— and his shoulders tensed up as he let his fork clatter onto the plate.
The silence became so absolute that the muffled tick of the clock in the hallway rang out like a hammer hitting an anvil.
“You seem to have confused my patience for weakness, baby.” Ari tilted his head slightly, eyes focusing on yours. His voice had dropped to a register so low it was almost a vibration, a touch of irritation lacing the tone.
“And you seem to have confused my engagement in this conversation as actually caring about what a liar had to say,” You shot back. “And I am not your baby.”
The word liar seemed to hit Ari like a physical blow, a sharp, thickening tension blooming between you, shifting the room from tense to something far more volatile. Ari still didn’t flinch; he didn’t yell, but the longer he stared silently, the more it felt like walls closing in. Ari abruptly stood, the chair knocking backward. He moved towards the window, his back to you and hands stuffed in his pockets. His massive frame eclipsed the fading sunlight streaming through the window, casting a long, dark shadow that completely swallowed you.
“A liar.” His voice was a whisper, but it carried the weight of a landslide.
“Yep,” You confirmed, nodding to yourself.
The word hung in the air, stark and naked; to you it was defiance, to Ari it may as well have been a death wish.
His movements were slow and deliberate, turning slowly from the window and walking over to you with heavy footsteps. You glared up at him, standing your ground, although a ball of anxiety formed in your throat that you were forced to swallow down as he stepped into your space. He leaned down and didn’t stop until his face was level with yours, and up close, the coldness in his eyes was absolute; a deep void under the mask of blue that threatened to pull you under. He didn’t touch you, but he didn’t need to; the sheer proximity of him— the smell of cedar and stale smoke, the heat radiating from the blood boiling under his skin— felt like something close to a physical assault.
“You think you have the moral high ground because I played a part? You think your indignation protects you here?”
Suddenly, his hand shot out. His fingers clamped around the back of your chair, the wood groaning under the sudden, immense pressure of his grip. He jerked the chair an inch closer to him, a sharp, jarring motion that forced you to lean closer to him.
“No,” You answered honestly. “I think you’re just a liar. And the way you’re reacting just goes to show that you know that you are.”
Ari’s fingers tightened impossibly on the wood, a small crack ringing out from the pressure of his hand, and for a second, the mask he had tried to keep glued in place shattered. A vein pulsed in his temple, his eyes elated with a raw, jagged heat. The man who was supposed to be a meticulously constructed pillar of his dysfunctional family had his foundation slapped away by a few words, and you could see it clear as day… He hated it.
“You think you’re the first to call me a liar? You think a little “insight” makes you special, Sugar?” Ari snarled lowly, his face inches from you.
With a sudden, violent motion, Ari didn’t just pull the chair; he knocked it from under you, catching your arm in a bruising grip and hauling you upwards with a single, effortless surge of strength, listing you almost off your feet and snug against his chest. Your eyes burned their way up to his face.
“What? Your wife called you a liar too?”
The silence that followed wasn't just a pause. The air seemed to freeze, turning into shards of ice that pierced everything.
“You won’t know what the fuck you’re talking about,” Ari defended poorly, his voice a flat, dead whisper; totally devoid of any human inflection. You found the cord and planned to strike it as often as you could. “So, I suggest—“
“Had a whole wife and you still chose to fuck around with captive women. What a remarkable man you are, Ari. Truly. Out of everything that’s happened to me over these past few months… Fucking you was my biggest regret.”
The words didn’t just land; they detonated, and the room seemed to vibrate with the force of the insult.
You knew that to a man like Ari, a man who seemingly lived and breathed control, the admission that he was not only a liar but a regret was a level of degradation he’d probably never experienced. The thought of knocking him down flooded your veins with adrenaline, a racking shake through your body. But, unbeknownst to you, it wasn’t the insult to his character— he knew he was a monster; he was fine with it— it was the dismissal of the intimacy you had shared; however fake it had been. It was his to dismiss, his to downplay— not yours.
His face became a canvas of terrifying, blank neutrality as the grip on your arm tightened, stealing a hiss through your teeth as his nails pricked at your skin. He didn’t just hold you there; he owned you there. A stark reminder that in his hands, you could be nothing more than a doll.
“I’m not scared of you,” You declared despite the slight waver in your voice screaming otherwise.
Ari didn't respond with words, but the air seemed to rush out of the room as he used his other hand to clamp his fingers around your chin with an aching force, his broad shoulders casting a suffocating shadow over you. He tipped your head up, tilting it back into a sharp, vulnerable angle, his fingers moving to squeeze into the soft flesh of your cheeks. Your eyes were locked on each other's; his gaze had morphed into something else, something burning, a mixture of pure hatred and that familiar glint of raw, uncontrollable hunger.
He looked at you the same way he had in the club; like he wanted to tear you apart and possess every shattered piece of you all at once.
For a long, agonizing moment… Neither of you moved. Both of you are refusing to be the first to give in; to shout, to scream, to insult.
You stood locked in a stalemate of heavy breaths and searing heat; the only sound in the room was the ragged, weighted synchronization of your breathing. The air between you and Ari was thick, electric, desperate for a spark; the residue of the war you had been waging with poisoned tongues and quick wit. Ari’s gaze dropped first, landing on your lips, eyeing the way they trembled with each breath. You waited, and waited; for something, anything when finally…
The tension snapped.
Ari didn’t just lean in; he collided.
He crashed his lips against yours in a kiss that was less about passion and more about a conquest; a point to prove. It was violent and punishing; desperate with a physical manifestation of the fury he couldn’t voice, the want he couldn’t admit. He didn’t ask; he took, his mouth claiming yours with a bruising intensity that even in your weeks together you hadn’t experienced. He tasted like a dark, simmering rage, and you were helpless to fight. He used his weight to push you back until your back hit the edge of the table, the wood digging into your lower back, the plates rattling behind you.
He broke the kiss only to snarl almost breathlessly against your lips; jagged and rough. ‘’Say it again. Tell me you’re not scared while you’re shaking in my arms, Sugar. Don’t want me yet you’re kissing me back, hmm? We can play present, baby, that’s fine—“
“You’re not giving me much choice,” You grumbled at him.
Your hands pushed against the hard planes of his chest, scoffing while your face twisted up and your fingers dug into the expensive fabric of his shirt in a desperate attempt to create space. You pushed with every ounce of strength you possessed, but moving a mountain might have been an easier feat. Ari didn’t even budge- not even a little bit. He simply absorbed the impact of your struggle with a smirk on his lips.
‘’Push harder, Sugar," he goaded, letting out a dark chuckle that vibrated through your hands and rattled your bones.
Instead of letting you go, Ari reacted to your resistance by intensifying his hold. He shifted his weight, his massive thigh sliding between yours, pinning you firmly against the table and cutting off any hope of maneuvering out of his hold. His hand migrated from your jaw and slid down your throat, resting there with a possessive pressure that made your head spin and served as a reminder of how easy it would be for him to extinguish your breath as he dipped his head down, lips close to your ear.
‘’I love it when you fight me, Sugar. It’ll make the moment you finally stop so much sweeter,’’ he whispered against your ear.
He leaned back just enough to look you in the eyes; his pupils were blown wide, nearly swallowing the iris; the blues that had suckered you in were nowhere to be found. He looked completely unhinged; the polished facade of the right hand was entirely stripped away, leaving behind the monster, unashamed and untethered. Everything about him in that moment filled your senses and clouded your mind; his hair wild from the struggle, the tobacco and expensive cologne making your head swim, his breath hot on your neck.
‘’You think you’re so brave because you have nothing left to lose, but you’re wrong. You still have your pride, that stupid fuckin’ mouth. I’m really gonna enjoy taking those from you… Piece by piece, he continued to whisper in your ear, low and dangerous.
‘’And then pass me along to your brothers?’’ You taunted. ‘’Playing with something you can’t even keep. You’re pathetic.’’
The words cut through the air, cutting deeper than any physical threats Ari had issued. You could tell by the way his hand tightened around your throat that it was a lethal blow, reminding him that he was nothing more than a man who couldn’t claim his own prize, letting him know he was nothing but a mere placeholder. His reaction was almost instantaneous. The low, controlled heat of his anger flared into a white-hot blaze. He didn’t pull away, but instead pushed you back flat onto the table with such a sudden, violent force that your head thumped against the wood, groaning under the impact and sending a vibration rattling through your spine.
‘’You think I can’t keep you?’’ Ari asked in a hushed, rough tone, his face inches from yours. His grip on your throat tightened more, enough to pin your head firmly against the table; his other hand flew to your waist, his fingers digging into the soft flesh with a grip that was bound to leave bruises. The cold, detached professional was truly long gone; instead, he was possessed by a primal need to dominate and silence the one person who had managed to see through his armor, and it terrified you. His eyes flashed with an unstable light.
‘’I don’t pass things along, Sugar. I decide who gets what and when–’’ Ari leaned in closer, teeth grazing the shell of your ear, his breath ragged and full of fire. The sheer physical disparity between you both was overwhelming to say the least; you were a delicate flower trapped under a landslide. With each word, he sounded like less of a man and more like a predator ready to claim a kill as his voice dropped to a menacing, vibrating hum. ‘’Maybe I’ll decide you’re too precious for the others. Maybe I’ll decide that the only way to scrub that fuckin’ arrogance out of your mouth is to keep you locked in this room, on your knees, until you forget to speak anything but my name.’’
He leaned back just enough to look you in the eye, his expression a terrifying mixture of hatred and an obsession he couldn’t quite mask. You let out a shaky breath through your nose, willing your bones to stop trembling, and the sly smirk on his lips told you he had wound up with exactly what he wanted. He wanted you to fear him, but more than that, he was desperate for you to acknowledge that he was the only thing in this world that mattered right now.
“Calling me pathetic? Well…” He trailed off, leaning closer, your noses almost touching, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Let’s see how ‘pathetic’ this feels, Sugar.”
Without any further warning, he dipped his head and crashed his mouth back over yours. It was a sordid collision of teeth and tongue, and you felt powerless to fight. It was a raw, hungry attempt to devour your defiance. He kissed you as if he were trying to drink down your pleas, take in your breath as his own; his hand on your throat guided your moments, forcing you to stay, enduring the onslaught of his fury.
The groan that bubbled in his throat caused you to writhe underneath him, your nails found his forearms, nails scraping against his skin, blooming red, frantic, desperate lines; a feeble attempt to get away, but it only served to heighten the friction. Every move you made only got you more and more trapped under the heat of his chest and the cool, unforgiving wood of the table.
“Fight me, come on, Sugar. Know you can do better than that,” Ari taunted against your lips.
He didn’t flinch at the scratches. If anything, the sharp sting seemed to act as a catalyst, stoking the fire already raging in him. You shuddered when he rocked against you, feeling how he loved the resistance; he was clearly a man who enjoyed having something to crush. He shifted his grip, hand sliding from your throat to the back of your head, his fingers curling ruthlessly in your hair. With a sharp, sudden tug, he yanked your head back, forcing you to expose your throat to him and breaking the kiss with a lewd, visceral wet sound.
“You’re so desperate to get away, yet here you still are. Still breathing me in, still feeling exactly what I do to you, and I know…” His voice was a breathless rasp, his eyes gleaming with something dark. “You fucking love it.”
He didn’t let you recover. Didn’t give you a moment to breathe. To sit with the impending doom. Instead, he began to trail kisses across your jawline, lips bruising and demanding, moving to the sensitive skin of your neck. Each press of his lips was akin to a brand, a claim of ownership that threatened to ignore the schedule, ignore the rules, and ignore the other men in the manor. You bit back a whimper, hating how a mix of disgust and want soared through your veins, trapped under him as he was operating on pure, unfiltered impulse now; driven by a burning need to silence her tongue and break your spirit.
His teeth grazed your shoulder, his voice heavy and breathy. “Tell me again how pathetic I am, Sugar. Tell me while you’re shaking, tell me while you’re pretending to not want me. You’ve always wanted me, Sugar.”
You tried to push against him, fighting to keep him from pushing his weight further against you, his thigh pressed firmly against your core, and you begged your body not to respond, and when you felt the all-familiar ache, you had no choice but to act. You waited until he looked up at you, making his way over to your other shoulder as you gathered spit in your mouth and launched it directly at his face.
The room went silent.
The wet, sharp sound of the spit hitting Ari’s cheek echoed in the space around you. For a moment, the world seemed to stop spinning. Ari had frozen, his head slightly tilted, moisture glistening on his skin in the fading sunlight.
This wasn’t a verbal jab, a clever quip or pointed insult. This was a visceral, primal act of contempt. It was the ultimate reflection of his power, his masculinity, and his status within the manor walls. It was the only way you could think to get him to stop, but now you feared what would happen when he started again. In a home where respect was demanded through fear and blood, this was an act of absolute heresy.
Slowly and deliberately, Ari turned his head, his eyes locking onto yours. His expression was no longer one of hunger or rage. It was something far more horrifying. His features had gone completely slack, his eyes turning into two cold, dead stones. The fire had been snuffed out, replaced by a glacial, murderous calm. He didn’t move to wipe his face, didn’t flinch or reel back. He simply stared, the silence stretching out until it felt like a physical weight crushing the oxygen from the room and leaving you breathless.
“You really don’t know when to stop, do you?” Ari asked, his voice a flat, timeless whisper, devoid of everything human.
With a sudden, blurring movement, Ari seized both of your wrists, pinning them in a single, massive grip and slamming them up above your head with a force that made your shoulders feel like they were going to pop. He leaned in, his chest against yours.
“I was going to be softer. I was going to give you the luxury of a slow break, but you… You just can’t help yourself. So, what choice do you give me?” Ari’s gaze shifted around your face, a dark, twisted smirk finally touching his lips. It wasn’t a smile of pleasure; it was the smile of a man who had finally been given a good enough reason to be cruel. “I wonder if Lloyd will consider this as ‘extenuating circumstances.’ I wonder if he’ll let me keep you for the rest of the week, just to see how many times you can spit before you start begging for me to touch you.”
“So much for being the one who makes the decisions,” You huffed. Ari was right. You didn’t know when to stop, and you hoped that if you defied him enough, he would get bored and move on. “Gotta run to Lloyd to see if you can keep playing with the new toy. No wonder your wife upped and ran. I would leave you too.”
The mention of his wife again, coupled with the accusation that he was nothing more than a puppet to Lloyd’s whims, seemed to hit Ari like a physical strike to the gut. The calm he had so easily possessed vanished, his face twisting up as he took in a sharp exhale of breath. The transition was a violent one— switching from the predator playing with his food to a man stripped of every shred of restraint.
You jumped in your skin as his fist hit the table, so close that you could feel the wind from the impact.
“Shut the fuck up,” Ari warned, finger pointed towards your face, eyes glaring down at you, his voice laced with something twisted. “You think you’re so fucking clever. You think you’ve found the one thing that can break me…”
The grip of your wrists tightened, threatening to shatter the bones. He looked completely possessed, pupils expanded until no light reflected. His breathing came out in sharp, jagged heaves. Suddenly, he pulled you up right, manhandling you until you were pinned to the floor. He gripped your hips with a bruising intensity as his voice dropped, leaning down to graze his lips against yours as he spoke.
“I don’t need Lloyd’s permission to break a toy that’s already malfunctioning.”
The coldness was finding its way back, but it was different now. It was a focused cruelty. He wasn’t just reacting now; he was deciding. He looked at you— really looked at you— maybe not as a woman, but as an asset; as something that needed to be silent and subdued until there was nothing left.
“You want to talk about why she left? Maybe I'll let you figure it out while you're screaming my name. Maybe I'll show you exactly why no one survives this family with their pride intact.”
“Careful now, Ari. I’m starting to think you’re all talk,” You challenged. Your mind was split in two. One side hoped he would still leave; the other wanted him to stay, and you were unsure which to listen to. “Starting to think you can only get up on someone else’s say-so. Do it. Do your worst.”
The challenge hung in the air, acting like a spark in a room flooded with gasoline.
For Ari, the invitation was the final piece of the puzzle. He had tried control, he had tried the professional distance, he had tried pure, raw fury— but you; you offered him the one thing that he desperately craved in that moment: a reason to stop holding back.
Permission.
For you, it was curiosity, wondering how far he would go; it was the other side that clung to the fantasy, the one where you moved away, where he followed— white picket fences, sunset strolls, and happiness. Despite everything, you had grown attached to the man who had betrayed you in the worst way, and if this was a way to pay up and get out, at least it was with him.
“You have no idea what my worst looks like, Sugar. You have no idea what you’ve just asked me for,” Ari purred into your ear, a sick grin on his lips.
He looked at you with an expression so vacant of any warmth that it made dread bloom in your stomach, mixing with the desire that still sat heavy there. He looked at you as if you were a puzzle he was about to solve by breaking every single piece. Then, suddenly, Ari shifted his grip. He didn’t just hold you; he manipulated your body with an effortless strength until you were face down on the floor, your chest pressed down onto the cream carpet. He gathered your wrists in his hand, pinning them against your back as he nudged and pushed at your legs until your back was arched, ass in the air. His other hand had made slow work, sliding up the back of your thigh.
The thin sweatpants offered no protection under the heavy weight of his hand, his large palm grazing the sensitive skin of your inner thigh; possessive and demanding. He leaned his massive frame down onto you, your chest crushing down against the hard floor; his breathing hot and heavy against the nape of your neck.
“You want the monster, Sugar? You want the man who drives women to run?” He trailed off, his hand shifting higher as he let out a mirthless huff of air that felt like a ghost of a laugh. His fingers hooked the edge of the waistband and began to pull it downward with a slow, drawn-out pace as his voice dropped to a lethal, spoken thread. “…I'm going to make you regret every single word that ever came out of that pretty, arrogant mouth. I'm going to make you beg for the "pathetic" man to stop. And then... I'm going to make you beg for him to start again.”
He didn’t wait for a response. He sank his teeth into the sensitive tendon where your neck met your shoulder, not a bite, but a grinding, punishing pressure that threatened to claim you entirely. As his tongue swept over marks left by his teeth, a gasp bubbled up in your throat, and you arched in a poor attempt to escape the assault on your neck, only to end up with your ass flush against the already demanding bulge in his jeans. The sound of your gasp was the only thing that filled the room; a signal to Ari of the first crack in your armor.
For Ari, that movement— that instinctive, physical reaction— was a victory more potent than any verbal submission, which made him let out a low, almost growling laugh against your skin.
“There it is,” He boasted with a grin you could feel. “Here we go, Sugar. We’re really getting started now.”
You knew he could feel the tremor in your muscles, the way your body betrayed that small voice that wanted nothing to do with what was happening. His hand, still gripping your wrists behind your back, toughened for a second, pulling your shoulders back and forcing your chest further into the carpet, the fibers biting at your skin. You felt completely exposed, vulnerable.
“Don’t get big-headed.” You tried to save. “Your hands are just rough, and the position is awkward.”
The defiance, although dwindling rapidly, was still there, clinging to you like a last shred of dignity, although thinner and frayed by the physical reality of his dominance. The way you gritted your teeth and fought through your reaction only served to fuel Ari’s obsession with breaking you. You knew he didn’t want you to be quiet; he wanted to strip away every last excuse you had until there was nothing but the truth of your response to him.
“Rough?” Ari let out a sound that was a half-laugh, half-snarl. He slowly released the grip on your wrist, but before you could even think of moving, his hands found your waist, gripping tightly and pulling you back against him. “I can be as soft as you want, Sugar. I can be the gentleman. I can be the pathetic man who plays by the rules…” He slid a hand down your spine, slow and agonizing, wanting you to feel every second of the anticipation; the suffocating weight of his presence until the hand found its way to your hair. “But you didn’t ask for the gentleman—“ He took a harsh grip, forcing you up against him as you bit back a cry. His voice dropped to that lethal whisper that made butterflies flutter in your stomach. “You asked for my worst.”
He gripped your chin and forced your head to the side, looming over you as he made you look back at him over your shoulder. His face was a mask of cold, focused intent; the void in his eyes now filled with a predatory satisfaction. He looked at your swollen lips, now parted and letting out little, quick breaths; the way your eyes were wide and shimmering with tears that threatened to fall— not from fear or sadness— from anticipation and pent-up frustration.
“You’re not in control here, Sugar. Not your words, your pride… and certainly not your body,” He stated, and you knew, in that moment, that he was right. The contrast between you was stark; your fragility against his brutality. “Now, tell me again. Tell me how rough and pathetic I am while I make you forget your own name.”
“Just do it already,” You provoked, voice a shaky whisper as a shudder made its way down your spine.
The whisper wasn’t a surrender, but an invitation; an invitation to the abyss that Ari was more than happy to plunge them both into. The sound of your voice, broken and breathless, acted like a trigger.
“With pleasure.” Ari’s voice was a quiet promise.
Ari made quick work of ridding you of your clothes. Rough fingers slid your shirt up your back and ripped it over your head before working down your sweatpants, the heat of his body shielding you from the room's cool air. He didn’t bother with sliding down your underwear, simply snapping the bands on either side, the sound ringing out— a symbolic shedding of the last barrier between you and his now unrestrained hunger.
“Look at me, Sugar, back up here,” Ari instructed, voice laced with need.
He didn’t wait for you to comply; he seized a handful of your hair and forced you back up, tilting your head back until your gaze locked with his. It’s like he wanted you to see the monster you had summoned. He wanted you to see there was no soft side left— only a man who had been pushed too far and now had every intent of reclaiming every ounce of power you had tried to strip away from him.
“You wanted my worst, Sugar?” Ari tormented. “That’s what you asked for, right?
With you flush against him again, he tilted your head to the side with a rough grip on your jaw and crashed his mouth back onto yours; a battle of teeth and tongue, desperate and needing. You let a small whimper die in your throat as you struggled to keep up with his pace; the familiar taste of whisky on his tongue pulled at the desire that still lay thick inside you. He kissed you as if he were trying to devour your breath, his tongue invading your mouth with the same possessive aggression that his hands had on your body.
The hand that was in your hair untangled, sliding down and finding its way to the soft of your stomach, before slipping between your thighs and roughly hooking a finger into your center; blunt and demanding. His large fingers stretched and pushed in a way that made you want to fold. He clearly wasn’t looking for a slow build; he wanted a total collapse. He ground his hips into the meat of your ass, his cock finding friction between the layer of fabric and the softness of you; like he wanted you to feel what was to come— the man you had called pathetic, the man who had taken you apart over and over again, the man you wanted to do it again.
He broke the kiss just enough to rasp against your lips, “Tell me…” His fingers shifted, applying a sharp pressure to your jaw. “Tell me who owns you right now.”
You found his reflection in the window and glared at him through wet eyes, simply stating, “Never.”
The word was a fragile thing, spoken through a veil of unshed tears and a trembling lip, but it was delivered with the same stubborn pride that had defined every single second of your interaction with the family so far. It was the only thing you had left. Even now, your body pinned like a specimen on a board, your body calling out for the same man that had trapped you in a house of horrors, you refused to give him the one thing that he truly wanted… Submission.
Ari froze.
The pressure of his fingers stilled, and the heavy, rhythmic thud of his heart against your back seemed to stutter. You could feel his stare, feel the burning. He let out a huff of air. He had broken professionals; he had crushed spirits that were supposed to be ten times more resilient than yours. Yet, here you were, refusing to break even as he tore your world apart.
“You really think this is a game of endurance, don’t you, Sugar?” Ari probed, voice dropping to a dangerous register. A dark, twisted smile slowly spread across his face. It wasn’t a smile of amusement; it was the look of a man who had just found a more interesting way to play with his toy. “Fine. Keep that pride of yours a little longer, baby. It won’t be long until you lose it.”
He shifted his weight, letting you fall forward, hands flush against the carpet as he settled back on his legs and forced your legs wider, exposing your cunt up to him. His hand lay heavy on the slope of your back as he used his free hand to threaten a start in dismantling you. He let his finger ghost down between your slit, finger tip sliding with ease due to the slick that had gathered, which elicited a hum of approval— of success.
“I don't need you to say it. Your heart is hammering against my chest. Your skin is flushing. You're shaking so hard you can barely breathe…” “The more you fight, the more I’m gonna make you feel. I’m gonna keep pushing ‘til you’re so desperate, so utterly undone, that ‘never’ becomes the last word you ever say to me.”
He withdrew his hands, leaving you cold and aching in the sudden void. Behind you, you could hear the shuffling of fabric, the sound of a zipper.
“Look at me, Sugar. Look at what you’ve provoked,” Ari commanded.
You glared back at him, refusing to look where he wanted, teeth gritted and bit out: “Still pathetic.”
The words were barely a breath, a ghost of a whisper delivered through gritted teeth and shimmering eyes, and above all else…
A damn lie, and Ari knew it.
The sight of him, long and thick; the glistening head of his cock where his anticipation had gathered. The vein that ran down the underside, which you’d run your tongue and fingers over time and time; the one that made him groan deep in his throat and tilt his head back. The same one that gave you the sight of him that had embedded itself in your brain, the one you lost yourself in over and over in your hotel room until you next saw him.
Ari let out a low, vibrating sound— a hum that sounded more like a purr, but it carried the weight of a death sentence. He looked at you, and for the first time, the hatred and hunger were eclipsed by a terrifying, absolute clarity.
You were full of shit, and he knew it.
“You’re so proud of that little tongue, aren’t you, Sugar?” Ari mused, toying with a grin to match.
With a sudden, unrelenting surge of movement, he drove himself into you with a brutal, uncompromising force that almost knocked the wind clean out of your lungs and made your thighs want to part and welcome him further; welcome him home. Despite the fact that there was no preamble, no tenderness, no gradual slide, it made you clench and ache around him. It was a taking— a raw assertion of ownership that felt as if he was trying to merge his very existence with yours; or perhaps, to split you in two.
The impact had you fighting against him, your eyes threatening to roll back for a fleeting second as the sheer scale of him filled you completely. He was too big, too much, an overwhelming presence that left no room for air, for thought— for defiance. He folded himself over at you, nudging himself a little inside a little further as his breath ghosted over the shell of your ear.
“Still pathetic?” He taunted, jagged, and rough.
He gave you no opportunity to comment back, no time to slide in an insult or jab. He began to move; each thrust was deep, punishing, and deliberate, designed to jar your entire frame and remind you of the reality of your situation. He used his size as a weapon, grinding his hips into yours with a relentless intensity that threatened and sought to drown out your thoughts, your pride, your “never.” The room seemed to shrink until it was only the two of you— the sound of the carpet biting and scratching into your skin, the wet— visceral and sordid— friction of your skin; the ragged, synchronized moans and pants of two people locked in a war of attrition. Ari’s face was a twisted mask of focused intensity, his eyes locked in yours, searching for the exact moment the light of defiance would snuff out.
His teeth grazed your ear as he rumbled out, “Where’s my noises, pretty girl? Don’t you wanna tell the whole house how pathetic I am… While you’re shaking and choking my cock with that pretty cunt.”
You muffled the whimper that continued its want for escape, worrying your bottom lip between your teeth, biting down until you feared the taste of copper. For you, it was a final act of rebellion; the last tool in the box. For Ari, it was an intolerable challenge. You knew he could feel how your walls gripped and pulsed around him; he knew the truth; he knew it with every deep, punishing thrust, but the fact you were still holding the gate shut nearly sent him over the edge.
“God fucking dammit,” Ari damn near growled, frustrated and flustered.
He didn’t just pull out; he ripped himself out of you with a sudden emptiness that left you gasping and hollow. Ari wasted no time, flipping you back over onto your back, rough fingertips bruising into your sides. You landed with a soft thud, the air leaving your lungs, but Ari was back on you within an instant. He gripped your legs under your knees and bent them upwards before his hands found your thighs, thumbs digging into the soft flesh as he parted your legs, situating himself snugly inside of them.
He pinned you there, hands keeping a tight hold on your legs, large palms pushing into the skin; almost folding you in half. The position utterly degrading, stripping away every last shred of poise you had tried to maintain; washed away under the sea blue of his eyes staring down at you with that hunger shining bright. You were bent, broken, and completely exposed, and you hated how your core clenched, already missing him.
“You think you’re so strong because you can stay quiet? Like it’s gonna stop me?” Ari asked, the low, dark timber rattling against the nape of your neck. He shifted, the head of his cock bumping against your cunt, threatening to sink in deep again. “I’m gonna hit every single spout that makes you lose that stubborn little mind. I’m going to push you until you can’t remember how to hold your breath.”
He reached forward to grab a handful of your hair at the top of your skull, yanking your head back, twinges of pain pricking across your scalp, which made you cry out as he forced you to look up at him; your back was bent almost impossibly, his other hand coming up to keep a tight hold on your neck. His eyes were wild, pupils blown with a mixture of lust and a desperate need to see you break.
Ari grinned as he let the tip of his cock catch against your leaking hole; the only warning you were given before he drove back into you. He used the hold on your neck to anchor you down against him as he hurried himself to the hilt.
“Fuckkk,” He moaned, deep and drawn out. “Let’s see if this works.”
The angle was deeper, more invasive; knees angled towards your shoulder with nowhere to hide. You attempted to close your eyes, but a tight squeeze on your throat that threatened to keep your breath stuck in your lungs made them peel open again. You peered up at him— eyes wet, lashes clumped— and let out a shaky breath as Ari drew backward. He began to move with a rhythmic, punishing violence, his hips slamming against your ass with a slapping, wet, heavy sound that echoed through the opulent room.
“Come on, Sugar. Let me hear that you’re mine. That’s what you wanted, right? Run away and spend the rest of your existence split open on my cock. Tell me that you’re nothing but my toy, my sweet girl, come on,” Ari moaned into your ear, husky and honeyed, small grunts punctuated with each of his thrusts.
The sound was small at first— a broken, airy vibration that escaped your throat despite every ounce of your willpower, but once the dam broke, it was impossible to stop. The moan rippled through you, a physical admission of your pleasure and the pain of being under a man that had done you so wrong colluding in a sordid weapon that made your head swirl and your cunt ache and throb around him— you had lost the fight between wrong and right and all that was left was Ari who let out a dark, triumphant sound; a low growl of victory that vibrated through your back and wrapped itself around your throat.
“Yeah, there she is,” Ari drawled. “Hi, baby. Welcome home.”
Your break was like a drug to him.
The sound seemingly stripped away the very last threads of his detachment, replacing it with a feral hunger. He didn’t slow down; instead, he accelerated, his thrusts becoming faster and more frantic— deeper and unrelenting. He was no longer just trying to punish you for the insults, the defiance; he was trying to consume you, to carve his name into your very soul. The room became filled with the sounds of your collision— the heavy thud of skin on skin, the mix of your airy, strung-out moans and his desperate groans; just two people pushed to their limits.
“You knew you couldn’t fight it, Sugar. You can’t keep fighting me,” Ari rasped as he leaned down, lips brushing against your shoulder.
Ari wouldn’t be satisfied with a simple break, though. He wanted a total collapse. You adjusted to the rhythm, moans coming out as quick, broken whines. The angle was extreme— his massive frame almost compressing you under the weight of him— leaving you completely open, your vulnerability absolute as his forehead almost touched yours before he pulled back a little to look at you with eyes that were dark, void of mercy and shimmering with a terrifying sort of triumph.
“Look at you, folded up like a little doll. S’all you are, right?” Ari hummed breathily as he leaned up and began to shallow his thrusts.
The sudden change in tempo was almost more agonizing than the violent back-and-forth of the previous moments. Ari shifted his weight, leaning back up onto his arms, creating a small gap that made you instantly arch back up against him. He stopped the deep, punishing drives and instead restricted his movements to shallow, teasing frictions— just enough to keep you balanced on the precipice of a peak you couldn’t reach on your own.
He gazed down at you, lids heavy and a sordid smile, a mask of predatory satisfaction. Your legs still pinned, your chest heaving and unable to rock up to get his cock further inside as your gaze glazed over with a shimmering mixture of desperation and lust. You squeezed around him— an instinctive, pleading grip that contradicted every word you had spat at him since he lured you to the manor— earning a small groan and a shake of his head.
“Tell me you’re mine, baby. Tell me, and I’ll let you cum,” Ari crooned lowly; the jaggedness that had been present in his tone was long gone and replaced by a silken, manipulative warmth. He leaned in closer, voice dropping to an intimate whisper. “Just tell me. Tell me what I wanna hear… Tell me what you’ve been hoping for.”
He shifted slightly, a minute movement that sent a jolt of longing through you, and then stopped again, thrusting the tip in and out of your cunt. He was playing with you now, despite you gripping at his forearms and letting out the cries you had begged for. He treated your pleasure as a currency he could trade for your pride. He watched the way your pupils dilated, the way your breath hitched, favoring the power he held over you. That dark, knowing smirk tugged at his lips. He knew exactly how this worked; he knew how you looked at him, wanted him, how you reacted to simply being in his presence, and played like a harp.
“Isn’t that what you wanted? Didn’t you want that? Didn’t you wanna be all mine?” Ari’s ramblings were messing with your head; or, rather, emptying it out. You couldn’t think straight as he gave one more shallow, agonizing thrust; his gaze licked on yours that demanded total surrender. He was offering you a way out of the tension, a release from the torture, but the price was the only thing you had left. His breath was hot against your lips, a soft, commanding lure. “I’ll give it to you, baby… Just tell me. Come on, Sugar. Do it for me.”
Your head lolled to the side. The fight had drained out of you, replaced by a desperate, thrumming need that made every single nerve ending scream for the release he was withholding.
You bucked your hips slightly, letting out shallow and broken gasps— the sounds of a woman who had been pushed far beyond your breaking point and was now floating in the void of your own arousal— when Ari would laugh and hold them still, depriving you of seeking your own pleasure; only allowing what he gave. He refused to move, staying perfectly still; a towering mountain of muscle and heat. He let the room's silence amplify your desperate breathing. He could feel the clenching of your walls, the way your body was begging him to fill you, to drive you over the edge.
As Ari leaned down, his lips brushed against the sensitive skin of your ear, the vibration from his voice sending a shiver through you.
“I’ll play with this pretty pussy just the way you like,” Ari lured, shifting his hips just a fraction— a tease, a promise— sending a fresh wave of electricity through you that made your back arch up into him instinctively. “I know how you like it. Come on, Sugar. For me.”
He knew the map of your body now; he knew where the triggers were, he knew how to play you, and he knew how much you could take before you snapped. He wanted you to feel the weight of your dependence on him, to realize that your own path to peace lay within satisfying him. He looked down at you, and you tried to shy away, knowing he had to see how clouded your vision was; the way your lips were parted and trembling. How he was slowly becoming the only thing in your world— the only spice of pleasure and pain, the only authority that mattered. He tightened his grip on your legs, pulling you slightly closer and nudging in deeper; the friction was almost unbearable.
“Just tell me,” Ari whispered, a dark, possessive promise against your lips.
You let out a mix of a moan and a sob.
“I’m yours,” You whined.
The words were barely audible, a shattered fragment of a voice that carried the weight of total defeat. The moment your admission left your lips, the tension in the room shifted. It wasn’t the sudden explosion of rage from before, but a suffocating wave of possessive triumph. Ari didn’t just hear you; he felt the surrender in the way your body finally went lax underneath him, the last wall of your defiance crumbling to dust as you gave in.
A deep rumble of satisfaction vibrated in his chest as his voice dropped into a dark, velvet purr.
“That’s my girl.”
With the victory finally secured, Ari shifted his position.
He pushed himself up, arms locked and muscles straining, creating a space that felt like a vacuum of anticipation. He didn’t pull out angrily; he retreated until he was barely clinging to you, the very tip of his cock rocking rhythmically and shallowly against your leaking entrance— open and aching. His eyes locked on the scene below, lids heavy and lips parted; his hair falling around him like a dark halo. It was a precision stroke, a slow, maddening friction that kept you on the edge.
His eyes shined with a heavy mixture of lust and ownership. In a move of raw, lewd dominance, he spat. The liquid landed with a wet slap directly on your swollen clit that pulsed for attention. The contest between the cool wetness against your burning skin caused a sharp jolt to shoot through your body, making your hips twitch up towards him.
“Now we play,” Ari hummed out, his hand sliding slowly down your body.
He didn’t rush to bring you your release. He brought his thumb down, pressing the calloused pad firmly into the puddle he’d created. He began to move in slow, deliberate circles; just enough pressure to make your head swim, but slow enough to stretch out every second of the sensation. He was molding your pleasure, twisting it into a form that only served him, ensuring that the orgasm he was about to grant you would be inextricably linked to the memory of your own submission.
“Feel that, Sugar? Feel how much you need me to finish this for you?” Ari asked, his breathing heavy, eyes flicking from your soaked cunt to your face.
He increased the speed of the circles slightly, his thumb flicking with a rhythmic precision that matched the shallow, teasing rocks of his cock inside of you. Your face twisted up, letting out a string of cries as you rocked up against him. He was building a storm, a crescendo of sensory overload that threatened to drown out everything but the feeling of his hand. He watched your face, savoring the way your expression blurred into pure, desperate need.
Your hips bucked up against his hand again, a wanton sob falling from your lips.
“Please… Please just let me, please…”
Ari let out a dark chuckle, his thumb pressing harder.
“Please?” Ari mocked with a matching pout, which made you whine and cry out.
The word was music to him.
After spending almost two hours fighting a war against your pride, the sound of you begging was the white flag he had been hunting for. He didn’t immediately give you what you wanted, though. Instead, he slowed his thumb down to a torturous, glacial crawl; teasing you to the very edge of your climax— the coil winding tighter and tighter as your breath came out in breathy hitches, your thighs ached, and you could hear the wetness around the head of his cock which made your cheeks flare up red— before pulling back and leaving you suspended in a state of wound tension.
“No, no, no,” You cried, rocking up shamelessly to get back the same sensation. “Please let me cum. Please, please, please.”
A low, vibrating laugh in his throat made you squeeze your eyes closed, letting the tears fall as he felt your desperate movements.
“Oh, look at you,” Ari teased. “Begging like a little pup in heat.”
Ari's laughter was a cold, taunting thing that echoed through the room, cutting through the sound of your desperate whimpers. He didn't move to help you, didn’t increase the pressure; he simply watched you, his eyes filled with a cruel glint as you continued to buck up beneath him. Your body acted on a primal instinct that Ari had so easily awakened and had completely overridden your mind. All you could think and feel was Ari, and he loved the view— the sight of the woman who had mocked him and spat in his face now reduced to a trembling, pleading mess, fighting for a handful of pleasure that only he could provide.
“Wait, wait, wait,” Ari said, halting his movements once again, leaving you to growl out in frustration, which he paid no mind to. “Thought I wasn’t allowed to touch you again?” His voice was a mocking croon, his thumb was hovering just millimeters above your clit; you could feel the heat. “I thought you hated me? Isn’t that what you said, Sugar? Thought you could just walk away from a man like me?”
You frantically shook your head, a pout forming on your lips as Ari’s eyes lit up as he finally made contact with an unrelenting, punishing flick. You arched up against him, your head bending backward and your hands finding his arms.
“You're shaking, Sugar. You're practically vibrating for me.”
He didn't let you answer with words. He began to move his thumb in those same rhythmic, grinding circles, but this time, he increased the pressure, driving you toward the peak with a focused need, as he needed it as much as you did. He suddenly shifted, letting his cock slip out of you before his hips surged forward to replace the thumb with the full, blunt force of the head of his cock, letting it slip over your clit repeatedly before slamming deep into you with a force that knocked out a cry of his name. He didn't stop there; he began to drive into you with a frantic, desperate speed; each thrust was a violent affirmation of his ownership. He leaned down, one hand slipping under your neck, the other pushing on your thigh.
He was no longer teasing; he was determined to push you over the edge, the friction of your bodies creating a heat that felt like it would consume the entire room.
However, the sudden absence of his hand was like a physical blow.
One moment, you were seconds away from the shattering release you had begged for, and the next, you were left shivering in a cold, agonizing void. The sudden drop in stimulation sent you spiraling, your breath coming in ragged, broken sobs that shook your entire frame. You were left stranded at the summit, the tension in your body so tight it felt like a wire stretched to the point of snapping.
He shifted his weight, leaning back on his heels, both hands on your hips, and dragged you with him and began to fuck into you again with shallow, teasing movements. The switching between the two was driving you near-insane. He wasn't trying to reach your depths anymore— like you so desperately wanted, you wanted him to feel you swore you could feel him in your throat; he was merely grazing your entrance, a rhythmic, superficial friction that served only to remind you of what he was withholding.
Ari let out a long, heavy sigh. “I think I wanna see you do it instead.”
He let out a huff of air that was almost a laugh, his eyes scanning your trembling body. He shifted his hips slightly, a small, sharp flick of movement that sent a jolt through you, before settling back into that maddeningly shallow pace. He wanted to see you degrade yourself; he wanted to see the "proud" woman take your own dignity into your own hands just to satisfy the hunger he had created.
“Play with that pretty pussy for me. Show me how much you hate me, Sugar.”
He remained a heavy, unmoving anchor within you, his eyes locked onto your hand, gesturing with a nod of his head towards your core. By the look on his face, you knew he wasn't going to move an inch further until you complied. He wanted the visual— the sight of your fingers working for his own gain, the sound of your whimpering as you tried to find the release he had stolen. He was no longer just possessing your body; he was forcing you to become an accomplice in your own undoing.
You nodded as you slowly reached down, trembling and hesitant.
Ari let out a long moan, deep in his throat, as you let out an airy whine as the pads of your fingers came down over your swollen clit; the pads of your fingers sliding easily with the slick that still pooled there. You knew that for Ari, this had to be what he really wanted— not the moans, not the tears, the words, but the moment you accepted the role of his plaything, performing for his entertainment. He watched with lidded eyes, still rocking the tip of cock in and out of you, his eyes tracking every slide of your fingers, every shudder that wracked your frame.
“That’s it. Just like that.” His voice was a throaty rumble, thick with pleasure and gratification.
He didn't make it easy for you. Every time you seemed to find a rhythm, every time your breathing hitched in a sign that you were nearing the edge, Ari would shift. He would drive deeper for one sudden, hard thrust, knocking you off balance and stealing your focus before retreating back to those shallow, maddening teases. He acted like the sole conductor of your pleasure, playing your nerves like a finely tuned instrument, ensuring you felt every ounce of your own desperation.
His breath was hot and weighted against your neck. “Faster, Sugar. I wanna see you struggle for it. I wanna see how much you’re begging for me to let go.”
He shifted his grip on you, his large hand coming around your thighs to pull you up closer against him, your ass propped up by his knees, shoulder blades against the carpet, chest flatter against the carpet, forcing you to arch your back up further— making your vulnerability even more acute. He wanted you exposed, he wanted you desperate, and most of all, he wanted you to know that even your own hands were only working because he allowed it.
“Tell me, Sugar. Tell me how it feels to be mine. Don’t go quiet on me now,” Ari pried. “Tell me how much you love being my little toy while you do it.”
Your fingers picked up speed, rolling the sensitive bundle between their pads.
“Please,” You gasped out. “Please, m’so close.”
Ari let out something between a laugh and a groan. “Almost there, aren’t you?”
You nodded, lips parted, just as the tension reached a fever pitch, just as the first sparks of a climax began to coil tight, before it shone in your eyes, Ari acted. With a sudden, violent thrust of his hips, he drove himself deep— too deep and too fast— shattering the delicate rhythm you had painstakingly built. The impact was jarring, a physical shock that sent a wave of frustration through your system, knocking you completely off the ledge you had been clinging to.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” You cried, unable to help yourself as you let out a desperate whine. “Ari!”
The rhythm was gone.
The momentum was dead.
You were left gasping, your body trembling in the sudden void of interrupted pleasure. The sheer cruelty of the timing was a psychological blow as much as a physical one; he had let you see the finish line only to tear it away at the final second.
“That’s not what I wanna hear, Sugar,” Ari scolded softly, hand coming up to grip at your chin, the palm of his hand applying a slight pressure to your throat.
He waited, staying buried deep inside you, a heavy, unyielding weight that felt like a seal on your fate. Your walls clenched and clung to him as he leaned down to brush his lips over yours before capturing you in a soft kiss, his tongue rolling against yours for a fleeting moment before he pulled back and leaned down. He peppered kisses from the thumb on the column of your neck, up to the shell of your ear, his voice vibrating through you with a manipulated darkness that threatened to keep pulling you further down.
“I didn’t ask if you were close,” He rasped. “I asked how it feels to be mine.”
He shifted slightly, a tiny, teasing rotation of his hips that sent a fresh jolt of longing through you, but he kept you pinned against him, keeping your legs parted so he could get a full view of your own hand still hovering near your heat, useless without his permission to continue. He was savoring it— enjoying it; the absolute silence of your pride, replaced by the loud, frantic drumming of your heart and the broken sound of your breathing.
“Say it,” Ari commanded, his tone dripping with a mocking, silky sweetness. “Say the words I want, Sugar, and maybe— just maybe— I’ll let you finish.”
You let out something between a sob and a moan, a small shake of your head before you gave in.
“I love being your toy,” You whispered, the words feeling heavy and filthy on your tongue. “I’m yours. Please, Ari. Please.”
The admission was a broken, fragile thing that signaled the complete dissolution of your will. You didn’t wanna fight him any longer. You still wanted him; you wanted the fantasy, and if this was the only way to get it—then so be it. It wasn't just a lie to get what you wanted; it was the sound of a woman who had been stripped of everything until the only thing left was the need for the man above you to stop the torture— or start it; you didn’t know anymore.
The words hung in the air, heavy and suffocating, acting as the final key to the lock.
Ari let out a long, shuddering breath that sounded more like the predator finally closing its jaws. He had you. He had you right where he wanted you.
“Good girl,” He cooed out, that mocking tone still laced with every word he spoke. “That’s it. That’s my girl. There’s my baby.”
The change in him was instantaneous.
The cruelty vanished, replaced by an all-too-familiar face. There he was. Your Ari. He seized your hand, pulling it away from your body with a sharp tug, and replaced it with his own. He didn't use the slow, teasing circles this time; he used a firm, rhythmic pressure, his thumb working in tandem with a sudden, violent resurgence of his hips. The tease was over, and in its place came a storm of relentless, focused stimulation. He drove into you with a fervent speed, his thumb grinding into your clit with a fierce precision that left no room for hesitation. The collision of the two sensations– the deep, heavy thud of his body and the sharp, electric friction of his hand— was too much.
You let out a broken, high-pitched cry as your climax finally hit you. It was a violent wave that crashed over your entire body, leaving your muscles seizing and your mind blank; however, Ari didn't stop. He kept fucking you right through the peak, his thrusts jarring and deep, forcing you to feel every single ounce of your own release as it merged with the unrelenting power of his movement. It was like he wanted you to be completely undone, to feel the pleasure as something he had granted and something he still controlled.
“There…” Ari began to moan out in between heavy pants and labored sighs. “That’s it… Take it all, Sugar. Know you can.”
He let out a ragged, heavy breath, his own body trembling with the effort of holding back. He stayed buried inside you for a few moments more, savoring the way you shivered and gasped beneath him, the aftermath of the orgasm leaving you pliant, shattered, and spent. Then, with a sudden shift in energy, he pulled back.
“My turn.” Ari’s voice was a sordid promise— one you didn’t know how you were going to survive; one you didn’t know if you wanted to.
Ari gripped you by the waist and hoisted you up with ease, your body feeling like nothing in his massive arms. He carried you the short distance to the bed, tossing you onto the plush mattress with a blunt lack of ceremony. Before you could even roll over, he was there, lounging back against the headboard and pulling you onto his lap.
He sat you astride him, your legs framing his hips, stretched to capacity over his thick thighs, your chest heaving as you looked down at him. Ari's eyes were dark, his pupils blown, looking up at you with a mixture of predatory lust and a cold, possessive success. He gripped your hips, his fingers digging into your soft skin to anchor you in place, ensuring you felt the full, pulsing length of him beneath you.
“Put those legs to work, Sugar. Make me cum,” Ari commanded with a deep drawl. Ari watched with a thick anticipation as you reached under and lifted up into your knees, your fingers wrapping around his length. You stoked the underside of his cock, running your thumb down that thick vein that made him let out a hiss of air. You nudged the head against your clit, rocking for a moment. “Fucking… finally.”
He stayed anchored, his massive hands gripping your hips with enough pressure to leave bruises, forcing you to take full control of the movement. The sensation of your delicate fingers stroking the underside of his shaft, combined with the slow, agonizing tease of the head grazing your clit made you let out a long, drawn-out whine as Ari let out a throaty groan. He watched you through hooded eyes, his gaze tracking your flushed, tear-stained face.
“Don't just tease me, baby. I've been patient enough tonight,” Ari said, almost pleading.
You lifted up as much as your legs allowed, fighting through the shakiness of your thighs, as you nudged the tip against your wet hole, taking in sharp gasps as you began to sink down on him. The stretch seemed more this way, filling you more than before.
Ari let out a low, guttural groan that sounded more like a snarl, his eyes fluttering shut for a second. “Fuck…”
The slow, deliberate descent was a different kind of torture. As you sank down, the friction was visceral, the wet heat of your body wrapping around him in a tight, desperate grip. Ari's fingers dug deeper into your hips, his knuckles white, as he felt you slowly encompass him, inch by agonizing inch. You knew he could feel the tremor in your thighs, the way your body was still sensitive and humming for him, and it only drove his need higher.
Once you were fully seated, bottoming out against him, Ari's eyes snapped open. They were void of any remaining tenderness, replaced by that raw, pulsing hunger. He didn't let you settle for long. He gripped your waist and began to thrust upward, meeting your descent with a powerful, rhythmic surge that forced you to bounce on him, pulling pitched moans with every jolt.
“Look at you... taking it all,” Ari rasped out, breathless as he tilted his head back against the headboard, watching you closely. “Oh, fuck it.”
He accelerated the pace, his movements becoming less about pleasure and more about a desperate, driving need to fill you up. It was like he was using you as nothing more than a vessel; his breaths coming in short, sharp bursts as he pushed himself toward the edge, his grip on your hips so tight that you cried out, your hands ending up flat on his chest.
His eyes locked onto yours with a taunting gleam.
“What was it you said yesterday?” Ari asked, head cocking to the side slightly as he thrust upward with a sudden, violent force, making your entire body buck and making your breath hitch. He didn't slow down, keeping a relentless pace that forced you to cling to his shoulders for balance. He was no longer just seeking his own release; he was weaving your previous insults back into the act— turning your own words into a leash. His voice was a deep rumble, his grip tightening on your hips until his fingertips sank into your skin. “A communal fleshlight? Hmm?”
He let out a dark, breathless laugh, the sound vibrating through his chest and into you. He watched your face, searching for the flicker of shame or the return of that defiant spark, wanting to see your struggle with the reality of your current position, but it was long gone. All that was left was the sheer need to keep him buried deep inside you, to lose yourself in hun. He was the one who had broken you, the one who had forced the submission from your lips, and now he was making you inhabit the very role you had used to mock them.
His voice dropped to a lethal hiss that made you choke back a sob.
“Just a fucking hole. That’s all you are now, Sugar. Just a place for me to put this—“ He slammed into you, causing you to sink your nails into his bicep, your forehead touching his as you keened upwards. “A place for us all.”
The words were spat out with a clinical coldness, designed to strip away whatever dignity you had managed to claw back in the aftermath of your orgasm. He didn't pause for a reaction. Instead, he surged upward one more time, another brutal, bottoming-out thrust that seemed to aim for your very core, anchoring you to him with a possessive violence.
He began to move again, but the rhythm had shifted. It was no longer about the slow, seductive build or the playful torture. It was a raw, driving necessity. He used his strength to control your every movement, his hands acting like vices on your hips as he dictated the depth and speed of your collision. He was erasing you as a person, reducing you to the very thing he had just named— a tool for his own gratification— and you were letting it happen.
The room was thick with the scent of sex and sweat; the only sounds were the rhythmic, wet slapping of your bodies and Ari's heavy, ragged breathing mixing with your moans and the breathy chants of his name. He was close now, his muscles coiled and trembling under the skin, his focus narrowed down to the tight, hot grip of your body around him. He let out a low, animalistic grunt, his movements becoming frantic, a desperate scramble for the finish line before seemingly changing his mind, pulling out of you with a grunt and wrapping his hand around the base of his cock, letting out a long, shaky breath.
“Oh, fuck,” He moaned out. “Fuck, that’s— That fucking cunt, sneaky little thing.”
The frantic violence of the moment suddenly vanished, replaced by a heavy, suffocating stillness and heavy breaths.
He looked up at you, his eyes half-lidded and dark, glazed with a mixture of lingering lust and an insatiable need. He wasn't finished with you— not even close— but he leaned back like he wanted to savor the wreckage. His eyes wandered to your core, as if searching for the physical evidence of what he had done to you; to see the way your body had been stretched to accommodate him.
“Spread that cunt open for me.” He spoke with a deep hum, a demanding croon; the sound of a man who owned every inch of the room and the woman in it. He shifted his grip, his hands sliding from your hips to the backs of your thighs, his large palms pressing firmly against your skin. He didn't push you; he simply waited, the expectation of obedience hanging in the air like a blade. The smirk on his lips made you lean forward a little. There was no doubt that you were going to do it; that you were going to willingly display your vulnerability, to show him the very place where he had spent the night breaking you. “Let me see it. Let me see how I've wrecked it. Show me.”
He remained perfectly still, his breathing ragged, his gaze fixed intently on the point where you were joined. He was demanding a final act of submission, a visual surrender that would cement your new status as nothing more than an object for his observation and use.
Ari let out a long, slow exhale, his eyes narrowing slightly as he watched your fingers tremble as you reached down to slide a hand to part yourself for him, fighting off the shame that wanted to bloom across your cheeks. He watched with a dark, focused intensity as your fingers pulled yourself open, exposing the raw, swollen reality of your encounter.
“That's it. Good girl,” Ari praised, voice almost a whisper.
The sight was so visceral that you couldn’t bring yourself to look down until Ari guided your gaze with a simple flick of his eyes— the flush of your skin, the glistening wetness, and the way your body had clung to him even in this state of exposure. To Ari, it wasn't just sex; it was a ledger of his victory, a physical map of where he had overridden your will and where he had left his mark. For you, it was everything you had wanted, even if it meant pretending you were elsewhere.
He didn't look away. His gaze remained fixed on the intersection of your bodies, his pupils blown wide. Slowly, Ari shifted one of his hands from your thigh as he positioned himself back against your hole, and you knew better than to move your hand away until you got his say-so. He helped you settle back down on him before letting you sit back, giving him a full view of you stretched to the limit around his cock until he reached forward, his large, calloused fingers moving with a sudden contrast of gentleness and intent. He began to trace the perimeter where your soft, swollen flesh was stretched tight around the thick diameter of his length.
His touch was light, almost a caress, but the intent behind it was purely possessive. Your muscles twitched under his fingertips, a shiver rolling through you from the contact. He traced the rim of your opening, feeling the heat and the tension, as if mapping out the limits of your elasticity. He let out a deep, contemplative hum, his breath hitching as he felt you clench instinctively.
“Wonder if I could stretch this any more?”
He didn't wait for an answer.
He applied a small, sudden pressure, pressing a finger against the edge of your opening to test the skin's resistance. You gasped and flinched, but Ari’s heavy hand on your hip kept you firmly in place. The movement was almost clinical, his eyes searching for that familiar spark of fear or the blankness of total surrender in your eyes. He was no longer just thinking about his own release; he was thinking about the capacity of the "toy" he had been given, wondering exactly how much he could break you before you truly snapped.
“I bet I could. I bet I could make you take even more than this, couldn't I, Sugar?” Ari asked, a silky whisper that made you whimper and shake your head, but you still felt the familiar ache as you clenched around him, and you knew you were going to have no choice. A chuckle rumbled in his chest. “Shaking that pretty head, but your body is saying something else entirely.”
Ari tightened his grip on your thigh, pulling himself up so there was no gap, no air, only the crushing weight of his presence. You shuddered under his gaze as Ari withdrew his hand from the intimate, swollen heat of your body, but the sudden release brought no comfort. He didn't move away; he simply brought his hand up, the fingers glistening with your own fluids and the evidence of your encounter. He didn't offer a gentle touch. He pressed his fingers firmly against your lips, the smell of your sex filling the small space between them, forcing you to face the reality of what he had just done to you.
“Get 'em wet.” He didn't nudge or plead; it was an order, delivered with the same absolute authority he used to manage the family's dirty work. He held his fingers there, a barrier between you and the air, waiting for you to comply. The contrast was stark— softness of your pouty lips against the calloused, rough skin of his hand. He wanted you to taste yourself on him, to swallow the evidence of your own surrender. “Do it now, or it's really gonna suck for you.”
The threat was unspoken but clear.
Ari had spent the last hour playing with the boundary between pleasure and pain, and he was more than willing to tilt the scale back toward the latter if you hesitated. He remained anchored beneath you, his cock still filling you, a heavy reminder that he held every card in this game. He watched your eyes, waiting for the moment you accepted that your only option was to obey.
You parted your lips and slowly sucked his fingers into your mouth, your hand coming up to wrap pathetically around his large wrist. Ari let out a long exhale as your hand came into contact with his wrist.
“That’s it, baby. Now you’re learning. Just gotta listen, gotta behave.”
Ari watched you, heavy and possessive, as you took his fingers into your mouth. He didn't just let you suck; he exerted a small, controlling pressure, his rough fingers sliding against your tongue and the roof of your mouth, forcing you to accommodate him. He seemed to savor the way your hand wrapped around his wrist with a pathetic, desperate need for stability, as if he were the only thing keeping you from dissolving entirely.
Your other hand came up, fingernails scratching softly at the back of his hand, your thumbs pushed into his palm as your tongue rolled against the calloused fingertips. You let out a lengthy, heated hum around his fingers and rocked your hips down against him.
A growl ripped from his throat, his muscles locking tight. “You little…”
The sudden shift in your behavior— the way you began to actively seek him out, your nails scratching at his skin and your hips rocking in a slow, desperate invitation— sent a surge of fresh, violent lust through him. He had spent the night breaking you, and now that you had allowed yourself to be broken, you were becoming something far more dangerous: a creature that craved the very hand that crushed you. The humming vibration of your throat against his fingers echoed the pulsing need deep in his own gut.
Ari didn't let you continue the tease for long.
He abruptly withdrew his fingers from your mouth with a sharp flick, his hand moving with a blur of speed to grip the back of your neck; his hold was iron, forcing your head back and exposing your throat to the dim light of the room. He looked up at you, his eyes void of everything but a raw, animalistic hunger, his chest heaving beneath you.
“You like it, don't you?” He surged upward with a sudden, explosive force, his hips slamming into you with everything he had. The impact was a brutal taking that knocked the breath from your lungs and sent you sliding up his body. He began to drive into you with a frantic, punishing rhythm, his movements primal. He was no longer conducting a symphony of submission; he was simply drowning in you. “I'm going to ruin you for anyone else, Sugar… you're going to forget how to even breathe without me…”
The violent intensity of his thrusts reached a fever pitch, the room echoing with the sound of Ari’s desperate thrusts and your needy moans. Ari was a force of nature, his muscles coiled and trembling, his focus narrowed entirely to the friction and heat of your body. Just as he neared the edge, he shifted. He didn't pull away, but he adjusted his grip on your neck, releasing you just enough to slide his hand back down. With a sharp, commanding movement, he thrust his fingers back toward your face, offering them up like a prize— or a leash. He didn't stop his hips; he kept a steady, grinding pace, his cock acting as a heavy, pulsing anchor that kept you pinned to him even as he demanded your focus elsewhere.
He gave a jagged command, his eyes burning with a dark, possessive fire. “Take them.”
Without hesitation, you opened your mouth and let him thrust his fingers back into your mouth, humming around them.
Ari let out a hiss, his hips bucking upward to meet you. “That's it... just like that.”
The sound of you humming around his fingers, the vibration of it traveling up his arm and settling in his chest, was the final trigger. He wasn't just possessing your body anymore; he had your senses completely occupied. Your mouth was full of him, your body was filled with him, and your mind was reduced to a singular, pulsing need for the man who had dismantled you.
Ari's movements became frantic.
He stopped the grinding and shifted into deep, violent plunges, each one driving you higher and higher until you collapsed on him, your face was snug against his throat, lips parted around his fingers as you cried out above him. He gripped your waist so hard his fingerprints were undoubtedly printing bruises onto your skin, his knuckles white. He was no longer the composed, cold right-hand of the family; he was a man possessed by a dark, singular obsession.
Ari’s voice was jagged, letting out a broken groan, his eyes blowing wide as the peak hit him. “You're mine… fucking mine…”
He didn't let the momentum die. Even as the first waves of his release began to coil in his gut, Ari refused to let the act be passive. It’s like he wanted you to be the one to push him over the precipice; he wanted you to be the instrument of his undoing. He shifted his grip, his massive hands sliding from your waist to the underside of your thighs, lifting you slightly to create a gap before letting you drop back down with a heavy, wet thud.
“Bounce on it, baby, come on,” Ari moaned out, deep and desperate. He began to thrust upward with a violent, rhythmic urgency, forcing your body to mirror his desperation. You kept your hands locked around his wrist, fucking yourself back onto him. He wasn't just asking for movement; he was demanding a performance of pure, unadulterated need. The room was a blur of heat and sound, the heavy scent of your union clinging to the air like a shroud. “Yeah, bounce on my cock, Sugar... make me cum, Sugar. Gonna fill you up. Fuck, fuck, fuck.”
Your teeth dug into the flesh of his fingers slightly, letting out muffled cries as you bounded feverishly, which earned you a strangled grunt from Ari, it ripping out of his throat.
“Fuck!”
The sharp, sudden prick of pain was the final spark to the powder keg.
It must have sent a jolt of electricity straight to his core, syncing perfectly with the desperate, frantic rhythm of your hips as Ari's entire body went rigid, his back arching off the mattress as the orgasm tore through him with a violent, unchecked intensity. He didn't pull away from the bite; instead, he leaned into it, the pain only fueling the raw, animalistic nature of his release. He gripped your thighs with a crushing force, his fingers digging into the soft flesh to keep you locked against him as he spilled himself deep inside you.
The world narrowed down to the sound of your combined, ragged breathing.
For several long seconds, neither of you moved, suspended in the heavy, shimmering aftermath of a battle that had left you both physically and emotionally spent; a battle that both of you won and both of you lost. Slowly, Ari's muscles began to slacken. His grip on your thighs loosened, and he finally withdrew his fingers from your mouth with a wet pop. He didn't push you off him immediately; he simply lay there, his chest heaving, his eyes half-closed and glazed with a dark, lingering satisfaction. He looked up at you— flushed, shaking, and completely undone— and a ghost of a smirk touched his lips.
“Look at you,” Ari mused, barely more than a whisper.
You hummed, your legs shaking as they remained stretched over him. You reached for his hand, fingers gently stroking against the bite marks. Your body still felt alive— wound, like you weren’t ready to give in just yet. You couldn’t let it be over. You slowly guided his hand down your body and back between your legs as you kept your gaze locked on his.
Ari let out a deep huff of air, his eyes tracking your every movement with a heavy, hooded gaze. “Still hungry, are you?”
You let out another hum and gave him a nod.
He didn't resist you. You knew he wouldn’t.
He let his hand be guided; his large, calloused palm sliding over the wetness of your thighs until he felt the heat of you. The difference between you was painstakingly obvious— his hand was steady and dominant, while your fingers were trembling, still humming with the electricity of the encounter. He didn't rush to apply pressure; he simply rested his hand there, feeling the way you squeezed around him, the need for your orgasm thrumming through your body.
Ari looked up at you, the coldness that usually defined his features softened by an amused, possessive haze. He watched the way your hair spilled across his chest and shoulders, almost like a curtain that isolated you from the rest of the house and the other men waiting for their turn.
“You're a greedy little thing, Sugar,” Ari cooed as his fingers began to curl, grazing your clit with a skilled precision.
He didn't start a full-blown assault; instead, he began a slow, torturous exploration. He used his fingertips to trace the swollen edges of your opening, testing the sensitivity he had spent the last hour heightening. Every small flick of his wrist sent a fresh spark through you, reminding you that while the storm had passed, he still held the lightning.
His eyes locked onto yours, a smirk playing on his lips.
“Do you want more, Sugar? Do you want me to keep ruining you until you can't even remember your own name?”
“Don't stop…” You whined out behind a bitten lip, staring at him with pleading, desperate eyes.
A dark laugh rippled through his chest, his fingers suddenly pressing firmly down on your clit. “Careful what you wish for, Sugar.”
Ari's hand shifted from a tease to a focused assault. He knew exactly where your nerves were raw, exactly how much pressure would push you back toward the ledge. He began to work you with a need that matched your own, his fingers sliding through the wetness he had created, mirroring the heavy, pulsing presence of his cock that still filled you.
He watched your face, the way your expression shifted from desperation to pure, unadulterated need. His own eyes lit up at the sigh, and you wondered if he loved the way your eyes glazed over— the same way you loved when his would turn almost black. You wondered if he liked the way your lip stayed caught between your teeth— the same way you liked it when his face would twist up when you would squeeze him just right. Even if he didn’t want to admit it, he was no longer just satisfying a physical urge; as much as he was cementing a psychological tether, ensuring that your pleasure was entirely dependent on his whim, he was enjoying the link to you. He was letting himself feel— even if for a moment.
Ari’s hips gave a slow, shallow buck upward.
“Look at you,” Ari said, “Begging for it again. After everything I just did to you.”
He increased the speed of his fingers, his movements becoming a blur of friction and heat. Your walls clenched around his softening cock, your body reacting instinctively to the renewed stimulation. He was building the tension again, a second wave of sensory overload that threatened to drown you. He leaned up slightly, his lips grazing your jawline, his breath hot and heavy.
“You're already becoming such a little addict, aren't you? Addicted to the way I break you. You’re gonna be so fun to pass along, Sugar.” Ari whispered, his tone dripping with a lethal sweetness.
You groaned at him, throwing your words back at you, but despite it, you began to arch your back, your breath hitching in anticipation of another climax, but Ari suddenly stopped. He didn't pull his hand away, but he froze every movement, leaving you suspended in that agonizing, white-hot void once again. He stayed perfectly still, ignoring and enjoying the way you cried out, his eyes locked onto yours, watching the frustration ripple through your shaking frame.
“Not yet. Tell me who you belong to. Tell me who owns every single inch of this greedy little body,” Ari rasped out.
“You own me, please,” You sobbed out desperately.
A dark, triumphant hum vibrated deep in his chest, his eyes darkening as he savored the sound. “That's right. Every single inch.”
The admission was the final piece of the puzzle.
For Ari, the physical act was the method, but this verbal surrender was the goal. For you, it was continuing the lie you had built up in your head.
He didn't reward you immediately; he let the words hang in the air, letting the weight of your submission sink in until you were trembling with the effort of holding yourself up on him. He watched the way your eyes were clouded with need; your spirit stripped bare and laid open for his inspection.
Then, with a sudden, violent surge of motion, Ari snapped. He didn't just resume the stimulation; he unleashed it. His hand became a blur of rhythmic, crushing pressure against your clit, while you chanted his name out like a prayer. He wasn't teasing anymore. He was driving you straight into the wall, forcing your body to collapse under the weight of a second, even more intense climax; your whole body seizing up and then breaking under it.
“Don't you dare close your eyes,” Ari growled up at you, his thumb pressing in with a ruthless skill. “Want you to see me while you fall apart.”
You kept your eyes locked on his as you let out a string of broken moans.
The room around you dissolved into a kaleidoscope of sensation.
Your vision blurred at the edges, but you fought to keep your gaze anchored to Ari's. You saw the hunger in his eyes, the dark triumph of a man who had not only claimed your body but had successfully and undoubtedly dismantled you. Every broken moan that escaped your lips was a testament to his control. You were shaking, your entire frame vibrating with the force of a release that felt less like pleasure and more like a total systemic collapse.
“That's it... Break for me... Just fucking break…”
As the waves of the orgasm slowly receded, leaving you limp and gasping, Ari didn't immediately pull away. He stayed buried deep inside you. He looked up at you, his expression a complex mixture of cold satisfaction and a strange, dark intensity that seemed to border on obsession. He had pushed you further than any of the other men had yet, which made your stomach want to turn up with dread. The sight of him— completely spent, little puffs of breath leaving through his parted lips, the strands of his long hair stuck to his damp forehead— helped push the feeling down for a little while longer.
Slowly, with a lingering, heavy friction, Ari withdrew from you. The sudden absence of his warmth felt like a cold shock to your sensitive system. He didn't help you up; he simply sat back against the headboard, watching as you slumped over his legs, cheek ending up laid against his chest, listening to the pounding of his heart. He reached out, his large hand gripping the back of your neck one last time, not with violence, but with a firm, grounding pressure that reminded you exactly where you stood.
“You did well tonight, Sugar,” Ari said, voice sounding thick with a tenderness that didn’t seem right in the space he had created, but you took it anyway.
He let out a slow, shuddering breath, his eyes scanning the room as the adrenaline began to fade, replaced by the oppressive silence of the manor. The high of the conquest was still there, but the reality of the situation— the debt, the family, the rotation— settled back in. He shifted his hand from your neck to your cheek, his thumb brushing over your lower lip, which was still swollen from his fingers.
His gaze locked onto yours— a dark, warning glint returning to his eyes.
“Don't think this means I've gone soft. You’ve got half an hour until Curtis is at that door, and he isn't nearly as... patient... as I am.”
The silence that followed was heavy, thick with the scent of sweat, sex, and the lingering weight of a psychological storm. Ari didn't move to comfort you. He didn't offer a blanket or a gentle word. He simply watched you for a moment longer, his gaze almost clinical once more, as if he were examining a piece of equipment he had pushed to its absolute limit to see if it would break. The rhythmic thudding of his heart began to slow, but the possessive energy still radiated off him in waves.
He finally shifted, sliding out from under you with a fluid, practiced grace. The loss of his body heat left you shivering in the dampness of the sheets, and you bit back a plea for him to come back. Ari stood up, his towering frame casting a long shadow over your curled-up form. He didn't look back as he walked toward the ensuite bathroom, the sound of the shower starting up and the steam beginning to leak back into the bedroom; and for a long while after, the only sound was the hiss of the water and your own shallow, trembling breaths.
Then, the shower stopped.
Ari emerged, a towel wrapped low around his hips, droplets of water clinging to the hard planes of his chest and the dark hair of his stomach. He didn't speak as he dressed, his movements efficient and cold, the "right hand" of the family returning to his professional shell.
“Clean yourself up. I don't want you smelling like me when Curtis walks through that door tomorrow morning. He won’t like it,” Ari instructed, not looking at you as he pulled his shirt over his head and smoothed it out.
He walked to the door, his hand gripping the handle and pulling it open. He paused for a fraction of a second, the silhouette of his massive shoulders blocking the light from the hallway.
Wait,” You called out after him.
You didn’t expect it, but he stopped.
While he didn't turn around immediately. He remained frozen, his hand still clamped on the brass handle, his broad back a wall of muscle that seemed to shrink the room. In the hours you had spent together, every interaction had been a battle of wills or a lesson in submission.
“Just... Just come pretend with me for a moment,” You finally pleaded, fighting against the tiredness that pulled at your eyelids.
The request hung in the air, fragile and incongruous against the backdrop of the wreckage in the bed. The word pretend felt alien in this house, a place where every cruelty was honest, and every boundary was meant to be demolished. Ari didn't move for several seconds. His shoulders were tense, his grip on the door handle so tight the metal seemed to groan.
“Come here.” Your voice was small and quiet.
The silence was heavy, save for the distant, rhythmic ticking of a clock somewhere in the manor's bowels. He remained a silhouette against the hallway light, his mind likely racing through the logic of the request.
Pretend.
It was a dangerous word. It implied a world where he wasn't a captor, and you weren't a debt-ridden asset. It was a request for a lie, a momentary truce in a war where he had already declared himself the victor.
Slowly, with a deliberate, heavy movement, he turned. He didn't look soft; his face was still a mask of cold, professional indifference, but there was a flicker of something—curiosity, perhaps, or a remnant of the man he had been before the divorce and the darkness of his family's business—in the depth of his eyes. He didn't speak. He simply watched you, his gaze tracking the way you lay there, small and broken among the rumpled sheets.
Ari moved with a heavy, reluctant grace. He didn't rush; every step was a measured calculation, as if he were stepping into a minefield. The distance between the door and the bed felt vast, the atmosphere shifting from the coldness of a command to something thick, suffocating, and dangerously intimate.
He sank to one knee beside the mattress. His massive frame, even while kneeling, dominated the space, his presence a crushing weight. He didn't speak, his expression guarded, his jaw tight. He stayed perfectly still, his arms resting on his thighs, waiting. He was giving you the space to bridge the gap, as if testing whether this "pretend" was a genuine plea for comfort or another, more subtle form of psychological warfare.
As you shuffled toward him, your movements slow and trembling, Ari's gaze followed you with a hooded intensity. He waited until you were close enough to feel the heat radiating off his skin. Slowly, almost tentatively, Ari reached out. His hand, large enough to cover your entire side, moved with a gentleness that felt wrong in the context of your night together. He smoothed his palm down your side, the calloused skin grazing your ribs in a slow, grounding motion. Ari let out a long, shaky breath, his voice a fractured rumble that barely sounded like him.
“What the hell is this, Sugar?”
Despite his questioning, he didn't pull away. His fingers lingered, tracing the curve of your waist with a tentative curiosity. It seemed like, for the first time, he wasn't seeking a reaction of fear or submission; he was simply feeling you, as if trying to remember how to touch something without intending to break it.
“Just for a minute,” You coaxed.
You reached up to stroke your fingers through his damp hair, nails scratching softly at his scalp. You saw his eyes flutter closed; a muffled noise— halfway between a sigh and a groan— escaped his throat.
The touch must have been a shock to his system. For a man who lived in a world of violence, blackmail, and cold calculations, this kind of tenderness had to be an anomaly. You guessed it was a vulnerability he hadn't permitted himself in a long time. As your fingers drifted through his damp hair and your nails grazed his scalp, you felt a sudden, violent tension snap within him. He didn't pull away; instead, he leaned into your hand, his forehead dropping forward to rest against your shoulder.
“This is what I hoped for when I met you the first time,” You admitted, voice almost a whisper. “That maybe I'd get to run away, and you'd follow me, and we'd have a home, and spend our nights curled up just like this.”
The confession must have hit Ari with more force than any of the physical battles he had ever fought. For a long moment, he remained frozen, his forehead pressed against your shoulder, his breath hot and uneven against your skin. The image you had painted— a home, a life, a quiet sanctuary— was a ghost of a dream you didn’t know he had buried under layers of cynicism and blood. It was a fantasy that had no place in the manor, and certainly no place between a captor and his toy.
“And then you ruined it.”
You pushed yourself away from him, sliding off the bed and disappearing into the bathroom without looking back, the door shutting heavily behind you. The click of the bathroom door was as final as a gunshot in the sudden, oppressive silence of the room. You let yourself sag against the door, bringing your hands up to cover your face while you waited for the lock to click. When it finally rang out, you pulled your hands down and inspected them. The phantom sensation of your nails on his scalp lingered, a ghostly caress that now felt like a brand.
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part two of “We can still share the bed.”
part three; coming soon<3
pairing: nomad!steve x ex-widow!Reader
(best friend's girlfriend, girlfriend's best friend)
{happy pride, reader is bisexual and had a homoerotic situationship with her best friend}
warnings: MDNI || DURING THE BLIP. more angsty than our other writings for sure. drug & alcohol mention briefly. (mentions of reader using in the past). You both have depression lmao. SIZE DIFFERENCE (reader is mentioned to be small and also if you squint she's malnourished lmao) reader is very experienced and (tw) calls herself whore/slut occasionally. she's also lowkey a slob, sorry. they have a black cat! (RIP Alpine) suicidal thoughts mentioned? || NOMAD STEVE!! Premature ejaculation! PinV, multiple orgasms. Shame?? Angst angst angst. mentions of red room trauma. lots of sad. Bucky mention. idk if i missed anything i'm sorry.
word count: 13.3k
summary: Your best friend and your boyfriend were blipped. Once the money in your best friend's account ran out and you couldn't afford your shared apartment anymore- you went to her boyfriend for help. Who, coincidentally, is your boyfriend's best friend. The weight of guilt hangs heavy over your heads- but after going so long without any sexual encounters- you both break down and decide to help each other out.
a/n: Trying a new kind of posting format and breaking up longer works into parts. For this one I (Verdandi-mun🌻💜) wrote Steve!! Reader character was written by Flora-mun🌸🧡 and is based off of her OC Caroline Loveland. Lots of angst and depression, sorry!!
“I didn’t have sex for the first time until I was 93.” Steve joked. That was how he felt best to deal with it. His cheeks were so flushed, heat radiating off of them. He hoped you wouldn’t notice. He did stop to think about it, though. For him, it had been about five years. He kept telling himself it was fine. He’d gone longer without before, but…maybe he missed it too. He just didn’t want to admit it.
"Isn't that a movie? 'The 93 Year Old Virgin?'" You joked back. You noticed his face was flushed in the pale moonlight, but you didn't say anything. Yours was the same.
“Uhm…I can help with some of that.” He answered softly. Not all of it. Definitely not.
"What part can you help me with, Steve...?" You asked, shifting ever so slightly towards him. Your hand was still resting on his shoulder. You moved it a little bit, sliding closer to where his shoulder met his neck. That's what he was suggesting, right? Hopefully, you weren't just being a whore and making him uncomfortable.
“Oh…oh boy.” He muttered under his breath. Steve moved his hands to your waist, holding you firmly as he held you slightly away from him. “N-not that…” His voice didn’t seem so confident, though- there was a bit of a waver as he spoke. You were so small, just like his girl had been. His flush only grew deeper.
He took one hand and grabbed yours, instead moving it to be firmly planted on his chest. He kept his hand on top of yours. The touch was really nice; he couldn’t deny that.
“We can still share the bed.”
Leaving you while you were so vulnerable would not be polite, even if you were coming onto him. He really wasn’t sure how to feel about that. You were his girlfriend’s best friend and his best friend’s girlfriend.
But this was a weird time, and everyone had been so alone...
You would've never acted like this with Steve under normal circumstances. Well, not alone. You would've absolutely tried to get all 4 of you to sleep together, and even just the three of you before you got with Bucky, but not...this. Not just Steve. He was hot, yeah, but you weren't a cheater or a homewrecker. Well. Not with your best friend and the love of her life, anyway.
"Oh, not that...?" You repeated softly, raising a brow at him. His words were saying one thing, but his actions were saying another. He was touching you now, his large hand resting on your small waist, yours on his chest. Damn. He was ripped; you could feel how firm his chest was even over his shirt. You could also feel how quickly his heart was beating. Yours was probably the same.
“Not…that.” He repeated quietly, keeping his eyes on yours. “I…”
"Okay. Not that." You went to lift your hand from his chest, but you noticed his grip had only gotten tighter on it. You just shifted away a little bit. Despite being crazy, you were typically nice. At least to the people you cared about. And being nice included not sexually manipulating your best friend's boyfriend. It was okay if you two just platonically touched and lay in bed together. It was still helpful, just not with the pent-up sexual frustration...
"Do you...want me to stop?" You shifted even closer to him, keeping your voice low. You didn't want to make him uncomfortable, and if he really wanted you to, you would stop. You just weren't so sure he really wanted you to... "You can leave, if you want."
He wasn’t sure what to do in this situation. You were clearly in distress. “I don’t want to…to cheat…on her.” His voice was low and quiet. The hand that held yours to his chest tightened its grip a bit. That made him think for a moment, though, about what you'd been talking about earlier.
"No, I know. I get that...Things are just. So weird and different now." You nodded. Of course, he wouldn't want to cheat on her. It's not like you wanted to cheat on Bucky either...You were just feeling so...desperate. And he was right there, and he was hot, and it was convenient. And is it cheating if they're dead or missing or vanished into thin air?
“Uhm…did you two ever…A-after I asked her out…?” Steve looked incredibly nervous. It’d been so long since he’d been touched, even just like this, that it was hard for him to not get excited about it- no matter how much he didn’t want to.
"Um...yeah. We did, sometimes." You admitted, watching his reactions. He looked almost flustered. It was kinda cute.
His heartbeat sped up as he thought about the two of you girls…uhm. The flush on his cheeks grew deeper, heat radiating off them now.
You could literally feel how hot Steve's cheeks were, his flush radiating from his skin. No wonder your friend had folded for him so easily; he was adorable.
His girl was much more sexual than Steve could ever even imagine being- so he wasn’t that surprised…but he still…was. The girls had talked like they were intimate a lot, but he didn’t think you'd actually meant it. All the times you'd asked him to have a threesome…were you being serious?
He gulped, making his Adam's apple bob visibly in his throat.
"Steve, honestly," You began, shifting a little closer to him once again. It seemed the idea was maybe growing on him. "I don't think she would be pissed if she found out we...slept together... after years of being celibate, if that's what you're asking." Your face was flushed and hot as you said it. It was kinda weird to be talking about having sex with Steve of all people.
He watched you move closer to him again, and he was still feeling shy as ever. You weren’t a bad-looking girl. In fact, he thought you were quite pretty. He didn’t want to tell you that, though; it would go right to your head...
“Is it…?” He started softly, obviously nervous to speak now. “Cheating…if it’s with you?” He couldn’t possibly be more flustered. “I mean…no offense, I don’t like you like that…” Casual sex was never even on his radar until he’d met the two of you. The way you two talked about one-night stands used to scare him.
You let out a little laugh. "It's okay. I don't like you like that either. It's just...convenient." You could tell he was really nervous, and you just wanted to reassure him. "But...like I said. We don't have to...do anything. Only if you want to."
“Convenient.” He repeated, his eyes meeting yours. “Right…”
"Yeah, convenient." You said again, nodding as you spoke. "And...we're both like...not ugly." You laughed just a little, waiting to see his reaction. You were both hot, really, and you were sure Steve knew that. Well, actually, you weren't sure. But with the way he was reacting...he certainly didn't think you were ugly. "Steve..." You came even closer, to the point where your bodies were touching now.
Shit. What had he agreed to? He was positive you already could feel how excited he was when you got so close to him.
Oh.
He was...already excited. That makes things easier, you suppose. "Are you...sure?" You whispered into his ear.
Feeling your breath hit his ear as you whispered to him made him twitch a little. Geez.
You pulled your hand away from his, running up the front of his shirt to feel him that way instead. God damn! He really was muscular. You kept your hand low, running your fingers across his muscular stomach. Shit. You were getting turned on already, too. You really were desperate.
“Y-yes. I’m sure.” He didn’t sound so sure, but he definitely looked sure. “I’ll stop you if I change my mind.” He assured you, already basically admitting he was going to let you take charge of him. It took him a while to become dominant with his girlfriend; he definitely wasn’t going to be that way with you. His heart fluttered at your soft touches on his torso. Your hands were so small and delicate.
...If he closed his eyes, it almost felt like you were her... Was that wrong? Probably. It flustered him just a little more.
You shivered when you felt him against your body. God. This was going to be good for you two, you thought. Well. At least, for you. Hopefully for Steve too. "Relax, Steve..." You moved your mouth to begin kissing on his jaw, just lightly. You would listen to him if he asked you to stop, but until then...
He laughed a little nervously. “You should know by now that ‘relaxing’ isn’t in my wheelhouse.” Steve rolled onto his back slowly, placing his hand on top of yours again but not holding it in place this time. He closed his eyes, taking a few deep, heavy breaths as he did.
"Oh, trust. I know." You giggled a little into his skin, moving your lips down a little bit to begin kissing on his neck. You weren't really sure what Steve was into - your friend had told you some stuff, but you didn't really remember - so you were kinda going in blind here.
That was fine; you were glad he was being mostly submissive at least. You performed better this way. You shivered a little when you felt his hand rest on yours, big and calloused. Your heart ached for just a moment - it reminded you of Bucky's hand. You tried to shove the thought out of your mind for now, to focus just on the task at hand. As he shifted onto his back, you didn't waste any time slowly climbing on top of him. In this position, the neckline of your tanktop was hanging low and showing your cleavage as you pressed your lips to his neck, kissing and licking just slightly. Your tanktop exposed your hard nipples through the thin fabric, pressed up against Steve's body. You wondered if he would notice...Keeping your hand on his torso, you slowly trailed your fingers up his abdomen, tracing the outline of each defined ab muscle.
His cheeks flushed red seeing down your shirt. It was inappropriate, but so was everything you two were about to do. He swallowed hard again, turning his head to the side and closing his eyes. As he did, he moved both hands to rest on your hips as you climbed on top. Geez. Even with all the weight you'd lost, you were still curvier than his girl was. He should really stop comparing the two of you...That wouldn’t end well.
"It'll feel good. Don't worry..." You continued to press soft kisses to his jawline, the stubble rubbing against your face a bit. You hoped you weren't being too romantic; you just wanted to tease him and make him feel good a little. You loved being a giver...
It was really almost embarrassing how quickly you were getting him worked up. He could already feel himself leaking at the tip beneath his pajama pants. Shit. It was impossible not to notice how worked up he was; it brought a smirk to your lips. Steve was already twitching and hard and breathing heavy...it only made you more confident.
The thoughts running through his head were maddening. Just get it over with. But he didn’t want to rush you; you needed it more than him. He wasn’t sure how to feel about you teasing him, though. Maybe you weren’t trying to. Maybe he should just calm down and enjoy it while he can.
“..sw-sweetheart…” He groaned out with a shuddering breath, his hands tightening their grip as he dug his fingers into your skin. He didn’t want to use your name for this. Seeing how his body was reacting, he almost felt betrayed. He was somehow more nervous than the first time he’d even had sex. Every time you moved around his body, he squirmed a little more beneath your weight.
"Hmmm....?" You hummed into his neck, gently kissing down to the crook of his neck. You sucked there - just gently; you didn't want to freak him out again - as you felt yourself growing wetter down there already. Damn. This felt...nice. Feeling a warm, human body against yours, one that was squirming and shivering under your touch no less. You were already too far gone; if Steve asked you to stop, well...
You moved your hand further up his shirt, your small hand finding his pectoral muscle and giving it a squeeze. Holy. Shit. This guy...was fucking beefy. Omg. You were even more mad now that you guys had never had a foursome before. His body reminded you of Bucky's but...Steve was somehow even more muscular.
You moved your hand out from under his shirt, instead pulling at the hem of it as you looked at his face. He might've been the most flushed you'd ever seen him. "Can you...take this off...for me?" You asked, tugging on his shirt. You didn't want to entirely dom him, but you thought you could command him a little, at least.
Steve looked back towards you, his face still fully flushed. The soft touch from your hand made his stomach flutter. “Y-yea…” His voice wavered a bit, his breathing still heavy as his chest heaved. He pushed himself up a bit, using just his core to hold his position as he slid his shirt off with shaky hands. Jeez. He still couldn’t believe he was really doing this right now. It’d been so long since he’d had really any kind of touch; it was just making him more shy and self-conscious. He tossed his shirt to the floor and laid back down beneath you.
He still couldn’t really bring himself to look at you too much right now, though. It was…embarrassing? Shameful? Both.
"Steve." You said, looking at his eyes as you watched him pull his shirt off. He was so...nervous, so tense, so shaky. It was almost making you feel guilty. "Relax..." You said again, moving your hands to slowly trail up and down his now exposed torso. Damn. Even in the dim moonlight, you could still see every defined muscle on his body. It was almost strange to see a man with two flesh arms, but you tried again to push thoughts of Bucky away.
“I am relaxed…” He protested. Poorly. He moved his attention back towards you, looking to your eyes. Would that help? He didn’t think so now that he was doing it. But he decided to stop trying to hide from you. Your head dipped back down to his chest, and he moved his hands back to your hips.
You couldn't help but let out a little chuckle. If Steve was relaxed, you were the fucking President. Whatever, hopefully he'd relax after he started feeling good.
You just needed to focus on making both of you feel good in the moment; you could focus on being guilty later. "Don't think about it too hard." You told him the same thing you were telling yourself. "I'll make you feel good..." You moved your lips down to kiss his neck again, kissing down to his now exposed collarbone. You nibbled on it gently, and then slowly trailed one hand down to fiddle with the waistband of his pajama pants. You were getting...antsy. It had been two years; you weren't really sure how slow you could take it.
“C-careful…sweetheart.” He muttered out. Every time your lips touched his skin, he felt like his heart might burst. Whether that was because of excitement or because of guilt…he couldn’t figure out. Not yet. He bit his lip as you began to fidget with his waistband. “D-Do you…need me to do that…for you too, doll?” He laughed a little. Partly because he was teasing, but also partly because this was ridiculous.
"Hmm?" You hummed into his chest, nipping at his collarbone. It felt...really nice, actually, to touch someone like this. You were definitely...more than excited at this point. You nearly wondered if you'd soaked through your skimpy little booty shorts yet. "You can try," You teased, pulling the band of his pants down to expose him. You looked down as you did, watching him pop out - hard and twitching and already wet at the tip. "Oh my...shit," You said. Fuck, did you say that out loud? Your surprise at his size was meant to be an inside thought. Jesus. Your eyes snapped back up to meet his, your face a little flushed with embarrassment.
“Jesus Christ, Sweetheart.” He rolled his eyes. That wouldn’t hide how flushed his cheeks were, though. He was downright flustered. It was a bit of an ego boost, though, hearing you exclaim about him like that. Thinking about it made him twitch a little. God. He really was touch-starved, more than he ever thought he was. And you hadn’t even touched him there yet. He let his eyes rest on you again, watching your movements, your reactions. It was dark enough for him to pretend you weren’t…who you were. Maybe he should listen to you and actually relax.
Your face was flushed when he spoke. Back in the day, Steve never spoke like that, but things were different now, you supposed. It was still a little weird to hear coming from him, though.
"Hey, language, Steve," You teased, fingers trailing down his stomach slowly. Steve sighed. “You need to stop hanging out with Stark.” He muttered, closing his eyes.
"But he's so hot," You teased, but you were quickly cut off when you let out a shaky gasp, following Steve's little moan you heard him make. You hadn't heard someone moan for you in far too long. It was getting you even more riled up.
As fun as going slow and teasing him was, you were going to need some relief soon, and by the looks of his, well....he would too. You moved your hand to gently wrap around him, and you let out a small gasp as you finally touched him. Your hand couldn't actually wrap fully around him - he was girthy. Buck had been the same way. From what you could tell, they were similar in size, Steve just a bit bigger. Not that you should be comparing their dick sizes anyway... He was twitching in your hand, and you stroked him, just gently, lightly, gauging his reaction as you stared at him in the dark moonlit room.
Feeling your small warm hand against him caused him to let out a soft groan. Geez. This wasn’t going to go well; he was going to cum way too quickly. He moved his arm, resting his wrist on his forehead as he turned his head away from you again. Your touch still caused him to squirm- his breaths heavy, causing him to shudder with every exhale. If he didn’t think about it too hard, you really did feel the same way against him as his girl did. Damn. His spine arched just a little bit, causing him to thrust himself against your hand as you held onto him.
You moved your hand on him slowly, dragging the wetness from his tip down to his shaft as you slowly stroked him. Fuck. You might not last long. You hadn't gone this long without getting off since...well, ever. "See? It feels good..." You murmured as you watched him thrust himself against your hand. It caused you to let out a quiet little moan, watching him seem so desperate for your touch. Fucking hell.
He hadn’t doubted it would feel nice. He just had been worried about how it would make him feel…like, on the inside. “Y-yea…” He stuttered out, his hips jerking into your hand still. Christ. “Yea…it feels good.” He admitted sheepishly. You truly hadn’t done anything yet. He flustered himself thinking about it. His hand moved to your thigh, gripping tightly into your flesh as your hand kept playing with him. “Sweetheart…” He moaned out, moving his focus back to you. His face was flushed and his eyes half lidded. He thought that you might be the death of him.
“Mhm, I know…” Your voice was high and teasing, your face flushed as he admitted that it felt good. Damn. You nearly forgot how much you loved pleasing others. You smirked when you felt the way his nails were digging into your thigh, and the way he was staring at you with that lust in his eyes. Fuck. As much as you loved pleasing, you were going to need some relief soon.
Your grip on him tightened when he moaned out for you; the way he called you those old-timey nicknames was really sexy... You'd always enjoyed it when Bucky did it too. You shifted, pulling your shorts to the side as you moved to line yourself up with him. You were already fucking sopping. You lowered yourself, just the slightest, to rub yourself against him.
“Oh, fuck,” you immediately gasped out as you made contact. You could’ve already came just from that, and he wasn’t even inside of you yet. Good god.
Steve wasn’t feeling so shy anymore, now focusing on the pleasure you gave him instead. It had been a really long time; he thought he might burst. You seemed to enjoy drawing it out and teasing him however you could. A minute ago he wanted to get it over with because he didn’t like the idea too much; now he wanted to get it over with because if he didn’t he might die. A little bit of an exaggeration, but…it had been almost six years since the last time he had sex. He was allowed to be a little dramatic.
He shifted beneath you, getting up on his elbows for a moment before sitting up against the headboard of his bed. As he did, he grabbed your hips- almost a little too aggressively- as he pulled you down onto him all the way. Steve pushed his head into the nape of your neck, groaning out into your shoulder as he hid his face from you again. He hadn’t stopped too long to think about if it would hurt or not…surely not. You were so wet, so so wet. It made Steve shudder as he slid you onto him. “F…fuck.” He groaned out against your skin. “Fuck, sweetheart…” He shuddered as he pulled back just a little to look at your face again.
You were not expecting Steve to act so bold, to suddenly pull you down onto himself. You were not complaining by any means, though. You let out a loud, high-pitched moan as he slid inside. He slid in so easily - you were so wet from being so pent up - and he stretched you out a little as he went in- the sting absolutely delicious. It had been so long since you'd had something this big inside of her...your body wasn't used to it anymore.
"F-fuck," You murmured, sucking in a breath as you arched your spine towards him. Jesus fucking Christ. He felt good. "Oh...were you feeling that desperate, Steve? Couldn't wait any longer?" You teased, but her façade was crumbling a little, your face flushed and breath heavy as you spoke.
“S-sorry…are you okay…?” It almost looked like he was drunk, even though he couldn’t be anymore with the serum. He didn’t even know what had come over him; he was just a little embarrassed by how rashly he had just acted.
"Yeah, I'm fine. You can be even rougher, if you want," You said it mostly as a joke, not that you would mind, but because you couldn't really picture Cap being rough with you at all.
If his cheeks could flush more, they would. Rough? Cripes. He knew you were like that, but…hearing it from your mouth was crazy. He certainly wasn’t one to be rough normally. He already kind of had been, though. Steve closed his eyes as he buried his face back into your neck. He almost…wanted to kiss you. Not like…you you…but still. His right hand slid from your hip up onto your breast, groping gently. He let his fingers run over your nipple, gently pinching at it. "Fuck, baby," You moaned out as he pinched at your nipple. Damn. He hadn't even moved yet, and you were already feeling so good.
“Don’t call me that.” He mumbled against your skin, protesting poorly. As he complained, he pinched at you a little harder, his fingers rubbing against you and then moving to pull at the puffy skin of your nipple. Not too hard, just hard enough. You rolled your eyes at his weak little protest. He was being a little bit of a hypocrite, you thought. "You...can call me 'sweetheart'... but I can't call you baby...?" Your words were breathy and whiny as you spoke, your back still arching as he played with your breasts. Fuck. You hadn't felt anything like this in so long...you missed it more than she even thought you did.
“You can call me sweetheart, if you want. If you call me baby…it’ll confuse me.” His voice was soft and shy, just a murmur in the thick air. As he spoke, he lifted his head back up to look to your eyes. “You sound like her when you talk like that.” His voice wavered as he mumbled his words.
You chuckled at his request. You couldn't call him 'baby,' but you could call him 'sweetheart'? This man was so weird. As he explained it, though...you understood. You and your best friend were similar in that way; you two said the same sort of things when you were fucking, probably picking it up from each other during all the times you two slept together.
"Alright, sweetheart," You said, putting a little emphasis on the word. "I won't call you that. Sorry." Apologising at all was something you didn't like doing - especially during sex - so you just left it at that.
As his hand traveled your torso, he noticed that he could feel your ribs now. Maybe he’d scold you about it later. He tried to distract himself, though, instead answering the question you'd asked before.
"Y-you made me feel desperate, sweetheart." He admitted through clenched teeth, his eyes flicking up to meet yours- his big baby blues just barely hidden behind his lashes.
"Oh, is that right...?" You teased, giggling a little. You were a little flustered, though, surprised that he had actually admitted to being desperate for you. If you could've, you might've even gotten even wetter. "I...was feeling desperate, too," You admitted, though that was probably already clear considering that you two were even fucking in the first place. As he buried his face into your neck, you moved your hand to tangle into his hair, gently gripping his dirty blonde locks, which had gotten quite long recently. It was...sexy. Almost as long as Bucky's had been...
You tightened around him involuntarily, the way he felt inside of you feeling so good and so full. Fuck. At this rate, you were definitely not going to last long. Good thing you could go for a few rounds; in case you came before he did, you'd let him keep going.
His arm wrapped around your waist tightly, firmly holding you in place on his lap. He needed relief. He needed this. As much as he wanted to protest, he couldn’t. Using his forearm against the small of your back, he began to move you up and down slowly against him, shuddering and groaning out as he did. He felt like he wanted to sink his teeth into your neck, but that was a bit much for him. So he didn’t.
"F-fuck..." You breathed, feeling him grip at your sides and begin to move you up and down on him. The sensation was beyond pleasurable; you couldn't believe how sensitive you were after 2 years of going untouched. The sounds he was making too...God. It was just getting you going even more. You kept your hand gently tangled in his hair as you moved your hips against his, matching his slow rhythm. You were getting the overwhelming urge to kiss him - hot and sloppy and open-mouthed like you always liked to do during sex - but you thought he might not like that.
“Fuck-“ He stopped himself before he finished calling out your name. You felt yourself clench around him when he almost spoke your name. You'd always gotten such a rush from hearing your name during sex, but you kinda understood why he wasn't saying it. It still sorta aroused you, though. “Fuck.” You two were already this far gone…maybe a kiss could be fine. He needed something to do with his mouth other than say embarrassing things. The hand that cupped your breast moved to the back of your neck. He pulled you close and closed the gap between your lips with a groan.
"Fu-!" You were cut off in the middle of your profane moan by his lips on yours. You weren't expecting it at all, but you were certainly not mad about it. You kissed him back, shivering as you heard his moan, the kiss open-mouthed and sloppy as you kept your hips moving against his.
He slid his hand from the back of your neck up into your hair, taking a fistful of it and holding tightly. He yanked your head back, taking his lips off yours as he instead moved his attention to your neck- nipping just a little as he left love bites right in the center of your throat. You said to be rough; hopefully this was fine for you... “Steve!” you yelped out in pleasure as he yanked on your hair. Shit. You said his name. With the way he’d been very clearly avoiding yours…hopefully it wouldn’t upset him too much. Hearing you call his name like that made him gasp out. He hadn’t heard it like that in a long time. Shit. He almost finished just hearing that.
You were the one squirming from his touch now; he was being much more rough than you could’ve anticipated, but…you liked it. A lot. You let out another loud moan as he nipped at your neck, your head tilted back to expose all of your skin to him. “Sw-sweetheart…” you moaned out, taking his suggestion seriously as you figured it was the safest thing to call him. “O-on second thought…” He stuttered out. “Don’t call me anything.”
"Christ," You tried to roll your eyes, but they ended up rolling to the back of your head instead from the pleasure. "You're so...particular." You were always a name-caller during sex, but whatever. You were lucky enough he agreed to fucking in the first place. You shouldn't test him.
Steve began bucking his hips into yours desperately, his arm still holding you tightly and maneuvering you however he pleased to do so. God. He was close. He could feel it, and he bet you could too. He was twitching violently, leaking at the tip as he kept thrusting into you. Every time his hips hit yours, he groaned out in pleasure. Every thrust into you made you whine and whimper and clench around him, and when you did, you could feel every little twitch and vein he had. You could feel him getting close…and you weren’t too far yourself.
“Y-you… you’ve got me close…” He admitted with a shaky voice, his lips still pressed to your skin. “I-I know…” You moaned out, your voice shaky and high-pitched as you stared down at him, your hand on his head, holding him against your neck. You almost felt too good to gloat about him being close for you. Almost.
“I can feel…how close you are for me…” You just couldn’t resist teasing him, but you were just as close as he was, the orgasm slowly bubbling up inside of your tummy, the coil winding tighter and tighter.
Christ, you had such a filthy mouth. He wondered for a moment if you got it from his girl, or if his girl got it from you. With the grip on your hair, he pulled again, forcing you to bend back away from him a little. His eyes trailed down your body for just a moment. He could almost see your sternum now. He was absolutely going to scold you later.
"F-fuck...St-" You shut your mouth before you could moan his name again, completely obsessed with the way he was handling you so roughly, the hand tugging in your hair making you moan loudly. Never in a million years did you think Steve Rogers of all people would fuck you like this (or at all). Maybe he was more desperate than you thought.
Just after a couple more thrusts, he was fully undone. He quickly pulled you off of him, throwing you onto your back beside him on the bed. Maybe not so tactful, and definitely not polite. But he wasn’t thinking rationally right now. You were close, really close, when suddenly, you weren't feeling him inside of you anymore. You stared at him as you landed on the bed, watching the thick streams of cum pump out of him. Oh. Your friend was right. He does cum a lot. "Fuck..." Your voice was a low whisper as you watched him finish. Damn. If he had done that inside of you, you surely would've came along with him.
Once he realised what had happened, he was…really embarrassed. Even though you said you liked it rough- that was a bit much, he thought. It also certainly wasn’t gentlemanly for him to cum before you did. Shit.
Steve was breathing heavily, shuddering as his chest heaved. He was holding himself in his hand, semen dripping off his tip and down his hand and onto his thighs. He was nervous to look back towards you; he had a feeling he pissed you off. He hadn’t meant to react that way; it just happened.
“Shit, sweetheart.” He looked to you, his face fully flushed and sweat dripping down his brow. How did he break a sweat? You two didn’t even go at it for that long. “I-I’m sorry…” He sounded shy, his voice shaking. That might’ve been from how hard he was trying to catch his breath, though.
There were a lot of embarrassing things Steve had done, but this might take the cake. Being desperate enough to agree to sleep with his girl’s best friend was already bad, but then not even getting her off when she was the one who wanted it? This would definitely keep him up at night.
You were still staring at the load of cum he let out, watching it drip onto his hand and thighs. You had half a mind to start lapping it up, but realized that would definitely scare him away. You were crazy, but not that crazy.
"Don't apologize," You almost wanted to tease him, but it was clear by the way he was beet red and sweating that he was very embarrassed, so you let it go. Plus, it had been even longer for him since he'd last had sex, so it was probably hard to even last as long as he did in the first place.
"It still...felt good..." You shifted a little, leaning over the edge of the bed to look for a towel or something he could clean himself up with. It had still felt good - that wasn't a lie - but you were a little bummed that you hadn't gotten to cum. Oh well.
“W-we can try again…if you just give me a minute…” He offered sheepishly. He was always such a people pleaser. “I don’t…I don’t want you to not…” He was so shy and so flustered, he almost looked how he did when he first came out of the ice again. Clearly, this wasn’t territory he’d ever navigated before.
Steve’s eyes stayed on you as you searched the room, and he figured he should help. He looked over the side of the bed he was on and saw a pile of towels, so he grabbed one of those to clean himself up. As soon as he was done, he let his eyes rest on you again. Only while you weren’t looking at him. You were pretty, and you had a nice body. Most guys would’ve been head over heels at the idea of sleeping with you. He kinda just felt a little guilty though. His girl and Bucky weren’t around anymore- if they were, then he wouldn’t even be living with you in the first place- but he still felt as if he’d betrayed both of them by sleeping with you.
To be honest though, he was giving up hope they would ever come back. So maybe sleeping with you wasn’t the worst choice he could make these days.
You chuckled a little. He was kinda cute when he was all shy and flustered. You did sorta want to try again, but you already put him through enough by convincing him to do it in the first place. You'd feel guilty if he felt like he had to do it again. Your face was flushed as you watched him clean himself up.
You noticed - just for a moment, out of the corner of your eye - his eyes looked over you while you were looking away from him. Was he checking you out...after you fucked? Good god, this man was strange. You did the same thing though, letting your eyes drift across his body. He was nice to look at. Especially when you hadn't seen a body in years.
"It's okay, Steve..." You ran a hand through your hair, sighing softly. "I'm not gonna make you do that..."
He wasn’t foreign to being rejected, but it did make him feel a certain way coming from you. He decided to ignore it, though. “Yeah…okay…” He looked away from you, readjusting his pants back up over his hips. “Do you want me back on the couch…?” Steve looked back towards you, awaiting your answer. He wouldn’t be surprised if you sent him away after that. It wouldn’t hurt his feelings.
Is this how modern-day “hook-ups” were? He hated how it was making him feel. Aside from the guilt, he was justfeeling embarrassed. “I won’t mind…if you don’t want me here anymore after that.” He laughed a little, reaching a hand up to rub at the back of his neck.
You quirked your brow as you looked over him again. Was he seriously moping about the fact that you'd said no to him for his sake? You almost laughed. Your eyes drifted down to his pelvis as he pulled his pants up; he was still hard, causing a little tent effect in his pants. You smirked, biting your lower lip as you looked back up at his eyes. "Oh...well, if you really wanna get me off, I won't mind," You giggled, shifting close to him again. "It looks like...you could go for round two." Not only did you not want him to leave you all alone in this big bed, but...you did want to cum. It was almost unbearable how badly you needed release.
“Oh, is that how you feel?” He laughed. You certainly weren't subtle. “I don’t know…you already told me not to…I already put the pants back on…” Steve had a bit of a smirk on his lip. It was refreshing to see him have an emotion other than like…sadness or depression or despair. "Well...I was just trying to spare you the chore of having to sleep with me again..." You joked, laughing a little. "But since you insisted..." Really though, you didn't want to make him do anything he didn't want to...but it didn't seem like he was against the idea. He'd surely tell you no if he didn't want to. Oh. You noticed the smirk on his lips and, wow. You hadn't seen him wear that expression in...years. It looked...damn good on him, you feared.
Maybe this was good for him…for both of you. “I did tell you you’d only have to give me a minute…” He muttered, leaning back onto the stack of pillows again. His cheeks flushed deep red as he thought for a moment. “Uhm…how do you want to…?” He really was new to this. He didn’t know how to act right with any sexual partner that wasn’t his girl.
Your face flushed at his question...you weren't sure, actually, how you wanted to go about this. You could...ride him, maybe? Sit on his face? No...no, that might give him a heart attack.
"I dunno, Steve. Why don't you tell me?" Best let him decide so you don't accidentally kill him.
His cheeks flushed, causing him to be a little flustered. “You want… me…to pick? I…you…” He stared at you, blinking a few times. “You have more…experience…” His voice was getting softer the more we went on, like he was too shy to share his thoughts. “You must know…what you like…like…what makes you feel the best…” Steve sat back up, not breaking eye contact with you. “You like being on top, right…?” His cheeks were incredibly red now. “We can just do that…if you want…” His girl liked being on top too. He wondered which one of you topped when you two…oh. Oh no. He really shouldn’t be having dirty thoughts about the girls like that, but…it made him grow harder to think of it. He brought his fist to his mouth, covering it as he coughed to clear his throat. “J-just…just tell me what you need me to do.” He offered.
You giggled, watching his flustered reaction. You hadn't meant to make him react that way, but you definitely didn't mind seeing it. It was almost...charming. You could see why your best friend was so obsessed with him. "Oh, Steve," You mused, a smirk on your face as you slowly climbed on top of him. "You're kinda cute." He was, especially allembarrassed like this. It nearly made you wetter. "I do like being on top...that should work for me. "
He watched you climb up onto him closely. The anticipation made him more excited. Jeez. He better not cum too quickly again this time. Doing it once was already bad enough, twice?? He’d never live it down. God. You were so filthy-minded.
How did he know that you liked topping? Did you just have that vibe...? You wondered if he liked women who topped more than topping women. If there was one thing you knew about your best friend, it was that she loved to top. "Just make me cum." You declared, your eyes filled with lust as you stared down into his.
“I-I know that much..!” He protested, still fully flustered. Steve moved his hands to sit on your hips again. He was going to have to try really hard not to handle you like that again. Hopefully he’d have a little more self-control this time. “Go ahead.” He mumbled. “Lead the way.”
You let out another giggle at his words. It was fun, teasing him and seeing him all shy. Moving your hand to the waistband of his pants again, you pulled them down enough to get him out. He was still hard - good. Was that a super soldier thing? Staying hard for a while? No man other than Bucky (well, and now Steve) usually stayed that hard after cumming. Your shorts were still pulled to the side, seeing as you had never fixed them after the first round, so you lowered yourself down to rub against him again. One of the main components of the super soldier serum was enhanced stamina- that was for every part of the body…including his…area. He was so sensitive though, feeling you on him again so soon after he’d already cum. Cripes. He was going to do his best to hold off- he promised. His only job right now was to get you off.
"Shit..." Even though it had been a few minutes, you were still really close. You lowered yourself down onto him completely, letting out a loud moan behind gritted teeth as you felt him fill you up. The stretch was so delicious- so insane. His hands squeezed your hip bones as you lowered yourself. He hadn’t really meant to, but…fuck. You were so small…so tight and so warm and so…fuck. You moved a hand to cover your mouth and bit down on it, trying to muffle your sound. You were afraid you'd say his name or 'sweetheart' or 'baby' again, so it was best if you just kept your mouth shut entirely.
Steve groaned, rutting his hips up into you a bit as you sat on him. You couldn't help but immediately clench around him. He was so big, and you felt so full...fuck. You were going to be the one to cum embarrassingly fast...You bit at your hand again as he bucked his hips into you, still trying your best to be quiet. You didn't need Steve going all drama queen on you again.
You felt amazing. He noticed an absence of noise, though, and opened his eyes to see you covering your mouth. He lifted his hand to your wrist, pulling your hand away from your mouth gently. “I-it’s…it’s okay…sweetheart. I won’t…make a deal out of it…this time.”
You were surprised when you felt his hand on your wrist, your eyes fluttering open to meet his big baby blues. His face was flushed again, and he already looked like he was going to burst soon. Damn. You let him pull your hand away, a loud moan escaping your mouth as soon as it was uncovered. He wouldn't make a deal out of it this time? You thought it was best to test that theory. "Whatever...you say...sweetheart." Your voice was breathy, and you wore a smirk as you spoke. You began to roll your hips down against him, riding him painstakingly slowly. It was to tease him, but really...it was getting hard for you to even want to go slow like that.
Christ, you might be the death of him. Teasing like that still. Hadn’t you learned your lesson about that? “Sh-shit…” Steve threw his head back onto the pillows, his hips bucking into you deeper as he did. He tried to match your speed- slow, teasing, anticipatory. He couldn’t stop twitching.
"You...have such a dirty mouth..." You teased, still not fully used to hearing Steve swear like that. You didn't mind, though. It was kinda nice knowing that you made him feel good enough to say bad language words. He ignored your teasing, instead deciding to focus on just making you feel good. And it seemed to be working from what he could see. The reactions you were having…God. It really was a nice little ego boost. It was definitely making up for earlier, he thought.
His hands found their way back to your hips, holding you tightly in place as they ground against each other. Jeez. Maybe you were right. Maybe he did need this, and he just hadn’t thought about it. It was definitely a good distraction from how terrible everything was now. And he did feel a little lighter after cumming. God. You were going to turn him into a pervert, more than his girl already had at least. You shivered when he grabbed at your hips, another part of your body that was typically sensitive. Your heart ached again for a moment - Bucky was obsessed with your hips - but you pushed the thought away again. Just focus on feeling good, on cumming. Depression later.
You focused your mind on how good he felt, and God, he felt so good. You tried to keep a slow pace on him, but when his hips started bucking into you, you couldn't help but speed up just a bit. Feeling you speed up, so did his breaths as he kept pace with your hips. There were knots in his stomach watching how your body and face were contorting in pleasure. “…feel good…?” He panted out between his heaving breaths, watching you closely still with half-lidded eyes.
Never in a million years did you think Steve Rogers of all people would be fucking you like this, making you feel this good, but...you weren't complaining. No wonder your bestie fucked him so much - he felt good as fuck! "Y-yeah...you feel...good..." You could barely get the words out, looking down at him with a red face and half-lidded eyes. You kept your pace on him, hoping it felt good for him too. You knew he already came, but you didn't want him sitting there feeling like nothing. Based on his heavy breaths and matching half-lidded eyes, though...you thought he was probably feeling alright.
With a shaky hand, he moved his thumb down towards your core, hovering over your clit for a moment before deciding to go through with his thoughts. He pressed gently, not wanting to hurt you. He circled your sensitive bud so carefully, the rest of his hand resting against your stomach as he pulled at the little skin you had there.
"O-oh...fuck..." You threw your head back as you whined out, feeling his hand against your clit. That...that was going to make you cum pretty quickly. He was being so gentle with your clit, it was almost teasing. You bucked your hips, pressing yourself further into his hand as you moaned loudly again. It didn’t take much for him to get the hint- you weren’t so sensitive there, judging by how you were grinding yourself into his hand. He pressed a little harder, trying to gauge the right pressure to use. His eyes darted down to your chest, just for a moment, watching as you bounced against him. It got him just a little more flustered, so he moved his gaze back to your face.
You let out another loud yelp as Steve pressed into your clit harder, hitting the perfect amount of pressure to drive you absolutely wild. "I-I'm close..." You whined out, reaching up your hand to grab at your own breast, needing something to grip onto.
Hearing your words of praise caused him to twitch a little more. God. You were so dirty. He’d really learned to like it with his girl, though, so he didn’t mind it at all. “That…was…the goal.” He shuddered out between heavy breaths. He was happy to hear it; he really seemed to be redeeming himself with this second round. He hadn’t expected to care so much about what you thought about him as a sexual partner.
Sometimes his girl made him dirty talk her to help her finish, and he always obliged even though he didn’t like it that much. Maybe you were the same way...
He moaned your name softly, seemingly flustering himself as he did, judging by the heat on his cheeks. “I want…you…to cum…” He was panting out the words now. “Can you…cum for me, sweetheart…?” As much as he said he opposed it, the dirty talk worked for him too. His other hand gripped onto your hip harder as he kept thrusting and rubbing against you. His movements became sloppy and almost lazy as he tried his best to hold off his own orgasm.
Fuck. Was Captain America of all people really speaking to you like this? His girl must’ve taught him well, because it was driving you fucking nuts.
“St-steve…” You moaned out his name again; you couldn’t help it. Not when you were so close, and he felt this good. And the way he moaned your name out…fuck, it was like you automatically tightened around him when you heard it. “I-is that…what you want…?” Your face was entirely red, your words slurring and your voice whiny as you felt the orgasm bubbling up. “You want…me to cum for you…?” All it took was a few more thrusts and rubs against your achey cunt for you to cum.
You came violently — your body trembling and convulsing in pleasure as you dug your nails into his huge biceps. Your mouth hung open as your eyes rolled back, riding out your orgasm as you moaned incoherent words. You were totally fucked out.
Feeling you cum against him- feeling your walls clench and watching you convulse got him so close. Seeing your face as you finished, though? God. “Sw...sweetheart...” He stuttered out, consciously trying to slow down his thrusts. You felt so good, though.
“Sweetheart...sweetheart hop off…” You weren't listening, though; you were too focused on your own undoing.
You couldn’t pay attention to anything Steve was saying; it wasn’t even registering in your mind that he spoke at all. All you could think about was how good the waves of pleasure felt in your body, the first orgasm you'd had in years taking over you entirely.
He came again-inside this time. He was trying really hard to not do that, but he couldn’t put it off any longer. Steve moved his hands to cup your ass, holding tightly as he put one last strong thrust deep inside of you, his back arching as his head was thrown back. Fuck. That was even better than the first time. His thoughts thinned out, his breath heavy, his brow sweaty. But then after a moment he realised what he’d done. “Fuck. Fuck. Sw...Sweetheart...” He seemed to be in a panic now, face fully flushed and red hot.
You felt him cum inside of you and moaned out loud again. You hadn’t entirely finished cumming yet, and you rode out your orgasms together, bodies slick with sweat and trembling. Fucking hell. You gripped onto his arms still, watching him come down from his own orgasm as you did the same. Your breaths were heavy and panting, your eyes half-lidded and face flushed as you stared at him. You felt drunk from the pleasure.
“Wh...what…? Steve, what’s wrong?” You were finally remembering how to think and speak when you saw the panic in his eyes and heard it in his voice. Shit. Had you done something wrong? “D-did I hurt you?” You asked, looking into his eyes with concern as you watched him freak out.
Explaining to your girl that you slept with her best friend is one thing, but getting her best friend pregnant? He waspanicking. “Y-you…no I’m not hurt…you didn’t let me pull out…” Interesting choice of words from the Soldier who’d pulled you off of him with ease not even half an hour ago. “Are you…are you on ‘the pill’?” He still wasn’t quite sure what that was, but his girl had been very fond of it during their time together. “Do you need me to go get you the pill?” He asked nervously. Shit. He should’ve asked you about it before he agreed to this. He was embarrassed he hadn’t.
You just stared at him for a second.
Was he really panicking about that? How had he forgotten…? Didn’t let him pull out was a bold accusation, seeing as he’d just tossed you off of him before, but whatever. You almost wanted to laugh. “Steve…you’re so cute,” You said, watching him freak out about pills. It was kinda cute, seeing him be so concerned for you. “I’m...I'm a Widow, remember?” You looked down at him, and he still looked good: flushed cheeks, hair sticking to his face, sweaty forehead. You could really almost go for a third round.
“Not an issue with me. No need to panic.” You guessed it made sense he forgot; it’s not like you often talked about your childhood mutilation with him. It was something that never really bothered you that much — you'd never wanted kids, and if you really did, you could adopt. Plus, it made a lot of guys like fucking you since they never had to worry about pulling out.
Oh.
Oh jeez. He really was just going to keep embarrassing himself with you, wasn’t he? He should’ve stuck to not talking with you. His cheeks were bright red now. “I’m…I’m so sorry…I forgot…about that.” His girl had told him that before, but he certainly hadn’t thought of it much after he found out. A heavy sigh came from his mouth, his chest heaving as he did. He closed his eyes, taking a minute to gather himself. He was so sensitive right now, especially with him still inside. The serum always made him bounce back fast, and he was already getting hard again. One time his girl and him kept going at it for almost four hours. He still wasn’t sure how she’d kept up with him for that long… He shook the thought from his head- even though he really liked that thought.
“…Did it work…?” He opened one eye to look at you. “Do you feel…better now?” He looked to be so flustered talking with you about this so plainly.
You just chuckled a little, watching Steve be so flustered and embarrassed. It was nice to see him like that, as anything other than depressed, really. You tried to regulate your heavy breaths and fast-beating heart as you stared at him. Damn. You really needed that. That was…really good; it almost made you sad to think this was most likely your last time having sex until…god knows when.
“Y-yeah…” You could feel him still twitching inside. Holy shit, he recharged fast. You were almost crazy enough to ask for a round three. “Yeah…it felt good. I feel…good.” You were almost shy to say it, but only because it was so weird to admit to Steve of all people. “Did…do you…feel better?” It seemed he enjoyed it, despite feeling weird about it at first. You just hoped it had felt good for him to get his rocks off too.
Steve listened closely, but looked embarrassed the whole time. “Y-yea! But uhm…” He had both eyes on yours, but turned his head away from you as he continued speaking. You looked at him for a moment - he was stuttering and blushing and rambling. Did he...not like it? Was there something wrong?
“I-Im not sure…if it’s the same with Buck or not, but I’m real sensitive…” He turned his head to look at your face again, but it almost looked like he didn’t want to be. “Yknow…because of the serum…” He was rambling now; he didn’t want to be rude, but maybe getting straight to the point with this would be best.
“Can you get off of me, please?” He murmured. Geez. That sounded way worse than he meant for it to. “I mean..! Just because it’ll start hurting…it’s not that I don’t like you. I mean I don’t! Not like that, like we’re friends.” Oh, this was bad. If you didn’t put a stop to it, there was no telling how long he would babble on for.
"Oh!" Your face was flushed as you quickly - but gently - pulled yourself off of him and instead moved to sit next to him. You were so used to cockwarming with Bucky, you forgot it can make other men really sensitive. "Sorry..." You didn't mean to make him uncomfortable. As soon as you were off of him, though, you could feel all of his cum leaking out of you, dripping down your thighs. Fuck. Even for a second round, it was still a lot. You blushed as she felt it. His rambling was a little charming, though; you couldn't help but let out a little giggle.
"All better now, Steve?" You turned your head to face him as you leaned against the headboard next to him, looking for the towel he'd used earlier. He noticed your eyes scanning the bed and grabbed the towel from the floor on his side of the bed, handing it to you. “Here.” Steve wasn’t entirely sure how he felt after that. Certainly...less pent up, a little less angry…maybe even less depressed, but…with you? Just thinking about it caused his cheeks to stay flushed. Geez. “Oh, thanks.” You took the towel and cleaned yourself as gracefully as you could before tossing it onto the floor. You weren’t entirely sure how Steve felt. You didn’t want him feeling guilty or regretting it, but you were worried he might be. “Are you…okay?” You asked, meeting his eyes. You didn’t want him to leave the bed still, but if he was uncomfortable sleeping next to you after that, you'd understand.
He sighed, closing his eyes for a moment as he tried to…reverse how worked up you'd already gotten him again. Once he heard you talking to him, though, he turned his head to look at your face. “Y-yea…” His cheeks were still flushed, his eyes still half-lidded, his breathing still ragged. You looked him over for a moment — damn. He looked wrecked. Face red, chest heaving, and his lips slightly swollen from kissing. If you weren’t careful, you'd get worked up again.
“I hope…it was helpful for you.” You murmured out. He did look slightly less tense.
Steve noticed how your eyes lingered on him, and he shyly readjusted his pants…again. You were fully dressed still, so he certainly wasn’t going to just sit beside you exposing himself like that. You watched as he put himself away. Damn. You wouldn't have minded that view for a little longer. Oh well.
“Yeah.” He offered a soft half-smile. He didn’t want to make you feel awkward about it at all. “Just…convenient. Right?” His cheeks were still so flushed as he kept his eyes on yours. It was hard to wrap his mind around the fact that he even agreed to do it. He wasn’t really…as upset as he thought he would be, though. Sex was never a priority in his life before, not that anyone was throwing themselves at him pre-serum anyway- but he hadn’t realised just how pent up he’d been without it the last couple of years. He felt good, but he was shy to admit it. “Are you..? Okay?” You seemed very adamant about making sure he was; it made him curious if you were asking for your own sake and not his.
"Yeah...convenient." And also Steve was really hot and good at fucking. But you didn't want to say all that. It had been really good; you felt lighter, less tense, a little bit more relaxed. Orgasming had always been a great way to release for you any time you'd been stressed - and clearly, even though it was with Steve, this was no exception. You almost tensed up again thinking about the fact that you'd probably not get laid again for at least another two years.
"Yeah, yeah. I'm good." You played with a strand of your hair before turning to look at him. "Um...are you...still gonna stay in the bed with me?" You didn't really want to be alone in the bed; it was the reason you'd asked him in here in the first place, but if he was uncomfortable now, you weren't going to keep him hostage here...
Once he was settled again, he sat back up, throwing one leg off the side of the bed. He paused, though, hearing you speak up again. The flush on his cheeks grew just a little deeper as he turned his attention back to you. “Yea…yea I will. That’s why I came in here in the first place.” He gave an awkward little laugh, reaching his hand up to rub the back of his neck. “I’ll be right back.” He wanted to say ‘don’t wait up’, but considering you'd asked him there for his presence, he thought that would be a silly thing to say.
"Oh, okay! Good," Your face was a little red as you spoke, still feeling a little shy about the fact that you wanted to sleep in bed next to Steve. It was his fault, really, for having such a huge bed that made you feel so lonely when you laid in it...
Steve reached over to you, taking your hand in his gently before giving it a soft squeeze as his smile for you persisted. Without saying anything else, he stood, collected all the dirty towels he could see on the floor of the room, and walked off towards the bathroom.
It made perfect sense that Steve would be a shower after sex type of guy, so you weren't really surprised to see him head towards the bathroom. You did feel bad he picked up all of your dirty towels though. You could still feel his cum leaking out of you, and it was making you flustered.
Christ, if anyone needed to shower, it was you. "Don't use all the hot water!" You called out after him, realizing you should probably take a shower after he's done. You were lazy, but you were full of cum, and he probably didn't want to sleep next to a girl who was leaking his own semen. If you were his girl, he would’ve just told you to come shower with him. The thought caused his cheeks to flush a bit. “I won’t be long, don’t worry.” He called back from the hallway. Oh yeah. Steve had been in the military, and he apparently never dropped the habit of taking 3-second showers, or whatever it was they did there. He was in and out so quick, you hardly had time to even realize he was gone.
The showers Steve took were incredibly quick- muscle memory from being in the military. They weren’t allowed the luxury of comfort when he was touring. His girl used to make him shower longer- spend time with her in there and force him to enjoy the moment. He didn’t enjoy much anymore.
Finding comfort within you, though- that was new. And also, a little scary. It couldn’t have been more than 5 minutes before he returned back to the bedroom, and he was drying his hair with a t-shirt. “All the towels are dirty.” He sounded more upset than he looked, but he let out a soft laugh as he looked to you. “Shower’s all yours. Don’t get my sheets wet.” He teased.
You laughed a little, watching him dry his hair with a shirt. It was...sorta cute, sorta...domestic. You'd been living with him this whole time, but you hadn't really been living with him. Maybe that wouldn't be so bad. If you could get rid of the guilty depression nagging at your insides. "Feel free to use my robe," You joked with a snort as you stood up. "I'm sure it'll fit you." You stretched as you stood, your tanktop showing your midriff as you raised your arms above your head.
Your shower was much longer than Steve's had been, somewhere between 15 and 20 minutes, and you felt a little bad for making him wait up for you. You came back in the room wearing a new, cleaner set of skimpy pajamas (it was all you owned to sleep in besides lingerie, and that was NOT appropriate), and you too, drying your hair with some random shirt.
Steve was lying on the bed, scrolling through his phone. Instead of looking sleepy at all, though, he just looked…focused. “Was there enough hot water?” He asked, not bothering to look up towards you as he kept his eyes on his phone. “No, your 5-second shower used it all up,” You joked, tossing the T-shirt aside. You were dry enough, so you figured it was fine to climb back into bed.
As you came closer, you could see his phone screen. He was scrolling through old photos of him and your best friend. He never took them himself- she would always do them and then text them to him. And then she would take his phone from him and save them for him. As much as she liked making fun of him for being too old for modern technology, she still helped him with all of it without complaint. Once he realised that you could see what he was doing, he locked his phone and placed it face down on the nightstand, instead turning his attention back to you.
You definitely saw what he’d been looking at, but you didn’t say anything. You did the same thing often, casually scrolling through her Instagram and looking at all your slutty pics. You missed her so much that it hurt.
“You’re not tired yet?” You asked casually, reaching over the side of the bed. You grabbed a stray hairbrush from the floor and began to lazily run it through her semi-dried hair. Your darker roots had grown in quite a bit, and you noticed it any time you stole a glance at yourself in the mirror. Your best friend had always been the one to help you bleach it.
He laughed a little, but it wasn’t genuine. “Oh, I’m exhausted. I just thought it’d be rude to fall asleep before you got back.” He was only half joking. "I would've tickled you awake anyway," You joked, tossing the hairbrush aside. You weren't used to taking care of yourself anymore - not even brushing your hair - but if you were going to actually be like, hanging out with Steve...the least you could do was not look a total mess. As you shifted, your ribs showed a bit from underneath your tanktop.
Spending time with you was actually helping to lift his spirits. Who knew it could’ve been such a simple Band-Aid this whole time. Instead, this whole time you'd just been eating meals silently, pushing your forks against your plates and wordlessly passing each other around the apartment like ghosts.
His eye fixated on your torso as your shirt lifted up. He didn’t bother to hide his frown. He wouldn’t ever be as small as you again, but he’d lost a bit of muscle himself since the blip happened. Your name escaped his lips, his voice just a tad more serious than it usually was- which was already a lot.
You turned, letting yourself lie fully in the bed next to him, facing him again. He looked...unhappy. Mad? Concerned? You couldn't tell, but he was frowning. "Yeah?" You were a little anxious yourself. His tone was serious...too serious. Did he really regret it already? He sure seemed to enjoy it, considering how he came fast and hard both times...
Steve rolled over to face you completely; looking over his shoulder wouldn’t work once you were in the bed as well.
Despite his strong start, he seemed to be at a loss for words for just a moment. He sighed, finally letting his eyes meet yours again. “Listen…I’m…I’m not ready. To move on. Honestly, I don’t think I ever will be, but…” His eyes scanned your body up and down before returning to meet your gaze. “We…we need to start being better.” A soft flush danced on his cheeks as he spoke. Hopefully you'd at least think about taking him seriously and not just laugh it off. “I…I can see your ribs. It shouldn’t be like that. You need…” He paused for just a moment, and sighed again. “We need to stop skipping meals.” That was a good start, he thought.
Steve was right. It was time you started...well, trying to live life again. As much as you loved to mope around and be stuck in the past...clearly nothing would come of it. They're either gone forever, or they'll come back somehow, but dwelling on it won't change the outcome.
You nodded, deciding to take Steve seriously for like, the first time in your life instead of just making fun of him. Maybe it was time you two actually be, like...friends. Not just people who hung out with each other because you were dating each other's best friends. "I...don't want to forget them, but..." You sighed, keeping your eyes on Steve's. "I...want to start living again." Your face was flushed as you thought about what you were going to say next. "Um, with you, maybe. We can talk to each other, hang out and stuff..." You averted your gaze, feeling a little shy to say it out loud.
Being vulnerable with Steve of all people was not easy. But if you were going to start being there for each other... You looked down at yourself. Your ribs were poking out a little, and your wrists had gotten so small that your favorite bracelets you wore were loose. Okay, maybe he was right about that too. "Um...I can try. But only if you do too. You eat less than I do."
Oh. You were handling this much better than Steve was anticipating you to. You were actually…taking him seriously. He listened to you intently, keeping his eyes on your face as you spoke. You seemed genuine; he was glad.
“Don’t worry…we won’t forget them.” That was a promise. He wouldn’t dare. They were both far too important to him- to both of you. “That…that sounds nice.” He gave a soft smile. You'd spent far too long waiting for everything to change on its own. This was the least you two could do now, he thought. Build a real relationship as friends, be there for each other in ways that mattered… Steve had Natasha and…well…Natasha. The rest of the Avengers were still around, but everything was different now. Everyone was mad; no one wanted to connect. You, though…you didn’t have anyone with the way Natasha had withdrawn herself from everyone except Steve. The least he could do was keep you properly company.
You let your eyes meet his again, and you noticed his soft smile and lightly flushed cheeks in the dim moonlit room. That was good...you weren't the only one feeling shy. And he seemed to really be genuine.
"I...think it sounds nice too." Why was your heart racing so fast? Had it really been that long since you'd made a friend that you were this nervous about it? Well...actually...yeah. You hadn't made any friends in over a decade. "Maybe I'd eat more if...the food you made wasn't such ass." You shrugged, a little smirk pulling at your lips. It was a joke, of course - Steve's cooking was fine - but just because you agreed to be friends with him didn't mean you had to stop teasing him.
“Oh, okay.” He rolled his eyes, but laughed as he did. “In the 40s we just boiled everything…be thankful I’m not doing that for your food.” His eyes quickly returned to yours, his smile still on his lips. “I’d like to see you try to cook…last I recall you just always ordered takeout.”
"Really, Steve?" You laughed again as you looked at him. "Are we doing this? 'Cause we can do this. I can bring up all the bad stuff they used to feed us in the red room - if they fed us at all. And then you'll feel bad for starting it..." You chuckled along with him as you watched him roll onto his back. You guessed you both ate shitty foods in your pasts.
“That’s not fair, I wasn’t sharing my trauma...!” He argued, turning his head to look at you again as he laughed. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d laughed so much in one day. He was glad you invited him in; it was really lifting his spirits.
Maybe getting closer with her wouldn’t be the worst idea. You basically only had each other at this point. At least…consistently. Which was the only way that truly mattered right now. Steve rolled onto his back again, looking up at the ceiling as he put both hands behind his head. “I could stand to regain some muscle, I guess…” He mumbled, commenting on how you proposed he wasn’t eating enough either. You were right, though; it was just impossible for him to look as skinny as you.
"Yeah, seriously," You stretched out a little, letting out a small yawn. You had no idea what time it was, but it was definitely late in the a.m, and being so close to a warm body again was making you sleepy. "You're starting to look like me," you teased, jokingly flexing your arm. Your bicep was comically small compared to his unflexed arm. Steve didn't look all that different to you in body weight, but you thought maybe if he ate better it would bring some color back into his face. Plus, you thought it would be nice if you actually ate together at the table instead of sitting there in silence and playing with your food.
Steve let out a soft yawn, moving his hand to cover his mouth. It was probably 3 or 4 am now if he had to guess. Farpast his bedtime, whatever time it was. Grabbing at the blanket again, he threw it on top of you before adjusting it over himself as well. Seeing as how you'd just…well…he didn’t really see the point in trying to keep his distance from you now. Unless you wanted it, then of course he would comply. You made him realise just how much he’d missed the touch of another human, though. He wanted to be selfish and lie close to you in your sleep. Hopefully you wouldn’t mind too much.
You just laughed again, happily letting Steve cover you with the blanket. You were glad he wasn't being shy about it anymore - the whole reason you'd asked him to come sleep in here in the first place was so that you wouldn't feel so lonely. You were a cuddler at heart - probably from the lack of love in your childhood - so you couldn't help but scoot just a little closer to Steve. You and your best friend had always held each other in your sleep, and you practically slept on top of Bucky most nights, so it was just a little weird that there was a body in the bed with you and you weren't actively smushed against it.
You were touching just the slightest bit, and his body was so warm. It instantly made you feel more relaxed, like maybe you could get a good night's sleep for the first time in years. Hopefully Steve wouldn't be bothered by the closeness, considering he'd just literally been inside of you not too long ago.
Steve lifted one hand to sit on your hip- over the covers- he didn’t want to be too intimate.
“Good night, Kid.” He yawned again softly.
"Night, Steve," You said, your voice deep with sleepiness. You felt even more relaxed and comfortable when he gently rested his hand on you. This was...nice. You slept soundly for the first time in over two years that night. You hadn't thought Steve lying next to you would help that much, but it really did. Well, the sex probably helped too. But still. It helped more than you could've imagined.
That innate feeling he got for his friends came creeping back into his chest. He had a strong need to protect you and keep you safe going forward. He was glad you had decided to ask for his company- he could better keep an eye on you that way. That much was certain.
It took a while for him to fall asleep, regardless of how comfy he was. He was distracted by watching you as you slept- how your chest rose and fell, how your face looked so peaceful…how quiet you were while unconscious.
Eventually, Steve fell asleep as well, his hand still on your hip.
Pairing: Andy Barber x Female!Reader
Word Count: 4,683
Summary: It was hard to believe that once upon a time, Andy Barber was a stranger to you. Because now? Now he was your everything, just like you were his.
Warnings: Mob AU. Explicit language. Established relationship. Flashback. Mob boss!Andy. Reader is a delicate thing with a rough history. Boss/employee relations. Reference to non-con touching. Touch avoidant. Allusions to past abuse and forced sex work. But also a good amount of fluff and affection tbh.
A/N: I am beyond tickled that this Andy won my recent poll. He’s the one I’ve been most eager to write, but there are so many other stories and babes that I know deserve my attention, so it was hard to commit to him. Thank you for giving me an excuse to indulge and also expand this verse. I hope you enjoy this ❤️
P.S. Andy made his debut in mob enforcer!Ari’s story, but you don’t need to read that to read this.
It was getting to be that time of day when you were starting to flag.
As hard as you worked, as supportive and helpful as you wanted to be–especially to Andy–your brain could only handle so much.
Especially when you were running on barely a few hours of sleep last night.
So you finished the final must do on your list for the day, closing your laptop with a small swell of relief as you rose from your seat at the small table in the corner of Andy’s home office.
It was one of your favorite rooms in the manor, and not just because you spent so much time here with Andy. The decor was traditional–and expensive–a myriad of dark woods and butter-smooth leather. The walls were lined with built-in shelves, stacked with books and dotted with expensive pieces of decor, and even some antiques that probably cost more money than your brain could comprehend.
But your favorite personal touch were the two pieces of framed artwork hanging behind Andy’s desk. They were abstract and colorful, and each time you got swept away staring at them, you swore your eyes gleaned a completely new shape or scene or meaning behind them.
Andy once told you the story of how he had won them in a bidding war at an antique auction after months of tracking down any artwork he could find by his late mother’s favorite artist.
It seemed like such a small thing about himself that he had shared with you–but it showed the kind of man that Andy Barber was.
Devoted. Determined. Strategic. Patient when it counted most.
And never willing to give up.
You smiled as you slowly made your way to where he sat hunched over his executive desk, still deep in his own work despite the approach of early evening.
It was traits like his devotion and patience that had finally won you over completely–despite how gun-shy you had been at the mere idea of anything more with Andy.
With anyone, really, given your history.
But even you couldn’t deny that the more you got to know Andy, the more time you had spent with him, the more the thought of something more had taken root in your brain and began to flourish.
And now here you were.
Clocking your proximity, Andy finally pulled his eyes from his computer screen, straightening in his leather-back chair. His gaze softened as it landed on you, his lips tilting up at the corners into your favorite smile.
“All done for the day?” he asked, pushing his seat back and making room for you, because he knew you well.
So Andy didn’t bat an eye when you nodded in response to his question before slowly sinking to the floor, until you were sat between his feet and resting your cheek against his knee with a soft sound of contentment.
“I rescheduled your meetings for tomorrow to next week, like you asked,” you murmured, your eyes fluttering as Andy reached out and began to gently pet your head. “And I ordered flowers for Ari’s mother for her birthday next week, too.”
“Thank you, honey,” Andy murmured, his fingers teasing along the shell of your ear and making you shiver. “You take such good care of me, of all of us. I bet you even reminded Ari of his mother’s birthday, just to be safe.”
Your cheeks warmed, because Andy was right, and his tone was so fond colored with the kind of tenderness–just for you–that made your insides swoop and flutter. You hid your face against his leg, your insides fluttering some more at the sound of Andy’s quiet, husky laugh.
But speaking of Ari, something tickled your brain, something that made you frown as you tilted your face up and opened your eyes, your gaze shining with worry.
“How are things with the art gallery?” you asked. “Is the business owner next door still causing you trouble?”
Andy’s eyes danced at the mention of the woman who owned the tea and bookshop next door to his new business. “She’s nothing to fret over, honey. Ari’s taking care of her.”
At that, you nervously gnawed on your lower lip. As much as you had come to accept the fact that Andy was a mob boss–and sometimes had to do ruthless, unsavory things–he treated you so well, and was so loving, that it wasn’t an issue for you.
In fact, it provided a sense of security that you had never known until Andy–the fact that you now had such a powerful and competent protector.
But still… you didn’t like the idea of Ari hurting anyone, of the things you were sure he had done and was capable of doing. No matter how respectful and protective he was of you.
You didn’t wish his dark intentions on anyone, even someone who had proven to be a thorn in Andy’s side from day one.
But then again, given the rivals and competition he usually dealt with, this woman’s antics were almost… charming.
“Don’t look so worried,” Andy hummed, gently caressing your cheek. “He’s dealing with her in a way I’m quite certain she enjoys.” He waggled his eyebrows suggestively.
“Oh.” Your eyes widened enough to make Andy laugh. “Well… good. I know the gallery is your pet project and the first business that you’re genuinely excited for.”
“And it’s the perfect front for arms dealing, which drives the most revenue, so really it’s a win win.”
You hummed in agreement, once again sinking against Andy as he continued his light touches and caresses. His fingers danced along the tension in your shoulders, moving slower and pressing firmly, until you were making a quiet sound of relief as the knots of tension seemed to melt away into nothing.
“You slept fitfully last night,” Andy said.
You nodded, leaning into the cradle of Andy’s palm that now rested against your cheek. He tilted your face up so he could get a better look at you, observing the shadows beneath your eyes with a small frown and furrowed brow.
“More nightmares?” he asked.
This time you hesitated, but only briefly, before nodding again.
You didn’t hesitate because you wanted to hide your struggles from Andy, or because you were embarrassed he had of course noticed the state of you, but more so just because you hated to think about your nightmares, and the things from your past that caused them.
At your admission, and the way your shoulders hunched and curled just a little, Andy’s touch instantly became more intentional. His hand moved to grip the back of your neck, squeezing in that way he knew melted your brain and made all of your anxiety dissipate.
Of their own accord, your hands lifted so you could cling to Andy’s thighs, pressing your forehead against his knee and nearly curling around his leg like a koala–greedy for his touch.
Even after all this time, you still couldn’t believe it, the way Andy’s touch affected you–in a good way. That you loved it and often needed it now.
Because there had been a time when you thought that you would never enjoy the touch of another again…
18 Months Ago
“Another month in the green,” Andy said, sounding pleased as he scrolled through the financial slides on the tablet he held.
“Bet you’re fucking tickled that you went all in on the club with me,” Lloyd Hansen preened, sinking back in his desk chair and giving Andy a shit-eating grin. “I told you this would be a money maker. There’s nothing like it for miles and miles.”
Andy hummed, setting the tablet on Lloyd’s desk, his face serious as he eyed the other man. “And I bet you’re fucking tickled that I gave you permission to set up shop in my territory.”
Lloyd rolled his eyes. “Yeah, well, you made me work for it and go in halfsies with you, so.”
“You’re welcome,” Andy smirked.
Lloyd scoffed, opening his mouth to likely fire back something Andy would make him regret, but before he could speak a word, his office door flung open and you were forcefully shoved inside.
You squealed as Lloyd’s head of club security–the brute–gave you another shove that had you nearly face planting into the thick, expensive carpet.
“Didn’t I tell you I wasn’t to be interrupted?” Lloyd snarled at said brute.
“Sorry, boss,” he grunted, giving you a lethal glare, “but she caused a scene out on the floor.”
Lloyd’s eyes snapped to you so quickly that you flinched.
“Did she?” The chill in his voice had you cowering in dread as the security guy quickly ducked out of the office, pulling the door closed as he went and shutting you away with your prickly boss.
You were too terrified of Lloyd, and too distressed after what had happened out on the night club floor, to notice the stranger sitting across from Lloyd’s desk.
“This is the thanks I get for hiring your cry baby ass?” Lloyd hissed as he rose from his seat.
“I’m so sorry, Mr. Hansen,” you quavered as he rounded his desk and stalked closer. “But… I, I told you, I don’t like to be touched and one of the men out there, he grabbed me and–”
Lloyd didn’t stop his approach until he stood toe-to-toe with you, causing you to visibly tremble as you hugged yourself tightly and kept your head ducked low, your eyes fixed on your feet.
“You’re in a fucking night club, toots, dressed like that, might I add–“ Lloyd scoffed.
“You made me–“ you countered weakly.
“It’s called a work uniform.”
You thought that was a stretch as you eyed your outfit which wasn’t much more than a pair of metallic booty shorts and a sorry excuse for a shirt that nearly had your breasts spilling out the top.
And you weren’t even one of the cage dancers, you were just a server.
“You told me you needed this job, that you were desperate for work,” Lloyd growled.
At that, your head lifted, your gaze frantic as it met Lloyd’s. “I am, I do! Please, I’m sorry–“
Lloyd shook his head. “I can’t have you out there causing a scene anytime the clientele gets a little handsy. That’s part of the job. I mean, what the fuck did you think you were getting into working here?”
“Please, sir, I need this job. I don’t have anything else or anyone or–”
“Oh boo fucking hoo,” Lloyd sneered, dipping his head close and making you recoil. “I gave you a chance. I was more than generous. You get paid well. You get benefits. And this is how you thank me?”
Your chest hitched, a sob working its way up to your throat, because he was right. You had been so obviously out of your depth when you had shown up here for your interview, but you had also been beyond desperate for the gig, for a steady income, to survive.
And now you had gone and fucked it all up because you couldn’t just do what all the other servers did and acclimate to your environment.
“Get out,” Lloyd enunciated slowly before straightening. “And don’t come back.”
“No! Please!” Your voice was pitched with hysteria as panic flared within you.
Because you couldn’t lose this job.
“I can… I can do something else! Anything else!” you cried, trailing behind Lloyd as he turned his back on you and sauntered toward his desk. “I can tend bar or or do inventory or–”
He whirled on you suddenly, making you squeak as you walked right into him and then sharply drew back as if you’d been burnt.
There was a mean glint in Lloyd’s eyes as they slowly trailed over you, in a familiar way that had your belly sinking and your skin crawling.
“The only other use I have for you wouldn’t be ideal since you don’t like being touched, cupcake.” Lloyd made a lewd gesture with his fingers and tongue to get his point across, giving a mean laugh as you hugged yourself tightly and stumbled away from him. “That’s what I thought. I have no use for you. You’re useless. So get fucking gone.”
He turned away, clearly dismissing you, his words reverberating in your head loud enough to drown out all of your panicked thoughts.
Because you were useless.
Your tears finally fell as your devastation consumed you. You would be out of your shitty apartment within weeks if you couldn’t make rent. You’d be back on the streets, needing to do whatever it took just to get by.
You shuddered with dread just thinking about it. Especially in this city.
But you had nowhere else to go. No one to turn to.
You had nothing.
You were nothing.
“GET OUT!” Lloyd’s holler made you snap back to the present moment.
You physically jumped at his raised voice, whimpering before turning on your heel to scurry out of his office, but a quiet, unfamiliar baritone made you freeze in place.
“Wait.”
Lloyd huffed. “Really, Barber? You’re undermining me in my own club?”
“Our club. And I’m not undermining you. Just because you don’t have a use for her, Hansen, doesn’t mean I don’t.”
The tiniest, weakest flare of hope flickered within you as you turned and looked at the man who spoke, not nearly as bold in your gaze as he was.
Even though he was seated, you could tell that he was tall, his posture straight and confident, his shoulders broad beneath the dark suit jacket he wore. His skin was fair and flawless, his face shadowed with a dark, meticulously kept beard that matched the floofy swoop of his brown hair.
But it was his dark blue eyes that made your own gaze linger, and widen.
Because you realized that the stranger wasn’t watching you with a lecherous look like most men you’d come into contact with. His gaze was shining with something new and unfamiliar–sympathy, and calculation.
“Take her out to the car,” he nodded, and another man you didn’t even notice until now materialized from the dark corner of the office.
He was the biggest, broadest man in the room. His hair dark and long enough to curl around his blue, denim shirt collar. He was so big, in fact, that when he stepped toward you, you whimpered again, cowering at the sheer size of him.
“He won’t hurt you,” the stranger with the pretty blue eyes promised. “Go on. We’ll speak once I’m done here.”
You swallowed hard–nervously–but you were nodding before you even realized it, your body picking up on the softness in his tone and gaze before your brain did.
It made zero sense, especially given your history, but you trusted him, instinctively.
So you turned, grateful when the man you assumed was his bodyguard didn’t touch you as he corralled you out of the office and down the back hallway of the club.
Once you were tucked away in the dark, luxurious SUV parked out back, your mind started to spiral again, all the frantic noise inside your head blaring on a loop.
What were you doing?
You didn’t even know this man.
If he was in business with Lloyd, you couldn’t imagine he was much better.
But then you remembered the softness in his voice when he spoke to you. In his gaze when he looked at you.
He saw your fear and desperation and it seemed like maybe he actually wanted to help you.
Lord knew you could use that right about now.
You were startled from your thoughts as the back door opened and the stranger appeared, climbing in beside you. You noticed how he seemed intentional in keeping some distance between you–in respecting your personal space.
It was such a far cry from Lloyd and pretty much every other man you had ever met, that you felt a lump swell in your throat, and you had to look away from his intent gaze to blink the tears from your own.
“What’s your name?” he asked gently.
You took a breath, peeking over at him as you murmured your name.
He gave you a small smile, introducing himself in return. “I’m Andy Barber, it’s a pleasure to meet you, despite the circumstances.”
Your lips trembled into an almost hopeful smile.
“You need work?”
You nodded fervently, so much so that you made yourself dizzy as you breathed, “Yes, sir.”
“Do you have any skills or notable experience?” Andy asked.
And just like that–you wilted.
Because you didn’t. You barely had an education, and your resume was laughable–just a string of odd jobs that never lasted long, and the kind of years-long gap that would make any eyebrow raise.
The only thing you had to offer was what Lloyd alluded to back in his office.
Yourself. Your body.
But you couldn’t do that. You wouldn’t. Not again. Not even if it was your choice this time.
You wouldn’t, you wouldn’t, you wouldn’t.
Andy’s quiet voice broke through your internal spiral–your mindless mental chant–as he told you, “You know, I didn’t start out at the top. I came from nothing. But someone with means saw potential in me. They gave me a chance. So I’m willing to do the same for you.”
And there it was again, that tiny flicker of hope sparking to life in the deep recesses of your tarnished soul.
“Why?” you couldn’t help but ask. “You don’t even know me.”
“I’m very good at reading people, and I think you’re someone capable of loyalty, and that I prize most above all. Skills can be taught, knowledge can be gleaned, but loyalty? Trust? Those are innate and of the utmost value, especially in my world.”
You looked at Andy again and couldn't help but shiver. His poise, his confidence, his direct gaze.
You weren’t quite sure who he was, but you knew that you had somehow stumbled your way into the path of someone important. Someone powerful.
Someone who maybe, if you earned his trust, if you made him proud, he would keep you safe.
And that, to you, was of the utmost value.
So you took a deep, shaky breath before whispering, “I can be loyal.” You swallowed before continuing, “And I can work real hard, no matter what you ask of me,” your voice faltered. “Except… I don’t… please, I’m not–“
Despite your fumbling, Andy seemed to understand where your mind had gone. What fear overtook you now.
You saw him reach for you–perhaps his intention was a comforting touch–but he must have remembered you didn’t like to be touched, because he pulled up short and his hand retreated, resting on his thigh instead.
“That isn’t what this is,” he said gently.
“Okay,” you squeaked, sinking beneath the weight of your relief. “Good. T-thank you.”
You peeked over at him again, feeling unsure but also a little mesmerized. Because Andy Barber was beyond handsome. In fact, he was beautiful, but his eyes… your gaze couldn’t stop returning to his and the softness that resided there.
No one had ever looked at you that way before.
Without vile or cruel intentions aimed your way. Without malice or greed. Without the promise of pain, or worse. So much worse.
“Well, this seems pretty cut and dry to me, and genuinely the most pleasant interview process I’ve ever experienced,” Andy said. “So, you’re hired.” He winked, looking delighted when that got a quiet giggle out of you.
But the sound of your amusement cut off abruptly as the car began to move, and you jolted upright, panicked.
“Relax,” Andy soothed, his fingers twitching against his thigh like he was once again resisting the urge to reach out with a comforting touch. “We’re just driving you home, and then you can come to my place tomorrow and we can discuss how you can best support me,” Andy explained. “Where do you live?”
You didn’t respond for a moment, not so much because you didn’t trust him–didn’t know him–but because you were embarrassed by the answer. But after a beat, you gave it to him anyway.
Andy didn’t wrinkle his nose in disgust or make a judgmental remark like Lloyd had when he read your address on your new hire paperwork. He just relayed the address to his bodyguard, who was driving, before sitting back in his seat.
“Would you be open to relocating?” Andy asked, clearly taking you by surprise. “If I have you assisting me daily, it makes the most sense for you to live on my property.”
“I…” you hesitated, not wanting to spoil this gift so soon after receiving it.
Especially since you had no other prospects.
“I wouldn’t want to intrude,” you said carefully.
Andy’s eyes sparkled at your diplomatic answer. “You wouldn’t be. Most of my staff have quarters at my manor. Like Ari,” he nodded toward the beefy man in the driver’s seat. “Same with my personal chef and butler.”
“Oh,” you murmured, nervously wringing your hands together in your lap.
Because it seemed like Andy had a whole staff under his employ. Not to mention a manor.
Again, you couldn’t help but wonder who he was, whose orbit you had been drawn into.
“Can I think about it, please?” You asked, not wanting to give up all of your minimal autonomy at once.
Not wanting to make what could be a very life-changing decision before you knew Andy better.
“Of course,” he replied easily. “I can show you around tomorrow to help inform your decision. How does that sound?”
“Very generous.”
Andy shot you a small smile, and your belly swooped at the sight before you quickly looked away, your leg jiggling with nerves as Ari steered the SUV onto your street.
The vehicle eased to a stop at the curb just outside of your dingy apartment building, and you found yourself unable to look at Andy–to risk seeing the pity in his eyes.
“Here, why don’t we exchange numbers?” Andy suggested, fishing his cell phone from his inner jacket pocket.
You pulled your own dated device from your back pocket, quickly fulfilling his request before clutching your phone between your sweaty palms.
“I’ll send a driver to pick you up tomorrow at eight thirty, does that work for you?” Andy asked.
“Yes, but you don’t need to,“ you objected. “I can take the bus, or–”
“It’s a safety precaution on my end,” Andy assured you. “I don’t give out my home address to many. Not in my line of work.”
He winked to make light of something serious, and you once again found yourself wondering what–exactly–was Andy’s line of work?
What were you getting yourself into?
But you just as quickly shook that thought away, because this opportunity–Andy’s kindness–it was all you had, and it was truly a gift.
No one had ever done something like this for you before, had given you a chance, a helping hand in a moment when you needed it most.
And you wouldn’t waste it.
So you nodded, mustering a smile despite your anxiety as you told Andy, “I’ll be ready tomorrow at eight thirty.”
“Perfect,” he smiled. “I’ll see you tomorrow then.”
He watched as you opened the car door and slipped outside, hesitating before you turned back to him. Because a new feeling was overriding your nerves now.
Gratitude.
You felt so very thankful for this unexpected opportunity. For Andy’s empathy and belief in you.
You weren’t used to getting help or lucky breaks.
You weren’t used to anyone caring about you in any way at all.
It must have been written all over your face too, all these thoughts swirling inside of you, because Andy’s features softened as he watched you, another one of those small smiles cursing his lips.
“Go get some rest, honey, I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”
Your belly swooped at the term of endearment, and you lingered for a moment, wishing you were good with words, that you could articulate how grateful you were, how much this meant to you. But you finally settled on a very earnest, “Thank you, Mr. Barber.”
“No need to thank me. And call me ‘Andy.’”
Your insides fluttered at his request, and you nodded. “Goodnight, Andy.”
“Goodnight,” he echoed, watching your retreat.
Despite the way you hurried up the front steps and into the entryway, the SUV seemed in no rush to depart, instead idling at the curb until you were safely inside.
You scurried up the four flights of stairs to your unit in a daze, your brain trying to process everything that happened tonight. You were out of your new job at the club, but it seemed like something better could be awaiting you.
Thanks to Andy.
You were terrified to really get your hopes up, because so rarely did things go your way, but this time, weirdly, the excitement–and anticipation to see Andy again–was something you just couldn’t shake…
“Come here, honey.”
The sound of Andy’s voice brought you back to the present moment, your hazy mind surfacing from one of the few pleasant memories you had.
Blinking owlishly, you glanced up to find Andy watching you in soft amusement, his big hand held out toward you.
You slipped your hand into his, allowing Andy to pull you first to your feet, then into his lap.
His arms circled you in an instant, tugging you close as his lips pressed a kiss to your forehead. As you went pliant against him, resting your cheek on his shoulder, he murmured, “We’re going away for a long weekend.”
Your head snapped up in surprise. “We are?”
Andy smiled as he caressed your cheek. “Well, as long as you want to, but it’s why I had you clear my calendar tomorrow. I think some peace, quiet, and nature will do you good.”
You couldn’t suppress your giddy smile if you tried. “We’re going to the lake house then?”
Andy’s smile was more of a grin as he nodded, “I know it’s your favorite.”
“Thank you, Andy!” you squealed, nearly bouncing in his lap as you hugged him and pressed a kiss to his beardy cheek.
Andy’s eyes twinkled at your sweet excitement. As you went to pull away, his fingers caught your chin, staying your retreat as his eyes ignited in a way that had a surge of warmth pooling low in your belly.
Slowly, his gaze meeting yours and not shying away, Andy pulled you in for a real kiss. The kind of kiss that made it impossible to catch your breath because you could feel with each and every press of Andy’s lips against yours how much he loved you, cherished you, wanted you.
You were nearly panting once he pulled away, your eyes dazed enough to make him smile.
“You never need to thank me for taking care of you,” Andy hummed, touching his lips to your forehead. “For treating you the way you deserve.” His next kiss warmed your cheek, then he placed a final kiss on the other before pulling away at last. “Why don’t you go pack?”
“I will, in a little while, but first, can we just…” You sank against him, loosely clinging to him as you nuzzled your cheek against his chest. “Stay like this for a little while?”
“We can stay this way for as long as you want,” Andy promised, his big hand touching your back before settling into a slow, soothing rhythm–up and down, up and down–making you go even more pliant against him.
Humming your content, you allowed your eyes to flutter shut, truly feeling your exhaustion for the first time all day.
But you felt something else alongside it, something that–once upon a time, but not so long ago–you never would have thought you would ever feel…
As Andy’s soft, musky scent filled your nose, as his warm, reassuring touch smoothed up and down your back, as you tucked your face against the crook of his neck and breathed in as deep, you felt truly and unequivocally safe.
🥹 You guysss. I love them SO hard. I would be so beyond grateful and delighted if you took a moment to drop me a comment or reblog with your thoughts. Pretty please! With a naked Andy and Ari on top?! 😘
—
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Starting right at midnight, you’d wobble your way from Curtis’ room and find him waiting by his door. He’d scoop you up and place you in a bubble bath, slipping in right behind you. He’d cuddle you up, peppering kisses on your shoulder and neck, behind your ear all while telling you how good you were, how perfect, how sorry he was. He’d melt away the sting on your skin with gentle hands, slipping up and down your body until the water turns cool and you’re a puddle against his chest.
You’d spot a birthday card half opened on his nightstand as you were tucked into his bed, and soon snug against his chest as he held you tight to sleep. You’d murmur a small “happy birthday” against his chest and earn yourself a slight squeeze and pet to the top of your head.
In the morning, you’d wake him by cautiously peeling yourself out of his arms, wanting to keep him asleep just a little while longer and slide yourself down until you could lay between his legs, head resting on the meat of his inner thigh as you reached up to carefully peel back his boxers, cock springing free and resting heavy on his stomach as if he already knew what to expect.
He’d wake with a sleepy moan, deep in his chest as your tongue massaged the head of his cock, letting spit pooling your mouth before letting it run free down his length. Giving it to him exactly how he’d like, lazy and messy. Soon enough, his eyes would flutter open as his hands found your hair, tangling his fingers up as took your time, letting the tip of your tongue map out every vein, every inch, every spot that would make him buck his hips a little and hiss out a strung out; “fuck, baby, yeah, right there.”
As usual, the second he let go, he’d be rambling away, voice low and thick with sleep, rough and quiet. “So good at taking care of your Daddy, hmm? You love making a mess, don’t you, Sugar?”
Soon enough, spit is pooling at the base of his cock, soaking his balls as you sloppily work your mouth up and down his length, Steve absolutely losing it above you, until he uses the grip on your hair to thrust up into your mouth, using your throat as his own personal toy. “Such a good girl, so fucking hard for you, s’all for you, Sugar. Come on, baby, open wide for me. Let Daddy in, sweet thing. Little deeper, you can do it.” He’d gasp and groan as you swallowed around him, throat constricted around his length.
“Gonna let me use that pretty cunt after? Yeah? Exactly how I want? S’my birthday after all, Sugar. Gotta be nice on my day, gotta be so good for Daddy. You’re always so good for me, fuck, fuck fuck.”
You’d rest your head back on the meat of his thigh after he would guide you off his cock, one of his hands gripped your hair while the other hand fisted his cock, spurts of cum landing on your cheek, your open lips and chin. His head would be thrown back as he chanted your name. You’d clean him up with delicate laps of your tongue, wet eyes peering up at him as he cupped your face, thumb rubbing against your cheek.
The favour is quickly returned, Steve would haul you up, your thighs knees either side of his head, hands gripping your hips as he slides his tongue through your folds. Your hands would grip at the headboard, head falling forward as his tongue lapped at your clit, tip of his tongue catching the sensitive bundle over and over again. He’d eventually guide you to actually sit, shamelessly rocking your hips against his open mouth, your hand gripped in his hair, the other splayed over his large hand pawing at your breast. Blue eyes would lock on yours, wordlessly spurring you on.
You’d cum with his name on your lips. “Steve, Steve, Daddy, m’cumming, don’t stop, Daddy. Daddy, fuck.”
The rest of the morning and afternoon would be spent doting on him, despite him whining that he likes taking care of you and that because it’s his birthday he should get to what he wants, and what he wants is to take care of his baby. But you refuse. You tidy up the room, help him shower, change the sheets. You make him coffee while he rattles away on his laptop and perch yourself at his feet, humming happily around his cock that sat heavy on your tongue, whenever his hand cards through your hair.
Later on in the evening, you’d have dinner together. Obviously you can’t go out to a fancy restaurant, so you’d both get all dressed up and have a meal in the dining room which would be scattered in candles and soft, light music. You’d spend the meal with light touches, bumping your foot against his until eventually your hands are bound behind your back, his silk tie in a tight knot around your wrists, his large hand holding your bound wrists as he drives into you. The plates on the table clatter with each thrust, mixing with both of your moans.
“Fucking made for me.” He’d spew, gravel in his voice as he attempted to tame the monster. “Should keep you like this, fuck the others. Keep you ready for me. Daddy’s baby girl, huh? Just mine, yeah? You mine, Sugar? This pussy belongs to Daddy, right? Come on, give me the best present I could ask for, cum on Daddy’s cock, tell me how much you want it.”
As an added bonus: Darker Steve would keep you chained to the bed, bound and gagged. Your legs spread, tied to opposing bed posts for him to use you throughout the day however he wanted. Can’t have you running off, or worse… Running to one of his brothers or uncles. That just won’t do.
➴ PAIRING: Brother's Best Friend!Bucky x Reader
➴ WC: 6k
➴ WARNINGS: friends to lovers, reader is 18, bucky is 20, college!bucky, romanogers, SMUT (p in v, protected sex for once, fingering, dry humping, car sex, virginity/virginity loss, BCB (big cock bucky), pussyjob if you squint really hard) yearning, j*hn w*lker is a dick, miscommunication, YEARNING, slow burn but not but super slow burn?, excessive use of eye rolls, he's down bad, tooth rotting fluff, open ending.
➴ SUMMARY: Your prom date ditches you, and Bucky, ever the gentlemen, offers to take you. He gives you the full senior prom experience even though he's your brother's best friend and your crush for the past decade.
+fran: I wrote this with greasy hair, after work, before a shower. apparently I reach a flow state when I'm feral. this is my baby and I love this fic so much please for the love of all that is holy, tell me what you think. can be read alone, it will have sequels tho.
⤷ songs/playlist for this: there she goes - the la's, always everywhere - charli xcx, ruin the friendship - taylor swift, back to friends - sombr
more
The Rogers' backyard was, for all intents and purposes, the hottest wedding venue in town.
At least if anyone asked nine-year-old you and 11-year-old Bucky, as much was true.
The cracked sidewalk leading to the clothesline was the aisle, peony and dandelion flower beds were the decorations. The old apple tree was the altar at which Steve stood taller on an upside down wooden crate, one of your father's old dress shirts over his shoulders to pretend he was a preist, or a pope, or some sort of higher entity able to witness this whole thing.
Bucky had one of your dad's suit jackets on, the navy fabric completely swallowing his frame, overlapping at the front and masking the Yankees jersey he had on, and all the dirt and grass stains on it.
You had a pillowcase that definitely needed to be in the hamper for laundry day pinned to your hair with your favorite hair clips, of a little crystal blue butterfly.
"Everybody be quiet," Steve announced, nose high up in the air like he was presenting a case to the Supreme Court. "This is serious business."
"It is serious business," you agreed immediately, failing to bite back a grin, missing your top right canine tooth.
One that Bucky held your hand the whole time so you'd let Steve run away with the string and pull it out.
"We are gathered here today because Bucky and my sister wanted to play wedding instead of baseball."
"You said you'd play too!" you accused.
Steve ignored and just kept going. "Now, Bucky Barnes." He cleared his throat, trying to make his voice lower. "Do you promise to be nice to her forever, always save her a seat to watch fireworks on my birthday, and never eat the last s'more?"
Bucky rolled his eyes, his dimple coming out as he smiled wth the side of his mouth. "Yeah," he said simply. "I promise."
You raised your brow, mock-scolding him. "You're supposed to say I do."
"Okay, yes," Your heart did an odd flip. "I do."
Steve then turned to you next. "And do you promise to be nice to Bucky forever, not tell Mrs. Barnes when he sneaks cookies before dinner, and always let him have the red Popsicle if there's only one left?"
"But they're the best ones!" You whined.
Steve sighed, ever the dramatic, looking at Bucky with fake sorrow. "Okay, then I guess you don't love him as much as—"
That set panic in your little heart. "I do! I do!" His face changed immediately, and Bucky smiled at you.
The kind of smile that always made you feel like maybe the sun shined a little brighter on your side of the street than everybody else's.
Steve smiled, as if everything was back on track. "Now, for the rings."
Bucky dug into his pocket and produced two dandelions he'd twisted into little circles. Your eyes widened. "You made those?"
He nodded, brown hair bouncing up and down his head with the gesture. "Took me forever, but they're your favorites."
He held one carefully between his fingers before sliding it onto yours with all the concentration in the world.
"You made me a flower ring." Your grin stretched so wide your cheeks hurt.
Bucky shrugged. "Yeah."
Steve interrupted your thoughts, "Okay, okay. By the power in this vest… or in me, whatever they say in movies, you are now married." He pointed at Bucky. "No cooties." Then at you. "And don't make him play tea party every day."
Your stomach did that weird fluttery thing it always did around Bucky Barnes. It did the same thing when you rode rollercoasters, felt like it was gonna fly away and take you with it.
"You may now high-five the bride." Steve announced, stepping down from the crate.
Bucky extended his pinky towards you, "We'll be best friends forever."
"No take-backs." You smiled, wrapping your pinky around his.
TEN YEARS LATER
As time passed, you grew up. You got new interests, all of you got new friends, and the found family you had just seemed to get bigger. Of course, you weren't as close with Bucky anymore, no college sophomore wants to hang out constantly with his best friend's kid sister.
It's kind of uncool.
The house was loud in that familiar, comfortable way—the kind of loud that doesn’t feel chaotic so much as lived-in. Every sound has a place. Every voice belongs. Bucky, as much as he isn't family by blood, grew up running up and down these stairs the same you and Steve did, as Steve did in his house.
Both of your moms were best friends since diapers, and it was only fate that Bucky and Steve were too.
The kitchen doorway had his height and age and name scratched on it just the same as it did yours, he knew that house in the dark just as much as Steve, trying to sneak around to get snacks during late nights playing video games.
Controller clicks. Steve muttering under his breath. Bucky’s low laugh every time he wins—because of course he’s winning.
“Dude, you’re cheating,” Steve groans, tossing his controller down for a second.
“I’m just better than you,” Bucky shoots back easily, stretched out on the couch like he owns the place, long legs kicked up, completely at home.
He always is.
Him and Steve drove back home from their Sophomore college parties for your graduation weekend, still half-running on energy drinks and bad decisions from the night before, which just happened to fall in the same one as your prom, only separated by three days.
They could hear your speaker booming in your bathroom while you got ready with your two best friends, Yelena and Kate, and Natasha, Steve's girlfriend, helped you with your makeup.
It was a mix of Megan Thee Stallion playing and giggles coming from the three of you, your two best friends gushing over their dates.
Makeup scattered across the counter. Curling iron plugged in and dangerously close to knocking something over. Dresses half-hanging, half-draped over the shower rod.
And Natasha’s laugh, warmer, older, threaded through all of it as she tried to keep things somewhat under control.
Kate is perched on the edge of the tub, kicking her heels against the porcelain. Yelena is leaning into the mirror, fixing her lip gloss with unnecessary intensity.
And you—
You’re standing between them, half-finished, dress still unzipped, hair clipped up, trying to decide if you feel as good as you’re supposed to.
“Okay, no—seriously,” Kate says, pointing at you like she’s making a case in court. “John is going to lose his mind.”
Yelena hums in agreement. “He already looks at you like he has no thoughts.”
You laugh, a little breathy. “That’s not even true.”
“It is completely true,” Kate insists.
“You’re just saying that.”
“We are not just saying that,” Yelena shoots back.
Natasha, standing behind you, gently brushes powder along your cheek, more focused than the rest of them—but she’s listening. And she notices there's a sparkle in your eye that's missing when John's the subject.
He's nice, he's good looking, he's captain of your football team, maybe he has some anger issues with other guys, but all in all he's a solid boyfriend. He's just not—
“Alright,” Natasha says finally, pulling you from your thoughts, lightening her tone again. “Turn around. Let me see the full thing.”
You do as she asks, and she takes in her work of art, your hopeful eyes, and the soft blownout curls of your hair framing your face.
"Perfect!"
Careful with your steps as she reaches for the zipper, pulling it up your back slowly, sealing you into the dress, into the night, into everything that’s supposed to happen.
A knock sounds on the bathroom door. "You girls alive in there?" Steve calls. "Or did the hairspray fumes get you?"
"We're decent!" Natasha calls back.
Steve pokes his head in for a second. "Oh."
You raise an eyebrow. "Oh?"
His expression shifts immediately into something resembling offense. "What happened to my little sister?"
"Oh my God." You snorted.
Steve's broad frame now came into full view in the tiny bathroom as he stood on the dorway. "Who is this grown woman and where did she put the gremlin that used to steal my fries?"
You rolled you eyes. "I'll still steal your fries."
He shakes his head. "You look beautiful, Bug."
Your expression softens. "Thanks, Stevie."
As Pietro and Bob scrolled their phones impatiently at the bottom of the stairs, making small talk with Steve and Bucky, you were almost wearing a path into the carpeted floor of your bedroom.
Seconds after he was supposed to arrive with the other two, he texted you some shitty excuse as to why he was taking Olivia, his ex, to prom instead.
“I was gonna explain,” John says finally, like that makes it better.
You let out a short, disbelieving laugh. “Explain what? That you’re ditching me the night of prom?”
“I’m not ditching you,” he says quickly, defensive already. “It’s just—Olivia asked me to go with her and it’s complicated.”
“Complicated?” you repeat, your grip tightening around your phone. “John, it’s prom. We’ve had this planned for weeks.”
“I know, I know,” he says, exhaling like you’re the one making this difficult. “But she’s going through stuff right now and I don’t wanna make things worse.”
Your chest tightens. “So you thought canceling on me last minute wouldn’t make things worse?”
“That’s not what I said.”
You huffed. “That’s exactly what you’re doing.”
He goes quiet again for a second, and you can practically hear him thinking—calculating—trying to figure out how to spin it in a way that makes him look less like the bad guy.
“Look,” he says finally, voice shifting into something more controlled, “you’re gonna have fun no matter what. You’ve got your friends, it’s not like you’ll be alone.”
The words hit harder than anything else he’s said.
Because they’re so easy for him. So dismissive.
“So that’s it?” you ask, quieter now, but it wavers anyway. “You just—drop me and go with her, and I’m supposed to be fine with that?”
“I’m not dropping you,” he insists again, frustration creeping in. “It’s one night.”
“It’s prom,” you snap, the word catching in your throat. “It’s not just some random thing, John.”
“Why are you making this such a big deal?” he shoots back.
That’s what does it.
Your eyes sting, tears blurring your vision as you shake your head even though he can’t see it. “I’m making it a big deal?” you echo. “You’re the one who decided, what, an hour before we’re supposed to leave, that I don’t matter as much as your ex?”
“It’s not like that,” he says, sharper now. “You’re twisting it.”
“I’m not twisting anything,” you say, your voice breaking despite your best effort to keep it steady. “You just told me exactly where I stand.”
He exhales, long and annoyed, like he’s already over the conversation. “You’re being dramatic. The words land like a slap. And for a second, you can’t even respond.
“Okay,” you say finally, and your voice is quieter now, but steadier in a way that feels final. “Okay. Go with her.”
“—See? That’s all I’m saying, it’s not that—”
“No,” you cut him off, shaking your head again, even though he still can’t see you. “I get it now.”
There’s a shift on his end, like he didn’t expect that. “Wait—”
“Have fun at prom, John.”
And before he can say anything else, you hang up.
The silence that follows is immediate and heavy, pressing in around you as you stare at your reflection, your chest rising and falling too fast, your phone still clutched in your hand.
For a second, you just stand there. And then your face crumples, and the tears come before you can stop them.
Great. You think. An hour of Natasha's hard work gone in two seconds.
You ripped a couple squares of toiled paper off of the roll, trying to dab away the tears when a knock interrupted you. You didn't even have time to tell whoever it was to leave you alone, the door opened anyway.
And of course it was Bucky.
"Hey, Walker finally—" Then he saw your face. The red rimmed eyes, the puffy nose and lips, he'd recognize your crying face if he was in a dark room blindfolded and you were three states away. "What happened?"
His voice wasn't panicked our loud, just immediate.
"Apparently my boyfriend had a better offer." You said with a humorless laugh, fiddling with the corner of the tissue.
His expression then changed to confusion, then disbelief, then anger. "He did what?"
Your eyes stayed on the paper, humiliated. "He took his ex to prom instead." It sounds ridiculous out loud. Embarrassing. "I know it's stupid—"
He shook his head. "It's not stupid."
You shrugged one shoulder anyway. "It kind of is."
"It kind of isn't." Bucky insisted.
Your laugh broke apart into another shaky breath. "He said I was being dramatic." Your voice was small, like a small part of you almost believed John.
"No the fuck he didn't." Bucky's voice, on the contrary, sounded like he was about to make sure John was in three zipcodes at the same time.
You wiped at your face furiously. "Can we not do the whole protective older brother routine thing right now? Steve's probably already planning a felony downstairs."
Bucky nodded, as if agreeing that yes, Steve should be planning felonies. "Good."
Despite yourself, a tiny laugh escapes you. "Bucky."
"I'm serious." He took the couple steps needed to lean back against the sink, back to the mirror, while you faced it. The familiar weight of him beside you settled something in your chest. "You know what I think?" he asks.
You sniffled. "What?"
"I think he's an idiot."
You snort. "Very eloquent."
"You spent weeks excited about tonight." You shrug. "You talked about your dress for months." A smaller shrug, your head shaking like you agreed with him three weeks was a little excessive. "And some guy decides at the last second that he doesn't feel like showing up?"
His eyes looked for yours, and he continued once you met his gaze. "That's his loss."
Downstairs someone was shouting something about finding the car keys. "I just feel stupid."
His brows furrowed immediatelly. "Why?"
"Because I was excited." The words came out smaller than you meant them to. "I really thought tonight was gonna be special."
Bucky's expression softens. "It still can be."
You laughed weakly. "My date literally dumped me an hour before prom."
"Okay." He says, like the solutions is obvious. Like a dragon staring you in the face.
You were confused. "Okay?"
"Okay." He stands up straight. "Counterpoint." You raise an eyebrow. "I've seen enough terrible teen movies to know where this goes." Despite yourself, curiosity wins.
"Oh yeah?"
"Oh yeah." He nodded, and started counting on his fingers. "Option one: you go with your friends and have an incredible time."
"Mm." An amused smile played on your lips.
He continued. "Option two: Steve commits a crime."
You smiled widened. "Likely."
"Or a secret, better option three—"
You quirked a brow. "There are three options?"
Bucky rolled his eyes playfully. "There are always three options." You gestured for him to continue and he grinned. "Option three: some devastatingly handsome college sophomore heroically steps in and saves prom."
You stared at him in disbelief. "Bucky Barnes."
"What?"
"You are not asking me to prom."
"Why not?"
"Because that's ridiculous." You stammered. "You're a college guy and it's gonna be a bunch of drunk high school seniors and—"
"Seems pretty straightforward to me."
You crossed your arms over your chest, the action making your breasts stand out more, and Bucky had to hold back from looking briefly. "You drove eight hours home from college."
"Correct."
"You haven't slept." Another excuse.
"Also correct."
Truth is… You didn't trust yourself not to ruin your friendship, and Steve's, with Bucky as your date. Yes it was a childhood crush, yes it was stupid, yes he only saw you as a little sister, but for some reason every time you smelled sandalwood and listened to divorced dad rock, your stomach did the same fucking thing it always did.
It flipped.
"I'm serious." The grin on his face faded into something gentler. "You shouldn't miss your prom because some idiot couldn't see what was standing right in front of him."
Your throat tightens. "I don't want a pity Bucky Barnes date."
"I wouldn't dream of it." Bucky shook his head. "I want to go to a high school prom sleep deprived, listen to bad music, and drink shitty punch."
You pretended to think about it. "I want milkshake and fries from Juniper's after."
Bucky got down on his knees dramatically, clutching his hands together, play-begging. "Please, let me spend my hard earned student loans on a malted brownie shake for you, m'lady."
You signed, as if you weren't blushing seven shades of red at the moment, all hidden by Natasha's foundation. "I suppose."
After Nat talked Steve down from whatever Law Abiding Citizen crap he was gonna pull, Bucky borrowed one of your dad's suits while you touched up your makeup, and off into his jeep you went.
Bucky lingered back as he watched you walk to the old car excitedly, Natasha stopping right beside him as your friends walked to their cars, watching you get twirled by Kate.
Bucky noticed Natasha staring at him and raised a brow in question. "What?"
She gave a noncommittal noise. "Nothing."
"Romanoff." Bucky scoffed.
She put her hands up in surrender. "I didn't say anything."
"You've got the face."
Now it was her turn to raise a brow, trying to bite back a grin. "What face?"
Bucky rolled his eyes. "The face where you've figured something out before everyone else."
Nat shrugged her shoulders. "I always figure something out before everyone, Bucky." Tapping him on the shoulder and turning arounfd to go inside.
The prom commitee worked very hard to make sure the night looked exactly like every movie promised it would.
String lights draped from the ceiling of the gymnasium like stars somebody had caught and hung overhead. Balloons clustered in the corners. A photo booth occupied one wall. The basketball hoops had been disguised beneath enough tulle and fairy lights to fool almost everyone.
Turns out, getting ditched by John Walker was the best thing that ever happened to your prom night. You didn't even notice when Olivia was cryingin the bathroom because she caught him making out with someone else.
No.
You were too busy slow dancing with Bucky Barnes.
When the first chorus of the song came on, he held out his hand. "May I have this dance?"
You rolled your eyes. "You're such a dork."
"Tick tock, Rogers." He wiggled his fingers impatiently.
You took his hand as if it didn't make your fingers go numb with excitement, and Bucky quickly nestled a hand on your low back, your forehead to the side of his jaw.
"You know," Bucky said after a minute, "this is definitely better than my prom when I was your age."
"Okay, grandpa." You laughed softly. "What happened at your senior prom?"
"My date spent forty-five minutes crying in the bathroom because her friend wore the same shoes she did."
You clicked your tongue. "That's tragic."
"It was devastating." Bucky agreed, nodding his head, laughing softly.
You nudged his jaw. "I'll try to hold it together."
"I appreciate that."
A moment passed, then another, and you spoke up. "Thank you for doing this for me."
"Anytime." He let out a soft breath, leaning back the slightest bit so he could look at you. "You do look beautiful, I mean it."
Thank fuck for Natasha's foundation, powder, and concealer for hiding your flush. "Thank you, Bucky." Oh how you wished you hadn't looked into his pretty eyes, reflecting the lights off of the mirrorball back onto the dancefloor.
The ten seconds seemed to stretch an entire decade. Somehow Bucky's face getting closer and closer to yours, eyes switching from your lips back to your eyes and to your lips again.
"Hey." The word cut through the moment like broken glass. Fucking John Walker. King of never in the history of the world reading anything. Specialy the fucking room. "Can we talk?"
Bucky's hand tightened around your waist, "What do you want, John? Olivia is probably looking for you."
"C'mon, baby, you're not gonna throw our relationship away over one bad call, are you?" He was seriously trying to play this off. "I made a mistake." His hand reached for you but you stepped away.
"I'm not your baby."
He scoffed. "Aw, c'mon." And tried again.
This time, Bucky got between you two. "She's done, Walker. Walk away."
Now John got… Defensive. "This isn't any of your business."
Bucky clicked his tongue. "She kind of is." The words slipped out before he could stop them.
The air stood still for a minute before the football bros came to get John, leaving you and Bucky with the weight of unsaid words and unspoken looks.
Juniper's was closed by the time you finally left prom.
Not closed enough to stop Bucky from leaning halfway out of the driver's side window and convincing one of the employees locking up to sell him two milkshakes and an order of fries out of pure pity.
It wasn't until you were stargazing in his jeep with soft music from his Spotify mixing with the crickets hiding in the grass that your heart settled again.
You were in the passenger seat, your burger already eaten, just finishing your delicious fries and your milkshake with Bucky in the same predicament in the driver's seat.
Now the two of you sat on the hood of his Jeep in the empty parking lot overlooking the river, the New York spring air cool enough that your bare shoulders prickled every time the wind picked up.
Without a word, Bucky shrugged off his suit jacket and draped it over your shoulders. You blushed. "Thanks."
He shrugged. "'M not using it."
"You literally had it on 30 seconds ago." You rolled your eyes. Bucky just muttered details between a mouthful of fries.
"You know," you said eventually, "this wasn't exactly how I pictured prom going."
Bucky laughed quietly. "No?"
"I don't know. There was significantly less public humiliation in the original draft." You laughed softly. "But I like this version better."
Bucky nodded. "I had fun."
You looked over. "Yeah?" Hopeful little edge in your voice giving you away to anyone that knew you remotely well.
"Yeah." His expression softened. "Got to dance with a pretty girl."
Heat climbed into your cheeks immediately. "You flirt with everybody." You rolled your eyes.
Bucky made an offended expression, clutching his chest. "I absolutely do not."
"You absolutely do." You lolled you head to the side, raising a brow to make your point. He laughed.
God, you loved his laugh. Always had. The thought came and went so quickly you almost didn't notice it.
Your eyes drifted back toward the sky. "You know what this reminds me of?"
"Hm?" He lifted his eyes from the milkshake cup he was trying to get every last bit out of.
"The meteor shower."
Bucky smiled immediately. "Oh man."
You grinned. "You remember?"
"Remember?" Bucky chuckled. "I had baseball tryouts the next day and I was up all night to make sure you didn't miss it."
It stopped you dead in your tracks. He did what? "No, you didn't. Your mom came and woke us up."
Bucky nodded. "Yeah, because I woke her up. I was outside waiting for it while you and Steve snoozed it off. Played like shit the next morning." He continued. "You had the date circled on the calendar."
Your brow furrowed. "I did?"
He nodded. "You drew stars around it."
"Oh my God."
Bucky chuckled, his own head lolling to the side on the head rest to look at you. "You made Steve and I promise we wouldn't stay up late the night before because we had to be rested."
You buried your face in your hands. "That sounds insufferable."
"It was kinda cute." He smiled at you like he always did, and your heart promptly forgot how to function. Bucky, meanwhile, was blissfully unaware of the devastation he'd just caused.
Trying so desperately to change the subject to something that wouldn't make you tear up or your heart jump, you fiddled with your milkshake, taking a sip and making a face. "You know, I think this thing is eighty percent whipped cream."
Bucky grinned. "I can see that, it's all over your face." His left thumb came up to wipe down the leftover shake on the corner of your mouth, and it lingered just a second too long.
For a second, or three years, the world felt like it stilled. A moment frozen in a snow globe to be forever replayed.
Neither of you moved, not entirely sure how to. Suddenly Bucky was very close, close enough to see the tiny scar in his eyebrow from falling off his bike when he was fourteen, to count the freckles dusting across his nose, enough that you could feel your heartbeat somewhere in your throat.
His eyes flicked down to your mouth, then back up, and your heart and lungs stumbled over themselves.
His hand lowered slowly, resting on your thigh. The night around you seemed quieter somehow. Smaller, as if the entire world had narrowed down to the space between you.
"Buck..." His name came out softer than you intended.
His expression shifted into something you'd never seen directed at you before. "If you don't want—"
And then your body moved forward on instinct, your brain a mess of fuzzy TV static, and when you came back to your body, your lips were on his.
Not because you were brave or even confident, just mostly because if you let him finish that sentence you thought your heart might actually explode.
For one terrifying second you were convinced you'd made the biggest mistake of your life. Then you felt the warmth of his hand on your cheek, pulling you closer and deepening the kiss as his tongue slipped past your lips.
The kind of kiss that felt less like fireworks and more like coming home after a very long trip.
One of your hands quickly found the nape of his neck, gently scratching your manicured nails against his scalp. He whined against your lips, hand drifting to your waist, and just as much as he pulled you onto his lap, you climbed over the console to him, food wrappers forgotten on the floor.
You shrugged the suit jacket off, accidentally honking the horn with your butt in the process, and Bucky's hands rubbed up and down your thighs as you rocked your hips against him, feeling the heat of him against the suit pants.
Your hands dropped from his shoulders down to his arms, then forearms, directing him to paw at the zipper on the back of your dress.
That made him pull away, looking for your eyes. "Are you—"
You could not have nodded more feverishly if you were a damn bobblehead.
Bucky needed no further incentive, he made quick work of the zipper, excitement bubbling in your stomach like freshly popped champagne while he peppered kisses along your jawline and neck.
The now bothersome fabric of the dress fell to your waist as you worked on the buttons of his shirt, hands moving to his belt and pants after.
He kissed you again, deeper as his hand snuck under the hem of your dress to find the wet spot on your panties.
You moaned against his mouth, your own hand finding its way inside of his boxers. You broke the kiss, gasping for air.
"Is this— I mean— okay?" It was hushed and murured against his lips as you stroked his length. "I've never— oh!"
You got rudely interrupted by Bucky's index and middle fingers rubbing your sensitive clit over the blue cotton of your panties.
He nodded against you, "Y-yeah, you're— fuck— you're doing so good."
His hips bucked up against you, and the second he slipped out of his pants with your movements his hand left your core and now were both squeezing your ass.
Bucky brought you flush against him, the angry red tip of him begging for friction found it when you started to dry hump him through your underwear, gasping into his mouth every time it nudged your clit.
"Bucky, please…" He couldn't not give you what you wanted, right? "I can't take it." Not when you begged this pretty.
He nodded against you, "I know, baby." And his right hand went under your dress, behind you, and pulled your panties to the side. "I know."
The second his bare cock made contact with your wet slit, he hissed, and a lightbulb went off in his head.
Condom.
He did not trust himself to pull out. Not of you. "Condom." His voice was almost distant to you, like it hadn't crossed your mind to use protection. Not with Bucky, anyway. He'd never hurt you, he was your—
"I—" You were dazed, lost and drunk in the scent and thought and feel of him. "My purse."
His hands let you go and you leaned over the seat to grab your purse from the backseat, your ass right beside Bucky's head.
Of course he took advantage of that fully pull your panties down, now that you had the leg space.
You sat back down on top of him with a little huff, trembling hands fumbling with the wrapper.
Bucky hissed as you rolled it down on him, and one of his hands lined himself up with your entrance.
As you sank down on him, you thought maybe you should've thought twice about it. I mean, you knew he was packing, you walked in on him changing one time a couple years ago, there was no way you could—
"Hey," Bucky's voice brought you back from your spiral. "Look at me." Beautiful cerulean eyes stared up at you like the moonlight was made to bounce off them specifically. "Breathe."
His other hand brushed your hair away from your face, just as the hand that was holding his shaft traveled up, thumb finding your clit rubbing soothing circles on it.
"Just take it slow." Your eyes fluttered closed.
"How do you not get knocked over hauling this thing around?" That brought a chuckle out of him, landing straight onto the skin of your neck. "Oh, God..."
You rocked yourself back and forth, until he was fully inside of you, your lips touching the light hair at the base.
Bucky kissed all over your face, his thumb never stopping its work. "You're doing so good, baby."
"Feels full." He laughed softly. squeezing your waist and helping guide you into a rhythm. "Feels good."
"Yeah?" Hushed and right by your ear, you felt like drowning and the happiest person alive at the same time. "You're so tight," He continued. "So warm."
You whined against his lips, the vibration going all the way down to his core.
He moved you up and down his cock, listening to the obscene wet squelch each time you sat up and sank back down on him, and each time it dawned on him what was actually happening, he got louder.
Bolder.
He bounced you on his length, hissing each time, you squeezed around him. "Feel good, Buck. Hah!"
It surprisingly didn't take long for Bucky to have you right at the edge, not as long as people online led you to believe losing your virginity would feel like. "Can feel you fluttering." His thumb worked faster.
"Wanna come, Bucky." You whined, kissing him, and pulling away with his bottom lip between your teeth, "Can I?"
He hissed, the question making it hard for him to not blow his load right then and there. "F'course you can, pretty girl, c'mon."
Your release felt like a million meteors hitting you at once. Like Earth came apart and got put together all in the same breath.
It felt entirely different, better, than when you tried to do it on your own. And your orgasm triggered Bucky's, waves of pleasure milking rope after rope of cum from him into the unworthy latex of the condom.
For what it felt like forever for the milionth time that night, neither of you spoke. Your breaths and the crickets were the only sounds.
It was quiet after.
Just… quiet.
The kind that only existed when two people had known each other so long that silence wasn't something to fill. Starts lit up the sky that was now your ceiling, and Bucky had taken the condom off and tied it, throwing it inside of the trash with the fry bag and the milkshake cups.
For once in his life, James Buchanan Barnes appeared to be completely out of words.
Which was concerning.
You smiled a little, back in the passenger seat with the suit jacket around your chilly shoulders. "What?"
He glanced over. "Hm?"
"You're thinking too loud." That got a laugh out of him. A quiet one, but still a laugh. "Sorry."
A beat of silence, then another. "I don't want this to ruin anything."
Your smile faltered slightly.
Of course, you thought. Of course he doesn't feel that way about you, why would he—
"Oh, Buck." You faked a smile as his eyes met yours. "We'll be okay."
A sheepish, hopeful look hit his face. "Yeah?"
"Of course." You nodded and reached over and laced your pinky with his. "We're us."
His expression softened when he looked down at your joined fingers. "We're us," he echoed.
You smiled. "We survived Steve's bowl cut phase." You listed off. "The great Thanksgiving mashed potato incident."
"Traumatic." He chuckled.
"The time I accidentally backed your Jeep into Mrs. Russo's mailbox." You continued.
He scolded you playfully. "You still owe me for emotional damages."
You laughed softly. "We'll be best friends forever."
The words came so naturally, so easily. The same words you'd said years before ona hot day beneath a tree. A pinky promise.
Forever.
Beside you, Bucky went quiet. Of course she wouldn't want anything to do with you, you're her brother's best friend. That shit only works in mov— "Right." His eyes dropped for a moment. "Friends."
Your stomach twisted at the word for the first time in your life. Because why did that sound disappointing?
Why did it sound like something had slipped through your fingers without you realizing you were holding it?
a little bit of fran in your life: okay did we like it??????? it was meant to read like a first chapter but also a standalone in case you wanted to just be done with it. yippieeeeeeee
Dean's been here for three weeks- it should've been a simple hunt, then Sam went and got the flu and suddenly it wasn't a simple hunt.
Three weeks ago he noticed you in the back pew.
Two weeks ago he noticed you at the front.
One week ago you didn't come.
And now you're sat beside him in the confession booth, twisting your hands together as you try to speak.
"Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned."
Dean's not used to this. He's been dealing with petty confessionals since he arrived, old people admitting to gossiping and not praying enough.
But you're different. You're shy and bright eyed and innocent and fucking hot.
You're So. Fucking. Hot.
He felt it in an instant, the first time he saw you on that back row, his cheeks flushing slightly, his pants tightening as he stood at the pulpit and tried to recite the sermon Sam wrote for him. He struggled through, trying not to look at you, trying not to think about everything he wanted to do to you.
And now you're here. Next to him.
"It has been four weeks since my last confession."
And his pants are tightening all over again.
"Go ahead." He coughs slightly, trying to pull himself together.
"I- is Father Michael coming back anytime soon- I was really hoping to talk to him."
Dean leans back, letting a slow breath out his nose, "I'm sorry, he's on his pilgrimage for a few more weeks. I thought he'd be back by now, but I guess this town will be stuck with me for a while longer."
"It's only- I don't want to bother you with this-"
He smiles. He can barely see you through the confession screen, but he can see your chest rising and falling on every small breath, the innocent little church dress suddenly looking more scandalous in this low light.
"Please, there's nothing you can't say to me, I'm here to listen."
He sees you give a small nod, playing with the hem of your dress, "I- uh- I've been having indecent thoughts."
He swallows hard. This can't be happening. "Indecent, how?"
"They're... lustful."
Dean tightens his fist, trying to make himself seem put together, the hairs on his neck standing on end. Why is this so hard? Why do you have to look so cute?!
You take his silence as a prompt to continue, "I think of... Men... A man... Touching me."
"You're thinking about sex?" Dean can't stop himself, he says it before he even realized what he's done.
You let out a small breath, caught off guard by his frank words, "I- yes- yes I am."
"Good sex?" He tries to smile, he feels like his cock might break through the fly of his pants.
You chuckle slightly, thankful for his tone, "Yes."
"Is this real sex or just- thoughts?" This isn't how a confession is supposed to go. Sam taught him how to do it right- Forgive me Father yadda yadda, I'm very sorry yadda yadda, I absolve you from your sins in the name of yadda yadda yadda. If he was honest with himself he'd say he was actually pretty good at them by this point. So he knows he's not supposed to be asking this many questions. But he can't help himself.
You smile, looking down at your dress, "Thoughts, Father. I've never..." You trail off, "This man- he wouldn't want me anyway."
"Who wouldn't want you? You're gorgeous." Dean knows he's fucked up as soon as he says it. That's definitely not part of the script.
You glance at him, you can probably see even less of him than he can see of you, but still, there's an outline there, "What?"
He looks away, "I- you're a god loving woman, surely any man would be lucky to court you."
"This man- he has other matters on his mind."
Dean holds back on another comment. Whatever man you're pining after in the middle of Fuckoff, Nowhere better start appreciating you quick.
You keep talking, "I just- I need forgiveness, Father. I've been trying not to think about- trying to stay pure- I need god to forgive me for these thoughts."
He just can't help himself, "It's just thoughts?"
"Father?" You're playing with the hem again.
"Just- thoughts? There's nothing more you need forgiveness for?"
There's a beat. Air thick. You look over at him, then down again, "I've- I've behaved immodestly."
He wets his lips, "You've touched yourself?"
You don't reply, but he sees you nod through the screen.
"You've avoided confession for three weeks- avoided telling me for three weeks- why?"
You don't look up, the moment draws on, then you speak again, quieter, "I- I've been thinking about... you."
Dean's dead. He's dead and he's in heaven and some angel has served you up on a silver platter because there's no other way he actually just heard what he thinks he heard.
You let out a meak sound, "I'm sorry, Father- I know it's sinful-"
Maybe it's chivalry - he can't leave here knowing a pretty girl's tearing herself apart because of something so natural.
Maybe he's just horny- his pants so tight, cock so hard, he's loosing blood to his brain.
Either way he can't help himself, "How can it be a sin to make yourself feel good, huh?"
You seem to take his words as a test, "The bible says-"
"You're not hurting anyone- you're certainly not hurting me- it's not a sin to...", he sighs, he's already pushed it too far, "Does it feel nice? Do you enjoy it?"
"Father, should we really be-"
Fuck. He wishes you'd stop calling him Father. It's scrambling his brain in a way he can't quite understand, "It's a simple question. Do you enjoy touching yourself?"
He hears you suck in a small gasping breath at his words. There's silence, then your quiet voice, "Yes."
"You use your fingers, I presume?"
You glance at him, there's really no reason to be asking this, surely you know that, but you answer anyway, even quieter than before, "Yes."
"And you touch your..." He's pretty sure there's no godly way to say sweet, innocent cunt so he trails off instead.
"Yes."
Dean's already going to hell- he's already gone to hell- this moment isn't going to shift any tides, what he does now really won't make a difference in the grand scheme of his life, "Do it now."
You don't say anything, but he sees you look up, staring at him through the screen, trying to understand what he just said.
"Touch yourself, here, for me. Let me hear you."
You don't argue, maybe it's what you've been waiting to hear, maybe it's what you've spent every night thinking about.
He hears you shifting, quietly. He tries to catch the light, seeing what you're doing- spreading your legs apart, hand moving between your thighs, head tilting backwards. He stops breathing, stops moving, desperate to hear any sound he can from you.
There it is, a tiny little whimper, fingers pushing into a soaked pussy, a gasp like you're holding back.
God he's gonna blow his fuckin' load. He palms his cock through his pants, looking for some kind of relief as he listens intently.
You moan- it's quiet and reserved, hidden, but he still hears it, still has to slam his head back against the booth to stop himself from cursing.
"F- Father please-"
He can't stop himself, he's standing before he knows what's happening, barrelling out of the flimsy wooden door with his cock aching and his forehead covered in sweat. He slams open your side of the confessional, his eyes glazed as he stares down at you.
Your legs are parted, dress pushed up your thighs, fingers hidden under your panties- biting down on your lip so hard Dean things you might draw blood. You react quickly to his presence, moving your hand and closing your thighs, trying to stutter out some excuse like this isn't exactly what he was asking for.
He sinks to his knees without a word, parts your legs like a man possessed. Your panties are soaked, he practically drools at the sight, so sweet and vulnerable and all for him.
He leans in, pulling your panties to the side and pressing his tongue to your slit in one move. You gasp, hand flying to grip his hair, hips bucking into him. Dean knows sin, this could never be a sin. You taste like heaven.
He pulls at your hips, tugging you into him so he can press his whole mouth against your pussy, pushing your thighs over his shoulders. His eyes flutter shut, the feeling too much for him, your arousal coating his cheeks and chin. His tongue finds your clit, circling it before he sucks it into his mouth, hearing you moan in response.
He pushes his tongue into you, one hand still on your hip, the other curling around your thigh, his fingers digging into you to keep you still. Your head rolls back, your ankles locking together behind his back as you pull him in closer.
He's so close his nose is rubbing against your clit as he laps at your cunt, your taste sending him into a frenzy, your thighs twitching as they rub against the stubble on his jaw.
"Father-" you gasp, gripping his hair tighter.
His cock twitches, he's gonna cum in his pants. He doesn't care, he's never felt this desperate for anything.
He pushes his tongue back into you, drags it out to suck on your clit. Your tiny gasps sound like a hymn, his fingers grasping at your flesh, his teeth grazing against your swollen pussy lips.
"Father- please- I'm going to-"
You don't even need to say it. He can feel your cunt clenching, your thighs shaking. You draw in a ragged breath as he moves over your clit. Your hips curve into him, your legs strained as you pull him in, your head rolling back in a loud moan you have no way to conceal.
Dean cums. He cums without a single touch as you topple over the edge, your orgasm twitching through you, your body on fire as he pushes you through it. He laps at you like a man starved, still letting you coat him, still grabbing at you like he can't let you go.
Your hips keep bucking, your breath still tight, your moaning still impossible to hide. He feels as your body starts to melt, relaxing back against the seat, twisting away as pleasure turns into sensitivity. He pulls back slightly, still slowly tasting you, his tongue softer.
He finally moves away, staring up at you, his eyes glossed, his face still wanting. You suck your lip into your mouth as you look down at him, silence pounding in both your ears. He reaches out, adjusting your panties to cover you back up- to stop himself from going in all over again.
You swallow hard, "F- forgive me Father-"
He moves back, jaw clenching. He can feel his own cum, wet against his groin, "Don't. Don't. You have nothing you need to be forgiven for."
"I tempted-"
"You didn't- I promise you, you didn't. I've wanted to do that from the moment I saw you."
You suck in a small breath, nodding as you stare at him, wide eyes.
He stands, he hopes you don't notice the patch on his pants, "You- you get going now."
You nod again, staying silent as you slip past him.
He almost lets you go without another word, but he can't stop himself, catching your wrist, "I expect to see you in church on Sunday."
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Part of the tarot series - 22 unrelated short stories exploring different Dean x Reader archetypes.
Just comment/message to let me know if you'd like a tag. Asked to tag: @pieolsen @bitchinwallaby @icedteabee @angel1withacigarette @lydia-caldwell-writes @eddiemunsonistheloml @bearymuchso @magic-sprinkled-daydreams @leysol @angrydragon90 @globetrotter28
☀️ As always- I'd love to know your thoughts ❤️ Comments are very much appreciated ☀️
Life is peachy - classes going well, beloved by your sorority, and your next five years planned out. But a chance encounter with Sam Winchester's drug dealer brother might change a thing or two.
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Starting November 18th with:
ANGEL: 000 - Opportunity
x♡ NSFW SNIPPET BELOW ♡x
He's only half listening, "Bet no one back there has seen this side of you- you're hot when your makeup's all smudged and you've got a joint in your mouth."
You take another drag, longer, let the feeling really burn into your veins. He nods, entranced.
"Bet no one knows how good these tits look-" he drags his finger down your neck, across your collarbone, just teasing his fingertip across your breast, the edge of your bra. Your breath cuts, you keep your eyes on him as he draws patterns across your skin, "-Bet no one knows you let men fuck your mouth when they drive."
You shift, arousal flooding through you. You feel your pussy clench around nothing, he clearly feels it too, looks up at you with a surprised smile.
"That it, huh?" The grasp on your hip tightens, fingers curling into your skin, "You don't want a well-mannered man, do y'? You want a man who talks to you dirty? Talks to you like y'deserve? Like this body deserves?"
You nod. The joint's almost finished, you see him eyeing it. You hand it back to him. He takes one last drag, let's it burn down to the filter, then he leans over and stubs it out on the nightstand.
"Bet they think you're a fuckin' angel-" He hooks his finger back under your chin, pulls your face forward as he leans towards you, speaking soft, "-you wanna see heaven, pretty girl?"
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A/N: I know ten-parts is a helluva investment - but each section is it's own little thing and doesn't require any real knowledge of the rest- each one can be it's own little smutty story to enjoy it its own right if that's what you prefer!
Just comment/message to let me know if you'd like a tag :)
✦Read on a03! - Masterlist - Dean Masterlist✦
✦pairing: Dean Winchester x female!reader✦
✦summary: After you and Dean have a massive fight, you try to give him space. But it might be a lot more space than he needs. More space than either of you want. Everything might be better if there was never any space at all.✦
✦warnings/tags: friends to lovers, angst, pining, Dean Winchester needs to talk about his feelings and get a hug, shameless smut (fingering, cowgirl, p in v sex), no use of y/n✦
✦author's note: on god I thought this would be 8k guys. My porn has so much plot. Enjoy!✦
The Impala door slams, and it echoes through your bones.
Even Sam flinches. Sam never flinches. When Dean gets this kind of angry, Sam usually just looks at the roof like he’s hoping the world starts ending again, so he can deal with anything else. He’ll sigh, and give you a look of pity that’s pretty fucking useless when he won’t actually take your side, but that’ll be it.
This time, though. He flinches.
You don’t bother to look for the pity or nervousness in his eyes, though. You know it’s there—you can feel it—and it’s not going to help anything.
Watching Dean storm away isn’t going to help anyone either. But that’s not stopping you from doing it.
He’s moving in the short, clipped way he always does when he’s furious. Stomping, hands curled into fists at his side, yanking the door open as all the muscles in his back flex. He rolls his neck, glances back with a tight brow, and your eyes meet.
Dean stares at you, a harsh, bright glint in his eyes that seems to be rolling through the air like a storm cloud. You don’t blink, don’t waver, don’t do anything but lift your chin slightly in a silent challenge.
He doesn’t see how your arms are wrapped around your stomach. He doesn’t see how your nails are digging into your sides, and—in the shadows of the car—he doesn’t see the shining tears threatening your eyes. But he doesn’t need to. You don’t want him to.
That isn’t what this is about.
Dean's jaw tics, and he turns sharply, marching into the bunker and slamming another door behind him.
You frown, starting to push up out of your seat, and Sam grabs your wrist.
He says your name softly, not balking from your glare.
“Sam, let me go-“
“If I let you go, you’re going to go after him.” Sam says softly, with a knowing look in his eyes you don’t. fucking appreciate. “And one of you is going to get really hurt.”
“Yeah, Dean.” You yank your wrist from Sam’s grip. “Because I’m going to stab him-“
“You know that’s not what I meant.”
You make a sour face, sinking back into your seat, because you do. Dean won’t lay a hand on you, but you’ll shout, so he’ll shout, and then one of you is going to shout something you can’t take back. And you know you won’t mean anything you say, but he won’t.
And if Dean says something to break you, it will break you.
He’s already formed fractures. Which isn’t fair.
It might just be whining like a child, but it’s not fucking fair that you could scream the meanest thing you can think at him, and he’ll just get angrier. Any wound you inflict will be drowned in rubbing alcohol, and then blurred into every other cruel thing he’s heard in his life. You’ll be blended in with every person who’s insulted him. And then, he’ll never look at you the same again.
But Dean will be fine. In the long run, nothing you say will be anything important to him.
Which isn’t fucking fair.
Because he just called you a reckless idiot and shallow brat, and you’d almost burst into tears. It had only been bitten down on the inside of your cheek, and he didn’t hear the crack in your voice when you shouted back, but Sam did. Sam didn’t look angry or offended that you called his brother a pathetic, overbearing asshole. He’d just done his sad-puppy look at the roof, and glanced at you like he was begging you to stop. For your own sake.
It’s a small mercy, that you pulled into the garage when you did.
If Dean had said one more thing to you with that pure, unbridled wrath in his voice, you might have vomited all over Baby’s seats, which would’ve made him more angry. Then you would’ve started crying, and he would’ve rolled his eyes and left you on the side of the road, and you’d be alone, alone, alone-
“Just give him a day, okay?” Sam mumbles. “He and I fight all the time about this kind of thing, and he always cools down once I give him space. He just- He needs some space.”
You nod, and look up at the roof as Sam shuffles out of the car. There’s some small hope in you, that doing that actually helps. Could make the world a little quieter, could back track everything to right before you went into the old church, and your whole world started to crack and split from under your feet.
It doesn’t.
Tears fall quickly. Silently. You wipe your cheeks and nose with your sleeve, and just keep staring at the ceiling. At some point there’s a creak in the door, and you squeeze your eyes shut to avoid Sam’s judging, sad gaze. The door closes, and you take a tiny, ragged breath that no one is ever going to be able to hear.
The light in the garage goes off. You take deep, slow breaths.
Dean wouldn’t leave you on the side of the road.
But he might wait until you’re back at the bunker, then tell you to pack your shit and leave.
So you’re trying to wait him out. If you’re in here long enough, he’ll be in bed, and you can sneak to your room before he breaks your heart.
Because that’s the real, blaring and loud difference between you that only Dean seems unable to see.
Dean won’t get more than a bruise, from anything you say to him, because that’s as deep as you go. You’re nothing more than just a blemish, just another person in a long line of people who have let him down. You brush over his skin. Once you’re faded, he won’t think about you again.
But he goes deep into your heart. You feel his anger in your bones because that’s how far he sinks. The heat over your skin goes right into your gut and twists it, because it’s sickening to hear his anger, but so much undivided attention seems to be confusing your body. In the old Church, when he’d roared your name, you’d felt the rush through every nerve.
Dean can break you down at a fundamental level. In a way that’s going to take years to repair.
In the way that only someone you love can.
Sam says to just give him time.
So you do.
The next morning, you stagger when you wake up so that he won’t have to see you in the kitchen.
Usually you do the opposite. Get out of bed an hour earlier than you ever did before, just so it can be you and Dean. So you can see his pretty just woke up face—hair mussed, eyes a little unfocused, and lips in a grumpy pout as he takes his coffee—and be the first person that makes him smile in the day.
But today, you give him space.
So you don’t see him at all.
Nothing more than flashes in the hallway. Small bits of proof he is, in fact, in the bunker. His mug in the sink. A light on, under the door of his room. His chair in the war room pulled out, and the Impala missing from the garage, then back a few hours later.
There’s dinner, left out on the counter when you walk into the kitchen. Two plates already in the sink.
You stare at it. Take a small half-step forward, glancing over your shoulder. You’re hungry, and Dean always makes dinner. Your plan had been to heat up the microwave mac and cheese in the freezer, and sneak off to your room before Dean came back for his 10pm pie.
But there’s food, right there. Untouched. Obviously made by Dean.
It must be his. He’s been known to take seconds, and he’ll probably be back for it soon.
You take your mac and cheese, and retreat to your room.
The next day passes almost the exact same. Get up late. Give Dean space. Try not to get in your head about the silence.
The Impala doesn’t leave the garage today.
Dinner is out again. Left of the counter, this time still steaming with heat.
You make a sandwich, and retreat to bed.
And then it’s the same. And the same. And the same. You see Dean in every single inch of the bunker, but only in the empty mugs and left out books and stray flannel he left on the couch that you force yourself not to pick up. He keeps leaving out food, and you start to put it in the fridge so it doesn’t attract flies.
The days blur together, and the pit that might have been dug in your heart by Dean yelling at you is turning into a chasm from every bit of nothing.
He hasn’t spoken to you. Hasn’t even tried to find you for another fight. He’s just… ignoring you. Like this isn’t even something he had to cool down from. Like he’s already forgotten about you so much he can’t even remember there’s supposed to be a conversation after the fight, where you either tear each other apart or forgive.
Maybe you should have let him just yell at you. Then it could be over, and you could be looking for a way to fix it. Now you’re just drowning in the lack of Dean. You miss the coffee in the morning. You miss sitting on the counter and bothering him while he tries to cook. You miss him bothering you while you tried to read. Miss the verbal sparring matches over dinner, or in the car while you went out for supplies.
“Dean,” you’d said to him once, dragging him away from the snack aisle to the candles. “Smell this.”
He’d taken the jar from you, squinting at the label. Your fingers had brushes.
You’d rubbed them, like you could get the electric heat of him to sink into your skin.
“Summer Solstice.” Dean had frowned. “That’s not a flavor, it’s a thing.”
You’d grinned at him. “Well, it’s not a flavor. It’s a smell-“
“You know what I fuckin’ meant-“
“And the Summer Solstice is an event, not a thing-“
“Yeah, yeah, whatever.” Dean had rolled his eyes. “Do you get off, on correcting me?”
No.
But you might get off on the small smile that had been on his face, or the way he’d stood over you with relaxed shoulders. Might get off on the gravity that was always with him, and how he was looking at you. Amused and focused, almost fond.
“Yup.” You’d bounced on your toes, and his mouth had twitched. “Smell the candle.”
Dean had given you a bored look. “Sweetheart, I’m not smelling the candle-“
“Why?”
“Because that’s dumb.”
“Really?” You’d beamed at him, your voice sweet. “What if I say please?”
He’d made a strange face, but shaken his head. “Nope.”
“Please?” You’d shuffled closer. His body radiated heat, and it felt like being pulled by the tide. “I’ll be your best friend.”
Dean had snorted. “Over a candle?”
You’d nodded, and he’d scanned over your face. Sighed heavily.
“This really important to you?” He’d muttered, and you’d nodded again.
Dean had grunted, glared at the candle, and popped off the jar top. Taken a long, deep smell, and given you a pointed look.
“Happy?”
“Yeah.” You’d grabbed another off the shelf. “Smell this one.”
He’d frowned. “No, we said one-“
“Nobody said anything about numbers. Smell it.”
It had taken a little more coaxing, but you’d gotten him to smell it. And Dean will never admit it—even in the car after, he’d been grumbling like you’d just waterboarded him—but he had fun. You got a leather and sandalwood candle—that smelled like Dean, but he didn’t need to know that—and Dean got a spicy apple and honeysuckle one that he muttered was to combat the gasoline in the garage as he put it on the check-out belt.
“Thank you.” You’d hummed, leaning back in shotgun, and Dean had grunted.
“You’re welcome.”
You’d smiled at him, pulling your knees to your chest. “I’ll pay you back.”
Dean had been silent for a moment. His gaze had been fixed on where your shoes were resting on the seat. You’d slowly moved them off—no stains, and your shorts had been riding up anyway—and he’d coughed.
“It’s fine. You don’t have to.”
“But I’m going to.”
He’d shrugged. “Nah.”
“Dean-“
The engine had roared to life, and Dean had turned the music up so loud you could feel it in your ribs.
But that might have just been your heartbeat. Because he’d smiled at you, and made ridiculous, dramatic gestures as he sang along with the music. He’d looked at you like you mattered. You’d leaned towards him like he was the only concrete, certain thing in the world.
And it’s been a week now. Since you’ve even seen, let alone spoken to him.
You miss him.
Staring at the ceiling in the dead of night, your brain moving too fast to sleep, you press your lips together and just miss Dean.
He’s just down the hall, but you fucking miss him.
You get up, because if you lie here forever you’re going to drive yourself insane. You can go for a walk while Sam and Dean are asleep, make some tea to help you go to bed, poke your head into the Dean Cave and see if he’s there. Just to check. Just to see if he was ever real at all.
But you don’t have to go as far as the Dean cave, to find him.
When you get to the war room, he’s slumped against the table, a beer held in a slack hand, heavy snores rumbling through his chest. His hair is a mess, his mouth swollen and hanging open.
You move to him like he’s a magnet. The low light makes his skin almost glow, but that might just be the flush of the drinking. His phone is on the table next to him, the screen long turned off. His shoes are one, which is normal for Dean, but they’re not his indoor shoes. They’re his hunting boots. He’s even got his jacket on, and he was either about to go out, or had already gone.
He smells heavily of liquor. Not just beer. But Dean doesn’t drive drunk, so he either got buzzed at the bar and wasted here, or never made it out of the bunker.
You’re betting on the former.
He lit his candle, flickering golden light over him like a halo.
He’d never do that sober.
You’re touching him before you can think better. Running your hand through his hair, just to soothe it.
Dean stirs slightly. Mutters something incoherent you can’t make out, his shoulders slumping and face turning so he’s hidden in the crook of his elbow. So he’s leaning further into your hand.
There’s a stabbing pang through your heart, and he wouldn’t let you do this if he knew it was you. He must not know.
But you repeat the motion, and he lets out a heavy, satisfied breath. You swallow, and risk trying to move him. Get him to bed, so his neck doesn’t hurt in the morning. But Dean’s a heavy man, and when you wrap your arms around his torso, you have to let go quickly. He’s too warm. Too firm and soft at once. You would’ve melted into him, and never been able to pry yourself away.
And it was too intimate.
He doesn’t want to see you or speak to you. There’s no reason he’d be okay with you touching him.
But you can’t just leave him like this, so you grab a blanket, and toss it over his shoulders. Grab a pillow from your room, and tuck it between his head and elbow. Carefully grab his beer, and pour it down the kitchen sink.
You look back, before you retreat back to bed. He’ll be okay. In the morning, he won’t even think of tonight for more than a few seconds.
If he does, you don’t get to know. He doesn’t look for you, and you stay out of his way. Distance.
You’re giving him all the fucking distance he wants. Enough of it to stretch you into a thin, desperate and hungry string that watches the shadows under her door, hoping you’ll just get a knock, or a mutter of your name.
But you get nothing. Not even a text, as if nothing was ever wrong at all, and Dean’s really just been over it.
He’s still leaving a plate of dinner out. You stare at it every night, and wonder if eating it would finally make him talk to you, if just to yell at you about taking his food.
It wouldn’t. Before the big fight, Dean had almost never yelled at you at all. But now Dean hasn’t even consciously been in the same room as you for almost two weeks.
And there’s a gaping ache in your chest that’s going to eat you alive.
The bunker is almost dead quiet at night. You slip in and out without anyone seeing, just to go get some more tea and a candy bar to numb your sorrow. You collapse in the war room, eating and staring at the wall. Grab a book and open it to a random page, just to fight the restlessness of this.
It startles you, when your phone rings. The sound bounces off the walls, and you fumble as you pick it up, because it’s Dean’s name, flashing on the screen.
You glance over your shoulder, like he’s going to emerge from the shadows. You’d thought he was in his room. There’s no reason for him to be calling you if he was in his room. Maybe you shouldn’t answer, in case he just pressed the wrong button.
But if that’s the case, he doesn’t hang up after you wait a few moments. Wait long enough for the call to go to voicemail, holding your breath as you wait for the buzz that means he’s left a message. You’ll read the transcript, but won’t listen to it. You don’t need to hear the annoyance or fury in his voice. It’s already been haunting you enough.
The notification never comes, though.
He just calls you again.
You take a deep breath, before you answer. Whatever he has to say, you can take it.
“Dean?”
There’s a moment of silent static through the speaker, and you feel your heartbeat in your throat.
Then Dean mumbles your name, and you let out a shuddering breath of relief.
“You… Picked up.”
“Yeah.” You glance over your shoulder again. “You called me, Dean.”
“Hm.” Is all he says, silent again for a moment. “But you picked up.”
You sigh. “I did. What’s going on.”
“Nothin’.”
“Really?”
He grunts, and you press your lips together. You want to hold him on the phone, just to hear his voice a little longer. It’s just as deep and rich as you remember.
Space.
“Okay, Dean.” You sigh, leaning over the table and staring at your lap. “Thanks for the call, I guess-“
“Wait.” He cuts you off, and you hear something slam in the background. “Just- I’m- Are you safe?”
Fuck.
He sounds like he cares.
“Yeah, Dean. I’m safe.” You take a deep breath. You have to hang up. “Goodnight-“
“No-“ He calls your name, and you’ve never heard him this urgent. “Don’t- Don’t hang up, I- Uh- I had somethin’ to ask you. ’S why I called.”
You slump into your chair, staring up at the ceiling. You half expect him to come up behind you laughing, or ask you to make him hot chocolate like he might’ve a few weeks ago. Because it tastes better, when you do it, and he’s a huge kiss-ass who has you in the palm of his big, stupid hand.
“Okay. What.”
He’s silent again, for so long before he clears his throat, and mutters, “I dunno.”
“You… don’t know? What you called me for?”
“Yeah.”
“Dean-“
“Can you tell me ‘bout your day? Just- Keep talkin’?” He grunts again, and you hear something shuffle. “You can curse me out, if you want. Just-“ His voice lowers. “Whatever. Anything.” He’s silent again. “Please.”
You frown, sitting up slowly. Something’s off in his voice. With his words.
He said please.
Dean’s kind, and he’s polite, but he never says please. Not casually.
Only about things that make his voice a little raw.
Like it is now.
“Dean?” You say softly. “Where are you?”
“Bathroom.”
You glance to the hallway, heat rising to your cheeks. “Oh, um- Are you okay?”
“‘m fine, sweetheart. Bar was just real freakin’ loud.”
“You’re at a bar?”
“Yep. But I’m good, baby, don’t worry about me-“
“How many drinks have you had?” You’re already standing up, fumbling around in the dark for your keys. “And- Are you at the place on Main Street, or Waystar?”
“Waystar. They got good bourbon, y’know. And- Remember that time you hustled those bikers.” He almost groans. “That was so hot. Your ass looked great.”
You swallow. “Dean, how many drinks-“
“Not enough. But don’t worry, Sammy’ll come get me if I start seein’ spots or whatever-“
“Sam’s asleep.” You snap, pushing on your shoes, and he pauses.
“Huh.”
“Yeah. Huh. Dean, you need to tell me how much you’ve had, specifically-“
“I dunno. Five. Six.” His voice drops to a grumble. “Don’t see how it matters to you.”
You pause, hand on the door. “What?”
“Nothin’ for you to worry about, right? My shit ain’t your problem.”
Heat rushes your face, because you'd screamed that at him. He'd sneered a mock you got a death wish? You like trying to give me a fuckin' heart attack? and you'd shouted in return, your paranoia isn't my problem, Dean.
Because he'd been acting like you were born two days ago. Like you couldn't possibly know how to calculate risks or take care of yourself.
But it is your problem. He must not have heard the pain in your voice when you screamed, because it is your problem. Anything that hurts Dean hurts you, like a bruise that comes from trying to drag someone out from underwater, and of course his paranoia is your problem. You never want to be something that causes him pain.
“You’re on Waystar?” You ask softly, turning the doorknob, and he grunts. “Don’t move, Dean. I’ll be there soon.”
He snorts, just before you hang up the phone.
“Sure, sweetheart. Whatever.”
You shove your phone in your pocket, and head out without looking back.
He’s slouched at the bar, when you get there. The bartender’s casting him weary looks, and seems pretty relieved when you say you’re here to pick him up.
“Worried your guy was gonna hurt himself.” She mutters, and you sigh, mumbling an apology as you tap his elbow lightly.
His head flies up, whole body shaking, and you cross your arms. Wait for his vision to come into focus.
Take a second to pull yourself together. Because you haven’t looked him in the eyes in two weeks.
And even wasted and tired and angry, scowling and flushed, he’s so beautiful.
“Don’t fuckin’ touch-“ He blinks at you, a tight frown on his face, and says your name slowly. With something like awe in his voice. As if he can’t believe you’re there.
You give him a tight smile. “C’mon, Dean. Let’ go home.”
He just blinks at you slowly. His arm reaches out, hands flexing, and he slowly runs his fingers down your arm. It sends a small shiver through your body. You bite down the hitch in your breath.
“You’re…” He reaches up, and before you can react, he’s tracing your face. “Real?”
Dean watches you so carefully, and his features are guarded. Like he’s ready for this to be a trick.
This smile is more gentle.
It’s ripping something inside of you, to see him in such pain, and you’re going to do anything to mend it.
Mend him, even if the smarter thing might just be leave him to put himself back together.
“Yeah. I’m real.” You pull his hand gently off your face. “Let’s go home.”
Dean nods slowly, and lets you lead him out of the bar. Almost stumbles after you, like he’s afraid you’ll turn into shadow at any moment.
The drive back is silent. Easy. He only glances at the Impala for a second, before crawling into the spare car after you. He doesn’t try to talk to you, or change the radio. And you can feel his gaze, as you drive down the empty roads, but it doesn’t burn your skin. It’s just sweet.
Soft.
Close to awe, and almost making the air seem sweet.
“Sweetheart…” Dean reaches out, his hand resting on your knee. You glance over to see his eyes shining in the dark. “Did you come for me?”
You frown. “Of course I did.”
“Hm. You drive far?”
“It’s only twenty minutes.”
“Ah. Huh.” He pauses. “But… you came.”
You sigh, fingers tightening on the steering wheel. “Yeah, Dean. I came.”
He makes a low, satisfied noise—his hand still on your thigh—and passes out. When you get to the bunker, he lets you move him into his bedroom with only a few unintelligible grumbles. His shoes get kicked off, his shirt peeled over his head, and his pants tossed away.
You stand against the door, back pressed to the wood, and fix your gaze on the ceiling. Dean’s all but naked, a few feet away. You’d just have to look down, and you’d see everything you’ve ever dreamed about.
But he’s drunk, and doesn’t want you like that, and still your friend. You won’t violate his privacy like that. Won’t take advantage of what was clearly one of his worse nights, just so you can feed your own, empty pipe dreams. And-
Dean grumbles your name, and you squeak as he appears in front of you. His arms cage next to your head, pinning you against the door. Your noses bump, and the heat rolls off his body, into yours. It sparks a wildfire, the proximity. The smell of pure Dean fans it. The warmth stokes it.
The sight of him, when your eyes drop against your will, fuels it to sweep through you entirely.
His chest is bare. And everything about him is strong. Not TV strong or cosmetically strong. Not just abs and definition. Muscle and softness that would make him easy to be consumed in. No sharp V in his hips, but thick thighs and a bulge that makes your knees weak.
He says your name again, and you look up at him frantically.
“I- I wasn’t-“
“Stay.”
You blink at him, arms wrapping around your stomach. “What?”
“Don’t go again.” He mutters, scanning over your face. “Stay.”
“Dean, I- I have to go to bed.”
He squints at you, leaning in closer. Your lips are almost brushing.
Maybe this is another form of punishment. It certainly feels like torture.
But there’s that same shine in his eyes, from the car. And this is so real it might be able to split you cleanly in half.
“Where?” He mutters.
“Where-“
“Where you goin’ to bed.”
“Um-“ You take a deep breath. “My room?”
The answer seems to satisfy him. Dean relaxes over you, and you try not to whimper when that makes his bulge press on your hip.
He takes a deep, long breath, and mumbles near your neck. “You smell good.”
“Thank you.” You whisper. There’s a deep, strange fear that if you speak too loud, you’ll shatter whatever this is. This, that’s making him cling to you and touch you so carefully.
“Flowers.” He takes another breath. “Missed it.”
“There- There are flowers everywhere-“
“Missed you.” He says, a little more firmly, and pushes back up to meet your gaze. His eyes are stripping you bare, even if his gaze never wanders lower than your lips. “You are…”
He trails off, and your fingers curl into his flannel.
When he speaks, his voice is so low it rolls through your body.
So pained you can feel it in your bones.
“Not mine.” He sighs, face dropping once more. “You ain’t mine, are you?”
He laughs to himself, and you blink at the air. A little dazed. Wholly confused.
“Dean, what-“
“Sweet dreams, baby.” His breath is hot on your ear, and you shiver. “Don’t think of me.”
Dean turns, pulling you with him but giving up easily, and flops on his bed with a groan. It takes a second, for you to remember how to move. And when you do, another few to convince yourself to.
Then you slip out the door, and try not to sprint back to your room.
You don’t sleep well. You toss and turn and stare at the ceiling, touching your lips and ear and hip until exhaustion pulls you under.
But when you dream, it is sweet.
It’s low drawls in your ear, phantom touches on your skin, and the bare image of Dean burning into your brain. You wake up cold and alone, with the sheets bunched between your legs.
You can’t take another two weeks. Not having none of him. That had been the tiniest dose, and you’re already high. Spinning around what the fuck that was, what any of it meant, if it means anything at all. He’d been drunk. He might not have meant it.
You ain’t mine, are you?
Like a question he doesn’t want the answer to.
As if, if you’d been able to speak, you wouldn’t have screamed yes.
Given your heart to him. Offered the air in your lungs, and a million apologies. Crossed the country, to get him home safe, even if just from a bar. Let him be angry a million more times, just so long as he never left.
Missed you, he’d said.
You missed him more. He haunts you.
And you’re not even sure he’s going to look you in the eyes, in the morning.
“Hey.” Sam glances up from his laptop as you shuffle into the library, brows raised. “Where have you been?”
“In my room.” You mutter, grabbing a book, and Sam looks up again.
Actually looks up. A deep frown on his face, like he doesn’t quite believe you.
You blink at him. “What?”
“No, it’s nothing- I just-“ He rubs the back of his neck. “We thought you’d been going out.”
“Going out?” You scoff. “Sam, when have I ever gone out.”
“Well, that’s- Fair. But we haven’t seen you in a few days, and I told you to give Dean space, so I figured you’d just been… Around.”
“I have been around. I haven’t left the bunker in like- Six days.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, really- I-“ You shake your head. “Did you really think I’d been gone for two weeks?”
Sam turns a little red. “Uh- Yeah? We hadn’t seen you since you and Dean- You know.”
“I’ve been taking food from the kitchen-“
“I don’t count how much food we have! And you- You haven’t been eating the food Dean’s left out for you!”
“For-“ You blink at him slowly. “For me?”
“Yeah!” Sam sighs dramatically, running a hand through his hair. “I mean- You really haven’t been gone?”
“No, I-“ You shake off the for you. Something to worry about later. “I was giving him space. Like you told me to!”
“I didn’t say avoid him like the plague-“
“I haven’t been-“ You cut yourself off, shaking your head. “Sam, I’ve been here the whole time.”
“Well, yeah. I’ve figured that out now.” He mutters. “You should tell Dean, by the way. He’s been worried.”
You snort. “Yeah, alright.”
Sam gives you a flat look. “Come on.”
“What?”
“He was worried.”
“Sam-“
“He’s been beating himself up,” Sam says your name almost urgently. “He thought you were gone forever.”
You feel something cave in on itself, in the cavity of your chest. “Well, he should’ve knocked on my door.”
“I- Look, I’m realizing now that- Conclusions were probably jumped to-“
“Probably-“
“But you need to tell you’re at least okay.” Sam urges. “I’m serious when I say he was really worried. You- You really matter to him. A lot.”
You let out a slow breath, eyes locked onto Sam’s, and he just raises his brows. A silent, challenging expression.
Stay.
Dean asked you to stay.
He’d thought you were going—maybe that you’d already been gone—and he’d asked you to stay. Like it mattered. Like you really did matter.
You ain’t mine, are you?
You could be.
He’s never asked.
“Dean would’ve told me,” you mutter. “If I mattered-“
Sam laughs. Loud, and truly amused.
“No. He wouldn’t. Or- He wouldn’t have before.” Sam shrugs. “But he didn’t think he’d lose you before, either.”
You stare at Sam, trying to come up with any words at all, just to say something. But before you can Dean’s voice cuts through the air.
“Sammy, hey, Sammy-“ He grunts from behind you. “You, uh- you haven’t seen-“
He cuts himself off, as he says your name. And you turn slowly, to find him staring at you in his stupid robe that’s always made you want to jump his bones.
“You’re still here.” He mutters, and you shrug weakly.
“I never left.”
He chuckles to himself, shaking his head. “Yeah. Alright.”
Sam clears his throat. “Dean, she really-“
“I’m goin’ for a walk.” He announces to the air, barely sparing you a glance as he turns, and marches away.
You look at Sam, and Sam just gives you that tight smile and sad-eyed puppy look. When you just stare at him, he lets out a heavy, slow breath.
“You should talk to him.”
“I did talk to him.” You snap. “Last night, when he drunk dialed me-“
“Which Dean does to everyone.” Sam says flatly, looking down to his laptop. “He’s really famous, for how he’s always making emotional late-night calls while drunk.”
You narrow your eyes. “Don’t be an ass.”
“Sorry.” He doesn’t sound it. “I’m sure you’re right. You know Dean, he’s a sappy guy. Always talking about his feelings, letting everyone in, never engaging in any self-destructive and sacrificial behavior that’s contradictory to what he really wants-“
“Sam.” You snap. “Stop taking online psych courses and trying to diagnose us.”
“Okay, my very good friend.” He hums your name, still looking at his screen. “Who’s deeply self-isolating and tries to hide from everything in her life that might lead to pain, and would rather die than be the slightest inconvenience- Ow-“
You chuck a book straight at Sam’s head, and stomp out of the library before he can keep saying things. Correct things.
You ain’t mine.
Yes, you are.
And he just has to ask.
Dean’s gone for hours, which is more than enough time for you to stare at the ceiling and work yourself into a frenzy. He doesn’t get to stand that close and be that handsome and touch you like you’re priceless—because his fingers had been light, his face filled with awe like you were a diamond from the sky—and then avoid you. Doesn’t get to make you dinner for no reason, then not give you the chance to ask why.
Doesn’t get to allegedly worry about you, to think he’s going to lose you, then get you back and storm away.
You love him too much to ever just leave. But if this ignoring thing keeps going, you’re going to scream.
You’d rather fight for something fragile and delicate, than have nothing at all.
You’re going to fight. You are his, and you are going to scream at him like he’s yours until he breaks you and you go, or-
Something else.
It’s late, when he gets back. The whole day spent pacing and anxiously eating, staring at book pages without actually reading and scrolling through your phone. You almost call him a few times. But you held out this long.
And you want to see him. Try to read him.
Make him look at you.
The door opens a little while after Sam goes to bed. He’d looked at you—waiting for Dean, your feet up on the table—and sighed.
“Good luck.”
“Thanks.” You’d muttered, and he’d nodded.
“Yeah, just- Uh-“ Sam had sighed. “Try to get to your room?”
You’d looked up at him with a frown, but he’d already walked away. That’s another thing to demand explanation for later.
Right now, you’re watching Dean stand at the top of the stairs, looking at you like he’d seen a ghost.
“Hi.” You give him a small wave, and he coughs.
“Hey. You’re- Awake.”
“I am. Should I not be?”
He winces. That might have come out harsher than you wanted it to.
“You can do whatever you want, sweetheart.” Dean mutters, shoving his keys into his pocket. “Night.”
“Dean-“ You push to your feet, scrambling to block his path out of the room. “Dean, wait-“
He freezes, giving you a silent, expectant look, and you flush. He can’t look at you like that. It’s not fair.
“I’m- um-“ You rub your arms, forcing yourself to meet his gaze. “Are we going to talk about it?”
“‘Bout what?”
“Last night? You- You called me-“
“I was drunk.” He grumbles, glancing over your head. “That’s it. If I- Said something. I was wasted.”
You blink. “You… Don’t remember?”
Dean just shrugs. Like it is nothing. Like you’re nothing. “Nothin’ to remember. Scoot over, I’m trying to go to bed-“
He grabs your shoulder, and the touch is electric. Almost stuns you into freezing, moving, being whatever he wants you to be just because it’s Dean who’s asking, and-
You ain’t mine.
That’s fucking something. He doesn’t just get to say it’s nothing, and pretend the past two weeks never happened, and you’re fighting. You told yourself you were going to fight.
“Where were you?” You blurt, and he freezes. “You were gone all day, Dean.”
His face twitches slightly. “I was out.”
“Out where.”
“I don’t know, out and around-“
“Around where.”
Dean looks at you with an almost frustrated awe. “Around…. Places.”
You raise your chin. “Which places.”
“Places, sweetheart, I-“ He chuckles, the sound hollow. “What do you care? I’m not some damsel, and I’m in one piece, aren’t I?”
“I don’t know.” You shrug. “Are you?”
Dean’s eyes narrow, and you push on.
“You were looking for me before you left. Why-“
“I wanted to check you hadn’t fucked off to places, sweetheart. That’s it. So can we quit it with the interrogation, and-“
“Do you remember asking me to stay?” You ask softly, and his jaw tightens.
“Told you. I can’t remember anything.”
You take a small step towards him, and he could so easily move you aside. But he’s not. And you’re not just going to let him make you give up. You love him more than that. Your love is worth more than that, if he wants it.
Dean’s worth more than that, if he wants you.
“You called me, and I picked you up.” You murmur, and he snorts.
“Yeah, I fuckin’ remember that-“
“And I put you to bed.” You raise your voice, taking another step forward, and Dean freezes. “You stripped, and pinned me against the door, and- You asked me to stay. You asked if I was yours, and you asked me to stay.” Your voice cracks. “Why did you do that, Dean? Why would you say that to me?”
Your lip is wobbling, and his face is red. When he speaks, his voice is hoarse.
“I told you,” he grunts your name, and you’ve never seen him look so cornered. “I was drunk-“
“So you don’t care. If I stay?”
Something flashes in his eyes. “No, I- That’s not-“ Dean shakes his head, rubbing his brow. “I never said that, I- I was just damn drunk-“
“So you don’t care.”
“Stop saying- Son of a bitch.” He squeezes his eyes shut. “Can we do this in the morning-“
“No.” You take another step forward, and Dean makes a low sound from his chest. It rushes through your body like a drug. His hands flex, and you can see his chest heaving. “We’re doing this now. Do you care? If I stay?”
He blinks at you, and your eyes start to sting. He’s not even saying no. If he did, at least it would be over. But he’s just watching you, like you’re the one about to hurt him
“Because I never left, Dean-“
That gets a snort, like the one he gave Sam this morning. “Yeah. Alright-“
“I didn’t.” You snap. “Sam told me to give you space, after we-“ You take a ragged breath, arms squeezing tight around your stomach. “After the hunt. And I gave you space, and you- You thought I just left? That I’d go without saying goodbye, or anything?”
Dean’s throat bobs. “People have done it before,” he grunts, and you roll your eyes, something white-hot building in your heart. Ready to erupt.
“Yeah, they have, but I haven’t. You really think that I’d just- That I’d do that to you?”
“It’s not about me, sweetheart-“
“Yes, it is.” Your voice rises, and Dean flinches back like you struck him.
He rasps your name, and you shake your head.
“It’s about you, Dean. It- I- I dropped everything, to go get you. I stayed out of the way to give you space, I- I spent the whole day-“ You take a deep, uneven breath. “It’s about you, and-“
“Stop.” He rasps, an almost wild look in his eyes. His hands are curled on the wood of the table, his whole body braced. “You- You gotta stop, sweetheart.”
You stare at him. “I- I’m just talking-“
“Stop talking.” He snaps, shaking his head, and his grip looks white-knuckled. “Don’t know what you’re- You don’t get it.”
“Then tell me-“
“No.”
You gape at Dean. His handsome, determined face. How he’s almost cowering from you. It’s worse than the fight after the hunt. That had been all rage and spat words, pure fury and a whirlwind of crude words. He’d looked like he’d wanted to throttle you, and it had made you dizzy, but this-
This looks like he wants to flee.
“You made me dinner.” You murmur, scanning over his face. “You- You made me dinner.”
He swallows. “Yeah.”
“Why?”
“Cause. I- I don’t know, alright.”
You stare at him. He lets out a heavy breath.
“I didn’t want you to have nothing. If you came back.”
Fuck. “Dean,” you whisper, and when you take a half step forward, he shakes his head.
“Don’t. You- Just go the hell to bed-“
“No. I- I’m going.”
His eyes widen, voice dropping. “Wha- What?”
“You want me to stop.” You shrug. “So I’ll stop. And if it’s not about you, and I’m only-“ I’m only here for you. “If that’s it, and you don’t care, I’ll- I’ll go.”
Dean says your name, voice choked, and you shake your head.
“I’m just a needy, shallow brat, right?” There’s a lump, forming in your throat. “That’s what you think. So I should go.”
“No, that- That’s not-“ His breath is ragged, grip white-knuckled. “I was pissed, I didn’t mean-“
“Didn’t you?”
“I didn’t, I never- You’re not- Goddamnit, you don’t-“
“Get it?” You finish, stopping only an arm’s reach away. “Are you going to tell me.”
He stares at you, nostrils flaring. You sigh.
“Do you even care? If I go?”
And you know he cares. You wouldn’t be having this fight if he didn’t.
But he just looks at you. And you feel bile rising in your throat.
“Tell me you care, Dean.” You murmur, because you don’t want to walk away. Don’t want to leave him. Don’t want to be strong and leave your heart in fractured pieces on the floor. All you want is him, but if he won’t let you have that, there’s nothing left to do. “Please tell me you care.”
“I- Sweetheart-“
“Say you care.” Your voice is only a whisper, and you take an unsteady step forward. “Say you care. Or I- I’m walking away.”
He doesn’t even have to love you. He just has to care. And he’s still saying nothing at all.
“Dean, please tell me you care.” You’re begging now, tears pricking at your eyes, and he swallows.
Mutters your name. It sounds like a plea.
It’s not enough.
“Tell me you care, please-“ Your voice breaks. “Dean, just, tell me you care, please, say you care-“
His eyes shine in the dark. “Baby-“
“Fucking- Say you care-“ Your voice is echoing off the walls. He can’t just call you baby like that, it’s not fair. “Dean, I fucking- Just say you fucking care-“
“I care!” He roars, and you freeze. “I care, I care, of course I care, I fucking-“ He makes a face like he’s in pain, his voice gravelly and rough. “I love you, I don’t want- You can’t go, baby, you just fucking came back, and I-“ His voice breaks, and the shine in his eyes is tears. Heavy tears he seems to be fighting with everything in him, rubbing them away with the palm of his hand. Like he’s worried you’ll actually see them. “I fucking care. I care. I- I care. Don’t-“ He shakes his head, hand unsteady on the table. “Don’t go. Don’t fucking go.” His words become choked. “Please don’t go.”
You stare at him, stunned so deeply into silence you almost can’t breathe. Dean’s words linger in the air, heavy and electric. His breathing is unsteady, eyes locked onto yours, and you lean towards him on the tips of your toes. Trying to get closer. Afraid to move, and step on something that’s blooming. That, for once, seems to be good.
“You- You love me?” You breathe out, and Dean’s eyes widen.
“I-“
“Me too.” A small step forward. He doesn’t flinch away. “Dean, I- If you- I love you. Too.”
He blinks at you slowly, holding onto the table like a lifeline. “Yeah?”
You nod, and his throat bobs.
“Are you-“
“Incredibly.”
“Oh.” His lips twitch, tears still shining on his cheeks. “Awesome.”
You laugh weakly, wiping your nose with your sleeve. “Is it?”
Dean nods, pushing up off the table in such a smooth motion it’s like he’s being moved. And just before his lips crash over yours, he mutters-
“Yeah. It is.”
And Dean kisses you like he’s a dying man. Like he’s been lost at sea for a hundred years, and you’re the ground as he finally comes home. His mouth is demanding and firm, his touch certain. He grabs at your hips like they’re the only anchor in a storm. One big, calloused hand slides up your back and you arch into the touch. Dean groans. Presses his tongue over your lips, and drags you closer to his body. You’re trapped in his thick arms, melting into his chest as you’ve dreamed about a million times before.
He tastes like whiskey and fruit. His hand on your back slips higher, grabbing the back of your neck. You bend for him, letting him angle you back further. The kiss deepens, and when you open your mouth, Dean moans into it. The sound is sinful. Intoxicating.
Your knees start to feel weak, as he sucks the oxygen from your lungs. Your arms fly around his neck to keep you upright, and Dean grabs under your ass as you falter with a tiny squeak.
He breaks the kiss for half a second, allowing you to gasp for air. But then he’s back, and the fervor doesn’t relent. It only grows.
Dean’s mouth open and harsh over yours. Your own movements sloppy, because you just want more but you can barely think outside of his name.
“De- Dean-“ You whine against his lips, and he nips at your tongue.
Gives you a moment to breathe, as he pulls away, but doesn’t give you a single second of a break. He starts to press hot, possessive kisses all over your face. Down your throat and along your jaw. It’s sending sparks over every single nerve in your body, the devotion in every movement making the heat between your legs grow unbearable.
Dean’s teeth graze your ear, and he starts to suck on the skin right below it. A sound you didn’t know you could make escapes your throat. It’s a strangled whine of his name, and a plea for just more. He’s lighting you up with just his mouth and hands. He squeezes your ass, and you roll your hips into his thigh.
“Shit.” He leans back with a grunt. His eyes are dark and hungry, blown out with desire.
For you.
Desire for you.
Dean’s fingers flex against your neck, and drag back down. His hand slides slightly under your shirt, sending shivers up your spine. His fingers splay on your lower back. Your nails dig into his shoulders, as you struggle to stop the desire from sweeping you away. Struggle to stay upright.
“You are…”
“Yours.” You whisper through the daze of lust. “I’m yours.”
Dean’s face splits in a wide, charming grin, and he crashes back over you like a tidal wave. There’s nothing left to fight about.
He loves you.
And you let that pull you under the tides without a second thought.
Dean walks you back against the wall, pinning you just like he had last night. He’s still wearing his jacket, though. Still completely covered, while you’re wearing smaller, thinner sleeping clothes. His hand on your back has dipped down to grab your thigh, and hike your knee against his hip. You pull at the collar of his flannel, as his kisses become wet and open. Like he’s trying to take as much as possible.
You give him all of it. Whatever he wants. Loud moans when he sticks his tongue down your throat, or swipes it over your swollen lips. Your body, pressed right against his. Your burning core, trying to grind onto the rough fabric of his jeans.
And he gives right back. You claw at his jacket, and he yanks it off and tosses it off to a corner of the room. He stares at you the whole time, chest heaving and face slack with want. You might be drooling, as you watch him flex with the motion, and his eyes gleam with smug pride.
“You like- Oof-“
You drag him back down the moment the jacket is gone, rising up as high as you can to meet him. Dean groans, pulling your arms high over your head and moving his mouth back down to your neck.
“You are-“ He sucks on a particularly sensitive spot, smirking against your skin when you whimper. “So beautiful. Goddamn gorgeous, and-“ His brow drops to your shoulder, attention fixed on where you’re grinding shamelessly against him. “Needy. Hungry, pretty girl-“ Dean looks back to you, and that’s awe on his face. Pure, open awe. “You want something?”
He’s teasing. The asshole is teasing you.
“Dean,” you whine, and he chuckles. Leans further in, until your lips are brushing.
You try to surge up to kiss him. He leans away.
“Ah,” Dean smirks, thumb rubbing small circles on your wrist. “You had so much to say to me a moment ago, baby. C’mon. Use your words.”
Your hips buck, the desire making your body almost shake. “You’re- An asshole-“
“I know.” He grins. “But you love me. And I,” he lowers back down, and you just manage to stop yourself from trying to kiss him again. “Am gonna give you everything you want. But you gotta say it.”
“Say- Say-“ You can barely think outside of the burn between your legs. This isn’t fair. “Dean, I- I don’t know what-“
“Just tell me what you want, baby.” His free hand moves up, grabbing your chin. His thumb swipes over your lower lip. “That easy.”
You blink at him, and he lets out a heavy breath.
“Look, I- I can’t give you much. You know my life, my job, my- Shit.” Dean scans over your face, something desperate and almost nervous in his gaze. “You know I’m not gonna be good for you-“
“Yes, you are.” You cut him off with a breath, because of course he’s going to be good for you. He’s Dean. “You- You are.”
He swallows. “I can’t offer a lot.”
“I don’t want a lot.”
“So what-“
“You.” It passed through your lips with perfect clarity, because that really is all you want. “I just want you, Dean.”
If it’s possible, you could swear his eyes get darker. “How?” He rasps, and you offer him a small smile.
“Like this.”
His throat bobs, eyes dropping down to where your cunt is still mindlessly dragging over his thigh. Like you couldn’t even bring yourself to stop. He mutters your name, and you whine his.
“Please.” You throw your head back against the wall, grinding faster. The rough fabric offers little relief, but you need something. “Dean, I- I just want more.”
His eyes move back to yours, and you could swear you hear his breath hitch as he takes you in. It must be an obscene image. You, fucking his leg, your arms above your head, sweat shining through your shirt and your nipple peaked. All the desperation that’s wrecking you, all just for him.
Dean nods slowly, like he’s just working something out.
“I’ve got you.” He mutters, and it sounds like it’s mostly to himself. “I’m gonna take care of you, baby, you’re-“
“Yours.” You gasp, and tears of desperation prick at your eyes. “Yours, Dean. Please.”
That snaps something in him.
Dean crashes back down into another, heavy kiss. His hand drops from your face, his knee pulling away from your core. You barely get to make a noise of protest, though, before his hand replaces it. Pressing, rough and hard, against your cunt.
Dean groans your name, when he feels how you’ve all but soaked through the thin cloth.
“You’re fuckin’ dripping.” He mutters, fingers torturously toying with the cloth. “Jesus. Gonna leave a damn stain on the floor.”
You whimper, clutching at his shirt. “Dean, I- I’m-“
“You need more.” Dean’s lips twitch. “I know, sweet girl.” He lands a sharp slap against your clothed pussy, and your body shudders. “C’mon. Relax.”
And you try to. Dean’s words are smooth, and at first, it’s so easy to just go limp. Trust him to keep you upright, and blink at him as he draws away.
But then he gets to work. His hand drags up your thigh and over your hips, tickling slightly—just enough to make you shiver—and then shoves right down your shorts. You arch with a high noise, and Dean grins. Rubs his palm back and forth on your ruined scrap of underwear. He kisses just your nose, so mockingly sweet, and pulls your panties to the side.
One, thick finger slides into your pussy, and you clench around him. Trying to drag him in deeper.
Dean grunts, his forehead pressing to yours. He starts to pump the finger slowly in and out, watching your flushed, open expression. Almost studying how every thrust makes your lips part, how the stretch of just one finger renders you silent and desperate.
But it’s a big finger. And he’s so deliberate and careful, pulling you apart like in just a few seconds he’s worked out every single thing that makes you tic. He brushes another teasing kiss over your lips, right as he shoves a second finger in.
“You’re so tight,” he grunts, fingers crooking deep inside of you. “Soaked and beggin’, but still squeezing me like a glove, baby. Goddamnit, this pussy is gonna fuckin’ swallow me. Can’t wait to feel you cum around my cock-“
You moan, and Dean’s eyes flash. His voice drops lower.
“Like that?” He murmurs. His fingers start to move faster, slamming all the way up to his knuckle. Hitting the most sensitive spot inside of you, every single time. “Like it when I talk dirty, sweet girl? Like hearing me say how you’re squeezing just my fingers, so fuckin’ tight just thinking about it is driving me crazy. How you drive me crazy, how hot you look, fucking my hand and saying my name?”
The pace becomes so fast you can barely think. Your eyes fly down, watching where his wrist and arm are flexing as he fingerfucks you into oblivion.
“De- Dean-“
“Think you can cum just like this.” Dean says under his breath, scissoring his fingers deep inside your cunt.
Your eyes fly up to his, and he’s looking at you like you’re an angel. Your mouth falls open in a long, broken moan.
Dean smirks. “Yeah, look at you, you’re gonna cum on my goddamn hand. Think you can soak my fingers, baby? Show me just what I’m doin’ to you?”
You nod, straining against his hold on your wrists as light starts to dance behind your eyes. Dean slots his mouth firmly over yours, and you moan. Your wound so tight you might be about to explode, your toes curling as his fingers twist again, and-
“Cum,” he rasps your name. “Come on, sweetheart, cum for me-“
Your release rips through you. It’s burning and satisfying and strong. Wiping your head clean, as pleasure overtakes your every sense. You go slack, into Dean’s arms, and he catches you around your waist. Your hands fly to his chest in an attempt at balance, scratching him over his shirt. He groans, pressing the kiss deeper.
His fingers don’t stop until you’re fluttering around them. You’re dripping through your clothing, almost down your thigh. Dean’s pulls back with a grunt, his hand slowly pulling away.
It’s coated in your desire for him. He lets out a deep sound, fingers digging into your hips.
The hand covered in you drops slowly, and rubs against his crotch. Where a thick, proud tent as formed through his jeans.
“You-“ He looks back to you, eyes shining. “You always this wet?”
You somehow feel more heat, rising through your face. “I- I don’t know- I’ve never checked.”
Dean hums, and there’s something like curiosity shining in his eyes.
“Alright.” He grabs your chin, tipping it back down to his bulge. “You seein’ how fucking hard you make me?”
You swallow. “Yeah.”
“You wanna feel it?” He drawls, and when you look up, the teasing grin has returned to his face. “Feel my cock, let me fuck your pretty, dripping pussy until you can only remember my-“
“Dean.” You whisper, reaching your hand slowly down.
Grabbing him through his jeans, just to make him feel half of the need you do. His mouth falls open in a loud moan, eyes fluttering slightly. He feels big. You squeeze, and he doubles over you with a grunt.
“You- You’re playin’ with fire- Shit-“
His mouth attaches to your neck, and you tip your neck back. Wrap your arm around his finger, fingers brushing through the hair at the base of his neck.
“You worked yourself up.” You whisper, and he chuckles.
“Yeah. Guess I did.” Dean’s holding you so tight it’ll probably bruise in the morning. You hope it does.
“I wanna feel you.” You whisper. “Please, Dean. Let me feel you.”
His arms tighten around, and once again, something in him snaps.
Dean drags you off the wall, mouth turning to sear against yours. You grab his face, trying to throw back every bit of desire he offers you. He pulls off his flannel without breaking the kiss, walking you out of the war room and into the hallway. You stumble slightly, and he lurches forward to grab you. Pulls you against his chest, move moving in an unrelenting, bruising pattern against yours.
The kissing makes you float out of your skin, his hands wandering under your shirt sending you higher, but it’s still not enough. You try to drag him closer, and he grunts, almost falling over you.
It’s messy. Hungry. And if there was doubt before, it’s gone now.
He needs you. Just as much as you need him.
Dean gets impatient of the mess half-steps, and hauls you up his body. You yelp, legs locking around his waist, and giggle when he squeezes your ass.
“That bad?” You whisper between kisses, and he grunts.
“You got no idea.”
He doesn’t waste time, marching down the hallway. Pauses for a second, glancing at his door, and shoulders it open the split second after you nod. Dean sets you down carefully on the floor, and you both start to shed clothing like it’s made of poison. Somehow, you always manage to keep hands on each other. Dean helps your shirt over your head, his hand planted on your lower back. You do the same for him, and he ducks. Goes one arm at a time, so he can keep a hold of your sides.
Your mouths crash back together immediately. Your hands wander the panes of his chest as he pulls down your shorts and underwear. You fumble with his belt, palming his erection. Dean moans your name, walking you back until you hit the bed, and fall back with a giggle.
He crawls above you, kissing over your breasts as he kicks his underwear off.
His cock springs free. Thick and red, leaking with pre-cum. Your legs spread, your fingers wandering between your thighs as you try to just imagine how he’s going to feel.
Dean knocks your hand away, and you blink up to find him starting at your cunt. He’s breathing through his nose, dick jumping against his stomach as he takes you in.
“Dean,” you whisper, and his eyes jump to yours. “I- I want you.”
You swipe your fingers carefully through your own pussy, and he almost growls over you.
“Baby, you- I’m-“ He lowers himself down, kissing your inner thigh. You run your fingers through his hair, pulling his head up.
His eyes meet yours, and no one’s ever looked at you like that.
Like the world could end, and it wouldn’t matter. Not as long as you’re there.
“Hi.” You whisper, and he presses his cheek to your thigh.
“Hey.”
“Can you come up here, please?”
Dean nods, slowly rising back up. He slowly moves up your body, kissing over your stomach, breast, collarbone. You work your clit, at the sight of him above you. It’s better than any fantasy. It’s Dean.
You’re breathless, when his lips find yours again. You’re fucking your own hand, and almost scream when you feel his cock slide between the puffy lips of your pussy.
“Here.” He mutters, pulling your hand to side. “I got it, sweetheart, wait-“
His head bumps that bundle of nerves, and Dean watches with an adoring gaze as you come undone below him once more.
“That easy, huh?” He teases, kissing the corner of your mouth.
You take a ragged breath, half nodding. “Just- Just for you.”
Dean makes that low, animalistic sound again, and suddenly you’re being rolled over. His cock slaps against your ass, his grip tight on your waist as you straddle him.
For a moment you just stare at each other. He raises his brow in a silent question.
You nod, and he grins like you’ve just promised him the moon and stars.
Dean watches, as you slowly pick yourself up. Line him up against you, and sit down on his cock. His hands fist your soft skin, his head throwing back as you swallow him into your cunt. You moan his name as he stretches you open, and his hips slam up.
You yelp, nails scratching at his chest, and he groans.
“Sorry- Sorry, baby.” Dean grabs your hand, kissing the inside of your wrist. “You- Oh.”
You’re staring at him with an almost drunken expression. That, the split second of him losing control, was the hottest thing you’d ever seen.
The way it had been because of you.
Dean mutters your name, a low warning. You smile at him, and sink fully into him. He splits you wide open, his tip bumps your cervix, the stretch white-hot pleasure.
You hold his gaze, as you start to move. Grind back and forth, letting him press against every good spot inside of you.
Dean’s mouth falls open, and he throws his head back as you clench around him. His hand tangles with yours, and he holds it tight against his chest as the other grabs at your waist. You pick up your speed, starting to bounce. You ride him until your legs feel like jelly, until you’re fluttering around him and need is staining his thighs.
He looks like a picture of sin. Wrecked below you, hair messy and chest rising unevenly. You moan his name, when he drags along your tight walls. Dean watches you under hooded eyes, making guttural sounds that rush straight to your clit. He squeezes your hand so tight it might break you.
Fuck, you want it to break you.
“Come on.” You coo, trying to edge him on, and his eyes lock onto yours. “Is that-“ You swallow a moan, as he hits another needy spot inside of you. “You’re just going to lie there, and look pretty? Make- Oh-“ His abs flex, as you drag your clit against them. “Make me do all the work?”
That does it.
Dean’s eyes darken, and whatever part of him that seemed perfectly happy letting you use him—letting you take control—vanishes.
He grabs your hips, and pulls you up.
Slams you down.
All the oxygen is knocked happily from your body, as Dean starts to fuck up into you like a man possessed. The sound of skin slapping against skin fills the room, and any attempts you make to keep riding him are met with a small slap to your ass as hammering thrust that makes you almost convulse with pleasure.
“Oh- Oh my god-“ You moan. “Dean, I- I can feel you in my fucking throat-“
He groans, driving impossibly faster, bullying your cunt into a slick, oversensitive mess.
“Can feel you fuckin’ strangling me,” he leans further down into the sheets, craning his neck to watch his massive cock slide in and out of you with ease. “God, you take me like you were made for it, made for my cock-“
Dean moans your name, and you see white as your orgasm hits again. Dean makes a deep, primal noise as you shake above him.
Doesn’t break his pace for a single second.
And this might be what people mean, when they say they get enlightened. Dean keeps pounding into you, his own eyes unfocused with desire, and you’re barely out of your third orgasm before a fourth is building in your core. Winding tighter and tighter and tighter, and you call his name and writhe above him.
It only drives Dean on.
He surges up, moving you onto your back with your hips in the air. Leans down just enough to kiss you, tauntingly soft and sweet.
Rubs his thumb around your clit until broken plea are leaving your mouth.
Then presses down on the button, hard.
This orgasm is so strong you think you see stars. And you’re still almost floating, as Dean folds himself over you. Jackhammers his hips in increasingly uneven thrusts as he chases his own release. You hold him tight, whispering low praise about how big he is, how good it feels, until he stutters.
His face is pressed into your neck as he slams home, and a tiny, shivering orgasm sweeps through you as he paints your walls white.
You both just bask in it for a while. The blissful, peaceful and certain feeling of each other. Dean slowly slides in and out, fucking himself back into you, and you’re not even sure he knows he’s doing it.
It’s aching, delicious torment, with how sore you are. With how much you want to feel every bit of him.
You settle on letting him. Just kissing the side of Dean’s head and holding onto him for dear life, until he finally stills over you.
Still buried deep in your body.
“Dean.” You murmur, and he grunts. “Baby, you’re still-“
“I know.” He grunts, arms wrapping tighter around your body. “Just- Wanna keep you here for a while.”
“Oh. Okay.” You stare at the ceiling, then whisper. “You meant it, right?”
“Meant what?”
“That- That you- Love me.”
“Oh.” He pauses. “Yeah.” Another second of silence. “Why did you-“
“I meant it to.” You say quickly. “I meant it- A lot.”
Dean twitches inside of you, smiling against your skin. You swallow.
“When- How long-“
“I dunno.” He tips his head up, chin resting between your breasts. “Forever?”
You give him a flat look. “Dean.”
“What?”
“You can’t have loved me forever-“
“Don’t invalidate my feelings, sweetheart.” He grins. “That’s not very healthy or whatever.”
You narrow your eyes. “Stop listening to Sam when he talks about psychology.”
“Stop talkin’ about Sam when I’m balls deep inside of you.”
You flush, and Dean laughs. Leans up, pressing a soft kiss against your lips.
“You’re cute when you’re embarrassed.”
You hum. “You’re cute when you’re being an ass.”
“Ah. Well.” Dean bumps his nose with yours, eyes bright. “I’m your ass, aren’t I?”
And it washes over you. An overwhelming sense of this.
This is what’s supposed to be.
“Yeah.” You smile at him, and he smiles back like it’s the easiest thing in the world. “You are.”
✦End note: Does this fake old man know that i'd be so nasty for him we'd be fined by the fcc just for the graphicness of a private home video.✦
✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦
✦Buy me a coffee!☕️✦
✦Taglist (Fill out this form to be added!)✦
✦Read on a03! - Masterlist - Dean Masterlist✦
✦summary: Dean's refusing any help to get over his sex curse, no matter how many women you find for him. If only he'd just tell you why✦
✦warnings/tags: Dean Winchester x female!reader, no use of y/n, sex pollen, angst, pining, Dean being a dummy (it's okay we love him), big emotions (sex pollen does that), just the nastiest smut (praise kink, soft!dom Dean, finger sucking, fingering, some car sex, dirty talk, oral f!receiving, sex pollen appropriate stamina, overstimulation, body worship, dumbification, creampie), love confessions during sex, light fluff at the end✦
✦wc: 10k✦
✦author's note: voted for my the people! this might be the horniest thing i've written ever like i got possessed plz enjoy✦
This room is going to suffocate you.
Outside, there’s a chilling breeze that bites at your ears, and you had to turn the heater off after an hour of Dean whining about it. You’re wearing a few layers and thick, fuzzy socks that slide on the floor. When you look at your fingers, they’re developing a purplish tint under the nails, and you’d think your nose was bleeding if you could feel it at all.
But you’re burning alive. Deep in your stomach with shame, and an arousal you’re not allowed to indulge. It’s wrong, right now, to have flushed cheeks and sweat gathering under your clothing. A tingling heat that’s hidden under the collar of your shirt, and restless fingers as you work, itching to touch something.
Yourself. Just a rub between your thighs for a little pressure of relief to help you focus.
Dean. Lying on the bed, moaning lewdly and humping the sheets like you’re not even in the room.
He’s apologized fifty times. He apologized when you left that old, moldy house and he started staring at you and palming himself in the car. Apologized when you’d been walking inside, and he’d doubled over in pain on the side walk. He’d grabbed your hip for support, and while you’d been trying to figure out if he was okay, his hand had slipped up to your inner thigh. Apologized when you went to get him some ice—he’d said he was warm, you’ d been worrying about a fever—and you had to come back to find him lying in your bed, head thrown back, eyes squeezed shut and groans slipping from his lips.
At least he hadn’t been touching himself. He’s managed not to do that at all, which you’d be impressed by if you weren’t so worried.
Sam says it’s a pretty basic sex curse. Maybe a pollen, from that mold. Nothing you need to worry about finding a magical cure for.
“We’ve seen these before.” Sam had said. “It’s run-of-the-mill. Dean knows what to do.”
Run of the mill.
Simple.
Sam had said it like you’d be clear in an hour. Nothing fancy required.
Dean gets laid, the fever goes down, everyone’s good.
And it might’ve been simple. You might’ve been done an hour ago, if Dean just got it over with and left when he was clear. You would’ve sat in your bed, running the sheets between your fingers while you read. Trying desperately not to think about Dean only a door over, about the sounds creaking through the wall as he railed someone else into oblivion, about how he’d look.
Probably just like this. Wrecked and hungry, his eyes blown out and skin slick with sweat. Every muscle in his body straining, hair stuck to his brow, mouth hanging open as he’d hover over some lucky girl, showing her a heaven even angels didn’t get to experience.
Your heart would’ve silently ached, a wound you’ve been letting fester opening wider and wider. Your hands would’ve tugged nervously at the sheets, trying to gather whatever he’d left over like a twisted little souvenir for your perverse brain.
The brain that won’t stop being in love with him, no matter how much logic you offer to counter it. You’ve spent nights staring at the ceiling, acting like love was a debate. Like if you reasoned with yourself enough, all the blood in your body would simply stop flowing in a song of his name. Your heart would shift into a new rhythm, no longer a war drum trying to call for him. Your eyes would stop looking for tiny bits of evidence he loved you too, in just as much silence as you love him.
He’s about ten years older than you. He opens doors for you, and that can be a secret desire thing. He’s not emotionally available. He talks to you, about his dad and complicated fights with Sammy and his past, and that has to mean something. He’s got anger issues. He’s stubborn, he’s reserved. You have issues too, and you’re more stubborn. He’s fucked up- You’re fucked up, and he’s also sweet and loyal and handsome and the best kind of stupid a man can be, where he’s a dumbass that never pretends to be incompetent. He’d probably be possessive. You’d like to be possessed. There’s no future there. Yet.
You’ve always lost the debate. You stay in love with Dean, because your heart wasn’t even kind enough to give you a crush. A brief and intense high of adoration and lust would’ve been manageable. You would’ve recovered.
Instead, it’s love. Not even love with a half-life, weaning off with just a little time. Deep, long love.
The kind of love that has you looking at him now, and crudely thinking that he’s being a bit of a pussy. It’s not a fair thought. He’s cursed, has a fever of a hundred and two, and his body is probably trying to convince him to do things that he’s not on board with.
But you live like that every day, and you don’t whine about it. You’ve felt like if he didn’t touch you now you’d die, you’ve gone sick with your own perverse thoughts about what you’d let him do to you, you’ve been delirious with adoration until Sam clears his throat, and mutters that you’re staring again. Maybe the mold should’ve crawled into you, or however this works.
You wouldn’t have been such a massive bitch about it.
You would’ve had nasty motel sex with a stranger an hour ago.
You wouldn’t have made Dean sit in a room with you while you pillow humped, forcing him to look for a sex partner to break your back.
You would’ve been home by now.
But Dean wants to be a little fucking bitch.
“You’re being a bitch.” You say it plainly, because maybe it will snap him out of whatever the fuck this is.
Instead he just chuckles, twisting to give you an amused look. “Ouch, sweetheart- Shit-“
The movement looks like it made his dick brush against something, and now he’s back to cowering in the sheets. Jaw clenched and eyes squeezed shut, visibly pained, and what’s wrong with you that he’s never looked so hot-
“You’d be a bitch too.” He mutters, groaning as he rolls back onto his stomach. “I feel like I’m dying-“
“You’d stop feeling like that, if you’d just pick someone to fuck.”
“I’m tryin’-“
“Not hard enough.”
“Trust me, I’m plenty hard enough- Fuck-“
You throw one of his pillows at his face, and he makes a strangled noise like you hit him with a bullet.
“You’re gonna attack a dying man-“
“I can do whatever I want, when I’m helping you find a fuck buddy.” You stick your tongue out at his back, then return your attention to his phone. “How about Miranda? She’s thirty-six, she’s got really nice hair, and- Oo-“ You scroll a little further down the page. “She likes boats! Those are like water cars, you guys could bond over that.”
Dean laughs again, shaking his head. “Boats aren’t water cars.”
“They are. Think about it.“
“They don’t have a big engineering overlap, I don’t know shit about boats-“
“Then you can just fuck her stupid, you nerd.”
Dean’s silent for a long moment, and you hover your thumb over the screen, fully ready to subject yourself to the worst torture possible for Dean’s stupid, cursed sake.
“She looks nice.” You mumble, praying he doesn’t hear the exhausted, hopeless pain in your voice. “I think you’d like her.”
Dean grunts. “No. Next name.”
You sigh, and swipe left. Adding Miranda to the long, long pile of rejected applicants.
It’s been like this for two fucking hours. Dean lying in your bed, you cross-legged in his, absolutely no progress on curing the curse. He barely even looks at you anymore. He’s been facing the opposite wall since you sat down, burying his face in your pillow every time he moans, trying to hide the roll of his hips under the sheets and failing miserably.
The tingling pain between your legs is almost unbearable now. You’d call Sam and ask if the pollen was transferable, if you weren’t terrified of the answer being no. There’s no way it’s not just Dean anyway. His thick arms stretching up to grip the pillow, his broad, muscled shoulders and back bare, the fact that sometimes when he humps fast and rough, the sheets ride up and you swear you see the tip of his cock. It’s wrong. So fucking wrong, to be getting off to him like this.
But it’s your own personal hell, to have this responsibility. To have him right there, and not be allowed to touch him.
You’ll deal with your shame later in the shower, where you can wash it off and maybe cry from a few different places over your body.
Later. When he’s not dying, and doing absolutely nothing to help you save him.
“Hannah.” You read out the next profile, pulling your knees to your chest. “She’s got curly hair, really nice brown eyes. Looks like she’s a nail artist. That could be nice.”
Dean snorts. “What, you think I’m gonna have her get me a manicure after?”
“No, I just-“ You take a long breath. You’d rather have a living Dean that doesn’t love you, than a dead Dean, who also doesn’t love you.
Dean starts to twist—he’s going to try and look at you again—and you clear your throat.
“It might be nice to look at. Aesthetically. Or- arousing.”
He mutters your name, but you push on.
“For a handjob. Nice nails, going- Up and down your- Um- Your dick-“
Dean lets out the loudest moan yet, and your jaw snaps shut. That sounded like your name. He was probably just trying to warn you to shut up, but that still sounded like your name-
“Sorry-“
“Stop talking.” He snaps, and you nod.
Without him asking, you swipe left on Hannah. He seems to have forgotten about her, and you have no desire to let her and her perfect nails anywhere near his dick.
It takes a while for Dean to request the next candidate. Long minutes of him just panting and grunting, burying his face in the pillow and thrashing in the sheets like he’s having a nightmare.
You see the head of his cock again. It’s thick looking and red and shining with pre-cum. Angry and hard and Jesus fucking Christ-
“Emma!” You shout to the room. You need this to be done. “She’s a nurse, that can be a kink thing-“
“Stop.”
You sigh, turning down the phone screen. “Dean-“
“No. Don’t want Ella-“
“Emma-“
“Don’t fuckin’ care. We’re not doing more of this- Shit.”
“Are you just swearing, or is that an adjective-“
“Sweetheart.” He’s almost growling, a hand slipping out from the sheets to fist the mattress. “Stop. Talking.”
You close your mouth, bowing your head as shame floods your body. You’re trying to help. You’ve given your whole night just to help the man you’re hopelessly in love with have sex with someone else, and you’re tired. Tired of doing this to yourself, tired of him shooting everyone down like suddenly he’s got the highest sexual standard in the world, tired of acting like it’s not killing you and tired of watching him like this.
He’s in so much pain. You can hear it straining in every word, tensed in every movement. You’re not allowed to touch him, but the last time you made him check his own temperature, it had gone up again. With how he’s looking, how he’s muttering to himself under his breath, you’re willing to bet it’s gone up another handful of degrees.
Dean’s going to die, if he doesn’t deal with this. And if he dies, you’re not going to deal with it.
You don’t want to think about what you’ll become, if he goes. You might be the one that turns into a ghost, haunting this goddamn hotel room and growing up the walls like that mold. A shell of a person, caught in a million what-ifs, her heart ash in the wind with his body.
Dean wants to be done with this.
You’re not done with him.
You swipe right on Emma.
For an hour, you let him keep moping and groaning. You flirt with Emma for him, because you’re the best friend in the world, and pretend you can’t see him trying to move a pillow between his legs to offer extra pressure.
“Dean.” You say softly, and he grunts.
“Baby, I need you not to talk-“
“You can take it out.” You mutter, keeping your focus on Emma’s texts. “If you need that. I’m a big girl, I- I won’t mind.”
That’s a lie through more than just your teeth. If he starts touching himself in front of you, all the poetic fawning about how your love is killing you won’t be dramatic anymore. Your heart will beat right out of your ribs, your head will get so light you’ll float away, your need for him will become so consuming you’ll either fall to your knees and open your mouth for him to use, or simply just explode.
But if it helps him. You’ll do anything to help him, even if it’s searing the most sinful, impossible image into your head for the rest of your life.
Dean with his cock in his hand, head thrown back, beating himself right next to you. Maybe moaning under his breath, thrusting up into his fist, accidentally looking at you as he cums, mouth hanging open and eyes hooded as thick white ropes paint the sheets-
“No.” He grunts, and you blink.
“It’s okay-“
“No. I‘m not doin’ that to you.”
You swallow, heated shame rushing through you. “I- I could leave the room-“
“No, don’t-“ He almost shouts your name, flipping over suddenly.
Looking at you.
His eyes are almost black with lust, his face red and slack, expression desperate. He hisses—the movement likely too much—but still reaches out a shaking hand, like he’s going to try and grab you.
“Don’t go, just- Fuckin’-“ His words trail off, eyes locked on your face, and another moan escapes his lips.
You push up on your knees, fear clenching at your heart. “Dean-“
“’m fine-“
“You’re not fine-“
“I’m- Son of a bitch-“ His eyes widen on yours then slam shut. His hand curls into a taut fist, face pulling in pain, and that’s enough.
“Fine. Don’t masturbate, see if I care.”
He says your name, low and rough, and you shake your head.
“You’re not fine, you fucking idiot. You’re dying.” You push to your feet, grabbing his phone from the bed.
Emma’s very nice. Nice in the kind of way that’s going to make you hate her, and you feel sort of bad. She was doomed to your loathing from the moment she swiped right.
But she’s going to help. She’s going to save Dean, and you’ll offer her grace for that.
Dean’s eyes had opened, when he heard you moving. He’s looking at you like a lost street dog, opening his mouth to say something that only comes out in a panting groan of your name.
Whatever protests he has, you won’t hear them. He’s not allowed to die.
“Get up.” You snap, tossing his clothing onto his face. “Get dressed. I’m starting the car in ten minutes, and if you’re not there, I’m coming back and you’re having sex with me.”
You don’t look over your shoulder to see his reaction. The sounds of torment leaving his chest are bad enough.
It hurts. It cuts deeper than a blade, the idea that he detests the idea of sex with you that much. You’re good at sex. You’ve gotten raving reviews, you’re batting a hundred, flawless reports and a hundred percent customer satisfaction rate, even if you don’t really enjoy most of it yourself. Most people you have sex with don’t manage to make you cum, and when they do it’s a tiny little shudder through your body that you forget about in five minutes.
Dean witDean would be lucky to have sex with you. You’d worship him. You’d get on your knees and let him use you until he was leaking out of every hole. You’d let him fuck himself back into you, you’d let him throw you around, you’d do anything-
It’s probably a good thing your threat works. Dean stumbles out of the motel right at the nine-minute mark, pallid and flushed all at once, hunched in pain and wearing a massive raincoat over his jacket to hide the boner.
You never would’ve forgiven yourself, for taking advantage of him like that. It’s better like this, no matter how much it hurts.
You smile when he gets into the car. “Nice fashion statement-“
“Shut up.” He grumbles, glaring out at the road. “Where’re we goin’.”
“A bar.”
He makes a sour expression. “Why.”
“Because you have a date. With Emma the nurse.”
Dean goes dead quiet. He tenses next to you—your elbows brushing for a split second, before he recoils like your skin is coated in toxins—works his jaw, then shakes his head.
You sigh. ‘Dean-“
“No. I told you, I’m not doin’ that.“
“Yes, you are.”
“No-“
“Yes!” You slam the brakes harder than you mean to, as you approach a stop sign.
You expect Dean to snap about you being careful with his baby. Maybe try to make a joke about how maybe the frustration is rubbing off on you, or argue about how this is his dumb choice to make.
And it is. But he made the wrong choice, and you are not letting him die.
He mutters your name, and it’s the same way he said it earlier. Soft. Almost pleading.
You take a deep breath, and twist to look him in his pretty, glazed and dilated eyes.
“You’re going into that bar. You’re going to flirt with Emma. If she asks if you have a fever, you tell her you work construction or something, and you’d just been at a shift. You run hot. Nothing for her to worry about.” You drum your fingers on the wheel, forcing down the lump in your throat. “You’re going to tell her she’s pretty. You’re going to call a fake uber, and I’m going to drive you to the motel. You’re going to fuck Emma until you’re cured, and then we can go home. Understand?”
Dean’s throat bobs. He opens his mouth, a glint in his eyes like he’s going to argue. You don’t give him the chance.
“No. You’re doing this. If you don’t, you’ll-“ You cut yourself off, pressing your lips in a tight line. You won’t cry. You won’t.
Dean says your name, and he has to stop doing that. It’s too gentle. Too close to something real.
“You’re not allowed to- To go.” You look out at the empty road, praying the night is hiding the glossy tears, pricking at your eyes. “I can’t- I won’t- You’re not allowed to.”
You raise your chin, your breathing too shaky to speak for a moment. The silence hangs in the car, even the sound of Baby’s engine not enough to drown out your thoughts.
“Okay?” You snap, trying to sound stronger than you are.
Dean lets out a low sound, but nods. “Okay.” Then, under his breath. “For you.”
You pretend you don’t hear. There’s too much weight in those words, and you don’t have the time to pick them apart, don’t have the energy to ask him what the fuck that means.
Instead, you just give yourself the easiest out. Dean does love you as a friend. You’ve never doubted that for a second. He’s doing it for you because you’re the one demanding he go have sex.
What a horrible friend you are, making him get laid so he doesn’t die.
You huff a dry, pitiful, laugh to yourself. Your drink swirls in its glass, untouched and mocking. You ordered it when you got here, about thirty minutes ago. Made Dean take a possibly dangerous dose of Advil and Tylenol to make him lucid, then hidden yourself in a booth on the other side of the bar. Where you can see Dean and Emma, but only Dean can see you. He’s supposed to give you a thumbs up, when he’s about to call the ride. Right now, he seems so engrossed in her that you’re worried he’s going to forget.
Emma’s pretty. Just as pretty as her pictures. She lit up, when she spotted Dean, and you’d felt a sickening, loud hatred take root in your chest.
Everyone should be happy to see Dean, but none of them are happy like you’re happy. You know him. He’s the love of your life, and your joy is born of that, not just seeing a pretty man. You love seeing him because you know you’re going to be safe. Because he’s going to smile and the world is going to be alright, you’re going to talk and he’ll listen and look at you like there’s no one else in the world, he’s going to make jokes and you’re going to laugh.
But he’s making Emma laugh right now. She’s got one of those high, insufferable giggles, and you’re being needlessly mean but you hate her. You have a giggle like that. It comes out for Dean all the time, and it has a little snort on the end that you hated until Dean casually mentioned that he liked it, and you’ve felt like the most beautiful thing in the world.
It doesn’t really matter though, whose laugh Dean likes more.
Emma’s the one going home with him. You’re being left here.
You focus on ignoring their laughter and voices from the bar. You can’t drink, but you sulk and focus on the music floating through the bar. Your fingers drum on the table, pull at your sleeves, shred three napkins before gripping the cold of the glass like a lifeline. Your vision is going unfocused with envy. Every second you feel the wound in your heart tearing open, an infection of jealousy taking root, and you might actually be about to throw up-
Dean grunts your name, and your eyes shoot up.
He’s standing outside your both, hands in his pockets and a deep scowl on his face. Emma’s not with him. Or at the bar.
“Where-“
“She left.”
Your mouth falls open. “She left? I- What the fuck happened-“
“I told her to. Wasn’t gonna work out.”
“Dean, you-“ Your voice cracks, every thought in your head getting louder. He’s dying, he’s dying, he’s dying. “You promised-“
“Couldn’t what? Couldn’t fuck her? What the hell was wrong with her that somehow doesn’t meet Dean Winchester’s if it’s got a hole standards?”
Dean flinches, and it was a low blow, but right now you don’t care. He’s going to die. Why doesn’t he fucking care that he’s going to die and leave you.
“Come on.” You snap, slamming a few bills on the table and shooting up. “We’re chasing her. You’re apologizing.”
He frowns. “No, I’m not-“
“Then we’re going back on the dating app, and finding someone else.”
“I don’t want someone else.”
You roll your eyes, shoving the bar door open and marching to the car. You have Emma’s number. You’ll do the apology yourself if you have to.
Dean’s stumbling after you into the parking lot, and you can’t stop yourself from looking over your shoulder every few seconds. Just to be sure he hasn’t hurt himself. He calls your name, voice pained, and you freeze. Turn slowly, your arms crossed over your chest.
“I’m not doin’ this.” He snaps, stalking towards you in uneven steps. “You can bitch and whine about it all you want, sweetheart, I’m not fucking that girl.”
“I’m bitching and whining?” You laugh, the sound crude even to your ears. “I’m not the one who decided the best time to become a fucking celibate was when he got hit with a sex curse. You’re the one acting like a fucking child here-“
“I’m not acting like a child-“
“Then you’re acting like an idiot!” You scream, taking a large step forward.
Dean goes rigid. Takes a long step back, like you’re poisonous. It just fuels the burning, exhausted fire, kindled by every bit of fear, of love, of fury that he’s putting you through this with almost no remorse.
“It’s not like you have to marry her!” You shout, barbed wire tightening around your throat. “It’s just sex! Fuck, you don’t even have to look at her, it’s- I don’t understand why this is so fucking hard for you all of a sudden, it’s not like you’re some virgin fucking pussy-“
He mutters your name, a low warning, and you ignore it.
“I’ve spent all day trying to save you, Dean! I was going to be your- Your fucking sex chauffer, and I haven’t been complaining, but you can’t do me one fucking favor and have sex with a pretty girl?”
You take another step forward, and this time he isn’t fast enough. You jab his chest, and he stumbles back like you shot him, eyes panicked and wide on yours.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?!” You shriek, shoving him again. “Do you want to die? Are you trying to fucking kill me? Do you hate me, Dean? Is that what this is?”
He rasps your name, and you shake your head.
“I’ve been trying so- So hard to save you. I- I told you that I can’t- If you-“ Your words are getting choked, and the pain is too heavy to just shake off. “You’re not allowed to go! I told you, I won’t let you, but you- You fucking hate me-“
You try to shove him again, hot tears burning down your face, but this time Dean’s ready. He catches your wrist, and you try to pull back but he’s got more strength left than you thought.
He squeezes his hold on you, stalking forward. A fire lights in your core, at the intensity of his gaze. Unyielding and hot, searing into you as your back hits the Impala. He towers over you, jaw clenched, nostrils flaring as he takes in your open mouth and slack expression. You don’t know how you expected him to react, but it wasn’t this. This makes your knees weak, your heart hitting a dangerous pace at the top of your chest.
You can smell his cologne, smell his. A salt, deep musk that’s just Dean, that might as well be a drug for how it’s making you freeze. Your free hand moves to press flat against his chest, but you don’t push.
He grunts, his muscles rippling like you just threw a rock into water. He seizes up, head bowing, and there’s nowhere for you to hide from him.
Dean’s tongue darts over his lips, and your breath hitches.
“Don’t do that.” He grunts, and you just nod.
Lean a little closer, until the heat of your breath is fanning over your cheeks. Your eyes flutter, and when you risk meeting his gaze he looks almost predatory. The hunger in his eyes sends a pleasant shiver down your spine, your thighs pressing together, and it’s hot, so hot-
“I don’t hate you.”
You blink at him. You’d forgotten about that. “Dean-“
“I don’t.” He snaps. “Don’t fuckin’- Never think that, alright? I don’t hate you.”
“Then why are you doing this to me?” You whisper desperately. “Why couldn’t you just go have sex with Emma-“
He shakes his head. “I don’t want Emma.”
“Then let me find you someone you want, please-“
“No.”
“Why-“
“Cause I don’t want any of them.” He hisses, your foreheads bumping as he leans further down. “I don’t want some random fuckin’ chick you pull for me, I don’t want to fuck her, don’t wanna touch her, hell, I don’t even want to goddamn look at her.”
You take a shaking breath, a haze overtaking your head. “Dean, you need someone-“
“You think I don’t know that?” He pushes his hips forward, and you can feel it.
His cock, straining through his jeans, pressing against your thigh. You bite down a moan, completely still in his arms, trying to make him understand with just your eyes. It’s not fair for him to do this to you. He doesn’t understand, this is all you’ve ever wanted and he’s just taunting you with it-
“I can feel it, sweetheart.” He mutters, rolling slightly against you, making that fire in your core threaten to sweep you away. “I feel myself dyin’. My muscles are hurting like I ran a mile, I’m sweating through ten damn layers, think the fever is getting me so bad I might be about to go fucking crazy. But I didn’t even notice ‘till you started getting all worried. You know why?”
It takes you a second to realize you’re supposed to answer. You barely shake your head, before he’s squeezing your wrist, leaning down to whisper in your ear.
“’Cause of you.” He breathes, voice soft and dangerous. “I always feel like an animal when I see you. Spent the whole car ride back from that damn house wanting to hump your leg and didn’t think twice. You just do that to me, and you got no fuckin’ idea.”
You gasp slightly, turning your head to look him in the eyes. They’re hooded, almost feral on yours. You’re so dizzy, you’re worried you might be walking through a dream.
“De- Dean-“
“You can keep looking for some random girl for me, if it’s gonna make you feel better. But I won’t fuck ‘em. I can’t.” His lips ghost over yours, and you lean forward.
“Dean-“
“Sex barely even works for me anymore, baby.” He mutters, tongue flicking over his lips. “Nothin’ does. I get kicked out of bed ‘cause I call your name. So just fuckin’-“ He squeezes your wrist again, drawing slowly back. “Stop. If you wanna give me a dying wish, cut it out and let me go in some damn peace.”
You gape at him as he pulls away, his grip going slack on your wrist.
Dying wish.
He still thinks he’s allowed to die.
“What- What if you fuck me?” You say, so quiet you barely even hear yourself.
Dean’s head jerks up, and he says your name with a harsh, unforgiving snap. “No. I’m not askin’ you to do that just because I’m some perv who can’t get it up-“
“You’ve got it up.” You smile at up, pressing your knee up into his crotch.
He groans, doubling back down so you’re caged against the Impala again. “Baby, don’t fuckin’- I’m not bending on this shit, alright. I’m not gonna be some pity fuck-“
“It’s not a pity fuck, I’m saving your life-“
“I told you, no-“
“Do you not want to have sex with me?” You challenge, and Dean gives you a pleading, wrathfully frustrated look.
“Don’t ask stupid questions, course I wanna have- Fuck-“ He groans, eyes fluttering as his brow presses against yours. “Yeah. Yeah I want to. But- I won’t ask you to. So no.”
You swallow. It’s probably the fever making his tongue so loose. He’s so hot it almost burns to be this close, but that might just be Dean.
It’s always just Dean. And he has to know that.
“What if I want to have sex with you?”
Dean grunts, shaking his head. “Don’t say that if you don’t mean it-“
“I mean it.” You fist your hand in his shirt, dragging him a little closer. “Do you?”
He stares at you again. Scans over your face like he’s looking for one clue that you’re just indulging him, that there’s a single doubt running through your head.
There isn’t. Your breathing is uneven, but your heart is going too fast for it to be anything else. You’re flushed with an unending, arduous hunger to just have him, however he needs you.
Slowly, testing the waters, Dean slides a hand onto your neck. You raise your chin, holding his gaze. He squeezes slightly, and you lean into him, tugging on his shirt for more.
His thumb moves up, dragging over your lower lip. You part your lips, and his nostrils flare.
Dean pushes his thumb slowly between your lips, and you close them obediently around him. Your eyes flutter as you suck, letting your tongue circle around the thick finger, tilting your head and letting your eyes flutter. He pushes a little deeper and you moan. Your hand flies up to grab his wrist, holding him against you, and Dean groans. His eyes are clearer than they’ve been all night, shining with something like awe.
You smile, grinding up into his torso and humming with pleasure.
Dean mouth hangs slack.
“Jesus fuckin’-“
He cuts himself off, pulling his thumb out with a pop and grabbing your jaw. You giggle happily for a second, and Dean swallows the sound, crashing his mouth against yours.
You’ve pictured this kiss a million times, a million ways, almost every night since you met him. Somehow, this is better than any slow, fairytale kiss with swelling music and sunlight hitting both your faces like a spotlight.
Dean’s not taking his time. He’s kissing you like you’re the last thing he knows, the only thing he’s ever wanted. Like a man who’s been starving himself, finally allowed a feast and wasting no precious seconds on manners. It’s urgent and forceful, words he can’t say being pushed down your throat with his tongue and spit. You kiss him back with everything you have, your fingers digging into his chest through his shirts, your head spinning as you neglect breath just to taste a little bit more whiskey and salt on his tongue. But nothing you throw at him Dean can’t seem to double.
You yank at his shirt, and he pulls your hair back. You try to grind up again, and he grabs your leg, hiking it over his hip. You grab his face, trying to kiss harsher, give more, and Dean slams down like a tidal wave, dominating your mouth with unforgiving need.
A moan escapes your throat, your body going limp in his arms, and he grunts. Ruts up into your core once, making your legs spread in a shameless invitation.
Dean grunts, yanking back like someone pulled him on a leash.
He stares at you for a long moment, his thumb finding its way back to your cheek. He smears a bit of spit over your cheek, and you tilt your head into the touch.
“You’re sure-“
“Yes.”
He nods tightly, takes a heavy breath, and leans away. “Get in the car.”
It’s a short, curt order. You don’t think twice before you obey.
You scramble into the driver’s seat, fumbling with the keys and slamming them into the port like you’re about to enter a car chase. Dean’s barely in the car before the engine is rumbling and you’re reversing out of the spot, gripping the wheel with white knuckles. It’s happening. It’s happening.
“Easy, baby.” He chuckles, the sound raspy and sending more shivers through your body. “You that eager-“
“Yes.” You snap, and Dean hums.
A light, almost taunting hand lands on your thigh. You glance over and find him palming at his crotch, his eyes wholly black and mouth hanging open. It’s an animalistic expression, his chest rising and falling at a rapid pace, and when you murmur his name he barely seems to hear.
His fingers dance up the inside of your leg, and you take an unsteady breath, spreading your legs wider. A deep, rumbling sound leaves Dean’s chest, those infernal fingers curling on the sensitive spot where your leg meets your core. Little electric shock rush through your body, and that’s just through the jeans.
“Dean.” You whisper, not even managing to make your voice firm. “I- I’m driving-“
“So look at the road.” He growls, knuckles brushing against your groin.
You bite your lower lip, and nod. It’s not worth arguing with him, and if you don’t think you can focus, you’ll just pull over. You told him you were sure. Told yourself that whatever he gave you, you’d be happy.
You just didn’t expect him to be borderline feral. The palming you could deal with. You expected.
This is different.
Dean scoots further, and you’re about to mumble something about a seatbelt when his lips brush the curve of your neck. You inhale sharply, gripping the wheel for dear life. Dean hums, his tongue flicking over a pulse point. His fingers start to crawl up to your abdomen, his mouth getting more insistent on your neck.
He nips at a pulse point before sucking on his, his tongue flat on your skin and a low sound leaving his chest when you lean back to grant him further access. He kisses a sloppy line up your throat as his fingers dance on your stomach, and you’re starting to get a little dizzy.
“De, be- Be careful-“
You cut yourself off with a breathy gasp, as his mouth latches behind your ear and he pulls down your zipper. He bites softly before sucking another bruise, popping the button open and slipping his hand into your pants.
“I- Fuck-” You tip your head back, hopelessly trying to keep your eyes on the road, and this is not a safe way to drive. You really should be shoving him away, but there’s no one on the road.
And with how he’s barely even speaking—just touching—you’re a little worried it might take extra effort to drag him out of the haze of the curse and push him away. He seems to be blinded to anything that isn’t you. His mouth drags back down your jaw as his fingers brush over your clothed pussy, and your whole body shakes.
He hums, leaving open kisses on your cheek and hairline. “Sensitive, sweetheart. Been a long time?”
You flush, and Dean starts to gather the fabric of your panties best he can through your pants. He drags it up, bunching it around your pussy, and another moan slips out from the pressure.
“Answer me-“
“Maybe.” You mumble, forcing yourself not to grind into his hand. “You- You know I don’t do that-“
“Do what?” He presses the fabric deeper between your pussy lips. “Don’t fuck?”
“Dean-“
“How long’s it been.” His words are hot against your neck, demanding and possessive. “Who touched you last, baby, who shoved their fingers in this pussy-“
“I- I don’t remember-“
“That’s fuckin’ right.” He pulls your panties tighter against your clit. “’Cause they don’t’ fuckin’ matter, sweet girl. No one else is ever gonna touch you like this. I’m gonna make you soak my fingers, my face, my cock, and it’s gonna feel so good in that smart, pretty mouth,” he kisses the corner of your lips, and only the wheel in your hands stops you from turning and claiming his mouth again. “That’s always fucking teasing me, it ain’t gonna remember a single word but my name. You want that, baby? Wanna be my perfect fuckin’ slut?”
Jesus Christ, this is worse than the not speaking. If this is a dream—because you’ve had them like this before—you never want to wake up.
He yanks his hand away, leaving your underwear bunched up in your cunt, and slaps your pussy over the jeans. Your mouth falls open and you lean forward, lightning surging through your whole body.
“Oh my- Dean-“
“I told you, answer-“
“Yes, I- Yes, please-“ Your words fall off into a moan, as Dean shoves his hand back against you, this time dragging the panties away and plunging two fingers deep into your pussy. “Dean-“
“That’s right.” He mutters, crooking them deep against a sensitive spot. “That’s my girl, you’re so fuckin’ wet- This all for me?”
“Mmm- Mhm-“
“Fuck yeah it is.” He starts his attack on your neck again, only speaking between kisses, his fingers scissoring inside your pussy. “So damn tight, know you’re gonna take my cock so good, bet you taste like heaven- Fuck, I wanna taste this pussy, wanted to taste it for years-“
His own words fall into a moan, and for a second you think he’s just out of dirty talk, but he’s still mumbling incoherently against your skin.
Then you risk another look at his body, and the hand that isn’t in your pants has pulled out his cock.
And fuck, if it isn’t the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen. Thick and long, but not painful looking. Throbbing and twitching as he jerks himself, the tip leaking and slick with pre-cum. It takes effort to look at the road and not just stare at the rock-hard, veiny marvel of a specimen between his legs.
You don’t know why you’re surprised. Dean’s a specimen himself.
He’s somehow already figured out how to finger you in such a confining position. His wrist has twisted, letting his thumb drag lazy circles around your clit, his fingers giving shallow, rough thrusts that make his fingers taunt your g-spot. Never really fully touching it, but sending shivers through your whole body.
“Oh- Oh-“ You have to take deep breaths to keep your head clear, your whole body winding tight with the arousal he’s pulling out of you, more and more every second. “Dean-“
“Shh.” He grunts, biting right under your jaw, and you squeak. “Just feel it. Sweet fuckin’ pussy, gushing around my fingers-“
You moan, loud and lewd, his deep voice not doing anything to help you keep it together.
It’s a miracle you make it to the motel. It’s a shit parking job—you’re definitely over the lines—but you’re both alive.
You barely shift the gears before Dean’s pouncing on you like an animal. Whatever the ride was, he still seemed to be showing restraint. Now that you’re safe, all bets are off.
A squeal leaves you, as he flips your body. Pressing your back to the window and prowling over your body, slamming his mouth over yours and kissing until you’re slumping against the glass. Your hand flies up to grab the back of his neck, your hips rolling up to where his knee is pressed between your thighs. Your eyes dart down when you pull apart for a single, ragged breath—Dean pulling your lip between his teeth, and kissing your nose and cheek like breathing is really no longer his concern—and you whimper at the sight of him, still erect and hanging out of his pants.
Dean drags your chin back up, searing his lips over yours, and you melt. He’s a good kisser. And you knew that, but it’s not like anything you’ve felt before. It’s like you’re trading souls, like he’s trying to brand you with wandering hands and lips.
When you pull away again, your dizzy from the pleasure and force of him. You whine at the loss as he leans away, but Dean just squeezes your waist and smirks.
You hear a rip, as he claws your pants and underwear down your legs. You don’t get a chance to adjust before he’s shoving your knee up against the bench, dragging the other one over his shoulder as he ducks between your legs.
“Dean- Shit-“ Your breathing gets shallow as his breath fans over your pussy. “We- We’re supposed to be doing things that are- Like blowjobs-“
It’s so hard to argue with him when he’s between your legs. The sight alone is almost enough to tip you into a frenzy. His shining eyes looking up at you, his full lips grazing your inner thigh, leaving teasing kisses everywhere but where you’re aching for him. You run your fingers through his short, soft hair, trying to get his attention. He just makes a low sound like a purr, and presses his mouth over your clit.
You almost fly out of your skin. He’s making out with the sensitive nerve like they’re your mouth, his tongue dragging and pressing, his hands on your thighs kneading with every suck and graze of his teeth. All you can do is cover your mouth and try to stifle your moan.
Dean withdraws, and you make a strangled sound of frustration. He can’t just do that, it’s not fair-
“No doin’ that.” He grunts, dragging your hand from your mouth. “Wanna hear it.”
You nod weakly, but still try one more time to remind him who this is about. “Dean, it- it’s supposed to be stuff that’s good for you-“
“This is good for me.” He mutters, letting go of your thigh over his shoulder to let his fingers drag back over your fluttering pussy. “Look at you.” He mutters with pure awe. “Responsive, wet little pussy. Bet you’d like it when I do this.”
He pushes one finger knuckle-deep inside you, and you yank on his hair with delight.
“Yeah, you do. How about,” he drags it out, then shoves it back in, and your head tips back against the window, eyes screwing shut.
“Dean, Dean, please-“
He groans, adding a second finger and repeating the slamming motion. Once, twice, a third time. His tongue flicks against your clit on that last one, and your eyes roll back in your head.
“Dean-“
Another deep sound, another flick, and you’re seconds from begging like a whore when he snaps.
Dean wraps his mouth back around your clit, resuming his ministrations from before with twice the fervor. His fingers pick up their pace, wet sounds filling the car as he finger-fucks you into oblivion.
The curse seems to have it’s full hold on him. He’s borderline feral. You’ve never had a man who eats pussy like he’s having a five-star meal, like it really is good for him. Sometimes he just pulls his fingers out and drags his tongue down your cunt, angling his head to press his tongue deep inside you and working his jaw until your toes are curling. His nose bumps your clit and his stubble scrapes your thighs, his free hand squeezing your thigh as he devours.
“Oh- Oh fuck-“ You let out a vulgar, lustful sound as he drags you further forward against his mouth, the pleasure rushing through your body. “Dean- God, just like that-“
He drags his mouth back up to your swollen, neglected clit, and those two fingers pump back into your hole. It’s somehow better and worse, and a shriek rips from your mouth as he spanks your pussy, then resumes his rhythm.
“Dean, please- Please, fuck- please-“
You’re already babbling, the tension in your lower abdomen so tight it’s almost painful. Your body is shaking with the stimulation, and Dean’s working you like an instrument. He finds every hyper-needy spot that makes you moan his name and playing it like a professional. You’re kept right on the edge for what feels like a million years, his fingers and mouth switching in and out, begging and begging as he turns you into an empty-headed, drooling wound-up mess.
Then he finally lets you over the edge.
Dean pushes his fingers right against your g-spot, and rubs. Your body seizes up, eyes crossing as his tongue flicks against your clit, and the heat built up in your gut explodes.
You shake as your orgasm rips through your pussy, your spine, every nerve in your body glowing with a deep, sex-addled bliss. Your clit is swollen between Dean’s lip as he drags you through it, your pussy gushing around his fingers and fingers yanking at his hair.
“Fuck, yes- Yes-“ You moan, legs locking around Dean’s head, and he groans against your pussy.
When it pulls another lewd sound from your chest, he does it again, slowly easing his fingers out and starting to clean up the mess between your thighs. He licks and hums, the sensation making your oversensitive body spasm every time he finds one of those spots.
It’s not certain you’re going to be able to walk to the motel room, when he finally pulls away.
But there’s a gleaming light in his eyes, that makes you think it’s really not going to matter.
Dean’s a wreck. His face is flushed, chest heaving, cock still hard but coated in a white stain that tells you he’s not close to working off the curse.
“Oh, you’re gonna be so mad about that when you’re better.” You mumble, seeing the stains on his precious bench, and Dean chuckles.
“I’ll get over it.”
You giggle, and Dean leans over you again, kissing you slow and deep. One orgasm seems to have cleared his head for a seconds, enough that he’s gently rubbing your bare, tender pussy, a soothing touch that’s really only working you up more.
“Love that sound.” He mutters, and you frown against his lips.
“Wha-“
“Your laugh.” He sucks on your upper lip, wrapping an arm around your waist. “Love it so much. Don’t think I’ve told you that before.”
He hasn’t. It somehow makes you flush more than any of the dirty things he’d been hissing in your ear before.
“You’re telling me a lot of new things.” You manage to mumble, and he huffs in amusement.
“Blame it on the curse.”
You giggle again, and his face shines like he won a prize.
“Son of a bitch,” his eyes are already darkening again, voice getting thick with the curse-driven hunger. “I love you, you know that?”
You can only gape at him. He must not have said what you thought he said. “What?”
“You heard me.” He presses his brow against yours, reaching up to cup your cheek. “I love you.”
He rasps your name, and you blink away tears.
“Dean, if it’s just the curse-“
“It’s not. It’s-“
He slides his mouth against yours and this is the romantic kiss you always pictured. Slow and devoted as he takes the time to memorize you, to bask in the glow of your heart as you shine with love beneath him.
“You know it, right?” His voice is gravelly, his body pressing firmer over yours. He’s going back under. He can probably feel it. “That I mean it?”
He’s still asking—almost begging—you to tell him that you know.
“I know.” You mumble. “I- I love you too.”
Dean goes rigid over your body, and you blink up at him, as nervous as a doe in headlights. Just like the kiss, you’ve dreamed of saying it. Pictured it somewhere romantic, your makeup perfect and the breeze running through your hair. Dean falling to his knees after, kissing your hands before sweeping you off your feet.
Instead you’re lying in the car, cum staining your tangled legs, everything in you ruined from being eaten out by the sinful mouth that haunts your dreams. Dean’s hovering over you, tongue darting over those same lips—shining with your arousal, making your thighs rub together under him—and your holding onto his flannel, both your clothing stuck to your skin from sweat.
He doesn’t fall to his knees. He just looks at you like he’s not sure it’s a dream either.
At least he still sweeps you off your feet.
Dean moves like a machine. You’re not even sure what’s happening until you’re being hit by the wind, dragged down the bench by your ankles and wrapped in one of his jackets to preserve your modesty. His dick has been hastily shoved back into his pants—the fly still fucking down—and you’re about to tell him you’d at least like your underwear before he’s picking it up and shoving it into his pocket.
“Dean!” You gasp, and he just grunts, sweeping you fully into his arms.
“Mine.” He mutters under his breath, looking around the parking lot like he’s still trying to orient himself. “I- I gotta, fuck-“
Gently, you reach up and turn his chin in the direction of your motel room. “Over there, De.” You mumble, and he nods tightly.
He’s fully back under. You don’t bother to struggle or try and convince him that you can walk, because you’re not even sure you could. It’s not worth distressing Dean over anyway.
Despite his fever soaring and gaze being fogged by the curse, he manages you gently. When you get into the room you’re tossed on the bed and pinned back down for his mouth to work you open again, but the brusing grip is full of care, his mouth worshipful on your pussy. After that he’s rising over your body, ripping clothing like it’s a personal offense on his sensibilities and descending over you with another feral growl.
Your legs are shoved apart, but he rubs a hand over your calves almost reverently. Staring at your glistening, abused pussy with a look of pride and affection, gaze slowly dragging up your flushed breasts and thoroughly marked neck to meet yours.
You give him a honeyed, coaxing smile. You’re his to take, if he wants it.
He makes a low sound from his chest, and starts to kiss up your body. You gasp when his lips wrap around one of your peaked nipples, sucking gently until your grinding up into him. His hand splays over your stomach, gently guiding you back down, and you whine desperately.
“Patience.” He hums, kissing over your breast before switching to the other nipple. “Gonna take care of you. Fuck- You’re so beautiful, so fuckin’-“
Dean moans to himself, and you whimper his name, yanking on his hair.
But there’s no rushing him. He plays with your tits until he’s had his fill—when they’re swollen and you’re arching into every touch—then works back down to your pussy. Tasting your arousal, soaked and messy and almost shamefully dripping down his hand when he touches you.
He doesn’t seem to mind it at all though.
“Messy girl.” He grunts, twisting one finger inside of you. “Think you’re ready for some cock, aren’t you. Gonna take me, princess? Show me how much you love me?”
You blink at him through tears, on the brink of screaming his he doesn’t let you cum again soon. When you nod it’s like a bobblehead, and you only remember his orders from before at the last second.
“Yes.” You gasp. “Yes, Dean, please-“
Again, he moves.
You’re almost a ragdoll in his arms. A ragdoll that he moves like you’re threaded from gold, tossing you around and gripping your hips so hard you’ll have a handprint in the morning, but kissing over every hickey on your neck and muttering words of low, tender praise every second.
“Good girl.” He mutters as he drags his cock between your pussy lips. “Good fuckin’ girl, already cockdrunk and stupid for me, aren’t you. Love taking you like this, looking at you all pretty and dumb-“
You whine, head lolling to the side. Dean slides two fingers into your mouth and you suck on them like candy, taking anything he’ll offer.
He growls, dick catching on your entrance, and you shiver, looking up at him under fluttering eyes.
Dean drags you up like you weigh nothing, slowly sitting you down on his massive cock, and every thought but his name is driven from your head.
He’s thick. So think you almost don’t think you can take it, but your whine of protest is only met by cooing, filthy praise in your ears and careful circles around your clit. You don’t know how he can still be so far into the curse and able to restrain himself from rutting you like a beast.
Probably because it’s Dean. That feels like explanation enough.
It takes a moment for him to bottom out, and when he does you’re sure you’ve never been this full. He’s hitting places inside of you that you hadn’t known existed, dropping you into a pool of pleasure that makes your breathing stuttered, your nails scratching over his shoulders as you try to keep yourself from floating away.
Dean kisses you, hot and deep. You moan against him and he grabs your hips, starting to roll you up and down on his cock. You can tell he’s experimenting again, trying to figure out where he hits the deepest, working you open until you’re riding his cock smoothly your head falling back as pants of his name leave your mouth.
It’s paradise. Your toes are curling with every twitch of his cock inside you, every rush of heat when he slams extra hard and hits your cervix. It takes him takes him some time to decide how he wants you , and you’d laugh at what he settles on if the air wasn’t being fucked from your lungs.
Dean cums while holding you in his lap, his thrusts getting short and a groan of your name falling from his mouth when he ruts up, his cock pumping hot release inside of you and your own orgasm rolling through your body like an electrical storm. But then you’re being picked up and flipped around so your back is pressed to his chest, his arm locking around your neck and his hand returning to your clit as his fucks up into you. Then you’re moved forward onto the mattress, Dean turning your face so he can hear your moans and keeping your ass into the air as he slams from behind, his balls slapping against your clit and bringing you back up to the edge.
You’re in his lap again, folded under him with your knees to your chest, rolled on top of him so he can play with your tits and watch you ride.
Every time he cums, you’re thrown into a new position and held there until you both fall back over the edge. You’ve never been wrecked like this before, your head empty, pussy drenching his cock as he spills and claims every spot on your body.
“Dirty fuckin’ girl,” he growls into your ear from below you, dragging his fingers down your inner thigh, gathering his release on his fingers. “So pretty, bouncing on this cock, my pretty fuckin’ baby-“
“Dean.” You whine, scraping at his chest. “Dean, feels so good, so fucking good-“
“I know.” He coos. “Made for me, getting so fucking stupid on my cock- Open.”
He slaps your cheek lightly, and your lips part. Dean feeds you his cum, other hand rubbing up and down your spine, and you grind down onto him with need.
“Good girl, fuckin’- Christ you’re so good-“ His thrusts get shorter, brutal and uneven. “You’re mine, this sweet pussy is mine, gonna- Gonna fuckin’ worship you, fuck-“
He drills up into you, taking his hand away to bounce you how he likes.
You both cum, Dean calling your name and throwing his head back, watching you under hooded, still hungry eyes.
There’s a second to catch your breath, as he palms your breast. Pinches a nipple, rolling it between his fingers, watching how you arch into his touch.
“You like that?” He grunts, and you hum.
“Feels good.”
“Damn right it does.” He grabs the other one, working them in tandem.
You whine his name, looking at him under pleading lashes.
Dean groans. “Fuck, baby…”
He’s hard again, and you’re being moved into another position.
By the time he finds one he wants to keep, you’re a disaster of a woman. Making sounds that are supposed to be his name, boneless below him and still trying to chase more, even as your body turns into a raw, live nerve.
Dean’s got you under him again, his body pressed over yours, cock plunging in and out of your pussy at a lazy, torturous pace. You’ve been like this for what must be an hour, maybe a day, maybe fifty years. Tears of pleasure are stained on your cheeks, there’s a wet sound with every thrust as his cum leaks out of your stuffed hole, and Dean’s praise is becoming more and more lucid.
“I love you.” He mutters, and you moan, turning your head to try and kiss him.
“Dean…”
“I know.” He mutters. “I know, baby, but you’re doin’ so good. Feeling better, almost done, just gotta-“
He kisses over your face, finally capturing your lips as he starts to rut, pounding into your swollen g-spot over and over.
You barely have the energy to arch up, when you cum. You breathe out his name, pussy clenching as you feel that last bit of his cum squirt into you, and a wet, hot feeling floods your pussy as your vision goes white.
“Love you.” Dean’s still muttering as you float through the haze, his lips pressed over yours. “Loved you forever, never- Never thought-“
His voice cracks, and you know the curse is over. He’s not getting hard again inside of you, not trying to chase more.
Just pressing his face into the crook of your neck and holding you tight, words muffled against your skin.
“Thank you.” He mutters. “Thank you for- For sayin’ it back, even if that wasn’t-“
“It was,” you breathe out. He needs to know. “I love you, Dean. Have for longer.”
He chuckles, squeezing your body, and you smile into the air.
You find the strength to thread your fingers through his hair, and he hums, pressing a sweet kiss to your sensitive skin. You shiver, whining softly, and he chuckles again. Both of you too fucked out to move. You’re not sure you’re going to be able to walk in a straight line for a month.
But it was worth it.
Holding Dean here, so peacefully, was more than worth it.
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Many women would kill to share a bed with a man that looks like Dean. You are not one of those women.
Warnings/tags: one bed trope, smut, forced proximity, enemies-to-fuckers, teasing, little bit of biting, hate sex, pinch of cock warming.
Part 2!
Dean threw scissors. He had to share the bed with you.
He always throws scissors. He never learns not to, either. The annoying thing is that Dean's not stupid. He's the opposite, frustratingly enough. He's observant, good with his hands and the first to call bullshit. His ignorance lies with his tractability. Dean's tensile. Flexible. His dad's moulded him. John's created a new and improved version of himself; a disciplined hunter that shoots first, asks questions never.
Dean's got his dad's drawbacks too, though.
Sam might not call him out on it, fraternal loyalties and all that, but you've got no such inclination. You call it how you see it, and how you see it is that Dean's an irresponsible, inconsiderate asshole so absorbed in his own skewed principles that it'll get him killed one day.
It's safe to say you're not his biggest fan. The feelings mutual.
In Dean's eyes, you can never be right. He thinks you're soft and petulant. Not quick enough on the draw. He doesn't have to say it, but you know he doesn't trust you to have his six for no other reason but that you're a girl, because shouldn't you be doing girly things, like crocheting, or baking, or walking barefoot on a patio knocked up with baby number four?
Sam insists otherwise, stresses that Dean doesn't really think that, it's just leftover John he's yet to shake. In a way, you agree, and you almost feel bad for him, but then you catch Dean gawping at some waitress' chest and any sympathy you might have had vanishes.
Worst of all? He's a bed hog.
"Move over, Dean!" You hiss, blindly kicking out a leg to push him back over the unspoken boundary you've created down the middle of the bed.
Your foot connects with the jut of his hip and he grumbles, "Christ, you've got some bedside manner, don't you, sweetheart?"
He shuffles infinitesimally. You're still clinging to the edge of the mattress. It's hot. Very, extremely hot. There's desert as far as the eye can see and the A.C only works sporadically, but even then, the air it coughs out isn't enough to make a dent in the Arizonian heat. Your attire isn't helping either. You'd planned to sleep in some thin vest and underwear, but Dean's eyes kept darting down to your nipples through the sheer fabric, so you didn't dare forego proper trousers.
Dean's got no shame; he flung everything off save for some flatteringly hugging boxers the moment you'd finished brushing your teeth. You hate how he's, objectively, incredibly attractive. He really is. Those glinting eyes the colour of jade framed with dark, thick lashes. That rakish smile. His capable hands. How he's the furthest thing from belt-shy.
You can't not know that's he's got a big dick. From the rave reviews given by one night stands, to the unwanted eyefuls you get when you catch him off guard, you've lived alongside Dean long enough to become regrettably well-acquainted with all his nooks and crannies. And you hate that you're ultimately still a hot-blooded woman, because you get all red in the face and twitchy between the thighs every time you catch a glimpse of him in the nude.
"Stop squirmin' so much. M'tryna sleep." Dean snaps over his shoulder, and you can see the impatient downturn of his brow even in the shadows. Your nostrils flare, but you don't respond, simply curl further in on yourself while sweating bullets.
He groans when you switch to lie on your side again, "Seriously, woman! What's the matter?"
"What's the matter?" You parrot, incredulous, "The matter is, Dean, that it's like I'm trying to sleep in a sauna! I'm boiling!"
You wriggle onto your back and fan your face with your hand. It doesn't help much. The bed creeks as Dean turns over, eyes narrowed as he regards you. He's looking rather scathingly at your pyjamas.
"Yeah, no shit, you're wearing too much."
That stops you. Self-conscious, you fold your arms over your chest and glare upwards at the static ceiling fan, "That's not the point."
"You're right, it's not the point. It's the problem. Lemme fix it," He's moving before you can open your mouth to respond. Dean's nimble fingers dive beneath the hem of your pyjama bottoms and manage to yank them down halfway before you're scrambling upright, "Don't be so fuckin' frigid. It's just legs. I've seen 'em before."
You slap his prying hands away until he relents, throwing them up in defeat. Your chest's heaving with outrage. Partly because he's right, partly because of his audacity. The trousers pool around your knees and your fingers flex around the waistline, debating whether you should stick it out or just give in.
"You've got a nice ass. Don't hide it." You can hear the amusement in Dean's voice, the tail-end of a smirk visible in the smattering of moonlight bleeding through the blinds.
You suck in a sharp inhale, "You're disgusting."
"And you're gonna overheat. It's only a big deal if you make it one." He shrugs, and for once, you can't find the words to argue with him.
Cautiously, you shuffle the rest of your trousers down, accusatory eyes on Dean the entire time. He's feigning interest in something behind you, but you can sense he's watching. You immediately turn your back on him and squeeze your eyes shut, wishing sleep will swoop in and save you from this mortifying situation. Sleep is a cruel mistress, however, because you've never felt more awake in your life.
You're very aware of the fact that Dean's in arms-reach and even more aware of the fact that he's chosen to remain lying facing your back. You feel tension coiling in your shoulders. Coiling elsewhere too.
You can feel a traitorous puddle of wetness pooling in your underwear. Shame laced with arousal blares deep within your abdomen, sending even more heat crawling up your body. You hate when Dean manhandles you, but your cunt loves it. You can still vividly recall a time when he threw you over his shoulders like a sack of potatoes after some argument you've long since forgotten. You'd thumped his back and howled, face contorted with rage, but between your legs, you were drenched straight through.
It only makes you fidget more. Everything's uncomfortable. Your vest is scratchy, your underwear is sticking to you and you're so fucking warm. Your teeth are clenched as you, as unobtrusively as you can manage, dip a hand down to readjust your underwear. You're appalled at the state of yourself and your arm flies into your side like you've been burned.
"You're squirming again." Dean's voice makes you jump. He sounds tired, tenor all raspy and gravelly in a way that has your chest exploding with nerves.
You're as still as stone at his observation, "I'm getting comfy."
"Liar," He murmurs. You deliver a stern look over your shoulder, but it falters as you see just how close he's sidled up to your side of the bed. Close enough that you can see his face is cleaved with mischief, "You're horny," He asserts, grinning, "Hot and bothered. I can see it."
Any meaningful response gets caught in your throat. You settle on scowling at him, "Just because you're always horny doesn't mean everyone else is."
"No, it doesn't," Dean hums affirmatively and his tongue flicks out to swipe over his lips. You watch the gesture, transfixed, before catching yourself and forcing your cheek back against your pillow, away from him, "But you are right now. If you're not, why won't you look at me properly?"
"Because I don't want to." You riposte. It's flimsy.
Dean laughs. Silence falls next, and you think you've convinced him, until you feel the unmistakable warmth of his bare chest connect with your back. His hand surfs languorously over your hip, down the slope of your stomach that sucks in under his touch, and splays out just underneath your ribcage. His nose brushes the shell of your ear.
"So you won't mind me doing this?" He mumbles, so brazen and cocksure that it has your fingers crooking into your palms. Dean's thumb swipes the underside of your breast. It has your breaths come in sharper bursts, "Or this?"
Stiffly, you shake your head, because you don't trust yourself to speak. You're overflowing with a heady fusion of fury and lust. You can't tell which emotion is strong, so you remain stagnant, a bundle of tension.
Dean presses his hand to your stomach to guide your ass to sit squarely against his lap. The quiver of his cock against you is undeniable, "How about this? This- Is this all good for you?"
"It's nothing." You chime in feebly. You can feel another arrogant smile taking over his lips as he nuzzles into the back of your head. He nips your ear, and it takes you by surprise, causing you to jerk. The gesture makes his cock, still bound by those flimsy excuse for boxers, slide against your hip.
He grunts, and it's right by your ear, sending a shiver skittering down your spine, "Shit, well, good for you, sweetheart. I'm hard enough to break a fuckin' rock."
You don't need a reminder, but Dean rolls his hips up against you again, keeping you pinned to him with a firm hand on your abdomen for good measure anyways. His forehead flattens to your shoulder, and you can feel the heat emanating off of him. Circling his forearm across the width of your stomach, Dean grinds himself into your lower back, his lips dotting sedate pecks down the sweep of your neck.
If you weren't antsy before, you sure were now. It was torture feeling the slow drag of his clothed dick against your back. There's a niggling voice scolding you inside your head as, mindlessly, you bend to his will, head slanting back to grant Dean access to the expanse of your throat. His other hand is slithering underneath you to grip your chin, tipping it even further as his teeth graze the tendon bulging in your neck.
Your hand flies to brace yourself against his arm, "Oh, bite me, asshole."
"Yeah? That an invitation?" He croons, sucking an obscene, wet kiss into the sensitive skin. Dean's index and middle finger pushes harder at your jaw until he can watch your throat bob as you swallow uncertainly, "I wanna. Always wanna. You're fuckin' gorgeous, you know that? Even when you're mouthing off," He cuts himself off with a low chuckle before correcting himself, "Especially when you're mouthing off."
He bites down. Only lightly, not enough to break the skin. Just a pinch that leaves the faint indent of his teeth in your skin. You whine when he traces the outline with his tongue. Dean relinquishes his grip on your chin to glide his hand down your throat, down your sternum to catch a handful of your breasts. He's unrestrained. There's no shame in the way his thumb draws tormenting circles around your nipple. It's like he knew, in some way, that this outcome was only inevitable.
And if that's so, you might as well enjoy yourself. You reach around, delving between the two of you to palm at his bulge. It catches him off guard enough that his grip on your breast tautens. Dean pulls himself back together enough to rut into the crude fist you make around him.
"God, if Sammy knew about this-"
"Don't talk about your brother while I've got my hand down your pants. Don't make this weird." You rebuke, plunging your hand past his boxers to grip him properly. His puffs of breath become shallower in your ear as you ghost the head of his cock.
Dean sucks his teeth, "Yes, ma'am."
Because this isn't weird. It's really not. It's hardly sex with Dean if you don't kiss him and don't look at him. That makes it just sex, which makes it totally acceptable. Totally palatable. You repeat that manta in your head as you snatch the hand that's pawing at your chest and shove it down to cup between your legs. He's grinning into your shoulder when his fingers find the messy slickness of your cunt.
"This for me?" He slithers one finger to rest, unmoving, atop your fluttering clit. He's full of it. You sniff, recalcitrant, pretending a fresh wave of wetness hadn't leaked into your underwear at his measly touch.
"Not really."
Dean snickers, mumbling in your ear, "Think it's for me."
He gives your clit one unsatisfying tweak and his hands disappear from you. There's a rustling that confuses you before you see his boxers pinging across the room, landing with a soft thud. Your own underwear soon lies abandoned on top of his.
Dean ventures to flip you one your back, at his mercy, but before he can straddle you, you wrangle him back down. He makes a pitiful little noise and clutches at your hip, trying to tempt you sideways, but you peel his fingers off. You remain facing the door, back to him, and throw a glimpse over your shoulder.
"It doesn't count if I can't see you and don't kiss you." You clarify. His eyebrows raise, skeptical.
"I don't think it works that way."
"It's gonna have to work that way unless you want to jerk yourself off, alone, in the bathroom."
Dean complies with haste. He sculpts himself to the arch of your back, face nestling to the nape of your neck. He nudges your legs apart just far enough to kiss the tip of his cock against your entrance. His length delivers taunting undulations to your cunt, smearing your already sticky thighs further. You extend a hand behind you to smooth over his cheek. It's hot to the touch.
He worms his fingers to ghost over your lower stomach, "Gonna be all up in here soon."
Your lips twitch in amusement, "Don't flatter yourself."
In reprisal, Dean shunts the first few inches of him with little forewarning. Your teeth bite down into your lower lip to stifle a yelp. The last thing you need is his ego growing larger than it already is. He shushes you, and the sound is patronising. His thumb begins to massage rotations around your clit. It works magic in alleviating the sting of your walls fighting to accommodate him.
"What's wrong?" Dean simpers, setting a dilatory pace as you adjust. His lips enfold over the faded mark left by his teeth earlier and he sucks it in a way you just know will leave a garish purple bruise, "Can't take it? Where's all that attitude you always give me gone, huh?"
"I'd rather you used your dick instead of acting like one." You mutter, spurring him closer with a hand to the back of his head. Your nails claw at his scalp when he takes the liberty of giving your clit another punitive tweak.
Dean slows to a halt. He's about half-way, and you've passed the point of it aching to the point of leaving a shiny ring around the run of his cock, "Yeah. Yeah, you're right, sweetheart. I should just rip the band-aid off."
He uses the hand that had been toying with your cunt to tug you flush to him, and in effect, buries himself to the hilt inside of you. Dean dabs open-mouthed kisses over the slant of your shoulder. It alleviates the initial throb of his cock being burrowed in the deepest region of you. You won't give him the satisfaction of telling him, but it really does he feel like he's wedged in your lower stomach. Tears prickle your lash line.
"Fuck." You manage, winded. Dean caresses the angle of your jaw with the tip of his nose.
"Yeah, fuck," He echoes, tone still haughty but now with a new shaky undertone. With how close he is, you can feel each and every one of his muscles vellicate, "Wish I'd done this sooner. We coulda avoided a whole lot of hassle."
You, for one of the first times in your life, nod in agreement. He, frankly, could've probably suggested anything and you'd be hard pressed to dissent when he's this deep inside you. His jaw is strained as he leverages himself against your hip to slide his cock in and out, all tentative as he figures out his flow. Dean finds one soon enough that has your eyelids drooping and toes curling.
The bed frame whimpers. Its screech is only rivalled by the inarguable noise of skin on skin and raspy moans. Like the rest of him, he's loud in bed. Loud in your ear. And, like the rest of him, you want to hate it so much that you go the wrong way and end up loving it. His hand swamping your hip is nearly blanched at the knuckle.
Dean's head lowers itself against your shoulder blade, "You're killing me, woman."
It's a whisper. Almost inaudible over the clamour you're creating, but you hear it nonetheless. With a grin, you bend your neck to brush your lips over his forehead. His head jolts up so fast, it almost connects with your nose. Dean's lashes bat wildly.
"Fuck you, you won't kiss me but you'll do that?" He criticises, a pretty furrow dawning between his brows and his rhythm falters. You tickle your nose down the bridge of his, mouth so alluring close to consuming his, until you snap your head back with thinly concealed glee.
"Have to earn it." You decide with a sigh. You're talking out your ass, but you feel you need some sort of arbitrary boundary for your own sake. A boundary to mitigate things.
Dean huffs, "Earn it," He chews it over, bitter, and drives into your cunt in more purposeful strides. You gasp, fisting the pillow for succour, "I'll fuckin' earn it. I'll earn it til I can kiss you whenever the fuck I like."
You're undecided on whether that sounds like the best idea ever or a recipe for disaster. He's lost his swagger now, though. Dean's fingers are clumsy as they stumble their way over your side and down between your thighs. You're both shaking like live wires when the snap of his hips begin to crumble in steadiness, the cracks of desperation showing in his cavalier armour.
He sounds heavenly as he cums. He groans in your ear, muffled by your hair, and it's truly guttural. Filthy. It's what jostles you over the edge, that alongside the subtle pulse of his cock relaxing inside you and the dogged swipes he rubs to your clit. It rips something formidable from you and you wouldn't be surprised if it turned out the room opposite heard.
Dean retreats his hand to distend over your ribs. Not pulling you in, just idling there. As though recuperating. He doesn't appear to have the energy to pull out, and you don't really want him to. It's still sweltering in the room, but charged with the intimate warmth of sex. It's a fuzzy warmth now. Less unbearable.
"I threw it on purpose, by the way."
"Mhm?"
His chin fits beautifully in the crook of your neck. A roughish smile upturns his lips, "Scissors. I threw scissors on purpose so I could share the bed with you."
You roll your eyes. At least he's learned, "Typical."
summary: Dean will never feel anything for you but friendship, and you have long accepted that. So what's getting him all worked up about you receiving a bit too much attention from one of your witnesses?
warnings: mutual pining, jealousy, idiots in love, friends to lovers, lightly implied age gap, smut (unprotected p in v, creampie, mentions of fingering & oral - f receiving, dumbification, love confessions during the act lmao), a lot of fighting but they're soft for each other, cursing, um ig reader is a little bit of a crybaby and it's mentioned that dean takes care of her
word count: 8.7k words
a/n: if this is bad please don't tell me lol
You don’t have to fake your skittishness as you twirl restlessly on the stool, elbows sticking to the dirty bar counter. The bottle of beer in front of you looks grossly unappealing but you catch Dean’s gaze from across the bar and he raises his eyebrows at you expectantly. You bring the rim to your lips and try not to wince as the bitter, lukewarm liquid goes down.
You do your best to look out of place and uncomfortable, but something tells you that you don’t have to try too hard. The bar is dimly lit and grimy, with deer heads watching you sullenly from the wall. They’re not the only eyes on you. The bar is reasonably busy but there is only one other woman present, and she’s behind the bar. There’s a sinking feeling in your gut and you’re determined that you will never take over Sam’s gig again.
Dean saunters over, cool and cocky, the way you had seen a million times before - but this time he’s sauntering over to you like that. And it makes your stomach do strange, pathetic things.
“Hey baby, you here alone?” he asks, getting up in your space in a way that should be creepy but isn’t because it’s Dean.
“Um yeah,” you mutter, because you may have to fake your body language, leaning away from him in a way that’s supposed to express discomfort, but you don’t have to fake your shyness.
“Lemme buy you a drink. Pretty thing like you shouldn’t be left alone.”
“I’m good, thanks,” you say, twisting your beer bottle around.
“C’mon, just one drink. I don’t bite unless you want me to,” he says smirking, and the way he says it is so unlike Dean, it sets your teeth on edge. If you were really a girl he was trying to pick up, he would have taken no for an answer, but left the door open for you to change your mind, which you inevitably would. He would have said something like; ‘If you’re sure. You know where to find me, baby’ and taken his seat back with a flirty wink. He wouldn’t have insisted or thrown that corny, overused innuendo at you.
“No, really, I’m okay. Thank you.” And you’re squashing your eyebrows together, squirming in your seat, trying to look intimidated but this is Dean and nothing about him is intimidating. Not to you.
“It’s just one fuckin’ drink, bitch. Don’t be such a stuck-up priss.”
Dean’s a good actor but you know he feels remotely uncomfortable having to say any of this to you. It doesn’t matter. The man beside you, taller than Dean but not quite as broad, stands up off his stool.
“Didn’t you hear the lady? She said she doesn’t want a drink, punk.”
Dean makes a big show of backing off, raising his hands in submission and muttering something about how he was ‘only trying to be nice’, before backing away to his table once again. You turn to your saviour with a smile that you hope is radiant.
“Thank you so much,” you simper. “That got a bit scary for a second.”
He looks nice. He is lightly tanned with wavy brown hair, soft green eyes and a handsome smile that verges on shy. You think that this must be what Sam would look like, if life had been a little kinder to him.
“Don’t mention it,” he says with a modest shrug. “God, I can’t stand guys like that. I’m sorry you had to deal with that.”
“Happens more often than you think. Not many people would step in like you just did.”
His chest puffs out like a pigeon at the praise. “Maybe it’s because I’m a cop, but I can’t stand when people sit around and do nothing when something like that is happening in front of them. Makes me sick.”
“You’re a cop?” you ask, smiling and trying to do that ‘doe-eyed shit’ that Dean always accuses you of. It’s harder to do on demand. “That’s so cool, I really admire you guys. Your job must be really hard.”
He shrugs again, cheeks going a dusty pink. “It’s worth it if I can get to help people. But yeah, it can get a bit hairy sometimes.”
“I bet,” you sigh. “I heard about this weird killing spree in the next town over. Those guys sure aren’t living the dream right now. I can’t imagine all the things they have to see.”
He straightens up immediately, animation dropping from his face. “Actually, I- uh, I’m working on those cases right now. You’re right, it’s not pretty.”
You’re losing him. His eyes are drifting away from you, away from the conversation. He’s searching for an out. You’re dimly aware of Dean’s eyes on you from afar, boring holes into your head. In a blind panic, your eyebrows shoot to your hairline, one hand reaching out to his arm in a consoling manner. His eyes drop just once to where your hand meets his wax, green jacket and you feel him coming back to you.
“Oh my god, I’m so sorry for bringing that up,” you say, teeth worrying your lip with anxiety that you don’t really have to falsify. “I had no idea. I’m a bit of a true crime junkie, but the last thing you want to do is talk about that right now on your time off. I’m just gonna go. It was nice meeting you and thanks for, uh-” You make a vague gesture towards Dean, who is still watching you with dark eyes.
“No,” he says, hand moving over your own one on his arm to stop you from moving. He smiles in such a genuine way, it almost makes you feel guilty. “I can let you in on a couple secrets if you promise to keep it between us.”
You brush your hair behind your ear and laugh, soft and shy.
“I’m Jeremy, by the way.”
You have to stop yourself from saying I know.
“Sold it a bit too hard back there,” Dean grumbles, leaning against Baby with his arms folded and watching you dart out of the bar. He’s wearing an irritated scowl.
“Don’t be an ass,” you say, rolling your eyes as you open the car door and slide into the passenger seat. It’s not often that you get to ride shotgun and it feels weird - like you’ve suddenly become more important. Dean follows. “You’re the one that told me to ‘charm the pants off him’ if I remember correctly, so-”
“Yeah, charm him,” he says. “I didn’t say to fuckin’ feel him up.”
“Feel him up?” you splutter with a half-laugh as Dean pulls out of the drive. “You’re ridiculous. I put a hand on his arm. I’ve seen you do worse.”
“Yeah, whatever. You get anything outta him?”
You launch into the story and try to share all the same bits that Sam usually does. You tell him how the victims were all men in their early 20s, recently discharged from a hospital not far away. How the cops are currently questioning the hospital staff but haven’t found anything suspicious just yet. You describe all the gnarly injuries, all the pieces of evidence left behind.
“Um- I think that’s it,” you say, eyebrows furrowing together as you try to figure out whether there is anything you left out.
“That’s it?” Dean says with surprise, eyes shifting from the road to you briefly. “You were in there for damn near an hour. Thought this was about to be some fuckin’ Sherlock Holmes shit.”
“Well I couldn’t just leave straight away once he gave me the information, Dean,” you say, frowning at him. “That’s suspicious. And rude.”
He squeezes his eyes shut for a second and shakes his head. “Never mind. What hospital is it?”
You bite your lip, face flushing. “Um- I don’t know. Should I have asked?”
“Goddamnit, sweetheart-”
“I can ask!”
“Ask who?” Dean frowns.
“Jeremy. The cop from the bar. I mean, I probably can’t just call him up and ask him outright but if I tell him I want to meet up then maybe I could-”
“You exchanged numbers?”
“Well yes,” you say, watching Dean carefully. He is looking more wound up by the second. “He asked and I couldn’t really say no after talking for so long. Besides, it’s useful now because I can ask him what hospital it was.”
“Jesus Christ. I asked you to charm information out of him, not to start a fuckin’ fling-”
“Well maybe you should have waited for Sam or done it yourself!” you say, voice raising in frustration. Your lip is wobbling a little bit and it feels like barbed wire is tightening around your throat. “I’m no good at this stuff, the flirting for information. I get nervous. You know that.”
Dean takes one look glance at you out of the corner of his eye and all his exasperation slips away. He lets out a puff of breath and his body deflates with it, eyes going soft and gooey like they always do when you get upset. It makes you feel like a kid in a horrid, humiliating way, but it’s better than being on the receiving end of his frustration. Dean being annoyed at you is your own personal hell. Of course, he doesn’t know that. He doesn’t know anything about that and you’d like to keep it that way for as long as you possibly can.
“Hey now, none of that. I’m sorry, sweetheart. I’ll find out what hospital is it, don’t you worry about it.”
You nod once and turn to face out the window, still fighting the unsteady feeling in your throat and behind your eyes. Damn him - you’re so soft when it comes to Dean. No matter how much you rebel against it, no matter how many phases of denial or resistance you go through, you just can’t fight how you react to him.
He is still giving you cautious looks whenever he can pry his eyes away from the road. “C’mon, sweetheart. Y’mad at me?”
You shake your head because you don’t trust your voice to carry anything, but you still don’t look at him. He sighs and pulls in to a gas station at the side of the road. It’s one of those small, Americana-style ones you’d find on route 66. You can’t imagine he can get very much in there. He gets out without saying anything and you flinch as the car door slams shut.
You tap your fingers against the window as you wait for him and think resentfully about the fact that he, and he alone, seems to determine whether you’re going to have a good day or a bad one. One smile is enough to make you feel the sun on your skin even when the clouds are out, but his disapproval or disappointment shatters you in a way that not much else can.
It’s hard to remember a time when that wasn’t the case. You look back on your life before the Winchesters as boring - insignificant, even. It’s probably pathetic and un-feminist to admit, but it’s true.
The before of your life seems grey. Before Sam convinced Dean to let you tag along with them because you had nowhere else to go. Before you managed to convince him that you were more than just a burden - that you could help with their jobs. Before you wormed your way into his heart, even if it’s not in the capacity that you might have wished for.
When Dean slides back into the car, he has a cherry cola and a pack of those sour green gummy worms that make your face scrunch up and your tonsils hurt. They’re your favourite.
He watches you as you take them from his hands and when you smile, so does he.
Dean finds out which hospital it is two days later. You’re not sure whether he called up Sam, who is out of commission in a motel a few towns back with the flu, or if he did some digging of his own while you were asleep. But he’s tugging on his jacket by the time you wake up in the motel bed, bleary eyed and sore from the awkward position you slept in.
“Dean?” Your voice is thick with sleep. “Where are you going?”
“I’m headin’ out to the hospital to poke around. It’s early. You go back to sleep, I’ll be quick.”
You would usually fight him on this, but your body is tired, having only recently shaken off the flu that you had so kindly passed on to Sam. You nod drowsily, a bit dizzy with sleep, and he gives you a fond, amused smile, as if you did something very funny. You watch him leave.
Your mind is too awake to drift immediately back into your stupor, and your body gradually wakes up with it. Within a few minutes, you’re too alert to even try. The red digits on the alarm clock read 7:09, and you suppose most coffee places would be open about now.
Dean has all your expensive hair products and shower gels out on the counter of the bathroom and you file that away to complain about later, even though you secretly kind of like when he uses your stuff. You like to think that he might have struck out a couple times because the woman could smell the sweet, girly scents on his skin and hair, and assumed he had a girlfriend.
The shower you take is short, only because there is a film of dirt on the shower floor that makes you feel like you might slip. Most of your clothes are in dire need of laundering so you pluck one of Dean’s plaid shirts up. You tell yourself that it’s ok because he has used something of yours too, even though you know you’re lying to yourself. This is very different. You’re wearing Dean’s shirt because some ugly, desperate part of you wants to feel close to him - wants to smell his scent on your skin. He’s explained to you why he uses your toiletries; “All that girly shit is fuckin’ luxe. Makes my skin feel like a baby’s goddamn ass”.
You check your phone for any updates from Dean before you leave the room, but you see only the same text that had been sitting there since yesterday.
JEREMY (COP FROM BAR - HOSPITAL MURDERS): I really loved meeting you last night. Let me know if you’re free any time soon. I would love to take you on a date.
You smile despite yourself as you descend the stairs of the motel, which leads directly onto the streets of the town. The guy really was sweet, but Dean’s reaction is enough to stave off any intentions to respond, even just for a ‘fling’, as he termed it. It’s hypocritical, really, that Dean has the freedom to chat up whoever he wants on a job but considers you to be ‘derailing the operation’ whenever there is the slightest hint of a connection on your end.
Ultimately, though, it’s fine. Your feeble old heart has a one-track mind and any attempts to satisfy it with some shoddy, off-brand replacement, whether for one night or more, leave you feeling sick and heartbroken. You’ve learned well enough by now that any time you try to move on, it just leaves you bereft.
It’s not even that you think that nobody can compare to Dean - not exactly. Dean is good and he’s kind and is smooth enough to make a nun blush. He’s smart, funny, loyal - the best kind of person there is. But you’ve met a lot of guys with those same qualities. It’s just Dean’s unique blend of those characteristics that you feel must have been concocted within him specifically for you.
And it’s fine that Dean flirts with other women. That he can pick up a girl as easy as others can tie their shoelaces and throw them away even easier. Because he has suffered enough and done enough good in this world to be allowed these kinds of indulgences, and you know that if he was aware of how you felt, he wouldn’t do it anymore. He would lock himself away to avoid hurting your feelings and eventually go insane with frustration and you know he would bear it for you if he thought the alternative was hurting you.
But you won’t let him. Because you love him and there aren’t many things you can do with your love. You can’t get rid of it, you can’t put it down anywhere, or give it to someone else. So you choose to love him in this strange, silent way instead. You suffer so that he doesn’t have to.
The diner you choose is straight out of one of those ‘small town America’ travel brochures. You’ve seen ones just like it in those autumnal TV comedies that you put on in the background. Sam watches them with you with mild interest, even if he pretends he dislikes them, but Dean complains about anything that isn’t chock-full with cars and guns and hot girls. It’s bright when you walk in and fairly clean, even if the red vinyl of the booths is cracking and there is a small stain on your table. A tall, pretty girl takes your order of coffee and scrambled eggs on toast and manages to bring them over to you almost immediately. The food is not great, but it’s not bad either.
“Hi there. Mind if I join you?”
Jeremy is standing in front of you, dressed in his blue uniform and hair askew. He’s smiling hesitantly, as if he’s not sure whether you’re about to tell him to get lost.
“Jeremy, hi,” you splutter, even as you do your level best to seem collected. “Of course. Please.”
He seems a lot more assured of himself as he slides into the booth in front of you, hesitant smile giving way to a charming grin. “You remember my name. That’s a good sign at least.”
You breathe an awkward laugh. “Sure I do. Wouldn’t forget. Are you on duty?”
“Nope, coming off. Just ordered some breakfast at the counter. Then I gotta head over to my niece’s seventh birthday party.”
“Ouch,” you say, wincing in an exaggerated way. “A seventh birthday party is a lot for the morning after a night shift.”
“Tell me about it. You kinda forget how loud kids are at that age.”
He uses the waitress’ name when he thanks her for bringing his order. It makes you smile.
“So you remembered my name and you’re good with me joining you, but you didn’t reply to my text,” he says with a small, teasing grin when the waitress - Justine, apparently - goes back behind the counter. “Trying to figure out what that means. Can you help me out here?”
Your face flushes with shame and mortification, your brain racing to come up with an excuse. He’s handsome and nice and not even trying to make you feel bad about the fact that you ignored him and he should be perfect for you. You should be jumping at the chance for someone like him to take you on a date.
“I’m so sorry,” you gush, real guilt pouring through. “Your text was so sweet, it was really shitty of me to not reply to you. It’s just- well, I’m only here for a couple of days and I didn’t want to waste your time.”
“Relax,” he laughs. “I wasn’t mad. Just don’t wanna be sitting here bothering you if you’re not…”
“You’re not bothering me,” you say, and it’s the truth. Jeremy smiles.
“Where do you live, if you’re not from near here?”
“I travel around a lot for work,” you say, and because you know that’s not really an answer that doesn’t raise suspicion - you add; “But technically Kansas.”
“Kansas isn’t that far from here. Just a matter of a few hours when the traffic’s light.” He’s not looking at you, cracking pepper onto his plate casually.
You’re not worth this kind of attention. Guilt, along with something much more complex and difficult to describe, gnaws low in your stomach. You know that you should be thankful that someone like him would even look twice at you, let alone suggest hours of travel to see you again after meeting you once. But your ungrateful heart can only scream that he is not Dean. Not even close.
“I’m in Kansas maybe thirty percent of the time,” you say with a regretful smile. “I really do move around a lot.”
Jeremy responds, but you don’t hear it. Because another sound has taken up your attention; something low and gravelly and something that sounds an awful lot like Dean.
Your eyes snap over to the counter where Dean has just ordered two coffees to-go. You watch in slow-motion while he looks around the diner - probably looking for a hot girl to chat up, your traitorous mind taunts you - before his gaze finds you.
Sitting in the booth.
With Jeremy.
It looks so bad - it looks planned - and you can only gawp open-mouthed as Dean stomps over, looking completely murderous. Jeremy is giving you a strange look now, wondering why you have suddenly stopped responding, but there’s nothing you can say. You feel like a mouse in a trap.
“We’re going,” Dean snaps out when he makes it all the way over, placing his hand on your arm in a firm grasp. “C’mon.”
Jeremy’s eyes darken as he stands up. “Get away from her right now,” he spits. “Or we’re gonna have a real problem.”
Dean seems to remember the part he played in that little private investigation at the same time as you. The pushy creep who wouldn't take ‘no’ for an answer. His eyes flick between yourself and Jeremy for a second, before he decides it’s not worth it to blow your cover, or to get arrested on charges of sexual harassment. He scoffs for just a second and shoots you a very unimpressed glare before walking out of the diner without his coffees.
“I told you to stay here!” Dean snaps as soon as you walk in the door to your motel room again. It has been over an hour since that moment in the diner and you had been dreading this every moment since. The rest of your breakfast was pleasant, if a little awkward after that interaction. Jeremy had insisted, insisted and insisted again on dropping you back to the motel in his cruiser in a show of gentlemanliness that did more to annoy than impress you. And sure, maybe a part of you understood that you would consider the same gesture charming if it had come from Dean, but Jeremy isn’t Dean so that doesn’t matter.
“No you didn’t,” you sigh, throwing the key onto the table.
“Well, it was fuckin’ implied.”
You give him a bewildered look before collapsing down to sit on your bed and peel off your shoes. “In exactly what way was it implied?”
“When there’s a ghost going around whacking people, your natural instinct should probably be to stay the hell outta the way.”
You roll your eyes and make sure he sees you do it. “Well I’m not a male in my early twenties, so I’m not really the target here, am I?” Your mind catches up a second later. “Wait, you found out it’s a ghost?”
“Yeah, it’s a ghost,” he replies, but he really doesn't seem to want to linger on that subject right now. “That little piggy you were with might be a male in his early twenties. You don’t know, which is why you should have stayed the hell inside.”
“He’s late twenties at the very youngest and you know it,” you say. “And since when am I not allowed to go get breakfast while on a job? Come off it, Dean.”
Dean is still furious, but he seems to be scrambling to figure out how to respond. You take advantage of his momentary speechlessness. “Tell me what you got.”
He is hesitant to drop it there, but he eventually does. He still looks displeased while he walks you through what he figured out - the fact that it’s a ghost; a female from the early 1900s who was left to rot in hospital in favour of a male patient in his early 20s and subsequently died from medical neglect. She has been enacting her revenge with a host of killings every ten years around the anniversary of her death. You will be going back to the hospital after hours, when it’s a bit quieter.
“Pretty standard job. In and out,” he shrugs, and you thought he might distract himself with the details and have gotten over the whole diner incident by the time he finished telling you about it, but he’s still not looking at you. It sends a bolt of hurt through you but you shake it off.
“Right, in and out,” you agree.
The job is simple. In and out, just like he said. You distract the receptionist by asking after a grandmother that doesn’t exist while Dean chases the leads he had found earlier. He finds the bones within thirty minutes and burns them. He’s a bit banged up by the time he makes it back to where you’re waiting in reception, clothes askew and hair mussed up with a cut or two spilling blood through his shirt, but he won’t tell you what happened except that he ‘Sorted it.’ The receptionist gives you a skeptical look when you walk out with him, but she doesn’t say anything else.
You feel exceptionally useless when you climb back into Baby. The power rush you had from riding shotgun has evaporated.
“I can’t believe you made me be the distraction again,” you mutter, scuffing your shoes against the car floor just to piss him off.
“Someone’s gotta to do it,” is all he says back. He still won’t look at you, not even to give you evils for the way you’re treating Baby. Hasn’t looked at you properly since this morning in the motel. It hurt before and it still does, but now you’re just fed up more than anything. There’s only so much awkward silence you can take.
“Dean, will you- Goddamnit, can you look at me?”
He takes a second, fingers flexing around the wheel as he pulls out of the carpark. His lips flatten into a thin line, before he looks at you for a brief second, raising his eyebrows as if to say; ‘There. Happy?’
But you’re not.
“What the hell is wrong with you? I don’t know what the big deal is. You can pretend all you want that this is about me going to get a breakfast, but it’s not is it? You just didn’t like that I was with Jeremy.”
Dean wasn’t expecting that. All exasperated sarcasm melts from his face as he steals an astonished glance at you, eyes alarmed and mouth somewhat ajar. “I don’t know what you’re-”
“You don’t want me getting distracted on a job.”
At that, he seems to relax, slipping back into the same easy grouchiness as before and you wonder what it was he thought you were getting at. “Yeah, that’s it,” he mutters lowly.
“You’re such a hypocrite,” you sigh. “How come you can do whatever you want but I can’t?”
You surprise yourself as much as you surprise him by bringing this up. That’s a subject you always stay well away from - Dean and girls. You look away and pretend not to hear when Sam teases him after he stumbles into the motel room the day after a job ends. You’ve smelt all kinds of perfume on him - sweet, spicy, cheap expensive and say nothing. You excuse yourself to go to the bathroom so you can stop yourself from retching when he approaches some random table in a bar and shoots a suave smile to someone who isn’t you. But it’s spilling out of you now; not because you can’t hold it in anymore (because you can and you will until the end of time), but because it’s simply not fair. You couldn't move on if you tried, you know this, but who is he to tell you whether or not you can try?
“Because, sweetheart, it’s different,” he says, and the word ‘sweetheart’ is uttered almost sarcastically, in a way you had never heard before. You had always been his only sweetheart - one of the only things he could give you and you alone, but it was always said with a sort of gentle veneration - never like this. It feels tainted now. No longer yours.
“How is it different, Dean?” You’re trying to keep that damned barbed wire from closing in on your throat again. Trying, for once, to not be the baby that cries too easily and loves too easily and gives herself away to him for nothing in return.
“Because those girls don’t mean anything. They’re not distractions,” he explains, voice thick and low. “But you can’t have someone who doesn’t mean anything. You carry on with that asshole and you’ll end up in some fuckin’ picket fence house with a wraparound porch.”
He’s halfway there. He’s right, of course. You couldn’t just have an indistinct someone who doesn’t mean anything. You could never let them warm your bed without making yourself feel ill and blue - you had tried it before and it didn’t work out well.
But he really doesn’t understand that you could go on a hundred dates with Jeremy or with anyone else and you still wouldn't end up anywhere but right here. Following Dean around like a slobbering puppy. Because your sick, stubborn heart decided what it wanted years ago and has not forgotten.
Dean must mistake your silence for something else, because he watches you wearily, frustration falling away from his face and giving way to a panicked sort of concern. “Unless that’s…” he coughs nervously. “Unless that’s what you want.”
“That’s not what I want,” you confirm glibly. You don’t mention that it could be what you want, if he decided that it was what he wanted too. It’s your turn to avoid his eyes now. You watch the rain stream down the car window.
“C’mon, I’m tired of fightin’ with y’, sweetheart,” he says and the designation of ‘sweetheart’ is once again yours to claim. He is speaking to you sweetly, coaxing you out of your corner. But tears are springing to your eyes so you keep them trained away from him.
It’s mostly for his benefit, that you hide this from him. It’s not his fault that your world is moved by his hands alone. It’s not his fault that all his attempts to take care of you have worked so well that they backfired and hurt you.
“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t’ve-” he sighs and you can hear him running his hand through his hair, even though you can’t see it. You can smell a burst of your shampoo when he does it. “I don’t know how to… Did I upset you?”
You don’t say anything for a moment, and he seems ready to speak again.
“I don’t want the… picket fence and porch,” you say, tracing raindrops with your fingers. There’s a wobble in your voice. “But it would be nice to just have someone, maybe.”
That ‘someone’ is Dean, obviously. But you can still dream of someday breaking free of these feelings - finding someone else. You won’t feel a fraction of this intensity for them but that would be ok, that would be alright. And they wouldn’t look at you the way Dean does and they wouldn’t be able to make you laugh like he can but you would learn to live with that, maybe even learn to numb your feelings for Dean from this fire into a dull ache.
Because what good is your love for Dean when you’ve had to debase it so many times? You’ve tried to bastardise it - to turn it platonic, to turn it familial, even to get rid of it altogether and none of it ever works. It returns to you, defiled and wounded but no weaker, every single time.
“You could have me.”
Even the tears in your eyes can’t stop you from looking over at Dean now. You’re searching for any sign that he might be making some sort of joke, but you can’t find it. His eyes are trained firmly on the road, a worried pinch between his brows. You almost feel like you imagined it.
“I… What?”
“If you wanted to have someone. You could have me.”
Your breath feels stuck in your lungs. Dean has no idea what he’s saying; how unintentional cruel he is being to you. You have no idea whether he means as a friend or as a warm body to satisfy some part of your longing. You don’t want to think too long about whether he means the latter - because you’re deathly afraid that you are weak enough to accept his offer and then the whole thing really will fall apart.
“I didn’t mean it in that way. I meant-”
“I know what you meant. I want to be that. For you.”
He is speaking so uncharacteristically soft. It’s not the same soft that he offers you when you’re scared or upset, the confident arm around your shoulder while he coos and comforts. This is another kind of soft. He always looks tired, but right now he looks exhausted. You’ve only seen him look this vulnerable a handful of times and you feel a strange discomfort when you realise each time has been when he was speaking about his dad.
You are soaking in his words as he puts the car in park outside the motel. Crickets croak to fill the silence between you. He is sneaking glances and you know him well enough to know that he is trying to get a read on you.
“Why?” you land on eventually.
He frowns. “The hell do you mean why?”
“Why are you offering to-? You don’t need to feel sorry for me, or whatever-”
Dean laughs, more angry than amused. “You really think I’d tell you I want to be with you because I feel sorry for you? I’m fuckin’…” Dean sighs, face twitching with discomfort and awkwardness. “I think if you just gave it a chance, I could maybe be the someone you’re talkin’ about. Maybe.”
Your face flushes with heat and your brain feels like the scrambled eggs you had for breakfast. Your mind is racing to make sense of what you’re hearing - he could ‘maybe be your someone’? “What…”
Dean shuts down, as if a sudden door slams over that vulnerability he had shown you just a minute ago. “Y’know what, forget it-”
“No!”
He pauses, his hand going still on the car door. Your thoughts aren’t making sense at this point but you’re desperate to say something - anything - that might stop him from leaving.
“I want to-” you stutter, clumsy as a baby goat. “I want you to be my maybe-someone too, but I want to know for sure that you… I don’t know how to talk about this, but please don’t leave.”
Dean is skittish when he looks back over to you. You see a flicker of something masked by a cloud of doubt. Slowly, he reaches his hand out for yours. You clutch it with urgency, holding it tight against your own. His hands feel big and rough against your skin. Your thumb glides along all the little ridges and bumps and callouses; the results of the dirty work he never lets you do. He looks as if he is almost afraid you’ll bite when he reaches the other hand out, hesitantly moving up to your face, and his throat bobs a little bit when you lean in to his touch. His pretty green eyes are watching you carefully while his thumb works its way slowly along your cheekbone and you wonder for the briefest of seconds if this is another one of your dreams.
But the next second he’s kissing you and you know it can’t be a dream. Because even in your dreams, you don’t allow yourself to imagine it would be like this to kiss Dean. In your dreams, his kisses are hot and rough, the same way you had seen him dole them out to an endless carousel of girls in dark corners of bars, while you and Sam play solitaire and try to ignore what’s happening in your eye-line.
Dean’s lips are warm and unsure, like he doesn’t know whether he is really allowed to do this. You melt into him slowly, because you had thought about this moment too often for you to freeze up when it is finally happening. He takes your bottom lip into his mouth, pulling you up against him, and chokes a broken sigh into your mouth, as if he was the one who had been waiting on this for years. As if he was the one who had to suffer all this longing, had to wield his love carefully so it wouldn’t pour out of him like water from a faucet.
You have gone astray in the feeling of his lips, of his large hands gripping your waist with such painstaking gentleness. Your heart is aching in your chest and you know it’s lost to him forever when he runs a careful hand through your hair, holding you with the same tenderness that he treats you with in all regards.
You’re not even thinking when you press yourself closer to him, clasping your hands around his shoulders and pushing your chest to his urgently. Your need for him - to just be close to him - is growing rapidly inside you like a fire. You shake a bit as Dean kisses you harder, mouth moving against yours, hot and messy.
Gone is the sweet gentleness from just a moment ago, but this is still not quite how you have seen Dean kiss strangers in bars. He’s holding you a bit tighter, kissing you with a bit more exigency. Maybe it’s wishful thinking, but you’re sure you had never seen him kiss anyone like this. Heat is pooling low in your stomach and you’re squirming, legs twitching as you try to get closer to him. Eventually Dean grunts, the sound sending sparks in your stomach and between your thighs. He splays a hand over your thigh and shifts it over his own. In this position, you become aware of how hard he is. You can feel it even through the layer of jeans and it makes you gasp.
“Dean,” you breathe, struggling for air.
He’s undeterred. One hand moves to gently caress the side of your neck as his mouth moves to kiss you there, soft but insistent.
“Hm?” he hums against your neck. You feel its vibration.
Your brain is failing you. The need for him is catapulting you off the edge of sanity and all your focus is garnered towards that bulge below you. You press down without even meaning to and Dean groans at the contact.
“Hey now, slow down, sweetheart,” he says, pulling away from your neck and looking up at you with half-lidded, blown-out eyes. You make a noise that you don’t even hear. You think it’s a protestation.
“F’you think I’m gonna take you in the front seat of Baby out in some scabby parking lot for our first time, you’re crazy,” he says, thumb reaching up to pull at your bottom lip.
Your heart soars. First time.
“What, you think that mangy motel room is better?”
Dean laughs. “Maybe not. But ‘least there I can lay you out all pretty. Take my time with you like I always pictured.”
His words go straight to your abdomen in a strange, pleasant mix of love and desire. You clamber off his lap in record speed.
You frown. “Are you sure?”
“Am I - fuck - what the hell are you talkin’ about right now?”
Dean is sitting up against the headboard of the bed. His gaze is dark and unfocused, sweat dripping down his brow and on to his naked chest.
“Are you sure that you want to be my maybe-someone?”
He gives you a strange look, eyes squinting and corners of his mouth poking up in that Dean-is-very-bewildered way. “Huh?”
“I just want to make sure that you’re sure, because I don’t think I’ll be able to- Oh…”
Your mind trails off the subject as Dean uses his grip on your waist to thrust his hips up just a bit, hitting that sweet spot you had just recently (tonight) discovered. His cock is deep inside you, stretching you out in a way that is almost enough to make you want to drop the subject. If you cared about him any less, you probably would.
“I don’t wanna be your maybe-someone, sweetheart. I wanna be your someone. I love you.”
That brings you back. Your heart thuds painfully in your chest, and you have the odd compulsion to cry. Your body is experiencing a lot right now. “You love me?” The barbed wire is tightening again, but this time in a good way. That steamy grin Dean had been wearing crumbles into something softer. He nods.
“But what about the girls?”
“What girls?”
You flush. “Y’know. The girls you… in all the bars…”
His hands palm your hips with a bruising grip, flexing there as he bounces you on him experimentally, like he’s trying to get you to forget that any girls ever existed. Your cunt clenches tight around him, entire body buzzing, and black spots dance behind your eyes, but you sit still because you have really fucking great self-control.
“Shit, baby,” he groans, head rolling back. “I don’t wanna talk about any damn girl except you right now.”
“Dean.”
His face scrunches up in exasperation as he fights to keep his eyes on yours. They keep travelling down to your tits. “I wasn’t lying when I said they didn’t mean anything, sweetheart,” he says, dropping down to press kisses to your neck. Your eyes flutter shut and you unintentionally grind down at the wonderful tingly feeling it gives you. Dean grunts.
“Tried to go on as normal for a while. Thought I could get over you, ‘cause I didn’t wanna burden you with my shit. Didn’t work. Just ended up with a loada pissed off girls who kicked me out after I said the wrong name. That’s it.”
You barely notice that you had begun to grind down on him again until Dean wraps his lips around one of your nipples and you let out a desperate moan. His right hand moves down, feather-light, to stroke up and down your thigh.
“How- how long?”
“Dunno. Kinda sleep-walked into it,” he says, gasping between sentences as you leisurely ride him. “Think I realised when we were at Bobby’s house that one time and I heard you bangin’ around in your room for at least twenty minutes. Walked in and saw you wrapped up in that bedsheet like a ghost ‘cause you couldn't get it on and wouldn’t ask anyone for help. ’S stupid but it made me laugh so damn hard.”
He laughs shakily as he remembers it. You try to recall, but the angle he’s hitting inside you is turning any thought into a tough feat. “I don’t remember that. Must have been years ago.”
He just nods and leans up to kiss you, pretty and desperate. You pull away, even if you would much rather not.
“You’ve loved me for years?”
“Probably longer than that too, sweetheart. Everyone else seemed to figure it out before I did. Everyone except you.”
He’s trying to distract you again with his lips on your neck, but your brain is working too fast now.
“Everyone- Dean, does Sam know?”
He grunts and you can feel it rip through his chest under your fingertips. When he looks up at you, his pretty green eyes have gone a shade darker.
“Please don’t say another man’s name while I’m fuckin’ you ever again, sweetheart,” he damn-near growls. “ ‘Specially not my brother’s.”
You’re being flipped over then, your skull narrowly avoiding the headboard, until you’re under him, knees pressed up and he’s sliding into you at his pace this time.
“But yes. Everyone means everyone.”
He rolls his hips into yours and you can’t stop the breathy moan that escapes at how he feels inside you. He’s so deep and you’ve never been this full before, but there’s no pain to it because it’s Dean and he had made sure you were ready for him - of course he did. He had played with your pussy; rubbed it and fingered it and licked it in ways you didn’t even know were possible before sliding into you with a slow, loving reverence that made your legs tremble and your heart quake. He’d eased in slowly, despite you whining that you wanted to take him all the way. Dean has always taken care of you and he always will, especially now.
“And since you clearly can’t be trusted on top yet,” he says, punctuating his point with a brutal thrust that has you gasping and clenching around him. “I’m just gonna have to fuck all those thoughts outta your clever little head. Maybe then I’ll let you get back on top. When you can’t treat this like a job we’re workin’ on and all you can think about is me and how good I’m fuckin’ you.”
God, his voice is travelling right through your body and you still can’t quite believe that this is really happening. Your hips jerk up to meet his thrust as he turns you to ruins below him. You’re still fighting to hold on to your line of questioning, but he’s making it so hard.
“Dean, I- oh-”
His hand goes down to find your clit, gives it a rub with his thumb without losing any of his rhythm.Your eyes squeeze shut and your body moves against his as if your mind doesn’t have any say or involvement in the matter.
“That’s it, let me fuck you stupid. Forget about everything else. I’ll sort you right out, baby.”
It shouldn’t be possible for him to fuck you like this. One hand still under your knee and the other playing with your clit, still maintaining a bruising rhythm that sends stars to your eyes.
It’s not fair.
Because for as many times as you had pictured being fucked by Dean, as much as you had known that nobody else could compare, you still had no concept of just how good the real thing could be. How thoroughly it would destroy you for anyone else.
“So pretty and dumb when I’m splitting you open like this,” he whispers, fucking himself so deep in that you can feel the tip pushing against your cervix. “Can’t believe you’re letting me have you like this. Knew you’d feel this good, sweetheart. Thought about you like this every goddamn day.”
You have already come twice. Once on his fingers, once on his tongue. And now he’s about to make you come with his cock. You love every woman he has ever been with for showing him exactly the ways to touch you in order to make pleasure flash in every nerve, and you hate them for ever having him like this before you did. But it doesn’t matter now, because Dean seems as far gone as you and his face makes you think that maybe he’s destroyed for anyone else too.
The noises you’re making are barely coherent - something about how good it feels, how deep he is inside you - but they make Dean smile at you, sly and patronising as his tip keeps hitting that spongy spot inside you.
“Yeah, baby?” he coos at you, and all you can do is nod, even if you’re not sure what exactly he’s asking you. “Doin’ so good. Tight pussy’s suckin’ me in.”
Your eyes flutter, fighting the instinct to close only because you want to keep watching Dean - you don’t want to miss a second of how sweet and wrecked he looks above you. He’s got the control now, but you can tell he’s close to losing it by the way his eyebrows furrow just a little and his face goes unfocused. His drooping eyes travel around your body quickly, shooting from your face to your tits to where you’re being split open by him, like he can’t decide where to look.
“Please, Dean. Need more,” you whine, just centimetres from coming. You’re not even sure you could take more at this point, but you want to see what he’ll do.
“Nuh-uh, sweetheart,” he says, even as he slams his hips into yours harder. Your eyes roll back. “Takin’ you nice and sweet right now. Gonna make you come apart real pretty for me. Enjoy it ‘cause next time I’m not gonna be this nice.”
Your brain stutters at the thought that this is him being nice. This feels utterly filthy to you.
There’s an overwhelming pit of pleasure in the bottom of your stomach and it seeps low into your pussy. You twitch once, clenching down on him, and with one more brutal thrust you’re falling over the edge, grinding right down on him. You’re spewing out words incoherently, babbling in tongues. One thing that is coherent, though - one thing that is entirely unmistakable - is how you gasp out; “I love you” in a broken moan.
You hadn’t really noticed that you hadn’t said it back when Dean first admitted it. It had felt obvious to you, like a fact of life. The sky is blue, the grass is green and you love Dean Winchester. You didn’t really think about the fact that he didn’t know.
But you think about it now. When Dean’s half-lidded eyes suddenly shoot open and he’s marvelling at you with such open awe that it makes you feel like maybe you’re something sacred to him too. His face crumbles and he seems to lose control while you’re still riding your high, spilling so deep inside you that you can feel his warmth in your tummy.
Once he’s spent, he slows his hips down and thrusts shallowly while you twitch and jerk around him, his body folding over your own in a way that makes you feel wholly and completely surrounded by him. You feel lax and satisfied as you had never been before.
“You mean it?” he asks against your neck, lips pressing a small kiss there. You know that that kiss means; it’s ok if you don’t.
You shudder out a breathless laugh and your chest moves against his because of how closely your warm bodies are pressed together.
“You really don’t understand. I’m crazy in love with you, Dean.”
His head lifts up and he searches your eyes with the same expression he uses to investigate a haunted house or look for evidence in some abandoned warehouse. “Since when?”
“Since forever,” you say, heat flooding your face. “Even when I was just some dumb kid you didn’t want tagging along with you and Sammy.”
He goes soft. He melts to a puddle and wraps himself around you even tighter, hand going to your face while he presses a hot, gentle kiss to your lips. “My girl,” he murmurs against your lips.
“You girl?” you repeat, pulling back even though you still feel like you’re floating. “Are you sure? I know you don’t really-”
Dean groans. “Sweetheart. You gonna make me fuck all those doubts outta your head again?”
You smile. “Maybe later.”
a/n: first supernatural fic! i am genuinely terrified!
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pairing: nomad!steve x ex-widow!Reader (best friend's girlfriend, girlfriend's best friend)
{happy pride, reader is bisexual and had a homoerotic situationship with her best friend}
warnings: MDNI || DURING THE BLIP. more angsty than our other writings for sure. drug & alcohol mention briefly. (mentions of reader using in the past). You both have depression lmao. SIZE DIFFERENCE (reader is mentioned to be small and also if you squint she's malnourished lmao) reader is very experienced and (tw) calls herself whore/slut occasionally. she's also lowkey a slob, sorry. they have a black cat! (RIP Alpine) suicidal thoughts mentioned?
word count: 8.1k
summary: Your best friend and your boyfriend were blipped. Once the money in your best friend's account ran out and you couldn't afford your shared apartment anymore- you went to her boyfriend for help. Who, coincidentally, is your boyfriend's best friend. The weight of guilt hangs heavy over your heads- but after going so long without any sexual encounters- you both break down and decide to help each other out.
a/n: Trying a new kind of posting format and breaking up longer works into parts. So this is part one! There's no porn in this part, but there's mentions of sexual relationships and things of that nature. For this one I (Verdandi-mun🌻💜) wrote Steve!! Reader character was written by Flora-mun🌸🧡 and is based off of her OC Caroline Loveland. Lots of angst and depression, sorry!! Next two parts will be porn <3
It had been 2 years since ‘the blip’. That's what people were calling it. But all Steve saw it as was a failure on his part. If he had been a better leader…if he had just…directed people better…maybe it wouldn’t have happened. One minute Buck was beside him, and the next minute…dust. Failing hurt, but failing Buck? That hurt worse. And then when he went home to seek comfort from his girl, she was gone too.
He didn’t talk to anyone for a long time after that.
Eventually, you and him moved in together. The loneliness was overwhelming. He never thought he’d willingly be spending time with you, let alone… alone- but that seemed to be what it had come to.
He still didn’t talk much, but with you around, at least he would talk a little bit more.
You had been entirely heartbroken since the blip. The two people you loved the most, gone without a trace. It destroyed you. You were hurting just as bad as Steve was- his girl? She was your best friend and roommate for 10 years. And Bucky? Your boyfriend for 4 years...6 years? Blip math was weird. But...They were both dusted. Both...gone. You weren't sure which hurt more, really. You hadn't seen your best friend since you went on the run with Bucky and the others. You snuck back home just once without telling Steve so that you could see her. You dyed your hair pink as a disguise. It made her laugh, a lot. But she was so happy to see you. You ended up leaving in the middle of the night so she couldn't stop you. You knew you'd stay if you saw her cry. Maybe you should've stayed.
You were blacked out for almost the entire first year they were gone. You spent it drinking, smoking, snorting coke, and trying whatever other drugs you could get your hands on. It didn’t matter. Nothing numbed the pain you'd felt.
You thought it was fine to move in with Steve, that it’s what they would’ve wanted, even though you thought Steve barely even liked you. It was good for you, though. You'd calmed down on your unhealthy coping mechanisms, usually just staying in with Steve and making sure he didn’t kill himself or something. Sometimes you thought he might be worse off than you were.
Every night, Steve would make you two dinner. Good routine, or so he was told. That’s what they were saying in those support groups he went to. However, every night the full plate would be dumped into the trash, and he’d go to bed empty. He wasn’t so sure he deserved to eat after what he put the universe through.
Sometimes, he tried to talk to you, but he wasn’t even sure about what. Sometimes he wasn’t even sure how. He didn’t eat, so he didn’t have much business asking you if you did or not. As hard as it was to wrap his head around, Buck was your boyfriend- and his girlfriend was your best friend…and as far as he could tell, neither of you were ready to bring either of them up yet.
Once he got around to looking at his calendar, he realised today was exactly the two-year anniversary. It weighed heavily on his heart- almost so much so that he thought he’d burst. He wasn’t sure what you had been up to; he also wasn’t sure he cared. But when you got home that night, he was sat on the couch in the dark. No phone, no book, no TV- just himself and his reflections.
You had been out, not doing much, just on a walk. You still liked to leave the house now and then, but with Steve living with you, you didn’t want to come home black-out drunk or coked out anymore. It wouldn’t be respectful to him. So you just went on walks instead, with earbuds in your ear and listening to playlists you and Bucky used to make together.
You knew what today was — you saw it when you first checked your phone when you woke up that morning — but you hadn’t brought it up to Steve, at least not until you saw him sitting alone in the dark.
“Hey.” You gently sat yourself next to him on the couch, close enough to talk to, but not too close to make him uncomfortable.
It took him a long while to respond, but eventually he turned his attention to you. “Hey.” His voice was low, gruff. It wasn’t so much that the years hadn’t been nice to him as it was that he hadn’t been nice to himself. He deserved it, he felt. The monotony of everything. The crushing guilt that weighed on him.
If this was how he felt, how many others felt the same?
Then again, that’s what all those support groups were for. He sighed, letting his tired, dusty blue eyes meet yours in the dark. You looked tired too, he thought. The only light coming into the apartment was from a flashing, broken street lamp outside the window.
“Sitting in the dark won’t bring them back.” You didn’t mean to say it so bluntly, but you couldn’t help it. You were just…like that. “Look…I know you never really liked me that much, but…” You sighed, picking at your knuckles anxiously. You'd developed several anxious tics through the years, most of which involved inflicting some sort of pain on yourself.
“You can talk to me. We’re both going through the same shit.” You looked at him, his blue eyes looking tired and sad as you studied his face.
Steve let out another exhausted sigh. You matched his.
If you were going to offer, maybe it’d be okay for him to share his thoughts. What he was too scared to share with anyone else. You were basically in the same boat; surely you'd understand where he was coming from. His hands were clasped tightly in his lap, and he put his gaze there instead.
Your fidgeting caught his attention. The way you were picking at your hand- that didn’t seem…healthy. Carefully, he reached his hand out and set it on yours softly, making you stop ripping at your own skin. Your cheeks flushed a little when you felt his calloused hand gently graze yours. You hadn’t meant for him to see you do that; it was embarrassing.
He moved his hand a little, instead holding your hand in his gently. Even if he didn’t particularly like you all that much, he still felt a weird need to keep you safe. You meant too much to his girl for him not to.
You let Steve hold your hand, gently curling your fingers around his. You didn’t like to say it or show it, but you liked being touched; it was one of the ways you sought comfort the most. You just…didn’t have anyone left to seek that comfort from. This was…nice, though.
“Do you…” He hesitated. “Do you think…it hurt…?” His voice was so soft, as if he were afraid to speak it out loud. He looked back up towards you, waiting for your response. Would what he said upset you? Maybe not. You seemed to be as numb as he was these days.
“No…maybe? Probably not. If it did, they both definitely acted like it didn’t.” Bucky and your best friend were both stubborn, but if you thought about it, so were you and Steve. Sometimes more.
You patted the couch to signal for your best friend's cat to jump up with you. He was all you two had left of her. You thought you might’ve really killed yourself if he had been blipped too.
Steve didn’t understand how you could still be so talkative after everything. Maybe he should try to be more like you. Not too much, though.
“Yeah. You’re probably right.”
His eyes watched Stu closely as he jumped up onto the couch. Most nights, the cat wandered between your bed and the couch where Steve had been sleeping, howling and crying, even now. It made everything more depressing than it already was. These days, Steve's head was so foggy, his mind so clouded. It took a lot of effort for him to put forward his Captain America persona for people, to keep trying to act like a hero. Good for morale. That and he didn’t have the guts to show his real feelings to the guys at his support group.
It was his fault they were grieving. He could keep his problems to himself. Sometimes, though, he’d let you hear them. Only after you poked and prodded at him enough for him to give up bottling it all up, though.
You let your other hand lazily pet Stu, trying to get him to lie down next to you. Stu had always loved you, but your best friend was his person. He was lost without her, just like you and Steve were.
“You know…When I was in the red room, I always thought to myself, ‘There’s nothing worse than this. When I get out of here, nothing will ever be this bad again.’” You went to pick at your scabbed-over skin again, but let your hand rest in Steve’s instead. “I didn’t know…it could be this much worse.” It felt a little bad to be taking over the conversation, so you stopped talking. You said Steve could talk to you, not the other way around.
You weren't all he had. Natasha was still here. It was just…leaving the house and going to the compound to see her was too much for him most days. And you were here already. He figured he should start being nicer to you since you lived together now. His eyes lingered on your hand, watching you curl your fingers around his. You were almost as small as his girl…he tried to push those thoughts away. They wouldn’t help either one of you.
Steve was quiet for a while, but eventually he decided to respond. You seemed to be putting a lot of effort into talking; he might as well try to be a good friend to you. “Natasha’s told me about the red room before…Buck used to train the girls there, I’ve heard.” His eyes weren’t really focused on anything; he was just staring absentmindedly towards Stu, watching him curl up against your thigh.
Oh, yeah, Natasha. Steve mentioning her made you realize it had been a minute since you'd reached out to her. Maybe you should. "Yeah, that was when we first met. After I left that place, I thought I hated him, but when we met again..." You chuckled a little, halfheartedly. "I was whipped. Like, entirely down bad for him. Even though he sparred with me back then." You used the hand that wasn't on Steve's to scratch between Stu's ears. Cute.
Absent-mindedly, you began rubbing circles into Steve's hand. It wasn't necessarily intentional -- it was something you did anytime you held your friend's or Bucky's hand. Hopefully, Steve wouldn't mind. You knew he didn't really like you, so you were surprised he was touching you at all.
It took Steve a moment to realise it, but once he felt how you were rubbing against his hand, his cheeks flushed just a little. It felt…nice. “Buck was right.” His voice was soft, and he finally turned his eyes back to hers. There was a small smile in the corner of his lip, a soft chuckle following his words. “You are crazy.”
“I’m fucking batshit, Steve.” You let yourself giggle a little bit. You liked it when Steve teased you. Anything was better than his moping. It made you sad to see him like that.
That…might’ve been the first time he’d smiled since the blip. It was hard to be lighthearted in these times. Your heart raced when you saw him smile. You forgot how handsome he was when he smiled. He was always handsome, obviously, but his smile was so charming. No wonder your friend liked him so much.
The touch was nice. It was really nice. Your hand was small and soft and warm. It made his stomach flutter a little, so he took his hand back.
“I…uhm…” He moved his focus back onto the cat instead. “I’m…” He got up off the couch, moving towards the kitchen. “What do you want for food?”
“Oh, um…” Your hand felt cold and empty after he took his back. You wondered if the way you were touching him was pushing it a little too far. “I’m fine with anything…just not spaghetti. Bleh.”
“That’s like…the only thing I can reliably make.” He was still joking with you, so that seemed to be good at least. He was just uncomfortable being so close to you. That was all.
"You should probably take a cooking class." You teased, happy that he was able to let loose just a little bit and actually talk to you. It was...nice. It was nice to just talk and joke and not think about what could've been.
His voice was quiet and only to himself as he cooked for them. He certainly wasn’t great at it, but he was better than you were. After the blip, all your favourite bagel places had closed down. So both of you had a lot of cooking to learn how to do.
Once he was done, he instructed you to sit at the table before he would give you a plate. Even though he didn’t talk with you much these days, he still believed in a…somewhat traditional family dinner. Just because it was only the two of you didn’t mean he’d be stopping anytime soon.
You obediently sat at the table with him. You didn't like seeing him sad, so if this would make him happy, then... "Thanks for cooking. Again." You said, offering him a small smile. You hated cooking, so it was nice of him to do it. Luckily, he was still talking and looking at you, so hopefully you hadn't made him too uncomfortable on the couch.
Steve gave you a little nod, taking the seat across from you at the table.
“I didn’t want to put out another kitchen fire tonight.” His words were teasing, but his tone was still so serious. Baby steps. “Scared of a little flame?” You let yourself giggle a little bit. You'd only set the kitchen on fire…a handful of times. Enough to scare Cap, apparently.
“Yeah, terrified.” He laughed a little. Wow. Two smiles in one day. That was a lot for him, especially now. Maybe the weight of grief was starting to lighten, but…that idea itself scared him immensely. If his grief disappeared, would his memories of the two people he cared most about disappear with it?
You felt your face flush when he smiled again. It was a really nice smile, and you hadn't seen it in so long. You didn't realize you could even miss it, but you had.
His fork pushed the food around his plate as he stared at it absent-mindedly. He just still didn’t have much of an appetite…how could he?
The two of you sat together at the table for 45 minutes, and he only managed to take three bites of food. That was more than usual, though. Stu had made home on the chair beside Steve. He knew sometimes Steve would give him food he hadn’t eaten. Smart cat.
You watched as Stu settled himself next to Steve. He was always really sweet with the cat, and you thought it was adorable. Steve's face had quickly dropped back into the frown he so often wore as of late, staring at the plate but finally setting the fork down. You began pouting a little, though. Damn. You really didn't like seeing your friends sad. You didn't care if you were sad, but if it was someone you cared about, it hurt.
Steve used his hand to pick up a piece of chicken, holding it out to Stu and letting him eat it from his grip. "Aw, little fatty..." You said as you watched Stu happily eat the chicken. “He is a perfectly reasonably sized cat. Don’t pick on him.” His smile reappeared for a brief moment. But it felt wrong.
"He actually isn't that fat, for the amount of food he eats." You were happy to make him smile again. It was nice.
You had noticed that Steve hadn't eaten much. You didn’t eat much either, mostly poking around at your plate. You had always been small, no matter if you were eating well or not, but these days you'd gotten even smaller: your ribs showed more, your collarbones were more prominent. Sometimes, when you bent over, your spine was visible. It wasn’t your fault, really. How could you ever think about eating when your life was like this now? But, besides that, Steve was still toned and muscular and large. You guessed that’s just what being a super soldier did to one’s body.
Watching the cat made you miss Alpine. For her sake, the most, honestly, you hoped whatever the blip was didn't hurt. You didn't want that sweet little kitty to be in any pain. You wondered if Stu missed Alpine too -- they'd spent a lot of time together. It hurt to think about.
Steve didn’t want to move on; he didn’t want to forget about them. Even though that was all he’d been preaching in the support groups he was leading. Find closure. Move on. Mourn the past, but don’t let it hold you back. Hypocrite. Steve stood from the table, shoving some more of the scraps into Stu’s food bowl before tossing the rest and putting the plate in the sink. “Are you done…?” He asked, holding his hand out to take your plate.
"Oh! Yeah, thanks..." You had been lost in thought for a moment, snapping back to reality when he spoke. You handed him the plate -- it was sweet of him to take care of the dishes too.
Steve took the plate, putting it in the sink as he turned on the water. Little chores like this helped him not think about everything for a little bit, so he liked to keep busy. He could only keep busy for so long, though. Eventually, he needed to sleep. Or to try to sleep at the very least.
Once the dishes were done and the kitchen was all cleaned up, he went back to lying on the couch, staring at the ceiling. Both not thinking of anything and thinking of far too much as he lay there. He missed his bed. He was a proper gentleman, though, and he wouldn’t dare dream of telling you to sleep on the couch instead.
Especially not when you were vulnerable enough to come to him in your time of need. Well, that and the fact you couldn’t afford to pay for the apartment you shared with his girl all by yourself. His place was paid for by S.H.I.E.L.D.- he didn’t need to worry about any of that. So he was happy to let you move in when you'd asked.
You had always been one to use sleep as a coping mechanism when your depression got bad, but these days, you found it nearly impossible to sleep. You never got more than 3 or 4 hours a night, but tonight, it was worse. You tossed and turned for what felt like days before deciding to sneak out of Steve's room and maybe see if he was still awake.
He’d been up for hours when he heard you stirring around. This wasn’t normally the time you got up to use the bathroom... He didn’t sit up, but he did look to the door. After a moment, he saw you sneaking out. “You okay?” His voice was gentle; he didn’t want to scare you.
"Oh, sorry. Did I...wake you?" You fidgeted with your hands as your eyes adjusted to the dark of the living room. “No. You didn’t. I haven’t been to bed yet either.” He answered rather quickly.
"I just...can't sleep." You let out a dry chuckle, running your hand through your messy bedhead hair. You still felt a little bad that Steve had to sleep on the couch. And his bed was so big, much bigger than the one you and your friend had shared. It just made you feel that much lonelier whenever you laid in it... It kinda gave you an idea, though.
"Um...can I ask you something, actually?" You weren't typically shy, but when you were about to ask a man that didn't really like you to come share a bed with you because your partners were...blipped...you found yourself a little shy.
Steve pushed himself to sit up on the couch, looking at you in the dark. His heart fluttered a little, seeing just your silhouette like that reminded him of his girl. Ouch.
“Uhm…y-yea..? What is it?” He looked away as he asked. Staring at what looked like a ghost wasn’t a favourite pastime of his, unfortunately.
You shifted on your feet, unsure of the best way to ask this. Might as well just come out with it.
"Can...would you mind...just like...coming to lay in the bed next to me...?" Your face was flushed as you asked, but hopefully, in the dark, he couldn't tell. "J-just because, well, the bed is so big and I can't really sleep without someone in the room with me. We can, like, put a pillow wall between us, or whatever." You wanted to pick at your knuckles again, but stopped yourself when you remembered how Steve stopped you earlier. Maybe you should try stopping those habits for him, too.
Oh. His cheeks flushed a bit, good thing it was too dark for you to see that.
There was a nickname only your friend had ever called you by, and it slipped from his mouth before he quickly stopped and corrected himself. Calling you by your actual name instead. “…are you…Is that really what you want?” You could feel your breath hitch when the nickname slipped out of him. You hadn't been called that in...well, years.
Clearly, he didn’t think it was that good of an idea. He did love his bed, though. And oh God, did he miss it. Jeez. “I mean…if you think it’ll help…” he also loved helping his friends when he could, even though he hadn’t been so good at it the last few years.
Maybe this would be good for both of you. “Yea…yea, okay.” The bed was plenty big enough, considering how tiny you were. “Yeah.” He repeated, standing up off the couch and walking over towards you.
"Oh, well, only if you're like, okay with it." You felt awkward asking, and really, you didn't want to make Steve uncomfortable. It was a stark contrast to a few years ago -- when your friend was around, she loved to tease Steve with you. Bucky joined in sometimes, too. "I just...haven't slept alone since I got stolen off the streets." You tried to make a little joke, watching as his tall frame walked over to you.
It had been a hard two years for everyone. Maybe he’d sleep better too.
“I got a couple of years on you.” He mumbled, walking past you to go to the bedroom. He meant it as a joke, but really, it just made him more upset. Ever since he got thawed out of the ice, everything was a mess, and it just got worse with each passing year.
He hadn’t seen his girl in almost four years now. At least he could still send a letter every now and again for the first two years. But as soon as he was gearing up to come home….
He couldn’t think about that anymore. Not now.
Steve opened the door to his room and…tried not to judge. There were dirty clothes strewn about and a bunch of old iced coffee cups, no doubt with their own microbiomes. As grossed out as he was, it also kinda reminded him of the girls’ apartment. You two only cleaned when he warned you guys he was coming over. When he snuck by without telling you, it looked exactly like this.
"Welcome in," You said sheepishly as you watched him eye the messy bedroom. Oops. You could've at least picked up some of the trash before inviting him in... Oh well. You realized you were only wearing a loose tank top and a pair of booty shorts (no underwear, as usual), so you quickly picked up an oversized hoodie from the floor and tossed it on. As much of a slut as you were -- well, used to be -- you thought it was not appropriate to sleep next to Steve wearing almost nothing.
He quirked his brow as he watched you pull the hoodie on. “You won’t get too hot in that?” He asked. “It gets warm in here at night… especially with two people.” Steve's pajamas weren’t anything special, just a tight white T-shirt and a pair of blue plaid pajama pants. Simple.
"Oh, I'll be fine..." You said with your cheeks a bit red. You didn't want to admit the real reason was that you were worried he'd be uncomfortable if you slept in so little clothing next to him, so you kept it on. If you got hot, you could remove it after he fell asleep. If he fell asleep. You weren't so sure you would either, but you hoped so. Hopefully, this would help.
“If you insist.”
You watched as he approached the bed, also realizing you should've cleaned off the nest you'd made in the corner that held all your electronics and other random items. There was a large stuffed bear in the middle of the bed that you tried to cuddle at night so you'd feel less alone, but it never really helped. You stood, waiting for him to pick whichever side he wanted. It was his bed, after all.
“You must feel really at home in here.” He thought he’d be more mad, but really, it kinda made him happy. Lightened his heart a bit. It was good to know he could help you feel so comfortable, given the circumstances. "I try..." You replied with a little giggle.
Steve began to move the things off the bed carefully, with intention. He didn’t want to disrespect your belongings. He moved them all onto the nightstand before sitting down on the bed. It was just as soft as he remembered. Thank goodness. This would really be the best for both of them, he thought.
He didn't seem too pissed off that you'd trashed his room. So that's good, at least. You slid into the other side of the bed, pulling up the covers over your legs. You thought it was sweet of him to be so caring with your stuff. You would've just brushed everything onto the floor.
He leaned back, lying down on the bed fully. Good God. It was so comfy. He’d almost forgotten. It’d been so long. He wasn’t entirely sure how he should lie. Flat on his back made him feel like he took up more than half the bed. On his side facing you…Would that make you uncomfortable? On his side facing away from you…that just felt wrong.
After debating with himself for several minutes, he decided to sleep on his side facing you. It was definitely strange, sharing a bed with his best friends’ girl. But he thought you probably felt the same way about him. “Is this…okay?”
You waited for Steve to finish shifting, watching him close before you decided on your sleeping position as well. Typically, you'd lie flat on your stomach, starfishing across the whole bed, but you couldn't really do that if Steve was here. Though you were so much smaller than him, he probably wouldn't even notice if you did.
You nodded in response to him, turning on your side to face him too. Side sleeping was second best.
It was...weird, sharing a bed with Steve. You studied his features, the ones that you could see in the dim moonlight that shone through the window. Sharp jaw, chiseled cheeks, strong chin. Handsome. "Yeah...is this okay?" You repeated. The stuffed bear was behind you, cuddling your back, but you wondered if you should move it to be between the two of you.
“Yea.”
He looked over you in the shadows. He could barely see you, really. To say he felt awkward would be an understatement. He probably shouldn’t feel that way, though. Before he could speak again, here came Stu trotting into the room, doing his nightly cries. Steve sighed a little. He felt bad for the poor guy; he didn’t know what was going on.
Stu jumped up onto the bed and froze for just a second when he saw Steve lying there, but after a moment, he continued walking towards you and curled up against your chest. Steve laughed a little. Was it really so strange to Stu to see him in his own bed? Gosh. As soon as Stu was settled, Steve reached his hand out and pet him behind his ears, being careful not to accidentally touch you as he did.
You were thankful that Stu jumped up onto the bed. A distraction. Something to keep your mind off the fact that Steve was lying inches away from you in bed. Really, though...you didn't mind. It was kinda comforting to have another human being in the bed, even though you weren't touching. It was still...nice.
"Aw, hi baby," You cooed as you scratched between Stu's ears. Your hand brushed against Steve's, making your face flush. His hand was warm and surprisingly soft. You hoped he wouldn't notice your pink cheeks.
Uh oh. Steve was right. You were starting to get a little warm, and he wasn't anywhere near asleep yet. You shifted, trying to relieve yourself of the discomfort a little.
Steve could feel the heat radiating off your cheeks. He assumed it was from the hoodie. He took his eyes off Stu and instead looked into your eyes. “You’re gonna get heat exhaustion.” He teased. “You don’t even have the blanket all the way on yet.” Saying that made him realise that there was only one blanket, which in turn made his cheeks flush. He should’ve grabbed his off the couch. It was too late for that now; he’d just sleep without one. It was only one night; it would be fine.
If this had been years ago, you would've made some inappropriate joke about stripping for him, and it would've made his girlfriend and Bucky both laugh and tease him. Now, though...you wouldn't say something like that. Something something, time and place.
Stu stayed curled up against your chest, purring softly as he fell asleep quite quickly. Steve was jealous of him. He hadn’t had a night of sleep that peaceful since…well. Since 2016.
"...fine. But only because Stu is against me and I don't want him getting too warm." You joked, lifting yourself up a little bit just to pull the sweatshirt off before tossing it aside. You shivered a little, suddenly feeling so exposed next to him and now a little chilly. "Don't you hate that?" You mumbled as you pulled the covers over yourself. "When you're too hot with a hoodie on, but too cold with it off?" Goosebumps covered your skin as you snuggled yourself further into the blanket.
Steve's eyes lingered on you as you changed, more so, the skin of your stomach as you pulled the hoodie off of yourself before you laid back down. “Oh, of course.” He laughed a little. He didn't really wear hoodies at all, but he knew how much the girls loved wearing them. Your body didn’t just remind him of his girl but also a little bit of himself. Before the serum. Some of your bones were visible. It made him a little upset- but he couldn’t say much. He never ate. What kind of a role model was he being...?
You couldn't help but notice he wasn't under the blanket at all. Oh, there was only one. Well...it wouldn't be fair if you hogged it all... "You can use it too. Wouldn't want you getting frostbite or something." You joked back at him, looking into his eyes.
“I think I’m immune to frostbite after the whole…what did you call it…? ‘Capsicle’?” He laughed a little again. Even though he seemed to be in a good mood, it was only just making him feel guilty.
You snuggled yourself further into the blanket, but pulled some of it away from you and instead put it towards Cap. “True. You and Bucky, the fucking Popsicle Men.” You joked, reaching as far as your short arm could go to throw some of the blanket over his large frame. You knew he was doing it to be gentlemanly, but it really didn’t bother you if he wanted to be under the blanket too. You were still far enough apart not to be touching. His cheeks flushed a little watching you put all that effort into sharing with him.
“I don’t mind. Really.” You assured him, moving your hand back to pet Stu. You smiled softly down at him, watching his fuzzy stomach rise and fall with his slow, sleepy breaths.
“Are you a blanket hog like she is? If you’re going to rip it off of me in the middle of the night, I’d rather not have it to begin with.” He was teasing, but he still sounded sad. How could you not, given the circumstances...? “Only when I’m cold. Usually I toss the blanket off of me when I sleep,” You answered, remembering playing tug of war with the blanket in your sleep with her on the colder nights. Fuck. You missed her so much it hurt.
Steve sighed, fixing the blanket and coming just a little closer to you so he’d actually fit under it. “Thanks, kid.” He kept his eyes on Stu, watching you pet his head as he reached up to scratch on his tummy. Even the cat was sad. Everything was so depressing these days.
“No problem, Steve.” You didn’t know what to say next, so you let your eyes drift down to the cat between you as you laid in silence for a moment. You noticed the way he’d scooted closer to you, but you didn’t say anything. It was just so he could be all the way under the blanket.
At this rate, neither of you would be falling asleep anytime soon. And she was clearly on both of your minds. So maybe you should say something...
“Do you miss fucking your girlfriend as much as I do?”
Oh..! Okay. Maybe…not that. It was too late, though, and you were never really good with your words anyway. No matter how you said it, it would’ve come out crass from you.
Steve’s face lit up red. No matter how much time you two spent together, he didn’t think he’d ever be used to how crude you could be. “I- uhm. As much as you do?” That probably shouldn’t have been the part he was stuck on- but that was what had stood out to him. “D-did you do that…often?” Also, probably not the follow-up question he should be asking, he thought. He also wasn’t quite sure he actually wanted to know the answer to that. You were blushing, matching Steve's red-hot cheeks in the moonlight. You hadn't meant to say it like that. You were just like that.
Oh...was he not...did he not know...? No, surely he had to know. They joked about it all the time. Casually talked about it even. Did he...think it was a joke...? "Um...yeah. Sorta often. It's...actually how we met. She took me home for a one-night stand, and I just never left." You said with a sad chuckle.
His cheeks flushed a bit more thinking about you two…like that. Gosh. He really shouldn’t, but…you were the one who brought it up. “Oh.” Was all he could think to say. He knew you were close, but he didn’t realise how close.
He cleared his throat a little, keeping his focus on Stu instead. “There’s a lot I miss about her…” His voice was softer now.
"I miss everything about her. And Bucky. Christ. I never thought I'd be in love with a man, but there he was..." You sighed, reaching up to play with a strand of your own hair. Bucky had always played with your hair when you were stressed -- it was soothing. Steve quickly tried to snap his mind out of it and instead listened to you talk again. “Yeah…Buck is a good man. Despite…” He really didn’t like talking about it. “I’m glad you were there to help him.” Is. Not was. He really wasn’t sure if this could ever be reversed, but he still hoped it could be. Maybe that’s why he couldn’t move on.
"Me too..." You looked over Cap's features again. He was bigger than Bucky, except when Bucky was in his beefy era. You almost drooled at the thought of beefy Bucky. The way he looked in those red henleys...Christ. "I have some of Bucky's shirts still. Those red ones he used to wear? Back when that whole...thing between you and Stark was happening." The 'Civil War' it had been dubbed, though America already had one. "I can't bring myself to wear them, though."
“Yeah…there’s always a thing going on between me and Stark.” He all but rolled his eyes. He still couldn’t believe Howard could make such an irritating kid. "What thing? The enemies-to-lovers bromance you have with Tony?" You snickered a little bit, trying to make a joke of it. Before all of this, it was very apparent how much Steve disliked Tony, so you and your friend had way too much fun fangirling over Stark in front of Steve. She used to wear a 'Stark Industries' tank top when Steve would pick her up for dates, and you both thought it was the funniest thing.
You stopped your joking, though, when you noticed how serious Steve had gotten. He hadn't talked to you in...well, basically the 2 whole years you'd been like this. So, you were glad he was speaking to you. You decided to take it seriously now. Steve decided to change the subject just a little.
“When…when was the last time you saw her? Before…you know.” He asked, letting his eyes meet yours. It was dark, the room hardly lit from street lamps outside. But the pain he was pushing down inside came to the surface in moments like this. He looked exhausted. He couldn’t turn off his thoughts, and more often than not, they were about his girl and Bucky and how he’d failed them. That in itself made him feel guilty. He should care more about the rest of the world; they were hurting, too. But most days, he couldn’t bring himself to.
"I visited her a couple of times. Last time, late 2017. I dyed my hair pink so I wouldn't get caught." You let out another little chuckle, thinking about her reaction to your dyed hair. It was kinda cute.
“Oh? 2017?” He shouldn’t have asked. He hurt his own feelings. “I’m not sure I can picture you pink.” He added, deflecting again.
You chuckled a little, glancing at the strand of hair you were playing with. "Yeah, it was...different. She liked it. But I prefer being natural. Box dye is too damaging, or something."
He was quiet for a moment. Thinking in silence, debating if he should say what he wanted to or not. Maybe it would help. You seemed to be receptive to talking right now…why not try?
“That was the last time I saw her… right before that fight with Tony, I mean.”
You suddenly felt bad, realizing that you'd seen her more recently than her own boyfriend had. You still felt guilty for leaving with Buck, and if you'd had the choice again, knowing that they'd both disappear...you'd somehow figure out to make sure you disappeared instead. You nodded, looking into his eyes, listening intently. Damn. You really were the last one to see her. You couldn't imagine how destroyed you'd feel if Steve was the last to see Bucky instead of you...
His eyes stayed on Stu; his hand still rested against the cat, but he wasn’t petting him anymore. “We sent some postcards back and forth and went through a few burner phones…she kept begging me to come see her, but I told her it was too dangerous, so…I never did.” His voice sounded so frail as he spoke. It was quite the contrast for this small, broken voice to come from such a burly body. Steve had always been sensitive, though. It was part of why he was even chosen to get the serum in the first place.
"Steve." You kept staring at him, your heart aching as his voice was soft and broken. It hurt your heart to see him like this. "It was dangerous." You tried to assure him he'd done the right thing, but you knew it was probably no use. You hesitated for a moment, but slowly moved your hand up to touch his shoulder, in what was hopefully a comforting gesture. Your arms were short, and he was far enough away in the bed that you had to shift a little closer to him. "It's not your fault." His shoulder was firm and warm beneath your hand. Grounding. You really were touch-starved.
“The right thing is hardly ever the easy thing.” He sighed, letting his hand move up to pet Stu’s back now. “But when these are the consequences…you just have to second-guess if you were ever right.” This was nice, talking to someone about it. Not bottling all his feelings up inside. And you weren't being judgmental like he thought you'd be.
"That's why I'm not known for doing the right thing." You admitted. You moved your hand against him, gently rubbing his shoulder. He had gotten freaked out when you'd rubbed his hand earlier, but you were talking now. Maybe it would be okay. "Nobody...wants things to be hard." You were glad he was talking to you. It wasn't good to keep things in, especially things this heavy and impossible.
He glanced over to your hand as you rested it on his shoulder, and then turned his gaze to your eyes. “I appreciate the sentiment.” His voice was quiet again. “I just…I can’t believe that. I was the leader, and this happened because I couldn’t deploy my team correctly. I couldn’t…I couldn’t.”
"Don't." You said, narrowing your eyes at him. "Please, don't blame yourself. If we all looked at it differently, we could all find ways to blame ourselves." You didn't like to think about it because if you did, you would find a way to blame yourself, and it didn't feel good.
"If you keep blaming yourself, I'll have to punch you."
He laughed a little at your threat.
“Kid. I know you’re a trained widow, but your punch wouldn’t do anything.” He wasn’t necessarily bragging, but it was true. He had more muscles than 99% of the world, and that *definitely* included you. His chest felt a bit lighter after talking with you. He was glad he agreed to come to the room with you.
"Hey. Don't you know? Never underestimate the punch of a woman. Especially a widow." You smiled a little as you joked with him. You could tell that speaking with him had helped him feel a little better, and it made you glad. It was sad seeing him all depressed and mopey. Not that you were any better, but still.
Feeling your hand on his shoulder was…nice. He closed his eyes and exhaled a shuddering breath, and then finally let his eyes meet yours again. “Sorry, I’m rambling.” There was a certain shine to his eyes you could see as the lamppost’s light reflected on them. He was holding back tears. He wasn’t going to cry in front of you, though. He didn’t want to look that bad in front of you.
Fuck. Was he...about to cry? Shit. You just kept your hand on his shoulder. You really hoped it wouldn't scare him away again. The thought of being alone in this bed again tonight sounded like hell.
“It’s uh…nice. To not feel so alone right now.” He admitted, the soft pink flush painting his cheeks again. “Thank you.” He gave a soft smile, leaning his head a little more into his pillow as he shifted a little closer to you. “It’s nice to have a friend.”
"I...agree." You admitted, your cheeks a pale pink as you spoke. It was nice to not feel alone in this big, huge empty bed and to have someone to actually speak to. "Thanks for coming in here."
When he first met you, he didn’t think you'd EVER get along. Not on his end, at least. You were crude and crass and violent and horny and crazy. But his girl loved you, and Buck loved you, so he had to learn to love you too.
You noticed he'd shifted a little closer to you, and the way his shoulder felt so warm and firm under your hand was making you...feel a certain way. It had been two years since you'd touched someone, let alone in an intimate way, and you were...pent up to say the least.
Well. Steve was honest with you. Maybe you could be honest with him, too.
"I...don't like to say it out loud, but really, I'm a touchy person." You started, not really sure how to say it best. "I like...kissing and cuddling and hugging. And I miss that." You had averted your gaze from his eyes at the moment, but you met his again as you said the last part, gauging his reaction. Not that you'd had any specific ideas or anything, but...
"I miss...having sex, too." Your face turned deep red as you said it. Hopefully, he wouldn't notice.
Oh.
Stu stood, taking a big stretch before jaunting off the bed. It was almost like he knew. You all but rolled your eyes as you watched the cat get up and leave. He always somehow knew when to leave. You and your friend must've accidentally trained him to do that when you fooled around, so you wouldn't roll on him.
You were being vulnerable with him, just as he had been with you. So he should listen and try to help, he’d decided.
“I didn’t have sex for the first time until I was 93.” He joked. That was how he felt best to deal with it. His cheeks were so flushed, heat radiating off of them. He hoped you wouldn’t notice. He did stop to think about it, though. For him, it had been about five years. He kept telling himself it was fine. He’d gone longer without before, but…maybe he missed it too. He just didn’t want to admit it.
"Isn't that a movie? 'The 93 Year Old Virgin?'" You joked back. You noticed his face was flushed in the pale moonlight, but you didn't say anything. Yours was the same.
“Uhm…I can help with some of that.” He answered softly. Not all of it. Definitely not.
"What part can you help me with, Steve...?" You asked, shifting ever so slightly towards him. Your hand was still resting on his shoulder. You moved it a little bit, sliding closer to where his shoulder met his neck. That's what he was suggesting, right? Hopefully, you weren't just being a whore and making him uncomfortable.
“Oh…oh boy.” He muttered under his breath. Steve moved his hands to your waist, holding you firmly as he held you slightly away from him. “N-not that…” His voice didn’t seem so confident, though- there was a bit of a waver as he spoke. You were so small, just like his girl had been. His flush only grew deeper.
He took one hand and grabbed yours, instead moving it to be firmly planted on his chest. He kept his hand on top of yours. The touch was really nice; he couldn’t deny that.
“We can still share the bed.”
Leaving you while you were so vulnerable would not be polite, even if you were coming onto him. He really wasn’t sure how to feel about that. You were his girlfriend’s best friend and his best friend’s girlfriend.
But this was a weird time, and everyone had been so alone...
✦summary: everyone loves golden boy Steve Rogers. Everyone but you. It's alright, though, because he hates you back. But love and hate are closer than you both think.✦
✦warnings/tags: steve rogers x female!reader, avengers era, no use of y/n, enemies to lovers, pining but they don't know they're pining, idiots in love, no description of reader (pictures for aesthetic only), fluff, angst, love confessions, some plot to get to feral porn, super soldier level smut, (kind of office sex, teasing, dirty talk, dry humping, super soldier stamina, dry orgasms but he's a trooper he keeps going, begging, rough sex, praise and degradation kink, mean!steve, nipple play, manhandling, hyperspermia, big dick steve, squriting, p in v sex, creampie, overstimulation, dacryphilia, dumbification, soft!dom steve), soft!steveoutside of smut✦
✦wc: 9.6k✦
✦Author's Note: i love enemies to lovers with sweet men it's so important to me. thank you!✦
There aren’t a lot of rules to being on the Avengers, and the ones that exist are easy to follow. Don’t feed Tony after midnight, he’s like a gremlin. Don’t laugh at Sam’s jokes when they’re not funny, it encourages him. Always listen to Fury, unless you like being stranded in Utah. Don’t touch Natasha’s food. Don’t piss off Banner.
Easy. You’re not a fool, and if you were, you wouldn’t deserve to be here.
A lot of people still don’t think you deserve to be here, but Nat always reminds you that they just don’t know what kind of enemy you’d make. She’d rather have you on their side. Everyone warmed up to Wanda eventually, too. The team already likes you, and none of you have a clean letter.
Almost none of you.
Steve’s is cleaner than a freshly waxed and plucked floor. Steve’s letter is perfect. He’s perfect. He’s the Golden Boy, designed in a bottle to be likable and confident and collected. Camera’s flash and his smile is whiter than the moon, and more blinding than the sun. He claps Tony on the back after a slightly mocking joke, clearly unfazed. He places his hand on Nat’s lower back in the most gentlemanly way possible, and everyone swoons like he’s some movie star.
He sits next to you on one of these panels you’re not allowed to skip—you tried to, and Clint dragged you to the helicopter like some misbehaving child—and ignores you all together. A tiny nod and smile for the cameras. Stiff shoulders that square away from you, like if he blocks you out, you’ll just vanish in the hazy lights.
He’d like it, if that happened. He’d probably throw a fucking party.
Because you don’t know why. You don’t know what you did. But Steve Rogers hates you, and no one even thought he was capable of that emotion.
It started the first time Nat dragged you in, spitting and weary like a feral cat. She’d given Steve and Tony the brief on your powers. Said that you had a good heart—although she hadn’t done an x-ray, so you have no idea how she was so sure—and asked to keep you.
Asked.
Natasha didn’t ask for anything. She said it like a question, and fixed Steve and Tony with the most terrifying glare in the world. Tony had shrugged, and Steve had tried to protest. Nat had crossed her arms and flicked her brows up in a silent challenge. Steve had swallowed, looked at you with a strange gleam in his eyes, and given up. He’d left the room with a grumble, not sparing you another glance. Tony would tell you later—after you annoyed it out of him—that he’d spent a month trying to talk Nat out of you. Like a toy he didn’t want her to be playing with.
You hadn’t said a single word. Natasha hadn’t told him anything about your past. And he still hadn’t wanted you there.
“Rogers,” you murmur, smiling at the flashing lights that—supposedly—have people behind them.
You’ve come to think of them more as vultures. They’d like to pick you apart and eat out whatever kind of black, charred thing you’re made of. You never give them the satisfaction.
Steve says your name, low and flat. His attention flits over, scanning you from the corner of his eye. You catch his gaze, and he looks away just as fast.
You roll your eyes and huff, slumping back in your seat. You drum your fingers on the smooth, deep blue cloth of the table. They gave you a water bottle. Maybe if you drink it fast enough, you can just go pee and skip this whole thing-
“Sit up.”
Steve speaks so low you almost don’t hear him. You frown at his profile—stupid clean jawline and strong features—and slump further in your seat. Just to test him. Just to make him twitch.
There aren’t a lot of things you find pride in. Being able to get under Steve’s skin is one of them.
He notices immediately, and shoots you a glare. You snort, and his eyes narrow.
“I told you to sit up-“
“I heard you.”
“And you didn’t listen?” Someone shouts his name. He turns to flash them that look at me, aren’t I perfect? Smile, and you try not to gag.
“You’re not my boss.” You hiss through your teeth, smiling at the people shouting your name.
Steve makes a low, rough sound in his throat. “I am your boss.”
“No. I work under Nat.”
“Who works for me-“
“Does she?”
Steve shoots you another look, and this time you giggle. He’s still smiling, through every single glare. It looks psychotic.
He doesn’t even try to reprimand you this time. He just sighs dramatically and looks back to the crowd. You sit up, but not because he told you to. You’re not another one of his dogs.
Because there’s one more rule about being an Avenger. About being an American.
No one hates Steve Rogers.
He’s an angel. A blessing. His pretty boy face and classy words and pure heart. He never falters, never gives up, never does anything selfish, never gets off his fucking high horse. He’s so handsome it hurts to look at, and he’s so innocent about it, like blushing virgin schoolgirl who can’t stand seeing a fucking ankle without getting red faced and sputtering. He’s all kind words to everyone, he carries twenties on him to give to homeless people, he donates most of his Avengers salary to charities, he handles every press question with tact and charm, and he looks at you like you’re sulfur coated gum, stuck to the bottom of his shoe.
No one tells you what to do when Steve Rogers hates you. He’s not supposed to hate anyone.
So you must be the fucking problem.
You try not to look at him, for most of the panel. It’s easy when he gets seated on the other end of the table, but whatever fucker was in charge of seating today must hate you. You can’t turn your head without seeing his lazy, kind smile, and you can’t turn out his deep laugh, and god, what if you just punched him in the face on live TV-
Someone says your name, and your head snaps over.
“Yeah?”
Steve tenses. You’re supposed to just nod, or say yes, not yeah. That’s not professional. Shame for him the media trainers gave up on you years ago. You don’t know why Steve still bothers. Everyone still loves you anyway.
And the person who said your name doesn’t deserve professionalism anyway. It’s a slimy man at the front of the question line, with slicked back hair and an expensive watch and teeth that look too big for his mouth. You know what kind of question this is going to be, before he even opens his mouth.
“Hi,” the man smirks at you, and you smile back. It’s the cold, bored smile that you wear like a shield. If the man feels the chill from it, he doesn’t even flinch.
“Hey.”
Steve’s jaw ticks. If he breaks a tooth, maybe you won’t have to deal with this question.
“Hey.” The man echoes back, his gaze dropping back to your tits. “I have to ask, what does it take to get you out of the Avengers compound and out on a date?”
You laugh, spinning your mic and leaning back in your chair. The audience laughs with you. They always do.
Steve doesn’t, and it stabs near your ribs for some useless reason. Sometimes you wonder if your powers just don’t work on him, which would make him even more annoying than he already is.
“More than that,” you say, and the man stands a little taller.
“You wanna give me a step-by-step?” He winks. “I’m a good rule follower.”
“Hm.” You smirk. “I’m sure you are.”
A chorus of teasing jeers comes from the back of the crowd, where all the men always get shoved. They’re less insistent than the fangirls who want to see Steve and Thor’s muscles. The man at the front of the line looks back with a proud grin—he got you to talk, what a miracle—then returns his gaze to you.
“What about if I promise to be a gentleman?”
“Then I’d ask you to cross your fingers,” you say, smiling with so much honey you’re worried your face is going to get glued like this.
The oooooos are louder this time, and you laugh. The man at the front looks like he’s about to fall to his knees. He grabs at the mic stand like a lifeline, staring at you with wide, devout eyes, and you don’t even flinch when Steve rips your mic from your hands.
“She’ll be backstage after, buddy.” His tone is light, but firm. The man blinks at him, like he forgot he was there. “Remember, she’s got a whole panel to get through. Don’t want to distract her too early.”
He laughs. Everyone laughs with him, except for you.
You smile at him with enough venom to burn the super solider serum right out of his big, muscled body. Steve smiles back, with that strange gleam back in his eyes.
It’s only there for you. It’s been two years, and you never learned to read it. The questions move on, and your mic gets turned of while Bruce talks about his favorite kinds of tea. You lean to the side, hissing from the corner of your mouth.
“What the fuck is your problem.”
Steve doesn’t blink. He keeps his winning smile on his face, and you’re sure that to anyone looking on from the crowd, it seems like you’re exchanging friendly jokes.
“This isn’t a dating app.”
“I know that-“
“Didn’t seem like it.”
You scoff. Your smile is starting to hurt your face. “What was I supposed to do, tell him to piss off?”
Steve’s lips twitch down, ever so slightly. “You flirted back.”
“So? I was never going to go out with him, he looked like a fucking sewer rat.”
“That’s rude-“
“Oh, suck my dick.”
You look back to the crowd. Steve mutters your name, and you ignore him. He says it again, firmer this time, and you shoot him a shut the fuck up look.
His nostrils flare. His eyes are so blue, you think you could get lost in them if he wasn’t always trying to forcefully burn you out.
“You-“ He lets out a heavy breath through his nose, shakes his head, and look back out to the crowd. “You’re going to find yourself with a stalker one day. It happened to Nat.”
You almost snort. You’ve heard that story. Nat curb stomped him. “I’m sure I’d handle it.”
Steve’s lip curls. “You have no combat training,” he grunts, and you huff.
Not this again.
“If someone got the jump on you-“
“No one gets the jump on me.”
“Yet,” he gives you a pointed look, and you hold it, unimpressed and bored. “But one day-“
“One day what? I’m just going to lose all my powers? And need Captain America to protect me?” You laugh crudely, and Steve scowls.
“I didn’t say that-“
“Then what were you going to say-“’
“That you need to be careful-“
“And why do you care-“
“I don’t-“
“Really?” You roll your eyes. “Could’ve fooled me.”
“You- You fucking-“
“Steve.” Sam leans over Steve’s shoulder, glaring between you. “People. Watching. Calm down.”
You and Steve both freeze, and glance out to the crowd. Sure enough, almost all the eyes are on you. Shining vultures. For one, at least, picking Steve apart with you.
You smile and wave. Steve sits so tall you think he might be trying to fly away.
“What were you talking about?” The next person asks, and Steve laughs.
Controlled. Always so fucking controlled.
“Nothing important-“
“It looked important.”
Steve shrugs. “We take everything we do here seriously. A conversation about dinner can look like a war meeting sometimes, with how much passion we have for- Everything.”
He waves at the air, and the crowd murmurs. You smirk, because Steve sees the light in that ripple. Only the rising relief. Not the dents it’s leaving in the water.
But you see them. You see them better than anyone. And you know why the people drop it. Tony’s glaring down the table, and Nat is rubbing her face, and you know they heard it too.
You love it when he fucks up. You’re beaming for the rest of the panel, because you know what the headline is going to be in the morning.
Passion, he said.
Idiot.
It happens so fast, and Steve’s the only one surprised by it.
“You two.” Tony points between you in the morning. “My office. Now.”
You smile, shoving your bagel in your mouth and following after him. Steve looks confused. You’re sure he’s never been called to an office before. You’re thrilled to have that first experience with him.
“Tony, what’s going on-“
“No.” Tony points at him with a scowl, and the door locks behind you. “Not a word from you, Cap. This is your fault.”
“My fault?” Steve almost recoils. “How is it my fault, I haven’t even done anything. It’s probably her fault-“
You snort, taking the bagel out of your mouth. “My fault? You don’t even know what we did yet!”
“Well, I know it’s your fault-“
“Because everything is my fault-“
“For stuff like this, yeah. It is.”
“Stuff like this- Like what, you getting in trouble-“
“I’m not in trouble-“
“Oh, you just got called to Daddy’s office because of your good behavior-“
“Can you both shut up?” Tony raises his voice, glaring between you with his nose pinched. “I swear, you’re going to give me a migraine that kills me. And you,” he shoots you a glower. “Never call me Daddy again.”
You smirk. “Why, does it turn you on too much?”
Steve looks at you like he wants to kill you. Tony just looks bored.
“Yeah, it does. Which is annoying.”
“Aw,” you beam at Steve. “He thinks I’m annoying.”
A vein is pushing out of Steve’s brow. If anyone is going to die right now, it’s going to be him, from bursting a vessel. You giggle, dropping in the seat in front of Tony’s desk. Steve just stands behind you, a soldier at attention against his greatest enemy. You tip your head backwards, looking at him under fluttering lashes.
“You should sit down, buddy.”
Something flickers over Steve’s face. “Don’t call me buddy.”
“Don’t stand there like a creep.”
His lip curls. You give him a challenging smile, and he lets out one of those heavy sighs that’s only reserved for you. He stomps over to the chair next to it, and drops down with a scowl at Tony.
“You want to tell us why we’re here, Tony?”
Tony frowns, and glances at you. “Does he not know?”
You shrug. “He’s a little stupid. You know that.”
Tony’s lips twitch despite himself. Steve scowls.
“I don’t know what you two are talking about, or- Planning-“
He cuts himself off, as Tony tosses the printed out article down on the desk. You hadn’t actually seen it yet, but you knew it was coming.
From the look on Steve’s face, though, he really hadn’t realized at all.
“What.” It’s all he says. One clipped, dumbfounded word as he stares at the paper. You sort of want to laugh, but you bite it down. Tony’s looking at you like this is serious. Like he can’t make it go away with a wave of his hand.
Stever grabs the article. You lean over his shoulder, just to piss him off a little more. He doesn’t even bother to glare at you, his fingers digging so deep into the paper it tears. The headline gets crumpled, like he’s crushing it with just his gaze.
Secret Love In the Avengers.
It’s not very snappy. You think they could’ve tried harder, but at least the picture is good. You and Steve both look nice, and you’re staring at each other so intently you can’t even blame them for the minimum effort. With Sam looking bored on Steve’s other side, and you and Steve leaning so close together, there’s no mistaking in that photo who might be seconds from making out.
“Tony,” Steve mutters. “What’s this.”
Tony snorts. “What do you think this is, Cap? A news article about trades with China? No, because less people would be reading that than they’re reading this.”
“We’re hotter than trades with China,” you offer, and you think Tony would laugh if he wasn’t so pissed.
“Why is there a picture of us.” Steve mutters, and Tony rolls his eyes.
“Well, when two people look at each other like they want to fuck, everyone tends to notice.”
Steve’s jaw locks. You sigh, crossing your arms over your chest.
“So what, do you need us to do another release-“
“No.” Tony glares at you. “This is the third time something like this has happened with you two-“
“What?” You snort. “No, it isn’t-“
“Ah.” Tony raises a hand. “Don’t play stupid with me. I’m trying to be generous with third, and I’m not in the mood to hold your hands through feelings right now.”
“Feelings?” Steve spits, fumbling with the paper. “There are no- I don’t know what you think you’re talking about, Stark-“
“Steven.” Tony says flatly. “You. Shut up.”
Steve shakes his head. “You don’t know what you’re talking about-“
“Yes. I do. And you do too.”
You raise your hand, frowning between them. “Can I ask what the first and second time were, because I’d remember if this happened before-“
“No, you wouldn’t,” Tony snaps. “Because I have spent millions bribing people out of running these stories, and you never look online to see what people are saying.”
“What people are saying?” You look at Steve. “What are people saying?”
Steve coughs, ears turning red. “Nothing-“
“They think you’re fucking.” Tony says flatly, and your mouth falls open.
“They- What?!”
“You have chemistry, kid.” Tony shrugs. “Every second you’re next to each other, you’re eye fucking so much we all feel like we’re supposed to leave the room.”
You sputter, shaking your head. You can feel you flush, burning up your face. When you look at Steve, he won’t meet your eyes.
He never does.
“Did you know about this?” You hiss.
He sighs, running a hand over his face with a half-shrug. “Maybe.”
“Maybe?! What the fuck does that mean-“
“Means he knew.” Tony says flatly. “Everyone knew.”
“Everyone knew what?! That the whole country thinks I want to fuck Steve?!”
Tony snorts. “You do want to fuck Steve.”
Your face burns. Steve looks up with warning pinch in his brow. “Tony.”
“Don’t Tony me, pretty boy-“
“Just- Not now-“
“Yes, now.” Tony glares between you. “This has gotten out of hand. We get it. You’re both hot. You’d have hot sex. But if you don’t either fuck or cut bait and start acting like adults, you’re grounded.”
Steve scowls. “You can’t ground me, Stark, I’m your boss-“
“Well, I cut the checks.” Tony crosses his arms. “So I think I can do whatever I want.”
Steve and Tony keep glaring at each other. You stare off in the middle distance between them. Your hands don’t feel like they’re your hands. Your feet are planted on the carpet, but not on solid ground. Your head feels like it’s pressing into itself, yet also expanding to something bigger than you can hold onto.
You don’t want to fuck Steve. Sure, he’s all muscles and rugged yet soft features, but there are countless men like that.
There are very few men like that. Well, you could find one. You have one in front of you. But you don’t want to fuck him. He’s annoying. Impossibly annoying and bossy and always up your ass about something, and not in the fun way like you’d prefer-
No. You wouldn’t prefer. You don’t want to fuck Steve. You can have anyone else, you’d rather have anyone else. Steve’s just always there and always making you embarrassed and angry, and maybe you’re into that but it’s none of his business. It’s not like he’d be like that in bed, either way.
You think. Not that you’ve thought about it. He’s too perfect. Too boring. He’s not boring when he’s arguing with you. He just hates you that much. That you make him break. Or you let him show that side of himself. You don’t poke and prod at anyone like you poke and prod at Steve. He’s just fun to get a rise out of. He gets cute when he’s pissy. He sneers your name and it goes right between your legs, but that doesn’t mean you want to fuck him.
You don’t. You don’t. You don’t?
He has big hands, but you don’t want them groping and squeezing all over your body. He’s got a strong nose, but you’ve never thought about it pushing against your clit, just like you’ve never thought about his huge biceps wrapping around your neck while he fingers you stupid. And you’d smile at him, dazed and long fucked out of protesting. And he’d feed those fingers to you while sitting you on his cock, and all that perfection would melt away into something raw. Something real, that’s open and refuses to be stitched close. Something that both of you want to drown in.
Something’s that’s just for you, and Steve, and no one else.
Oh, no.
You want to fuck him.
Tony says your name, and your gaze snaps back over. Your palms are sweating, your face burning, your skin suddenly itchy and your feet restless. You want to fuck Steve. You want to fuck Steve.
He looks at you weird, and you shift in your seat. He can’t know. Ever. This is going to get cleaned up, and Steve will never know that you might, kind of, really want him to just toss you over his shoulder and fuck you stupid. You glance at him from the corner of you eye, and his gaze sears into you. You have to look away.
There’s no way he can know. You’ve barely even known for a minute. Tony only says he knows because he’s an ass. This will pass. It has to pass.
“Figure it out.” Tony tells you, before walking out of the office.
And you will. By never being in the same room as Steve again.
You shoot to your feet, and almost sprint out of the room. Steve calls your name, but you don’t look back. He’s faster, but he’s also respectful. He won’t manhandle you and force you to listen, like you want him to.
God, you really want him to. You’re going to kill Tony for making you realize that, then kill yourself, and no one will ever have to know that—for all your cool, bored smiles and teasing and flirting, for all your powers and siren-like smile—you just want to be fucked stupid by the most righteous, innocent sex-symbol in America.
But then Steve shouts your name again. He’s following you. Why is he following you.
“Fuck off, Steve!” You shout over your shoulder, and he scoffs.
“No, you heard Tony, we need to talk-“
“We really don’t-“
“Yes, we do- Will you slow down-“
You pick up the pace, just to piss him off. Steve groans, and you hear boots hitting the ground behind you. He’s giving chase, and you can barely outwalk him.
Steve grabs your arm before you can even break into a sprint. You thrash, but it’s useless. He’s too strong, and that’s so hot, and you’re going to throw yourself off a bridge about this.
“Let go-“
“No.” Steve drags you down the hall, into an empty conference room. “Not until we talk.”
“There’s nothing for us to talk about-“
“Will you just stop being such a fucking brat and listen?”
Steve raises his voice, stern and commanding. It’s deep, so deep it echoes through you, and your knees wobble. He sees it. His jaw ticks, his grip slackens, and you rip your hand away.
“Brat.” You mock. “What would America think, if they saw their Golden sun talking to a girl like that?”
Steve’s lips twitch. “You are not a girl.”
“Aw. I’m a woman-“
“You’re a problem.” He leans over you, voice dropping to a hiss.
And this is how he always looks at you, but magnified. With a sharper gleam in his eyes, his lips thin and white, like he’s trying to swallow every word. A vein in his brow ticks, and you smile.
“I’m a problem?”
Steve’s throat bobs. “Yes.”
“Hurtful,” you whisper, and he rolls his eyes.
“You’ll live.”
For a long moment, you just stare at each other. He wants to talk, he can talk. You’re not entertaining this. Not just for him to unravel you then keep being a fucking dick.
“You…” He shakes his head, a tiny motion as his tongue flicks over his lips. “You are impossible.”
“You’re impossible-“
“Because you make me impossible,” he sneers, and you lean back slightly.
“I- You-“ You try to scoff. It’s a weak sound. He’s too close, and he smells like pine trees and something spicy, and it’s not fair. “I don’t even do anything-“
“Yes. You do.”
“What, is my skirt too short? Are my shoulders distracting you-“
“You’re distracting me.” Steve presses forward, until your faces are only inches apart. “You always distract me, you fuckin’-“ He closes his eyes, shoulders heaving.
“Steve…” You breathe, and he chuckles.
“Don’t say my name like that,” he rasps. “You don’t fuckin’ mean it.”
You blink, trying to think over the desire, burning in your body. Of course you meant it. You didn’t even want to say it, but he’s so close. It’s intoxicating. You’d think he was drugging you, if that was possible.
Steve’s pressed you against the conference table. His arms are caging you in, giving you no escape from the electricity, almost crackling in the air. You open your mouth, then close it, lost for what to say. You’re worried you’ll just whisper his name again. He drags his eyes open after what feels like a million years, his voice dropping down to something hot and dangerous.
“You never push anyone,” he says. “Like you push me, doll. It’s not… It drives me crazy.”
You swallow, your voice smaller than you want. “You- You push me-“
“Because I can’t help it.” He presses closer. Your noses are almost bumping. “You are beautiful, and insolent, and infuriating-“
“Steve-“
“And you’re so sweet to everyone.” He grabs your jaw, and your hand flies to his wrist. “Everyone loves you, so they think I’m crazy when I say you’re tryin’ to kill me.”
“Everyone loves me because of my powers.” You try to remind him, because if he does this, you won’t be able to stop him. “You- You know that-“
“I do. Trust me,” he murmurs your name, gaze flicking to your lips. “I know. Spent so long blaming them too. All those daydreams had to be because you’re Nat’s honeypot. Thought it was the wrong thing to do, that I was some kind of monster to thinking about you like that, when everyone else already does. But no,” he looks back to you. “It’s just you, doll. I plugged my nose, avoided your pheromones, let Bruce experiment on me to make me immune, did fuckin’ everything, and I still wanted you.”
You take a deep, ragged breath. You have to lick your lips, to stop the spit, and Steve tracks the motion like a predator.
No one wants you. Everyone loves you, but no one wants you. You’re pretty but untouchable. No one can hurt you. If you ask someone for something, they’ll always do it, whether they really want to or not.
But Steve…
He says he wants you. And you really want to believe him.
“How long.” You breathe, and he sighs, bowing his head.
“Since the second I saw you.”
“You…” You scan over his face, looking for any hint that it’s not really him. That he doesn’t really, fully mean it. “You want to fuck me?”
His ears turn red. “I mean- Not just that-“
“But you do,” you breathe, and he sighs.
Stares for a second longer, then nods.
“Okay.” You whisper. Steve looks to your lips, then back to you again.
“Okay?”
You nod. Steve’s grip on your jaw tightens, and your breath hitches. He leans down slowly. So torturously slowly.
Your lips meet, soft and chapped and nervous. You lean up, and he presses down. Your noses bump, and his tongue flicks over your lower lip. Your nails dig into his bicep, and he grunts, and-
Steve snaps.
His other hand flies to your face, and he presses over you, hot and demanding. Your breath hitches, you mouth falls open, and he shoves his tongue down your throat with a groan. You grab the collar of his shirt, yanking him so hard you both stumble back. Your knees hit the back of the table, but Steve’s fast. He ducks down without breaking the kiss, and scoops you up into his arms.
You squeal, but the sound is quickly muffled by Steve’s tongue down your throat. Your laugh is breathless and giddy. He chuckles, pushing further forward, and you pull at the collar of his shirt. He jerks forward, angling his head to deepen the kiss.
“Needy.” He mutters against your lips, and you shove his shoulder with weak hands.
“Shut up, I could still stop this-“
“But you won’t.” He taunts. “You like it, don’t you. Like gettin’ on my nerves, making me lose control.”
Steve pulls away, grabs your knees, shoving them apart with rough, firm hands. You gasp, grabbing at his neck. “Steve-“
“You’re wet under there.” He growls, running a big hand up your inner thigh. “I can smell it. Smell how much you want me, every damn time you’d mouth off.”
Your swallow, pressing your brows tight together. You watch him rub your legs, breathing through your nose like some wanton whore. Steve’s thumb grazes the place where you’re leg meets your core, and your whole body shivers.
He smirks, looking at you under pretty lashes. You try to glare, but you’re panting. His gaze just makes the fire in your core burn brighter, and your tongue flicks over your lips.
“You never said anything,” you whisper, and Steve gives you an amused look.
“You would’ve killed me.”
And you can laugh breathlessly. Ten minutes ago, you would’ve. But now he’s all over you, and you can’t even bring yourself to mock him.
“No,” you brush your lips over his. “I wouldn’t have.”
Steve works his jaw, that raw, strange look flashing over his face. The look that’s yours. That’s only ever been for you.
He leans in, and this kiss is softer than before. Steve massages your hips, settling himself between your legs. You spread them wide to accommodate him, and feel it poking against your thigh. His cock, thick and hard, somehow bigger than you imagined, and you hadn’t been thinking small.
“You feel that.” He pulls your upper lip between his teeth, smiling slightly. “’S what you always do to me. Every day, I’d be walkin’ around so hard I was worried you’d see it. But no.” His kisses one corner of your mouth, then the other. “You’re oblivious, aren’t you honey.”
You hum, tipping your head back. Steve groans, dragging his lips over a pulse point, letting his tongue flick against sensitive skin. One hand slips under your shirt, careful fingers tracing up the line of your spine.
“Steve…” You whisper. “Don’t tease.”
“Oh, but you like it too much when I do.” He rasps. “You love it, love being a sweet little toy for me.”
You whimper, and he reaches around, grabbing a handful of your ass.
“So bossy ‘till I’m touchin’ you,” he sucks on your neck, grinding his bugle into your core. You gasp as the rough friction, and Steve chuckles.
“You- You’re such an ass-“
“You like that too.” He grunts, breath hot in your ear. “You like bein’ the one person that gets me going, that makes me lose it. No one else, doll.” He pushes your ass forward, so your clit is pushed against the thick hardness of him.
A long moan escapes your lips, and you drop your face into his shoulder. Steve grunts, rutting forward, and it’s so fucking hot you can’t think past it. The drawl of his voice in your ear, the strength of him around you, it’s intoxicating. The clothing adding extra friction, his fingers digging into your skin. His hand slips into your pants, deft fingers dragging down your ass to tease right against the drip of your pussy.
“Just you,” he thrusts forward, squeezing your ass. “Only you. So fuckin’ pretty and sassy, drivin’ me insane-“
You whimper, and Steve makes a low sound, taking a deep breath against your hair. The table creaks, with the force of his every thrust.
“So rude of you, sweetheart, to make me try and keep it together when you’re running around, beggin’ to be fucked- God-“
Steve moans, jerking his hips back suddenly. You stare at each other, panting and flushed. He swallows, and there’s a stain blooming on his pants. Your mouth falls open, and normally you’d make fun of him, but fuck. There’s so much of it. You can see white, leaking out of the cuffs of his pants and onto the floor. He came just from that. Just from holding and kissing you.
And he’s still so hard.
You lick your lips, and look back up. Steve’s throat bobs. You smile, fumbling with your pants, and he blinks.
“You’re- Uh-“
“In me.” You point at his dick, about to burst the seam of his slacks, then your core. “You- Do that in me.”
Steve’s hands curl into fists. You’ve never seen his face so red. It’s almost adorable. “Uh- Are you sure-“
“Do you want to fuck me stupid or not?”
He leans back, startled. You hold his gaze, pull down your pants, hike your legs up on the table, and spread them wide.
You could swear you see it twitch, as he takes you in. Head thrown back, your fingers rubbing between the swollen, dripping lips of your cunt. You breathe out his name, dipping one finger into your heat and pumping slowly. Steve takes a rough step forward, grabbing your knees like handles.
“Stop,” he grunts, and you obey.
Steve runs his fingers down your bare thigh, slowly guiding your hand away from your pussy. You grab his shoulder, holding his gaze as he rubs his thumb around your clit. You let out a slow, relaxed breath, and Steve smirks.
“You like that, doll?”
“As much as you did,” you breathe out, and Steve chuckles.
“Ah. Too late for that.” He presses a mocking kiss to your open lips. “You showed me what you want. How bad you want it.”
Steve flicks your clit, and your back arches. He presses back down on the little button, and a long moan rips from your lips.
“I came in my fuckin’ pants,” he whispers in your ear. “And you’re still beggin’ me to fuck you.”
“Wasn’t- Wasn’t begging-“
“But you would,” he coos. “If I asked you to. You’d say please, Stevie and cry for me to stuff this pretty little pussy.” He pushes down on your clit, and you whimper. “Like the good little slut you are.”
God, the hold he has on you should be crime. You choke out his name pathetically, and Steve starts to rub you in thick, unrelenting circles. His free arm wraps around your lower back, holding you in place when his fingers dip down, and start to explore the folds of you pussy.
“So wet,” he mutters, pushing one finger deep into your cunt. You clench around him, and a squelching sound fills the room as he pumps slowly. “Wet and tight.” Steve looks up at you with a smirk. “You think you’re gonna be able to take my cock, doll? Christ, you’re barely taking my finger.”
He pushes in a second one, just to prove his point, and your mouth falls open. He’s right. The burn of his two fingers, it feels like he’s stretching you open with a fist. He slides them in deeper and deeper, his thumb working your clit, and your nails sink into his neck.
“St- Steve,” you gape between your bodies, watching him disappear inside of you. “Steve-“
“Hm?” He gets up to the knuckle, and looks up at you with a smirk.
You try to take a second to catch your breath, and he scissors his fingers, twisting his wrist so it hits a gummy spot inside of you. You cry out, and he silences you with a deep, messy kiss.
“Feel it,” he mutters against your lips, pulling his fingers almost all the way out. “No talkin’ for once, doll. All you gotta do is feel it.”
He slams his fingers back in. You whimper, but nod. Steve hums in approval, and the sound shoots straight between your legs. You squeeze and gush around him, and he groans. You barely get a second to compose yourself before he starts to thrust his fingers, deep and hard, and you start to unravel.
Steve’s strong. This is him holding back, and he’s still so strong. You scramble to get a real, firm hold on something, because he’s pummeling your pussy into a drenched, slack oblivion. The pace is brutal, knuckles dragging right over your g-spot over and over, splitting you open in a way that makes you drool.
He makes his mouth busy, trailing kisses back down your throat, then over your shoulders. You moan, leaning your head against his, and he smiles against your skin. Steve draws back to meet your gaze, and through the daze of the pleasure he’s dragging out of you, you smile back.
Your body is rocking, from the brutality of how he’s touching you. Steve’s eyes flick down, but not to where his fingers are being swallowed by your pussy.
He’s looking at your tits.
He licks his lips, watching them bounce under his force. You think he might be hypnotized. Before you can say anything, he reaches up and rips your shirt clean off.
“Steve- Ooh-“
“Shhh.” He gives you a stern look, twisting his fingers in your cunt. “I’ve got you, doll. Just- Lemme-“
Steve looks back to your tits, and his eyes are almost black with desire. You’ve never seen anything hotter, than how he looks at you as he lowers himself down.
He mouths at the curve of your tits, sucking a tiny, dark bruise. You moan, starching at his bicep, but he just drags you closer. Forcing your back to arch, your tits to push into his face.
“Look at you,” he mutters, voice dripping with something close to reverence. “My girl.”
And you blink. Because that wasn’t discussed, but your pussy clenches all the same. His girl.
You don’t get more time to think about it before Steve’s lips wrap around your nipple, and you lose control.
He mouths at you like a starved man. Kissing and licking and sucking, sending tingling, electric sensations straight from your tits to your pussy. He moans every time you squeeze down on his fingers, which just feels like a vibrator right against your sensitive nipples, and makes you lose it all the more.
You’re grinding up into him, thrashing a little like an animal and whimpering in his ear. Steve bites down softly, his thumb staring to make quick, relentless swipes at your clit.
“Oh- Oh fuck-“ You moan, tugging at his short, soft hair. “St- Steve- Too much- I’m gonna- Fuuuck-“
You don’t know why you thought he was going to slow down. Steve switches nipples, biting down before sucking hard, right as his blunt fingertips hit that spot inside of you. You cry out as you cum, your body writhing against his stronger one. He keeps you in place, his hand working you through the orgasm. Pulling every last spasm of your cunt, and a few more after. He kisses your nipples and over your breasts before he draws up.
When it’s done, your eyes are lidded. Steve stares at you, slowly pulling his hand out. He smears your juices over your pussy, thumbing at your clit for a few more, light seconds. You squeak, and he smiles.
“You look pretty when you cum,” he mutters, and you flush.
You’ve been told that before, but this feels different.
This feels real.
You can’t think of anything to say. Steve doesn’t push you to try. He leans forward, cupping your cheek and giving you a smaller, softer look before he kisses you. You melt into him, too dazed from what might be strongest orgasm of your life to protest.
“’m gonna fuck you ‘till you can’t walk.” Steve mutters. “But- Not here.”
You hum in agreement. “Clean up later?”
“Later.” Steve grunts in agreement. “If I don’t get inside of you, think I’m gonna die.”
You giggle. It’s so stupid, but you giggle. Steve huffs out a low laugh, and drags your forward. You’re being carried like a koala in his arms. He kisses your cheek before drawing up to his whole height, and glancing at the door.
“I, uh-“ He gives you a sheepish expression. “I’m gonna have to run.”
You nod—you’re naked, you expected as much—and he clears his throat.
“You gotta hold on.”
“I am holding on.” You pat his neck, and he sighs.
“Doll, I’m gonna be running really fast-“
“I’m holding on tight.”
“Hold on tighter.”
You roll your eyes, and wrap him in the best chokehold you can manage. The asshole doesn’t even pretend to grunt.
“Your boobs are in my face.” He mumbles, and you snort.
“You were eating them like, five seconds ago-“
“Yeah, but- That was just us. What if someone sees-“
“That you’re carrying me naked? Probably that we’re fucking.”
He twists his neck to glare up at you. You smile innocently back, and he sighs.
His breath is warm, over your breasts. It makes you squirm a little, and Steve’s grip on your body tightens.
“You are such a brat,” he mutters, almost in awe. “I stop fucking you for ten seconds, and you’re already talking back again.”
“Oops.” You beam. “You should fix that.”
Steve chuckles. His tongue flicks over his lips. “Yeah,” his voice is dark. A promise. “Trust me. I’m gonna.”
And he runs. He runs so fast you squeal, because you forgot how fast he can be when he’s really trying. You press your face back into his neck to block the wind, and when he stops, you still don’t look up.
The smell hits you first. It’s deep and rich and-
Steve.
You poke your head up, and you’re in Steve’s room.
It’s not what you expected, a military cell where he sleeps and plans way to torture you. It’s… Cozy. There are books on a shelf that slightly poorly put together, and the bed is made but the sheets look thick and soft. There’s a mirror on the dresser, facing the bed, and so much paper you almost don’t know where to look. Drawings of flowers, and rivers, and sunsets. One of a bird, and a few of the landscape of the compound, and so, so many of-
“Is that me?”
Steve grunts, tossing you down onto his bed and starting to strip. You move to your knees, ready to scramble off the bed and get a better look at the drawings, but he gives you a stern look.
“Stay.”
You roll your eyes. “Shut up, I wanna see- Steve-“
He grabs you like you weigh nothing, and throws you right back onto the bed before you’re even on two feet. Your thighs press together, thrilled with the blatant manhandling. Steve notices it, and laughs.
“You like that, huh?”
“Shut up-“
“No, you liked that-“
“Maybe I did.” You stick your tongue out, and he smirks.
“You love bein’ a ragdoll, don’t you. Needy girl, you’re gonna let me do whatever I want to you-“
“You have drawings of me!” You blurt, because you really don’t need him to make you more horny.
Steve shrugs. “I do. So?”
“So?” You fumble, pulling at the sheets. “You- You like me-“
“That’s a shock to you?” Steve gives you an amused look. “I just fingered you in borderline public.”
“Well- You- You-“ You’re sputtering again. Only Steve does this to you. It drives you fucking insane. “You could’ve just wanted to fuck me-“
“Nope.” He shrugs. “I’ve been in love with you for a while. You just get on my last line sometimes, doll.”
And all your protests slip out of your head.
I love you.
He- He said-
“What?” You squeak, and Steve sighs.
“I love you.”
He said it again. “Wh- Why?”
“Why?” He gives you a tired, almost annoyed look. “Why wouldn’t I love you?”
“Because I’m annoying.” You answer immediately. “And mean, and bossy, and- I’m annoying-“
“You said that one already.” Steve starts to walk towards you, and you lean into his gravity, even as your heart beats in your ears.
“How do you know you love me.” You whisper. “It- It could just be my powers-“
“It’s not.”
“But-“
Steve takes your face between his hands, his thumb dragging over your lower lip. You fall silent, and you know you’re staring up at him like he’s the sun, but you’ve never been so warm. You’re afraid to move. To lose it.
“Steve…” You breathe, and he hums. “You- You can’t mean that-“
“I do.” He presses his thumb forward, and your lips wrap around it on instinct. You suck, and his eyes flash with more approval.
It’s embarrassing, how pliable that makes you. How he’d just need to give you one bit of praise after so much mocking, and you might just cum right here. Sucking on Steve’s thumb, naked on his bed, sheets bunched between your thighs.
“I love you because you’re smart,” he says, and useless, embarrassing tears prick at your eyes. “And funny, and kind. You never abuse what you can do to people. You work hard, you drive me crazy, you’re always ready to do anything for anyone else.”
You try to shy away. You’d been wrong. You’re not cumming, you’re getting so hot it feels like a fever, because having him degrade you is less embarrassing than this. Steve’s grip on you face tightens. He’s not letting you get away that easy.
“You’re gorgeous,” he murmurs. “And it’s got nothin’ to do with any powers. So I love you, doll. And you’re gonna feel it.”
There’s nothing you can say to that. Tears are pricking at your eyes, hopeless and confused and desperate. You need to see what that feels like. Steve’s love, painted all over you.
“You want that?” He mutters, and you nod. “Words-“
“Please,” you breathe out, the words muffled around his thumb. “Show me.”
Steve smiles. He pulls his thumb away with a pop, and taps your check gently.
“See?” He smirks. “Begging.”
Your eyes narrow, but Steve doesn’t let you spit out a response. He crashes down into a harsh, long kiss that makes your toes curl and thighs rub together. Steve gropes all over your body, pushing you down into the mattress before rolling over and forcing you to straddle his chest.
He’s naked. You don’t know how you missed it—probably the love confession—but the thick, hard curve of his cock slaps against your ass, and his bare chest flexes when you drag your nails over his pecs.
“You’re gonna ride my cock, doll,” he rubs your ass, smiling up at you. “Don’t need you to say anything back. Just show me,” he squeezes your ass. “How fuckin’ bad you need it.”
You look back at it, and your breath hitches. It’s huge. Bigger than any you’ve ever taken, bigger than any you’ve ever seen, even in porn.
“Did you take fucking drugs for that thing?” You breathe, and Steve snorts.
“Yes?”
You glare at him, and he raises his brows.
“You getting on, or not?”
For a second, you think about being petulant. You cross your arms and pout, trying to test how far you can push him. But Steve just snorts, rolls his eyes, and picks you up. You don’t even get to wiggle before he’s forcing you down on his dick, and the air is knocked from your lungs.
Steve sits so deep in your, it might be pushing all the thoughts out of your brain. You gape down at him, making weak noises as your pussy pulses and stretches around him. His fingers dig into your hips, but it’s the only sign that he’s struggling to hold himself back.
“Much as I love you bein’ a brat,” he mutters, massaging your ass. “I’d rather see this.”
He reaches up slowly, tucking air behind your ear. You smile weakly, and he chuckles, settling fully into the pillows.
“Ride it, doll,” he orders, and god help you, you try.
You catch your breath after a long moment that feels like eternity, and start to roll your hips. Steve groans, eyelids fluttering, but doesn’t help you. His hands stay firm on your body, forcing you to use everything you have to grind down onto his dick.
He pushes against that gooey spot inside of you, and you falter with a long moan. You shift, forcing him right against it, and he lets out a sharp breath, but still doesn’t move.
“Feels good, doesn’t it,” he coos, cock throbbing inside of it. “Nice and big, fillin’ up your pussy so good.”
You moan, hips bucking. Steve grunts, thrusting up slightly, and you tip your head back. The friction is good. So good. For a second, back arched and thighs aching, you find a rhythm. It starts slow, rolling and pushing Steve’s cock right where you want it. You look down at him, sweaty and adoring beneath you. His hands wander, his breathing ragged and lips parted.
“That’s a good girl,” he mutters. “C’mon, baby, there you go.”
You keen, and move faster. Your knees are weak, but the need is stronger. You bounce on Steve dick, grabbing at his chest and gasping for air as he splits you open over and over again.
But it’s not enough. You don’t have extra stamina or strength, and he’s so big, and you’re so turned on your body is starting to forget how to move. Every wet, obscene sound makes you glance at where he’s disappearing inside of you, the way your slick is coating his cock when you pull up and his balls are heavy, pushed against your ass when you drop back down. You get hornier, and you want to just let go and allow your eyes to cross and toes to curl, but you can’t. You can’t find the pace.
You can’t cum. You can’t, and pathetic, fat tears stream down your cheeks because of it.
Steve reaches up, brushing them away with a tiny smirk. “Aw, babydoll. Don’t cry.”
You sob, shaking above him as your legs finally get to weak. You’re just squirming above him now, blinking under wet lashes at his teasing, lazy smile.
“Can’t get there all alone, can you,” he pushes you down, slamming his hips up, and you make a choked sound like his name. “Yeah, that’s right. Sweet girl, just a fuckin’ mess on my cock.”
“Ple- Please-“ You blubber, collapsing over Steve’s chest. “God, Steve- Please-“
“Aw. Begging so pretty.” He kisses your brow. “How could I ever tell you no?”
Steve grabs you off his cock, twisting you onto your stomach as he sits up. You’re shoved down into the mattress, your cheek pressed into the cushions by one of Steve’s hands on the back of your neck. The other stays on your hips, dragging your ass high up in the air to present to him.
“Such a mess.” Steve runs the head of his cock between the lips of you pussy, letting it press against your clit before he lines it up at your entrance. “You really needed this, didn’t you?”
He slides in slowly, and your eyes rolls back in your head. He’s impossibly deeper at this angle. You try to press your face into the mattress, to muffle your pathetic sounds, but Steve folds his body over yours, fisting a hand in your hair and yanking it back as he bottoms out.
“Look.” He bites your ear, dragging back before slamming forward, drilling his cock back into your abused, over sensitive pussy. “Look at us, babydoll. Fit so fuckin’ perfect.”
Your eyes dart up, and oh. Oh god.
It’s the most pornographic thing you’ve ever seen. Steve wrapped around you, his jaw tight and one hand resting on your hip. You can’t see where he’s fucking you, but you can see how his muscles flex with each thrust. You’re trapped under him, your gaze locked onto his black, fervorish one. There’s no blue left in his eyes, as he hits a pace like an animal. Only hunger and adoration.
“St- Steve-“
“That’s it,” he rasps. “That’s right, say my fuckin’ name- Scream it-“
“Steve!” You cry out, the tears streaming down your face as it becomes far too much. “Oh- Ooooh-“
Steve lets go of your hair, wrapping his massive bicep around your neck. It keeps your head up, keeps your eyes on his. He kisses the side of your head, and you can feel arousal sliding down your thighs as he rolls his hips.
“So pretty,” he whispers. “Look at yourself. Look how fuckin’ perfect you are.”
Your eyes dart over, and an unbearable warmth prickles over your skin. You look more beautiful than you’ve ever felt in your life. Thoroughly wrecked, worshipped, fucked into a drooling mess with swollen lips and glazed eyes. Steve noses at you, smirking against your skin.
“Good, good girl.” His words are thick, his thrusts becoming erratic. “Feels nice, doesn’t it?”
You whimper an agreement, and Steve chuckles.
“You gonna cum for me? C’mon, show me how nice it feels, cum on my fucking cock-“
It’s like he has more control over your body than you do. The orgasm rips through you at his command, and you sob out his name as you fall apart in his arms. Steve grunts, pulling fully out for half a second to roll you on your back. You barely even feel the loss before he’s burying himself right to the hilt, and you can’t remember what being empty feels like.
There’s more than there looked to be. Steve pulls almost all the way out, to try and make more space, but it does next to nothing. Thick ropes of cum fill you up until you can almost taste it. There are wet, messy sounds as it starts to leak out, over your ass and thighs. You can see it in the mirror, dripping down onto the mattress. You’re stuffed up so well, you try to say Steve’s name, but it just comes out a pathetic moan.
He collapses over you with a grunt, and all the edge vanishes. He pulls fully out, cradling you in his arms and kissing over your neck.
“I made a mess.” He mutters, running light fingers over your inner thigh.
You giggle, kicking him away, and he smiles against your skin.
“You gonna talk to me?”
You shake your head, licking your lips. Your voice is gone, from screaming, and you can see him wince when he realizes it.
“I didn’t hurt you-“
You shake your head quickly, and his shoulders relax.
“Okay. Good. I- I’m gonna-“
He tries to get up. You grab him, and yank him back down. He grunts, giving you an incredulous look.
“Honey, it’s everywhere.”
You glare at him. He’s warm. He’s not getting away from you that easy. And you expect him to argue, like he always had before, but he just… gives in.
“Okay. Five minutes.”
He leans back over you, and you lay there. Cuddling.
Like a real couple.
You could be. Steve said he loves you, and he meant it, and that opens a door you’ve never thought about before. A door you never even let yourself think about.
A door you might want to see the other side of, more than you’ve ever let yourself admit.
But now-
You want it. You wanted this, and you want that, and you’re not going to spend another second pretending you don’t.
“About what I said,” Steve mutters, like he’s reading your mind. “Before we- Or- I guess during-“
You roll over and grab his face. He blinks adorably, and you smile.
Steve murmurs your name, and you smile.
“I love you,” you croak out.
His jaw goes slack, and your smile widens. It’s the only thing you can think to say. The only thing you want to say.
And when Steve kisses you, it’s slow. Romantic and loving and deep. He really loves you. Everyone in the world, and the perfect man loves you. He holds you like you’re the only thing in his world. You feel like you’re the only thing in his world.
And he might really be the only thing in yours.
✦End note: i will never back off my "he's mean during sex" agenda✦
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summary: you’re a runaway and his truck has broken down. the only thing you two have in common is that you’re both staying in a shitty motel. you have three days to try to convince him to take you all the way to california, and three days to decide whether or not you can trust a stranger more than the place you ran from.
pairing: trucker!bucky barnes x fem!runaway!reader
word count: 30.5k................. im so sorry guys it drags a bit
content contains: 18+ content— smut. porn with way too much plot, slowburn(?) not really, age gap (bucky is early fourties, reader is early twenties minimum), strangers to lovers, mentions of an abusive boyfriend, sambucky mention 😛, creepy man, mentions of gun use, pet names (princess, sweetheart, etc), fem!masturbation, dry humping, boobies, fem!oral, unprotected PinV, basic sex stuff
authors note: hi guys ;P i am back. take this monster as a reward for your patience with me. this idea and the plot came to me at 10pm on a friday night. i was staring at the last picture on the moodboards and i was possessed by something evil and a little freaky. i was genuinely in a flow state… imagine jeffree star organising that eyeshadow and then shane dawson saying oh oh oh in the background that was my vibes.
you've never really liked highways.
they were far too big and still so small at the same time. they were barren and isolating, almost metaphorical in a way you can't quite name; but even though you find they take more than they give, you find escape in route 66.
it stretches and stretches, a torn grey ribbon pulled tight against the ground, disappearing against the horizon. every mile looks exactly the same as the last. its the same yellow lines and the same broken guardrails, the same low hills and the same signs that promise towns that you never seem to ever reach.
it all feels like a big circle that you can't escape, and from the passenger seat of a stranger's car, it certainly feels endless.
the window is half-open, just enough for the wind to tangle in your hair and carry in the smell of gasoline and dry asphalt. the car hums beneath you, the steady rhythm you've been enduring for the past seven hours constant enough that it almost lulls you into forgetting where you are or WHY you're really doing this at all.
but you remember. you always remember.
the car you sit in is a rented SUV. it smells faintly of sunscreen, beef jerky, and the sour tang of someone who hasn't showered in a couple of days. the glovebox is full of old batteries, a few maps of america, and fast food wrappers. in the front, a cassette tape rattles quietly in the stereo, the sound of bruce springsteen's voice filling the cab, loud enough to be heard, but still quiet enough that nobody has to yell.
there's one person in the drivers seat and two in the back, their voices overlapping like they've been traveling together long enough to finish each other's sentences. you dont know their names yet, and you don't think you'll ever learn them, but you can tell by the way they talk that they met on the road— friends made at rest stops, gas station restrooms, motels with peeling wallpaper, and— like you— on the side of the road.
they'd seen you on the side of the road in missouri with your thumb stuck out and a bag that fit your entire life slung over your shoulder. they'd picked you up with no hesitation with the simple explanation of 'that was us once', and you fit in the passenger seat like it was made for you.
"dude, seriously, stop singin'." the woman in the back groans, her plea directed to the man driving the car. "you're gonna blow our ears out if you keep tryin' to duet springsteen."
the driver scoffs, "come on. you know you love it. admit it."
"you sound like a dying dog. nothing to love about that." the man in the back seat chimes in, his arms crossed against his chest. "put my mixtape in and we'll see what real music is."
the woman in the backseat narrows her eyes. "sorry, but nobody wants to listen to ten hours of duran duran's best hits either."
"oooh, burn!" the driver snorts from the front seat, glancing into the rear-view mirror to catch a glimpse of his friend's defeated face. "i think that officially made you the least popular person in the car."
you watch them out of the corner of your eye, sometimes finding yourself glancing in the rear-view mirror just to see what they're doing. they're loud and messy and a little corny, but a part of it is comforting. you say nothing and find peace in their noise.
"hey." the man in the back says suddenly, attention diverted towards you now. "is this your first time riding like this? spending hours in the car with people you don't know driving across america?"
you blink a few times before glancing over your shoulder. the attention is a little sudden, and it takes you a moment to gather your thoughts. your thumb brushes against the fabric of your pants, a small and unconscious anchor.
"i only started doing it when i first decided to leave chicago." you tell them, your voice only slightly louder than the hum of the music. "it was more impulsive than anything."
"huh..." the driver tilts his head as he sneaks a glance at you. "you dont look like someone who just throws themselves out there without a plan."
you shrug, keeping your eyes on the dark streaking asphalt outside. "i didn't think i was that type of person either." you mutter.
the man in the backseat hums in acknowledgment, but then leans forwards again like one question wasn't enough. "why are you on the road? whats the story?"
you hear a slap of flesh against leather, and you can only assume that the woman had hit the man on the arm. "what is this, twenty one questions? let the lady breathe!"
"it's fine." you say quickly, almost hesitantly. "i just... needed to get away from home for a while. packed up what i could and i don't plan on going back there anytime soon."
the man in the back leans back with a thoughtful hum. "yeah, i get that. sometimes moving's better than being stuck."
the driver perks up in his seat, eyes wide like he's forgotten his keys at home. "i forgot to ask, but where were you headed?"
you hesitate. for a moment, you consider lying, and then you consider not saying anything at all. you dont know these people and your answer would do nothing but satiate their thirst for stories of the road; but something about the way the car hums beneath you and the way that the wind tunnels down your sleeve makes it easier than usual to let a small piece of yourself slip.
"i'm going west." you finally say. "california."
the woman smiles like you've given her the perfect answer. "that's the spirit. the road likes it when you don't stop movin'."
you manage a small humourless smile as you turn back to the window. california sits in your mind like a red pin on a map of america. its more of a fantasy than anything solid. you dont have an address or a plan that makes much sense when spoken out loud, and with nothing more than the clothes on your back, your duffel bag, and the certainty that if you keep moving west, something has to change eventually.
and almost like a light in the pitch black darkness, a neon glow flickers up ahead. slicing through the amber orange haze of the sunset, a sign that reads 'HOTEL CALIFORNIA' comes into view, and you find yourself following it even as the car passes, your head turning to watch it disappear into the darkness behind you. the letters shine like a signal, a promise, a miracle like an oasis in the desert, and you would be stupid to ignore it.
your hand braces against the car door as you push yourself up in your seat, your other hand tightening around the strap of your duffel almost instinctively. you turn back to the front of the car, brows knitting together as you lean down and zip open your duffel.
"do you think you could drop me off at that hotel california? the sign said it should be about five miles down the road." you ask.
you reach down and riffle through the unorganised mess in your bag and pull out your wallet. its scuffed from years of use and it pops open the moment you press in the buckle. the cards inside rustle around as you count what cash you have, thumb running over the notes just to make sure it's all there.
the driver glances down at you, his eyes scanning over your alarming amount of money you have. "sick of the car life already, drifter?"
you nod as you shove your wallet back into your duffel, a small smile on your face. "i think i need to stand on solid ground for longer than an hour. my body's forgotten what it feels like to be stationary."
the woman smirks. "that's fair. even the best road warriors need a pit stop sometimes. can't be movin' forever. we can spare five miles for our new friend, can't we?"
the driver nods like it's the easiest question he's ever had to answer. "yes ma'am. hotel california, here we come."
and just like that, the road stops stretching endlessly forwards and instead starts narrowing in on a single glowing sign that promised the hope of a new beginning and a moment to rest your feet on solid ground after what felt like a lifetime of running. at least for tonight, the road can wait.
you clutch your duffel bag straps, letting your eyes linger on the motel as it grows larger by the second. the neon light that stands in the front shines against the darkened sky, spitting orange and teal light across the windshield. and after a few minutes, the indicator starts blinking and the SUV swerves to the left, the vehicle shifting as it pulls into the carpark of the motel.
gravel crunches under the tires, and the hum of the engine drops into a softer sigh, like the car itself is exhaling. a few lonely streetlights cover the area in a soft glow and the motel looms just in front of the car— low, wide, and tired-looking, its paint peeling off of the walls and the roof shingles threatening to fall off of the roof.
you hesitate for a moment before opening the door, like you're waiting for permission you don't need. the night air slips in as soon as it clicks open and you hope out, duffel bag following close behind you and your feet finally touching solid ground. it feels strange after hours of motion, but you find comfort in the smell of dust and warm pavement, like the road has finally let you go.
you turn back, glancing at the people in the car— at their messy hair, at their lopsided smiles, at their clothes that haven't been washed in god knows how long— and you can't help but feel grateful. they didn't have to stop for you or give you a seat in their journey across america, but they did it anyways, and that feels bigger than anything you could possibly say.
your hand grips the side of the door like you're unsure of what to say. finally, you settle on "i really appreciate you guys stopping for me. i'm sorry for just... ditching you for a motel—"
"hey, it's all good. don't let us keep you." the man in the backseat tells you with a sincere smile. "if you need a real bed, then i say go for it. after all, seven hours in a car seat isn't the best for your back or for your mind."
the woman smiles, "just take care of yourself, alright?"
"yeah, and if it's anything like the song, just try not to get stuck in the there forever, alright?" the driver jokes, and you meet him with a weak laugh.
you nod, a smile on your face as you manage a small "thanks for everything" before finally closing the door, and the click of it sounds louder than it should. they drive off with a waving hand out of the window, and now you're all alone in the outskirts of glen rio, texas with nothing but the weight of your life on your shoulders.
the night air is warm and dry, carrying the smell of dirt and the sound of vehicles passing by on route 66. the front office glows dimly through the glass windows, the single LED light flickering like it's considering giving up too. a vending machine on the other end of the motel and the ventilations on the rooftop fight for title of loudest noise in the quiet. a rusted water tower stands neglected on the far side of the property, there are no other cars in the parking lot apart from a beat-up pickup truck parked along two spaces, it's paint sun-bleached and chipped, and you can only assume it belongs to the person at the front desk.
somewhere in the distant, there's a bang. a dog barks and the noise echoes in the desert. the world feels thin out here— stretched wide and empty— and you feel so very small inside of it.
you hesitate for a second, eyes lingering on the motel, before you shift your duffel higher up on your shoulder and head towards the office. the concrete is warm beneath your shoes, still holding the heat from the day, and the closer you get, the louder the hum of the lights becomes— a thin, tired buzz that seeps into your bones.
the door squeals as you tug it open, the rubbing lining along the frame sticking before giving way. cool recycled air washes over you as you step into the office, and the sound of the door shutting cuts through the silence of the room.
the office is small. cramped. a long counter runs along one wall, scratched and worn down by years of borrowed keys and elbows. behind it, a lanky middle aged man wearing glasses sits slouched in a swivel chair, his face half-lit by the glow of his ancient monitor. there's a small radio that sits beside him that plays music from the local radio station, a voice and a guitar that blur into the hum of the lights, and you find it incredibly hard to ignore the smell of lemon air freshener and moist carpet.
the man takes a long moment to really register you and your presence— the bag slung over your shoulder, the dust on your shoes and your clothes, the way you're standing just inside of the doorway like you're not sure whether or not you're meant to be there— and he smiles, dental issues on display for you to see.
"evening." he says eventually, head tilting upwards just slightly like he's trying to take you in, "what can i do for ya?"
"hi—" you step towards the desk, your weight shifting as you lean against the counter. you look at the name on his faded name tag, "trevor. i was wondering if you had any rooms available?"
trevor doesn't answer right away. he just looks at you like you're a pretty thing in the wrong place, and his tongue darts out to wet his bottom lip. his eyes trace over you slowly— your face, your bag, the way your fingers wrap around the straps like you might run— and then he leans back in his chair, hands reaching up to rest on the back of his head.
"yeah." he finally says. "got a few."
you dont like the way he says it.
"okay." you blink. "how much would it be for a week?"
"depends what kinda room you want." trevor makes an odd noise with his mouth as he leans forwards, something like sucking in his teeth and popping his tongue on the roof of his mouth. "you by yourself?"
you hesitate, trying to push down the odd feeling that starts to well in the pit of your stomach, but you nod. "yeah. just me."
his eyes flick over you again, slower this time, and the corner of his mouth lifts into something you'd barely call a smile.
"just you, huh." trevor repeats like he's letting the fact settle. then he sighs and twists in his chair, "alright, give me a sec to pull up the prices."
he turns back to the monitor, fingers moving over the equally as ancient keyboard, and you try to ignore the porn pop-up that he quickly clicks out of and the solitaire match that he's losing. each key he presses fills the silence, loud in the silent office.
click. click. click. then—
blinding headlights sweep through the office, the small room flooding with harsh white light. for a moment, it's so bright that you can't even see a foot in front of you, and you instinctively shield your eyes. when your vision adjusts, you can make out the outline of a massive semi-truck rolling to a stop in the lot, tires crunching into the gravel and engine growling loud enough for you to wonder whether it's meant to be that loud.
it idles near the far end of the motel, headlights still blazing, long shadows cast against the walls. the cab door opens, and you can barely make out the figure of a tall, broad shouldered silhouette stepping out. he pauses for a moment, one hand resting against the cab before he disappears into the darkness of the parking lot.
there's a small, metallic clank, then another, the sound almost hesitant, like he's trying to figure something out or fix something.
but a grating voice brings you out of your head.
"y'know, we don't usually get much foot traffic out here." trevor's lips smack, eyes flicking over to yours in a way that makes your skin crawl. "couple'a hippies and cross country truckers, but nothin' like you."
"who wouldn't want to spend a night in a place like this?" you murmur with a hit of playful sarcasm lacing your voice.
"you don't gotta sugarcoat it, darlin. this place is— and always will be— a shithole." trevor sighs as he rests an elbow on the desk, a cheeky smile growing on his face. "the only thing that makes up for it is the company. if you get lonely and need someone to talk to, i—"
"yeah, i don't think i'll be talking to anyone much tonight." you quickly and bluntly cut him off. you dont really have time to deal with creeps right now.
he chuckles, the noise low and almost wet, like he's amused and disappointed all at once. "we'll see about that, sugar."
trevor goes back to clicking away at his keyboard. you're picking at your nails when you feel the heat on the side of your face cool, and you turn your head to find that the semi truck's headlights are off now. your attention drifts back to the clanking of metal and the tall silhouette that moves around in the dark.
you wonder if you'll see the face that's swallowed by shadow. you wonder if he'll come into the office and save you from the creepy receptionist. you wonder if he'll be equally as creepy and if you'll need to sleep with a weapon in hand.
the squeak of trevor's chair brings you back to reality.
"right. single room's cheapest. one bed, small. got a pull-out sofa if you decide you don't wanna spend the week all alone." trevor drags the word, tongue running along his teeth. "but if you want a bigger bed for your beauty sleep and a bathroom for all of your girly things, then we do have a double."
your brow quirks. "the single room doesn't have a bathroom?"
"nope, so i'm assumin' you're gonna pick the double. it's two-fifty for the week." trevor says, "cash or card, sugar?"
"cash." you reply. "and don't call me sugar."
you ignore the huff trevor lets out. you zip open your bag, riffling through it before pulling out your wallet. you pop it open and pull out exactly two hundred and fifty dollars. you set the cash down on the counter and slide it towards trevor.
trevor's eyes widen just slightly as he does a faint double take. his hand slaps against the counter as he takes the money, counting it. "right on the dot. where'd a lil' thing like you get all this cash?"
"work." you simply reply. a stranger doesn't need to know anything about you or your money, and you're not about to give away more information than needed.
trevor hums. he pops open the register and places the cash into the tray with a small metallic clink. then he turns around in his chair, head cranes towards you like an idea had just popped into his head.
"y'know—" he pauses, brows raising just slightly as he leans closer to you. the closer he gets, the more he smells of tonsil stones and tooth decay, and you swear you can see a thought forming in those bloodshot eyes of his. "if you wanted the room a lil' cheaper, you could come around the desk and show me what that pretty little mouth can do—"
"i'll pay the two-fifty." you cut in, voice firm, eyes meeting his and trying to keep him from crossing the line any further. "and i'll take my key now."
the annoyed groan that leaves the man sends a chill down your spine. trevor reaches under the counter and pulls out a tarnished room key with a small plastic tag. he holds it out for you to grab, but just as you do, he snaps it back like a predator played with cornered prey.
"don't think you can just walk around here with that attitude, lil miss." he mutters, low and rough, head tilted down enough that his eyes bore into yours. "just because you've got a pretty face doesn't mean things always go your way. you pay, but sometimes... you owe."
the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end and the pit in your stomach almost comes up as vomit. you narrow your eyes at the sick grin he has on his face, about to tell the asshole to go to hell, but the squeal of rubber lining and metal screeching stops you.
the office door swings open and slams shut, harsh and sudden, and it catches both your and trevor's attention. the two of you turn your heads towards the figure who had just walked in— a tall, broad shouldered man, no doubt the one you'd seen outside working on his truck in the shadows.
with a shaved head, a thick scruffy beard, and a torn denim jacket, the man moves through the room with quiet confidence. there's grit in his posture, his face tired and rugged, with soft lines on his forehead and a shadowed jawline thats strong but worn. he's the type of man you'd see in a movie and be intimidated by, but this man felt different.
the man doesn't smile, nor does he speak. he simply looks between the two of you like he's figuring out what he's just walked in on. before anyone can react, you lean forwards and snatch the room key from trevor's hand. he awkwardly rubs his hands on his oily shirt like he's suddenly uncomfortable.
the receptionist gives you a fake smile as he ushers you away, voice dropping with false charm. "room one, sugar. best room in the house."
you scoff as you walk off, your shoulder just barely clipping the man's arm as you stomp past. the contact is almost nothing— a brush of denim against your sleeve— but it sends a strange shiver up your spine anyways. you push the door open and the night air hits you instantly, a soothing feeling after being trapped in that stuffy office.
as you cross the lot towards the room, you glance back, and through the office window, you see him.
the man stands exactly where you had left him, broad frame filling out the office, half shadowed by the dim yellow lights, his head slightly tilted as he cranes his neck down to watch you. not in the way trevor had watched you. not hungry or leering, but with curiosity, like he's trying to decide something, and you can feel his eyes boring into your back until you reach your door.
the key sticks in the lock for a moment before you twist the doorknob. you shoulder the door open and step inside.
a single double bed sits pressed against the wall, its blankets thick and vaguely floral in pattern, the colours dulled from years of washing. a small nightstand holds an even smaller table lamp on top, a worn bible sitting on the lower shelf. the bathroom light flickers on the far end of the room, and you wonder how long it's been on for. the carpet feels flat and stiff beneath your shoes, and the air smells of moth balls and fruity room spray that feels like it's trying to cover up the scent of something old and damp.
the room is fine. its nothing special, but it's dry, it's quiet, and it has a door that locks. that's about the nicest thing you can say about it.
you drop your duffel bag at the end of the bed and kick off your shoes. you peel your jacket from your arms and throw it over the backrest of the small dinning set chair before sinking down into the mattress. it creaks under your weight, but it holds. exhaustion settles over you all at once, your eyes feeling heavy now that you've stopped moving.
you dont even bother changing. you just lie back, stare at the stained popcorn ceiling, and then let your eyes fall shut.
sleep comes fast— or at least you think it does.
some time later— you're not sure how long— a sound pulls you back to the edge of consciousness. you think it's a door. it softly opens and closes. your eyes stay shut, but your mind sharpens in on the noise. you hear footsteps, slow and heavy, and then the low murmur of movement through the thin wall next to you in room two.
you frown slightly into the pillow as the noise comes to a slow stop. the trucker, you assume. the man with the shaved head and the quiet eyes. the one who had indirectly saved you from the advances of the creepy receptionist.
you roll onto your side, tuck your legs in a little closer, and tell yourself not to think about it. you're safe, you're inside, and you're not on the road anymore. nobody is going to find you.
eventually, the sounds fade and the motel settles into silence, and when sleep takes you, you welcome the old friend gladly.
the next day, you wake up slowly. not with an alarm or a bad dream, but with a sound— a dull, metallic bang.
your eyes crack open, unfocused and strained in the low light. light bleeds in around the edges of the frilly curtains, brighter than you expect. you place a hand against your eyes, and for a moment, you're disorientated and heavy limbed, your body still weighing on the mattress like it's trying to hold onto sleep.
you blink and the sound comes again— metal against metal, constant and loud as it echoes through the empty parking lot— and your brain catches up to your body.
you groan quietly and roll onto your back, staring at the ceiling before pushing yourself upright. your joints ache in a way that comes with too much rest and your head hurts in a way that comes with not enough. you rub a hand over your face and glance at the blinking alarm clock in the bedside table.
it's late. not morning late; afternoon late. you'd slept through most of the day and woken up with a grogginess that makes it feel like you never really slept at all, but you give yourself a little leeway— you'd been awake for a day and a half beforehand and this was your first proper bed in a while.
your stomach gurgles, void of any proper food. you get up, tug on your shoes, shove your room key into your pocket, and step out into the heat.
the day has already settled over the motel, the texas sun bleaching the colour out of everything. it still smells like dust and hot concrete, but now there's a faint smell of gasoline and soldered metal. you impatiently make your way to the vending machine you'd spotted last night, the humming getting louder as you near it.
the semi truck is still there, the hood up now, the massive front tilted forwards like a jaw. the man from last night is crouched besides it, his hands and shirt darkened with grease and dirt as he works. tools are scattered at his feet— wrenches, screwdrivers, things with long handles and odd contraptions— and a dirty rag is thrown over his knee.
he looks different in the daylight— still intimidating, still broad and still quiet, but you can see the tiredness in him. the set of his shoulders as he tightens a bolt, the slow and careful way he moves like he's trying to conserve energy, the way he huffs out a breath whenever he meets a particularly stubborn piece of metal. he pauses, wipes his hands on the rag, then leans back to look at whatever he's working on with a slight frown like it's not cooperating and hasn't been for a while.
the vending machine beeps obnoxiously loud at you.
its only when he turns his head just slightly to spot the source of the noise and he catches your eye that you realise you're staring. you turn back quickly and begin feeding your coins into the vending machine, awkwardly pressing on the first button you can see, and wait for the dull thud of something half edible to drop.
you're almost disappointed in yourself when a bottle of old fanta makes its way through the machine instead of food, but you pull it out anyways. the cap hisses when you pop it open. you take a sip more out of obligation than enjoyment. its warm, flat, and too sweet. you take another sad sip and let your eyes wander around.
there isn't much to look at.
the motel stretches out in a long line, sun bleached doors, curtains drawn in most windows, and outdated signs as far as the eye can see. you skip over trevor's badly parked car and focus more on the heat waves that hover just above the ground, and just beyond that, there's a hum of cars passing by every so often. you're about to turn around and go back to your room, but your eye catches on a pink sign that says 'pool'.
it hangs haphazardly on a light post on the far end of the property, the arrow beneath it pointing to a pathway between two buildings with cracked pavement. the sign is barely illegible, the paint faded and cracked, but curiosity gets the better of you and you follow it.
the path eventually opens up into a small, fenced in area behind the motel, and you find that there actually is a pool— or at least a poor excuse of one. the water inside is cloudy, a dull bluish green with leaves and a few empty plastic water bottles floating on the surface. the tiles that surround the pool are either cracked or gone completely, and just beyond that, a few plastic lounge chairs are stacked awkwardly on top of one another, sun bleached and warped from age.
you step closer to the edge and peer down into the water. its so murky that you can't even see your own reflection. alas, you try to squint through at the glare of the sun, but then you feel someone behind you, your shoulders tensing before you even turn around.
"thing hasn't been used in years."
you turn. trevor stands there, hands on his hips and squinting at the pool like he owns it. you hadn't even heard him sneaking up on you, and the thought of it happening again makes you queasy.
"i figured." you mutter.
you take a small step backwards just as trevor steps forwards, his head craned down towards the pool like this is the first time he's seen it in years. he kicks a pebble and it lands into the water with a thick splashing noise before he turns to you.
"used to be nice though. families'd come during the summer. kids'd scream and they'd barbecue. used to get a lot of action." his eyes flick to yours, "not like that anymore."
you nod even though you don't really care.
trevor smacks his lips. "what are you doin' round back?" he asks, the question a little pointed and slightly accusatory.
you straighten a bit, gesturing vaguely. "just looking."
"at the pool?"
"at whatever was back here." you say, already turning away from him. "i was bored."
you start walking back towards the front of the motel before he can respond, but the scuff of shoes against pavement behind you tells you that he's close behind and that the conversation is far from over.
"i get that. not much to do round here." he says easily like this is completely casual and like he isn't matching your pace too well. "but we got a little kitchen just beside the front office if you wanna heat up or cook your food. microwave, coffee pot, workin' sink, that kinda stuff."
"okay."
"and you can probably tell, but housekeepin' doesn't run regularly anymore," he continues, "so if you need fresh towels or soap or anything, you just gotta swing by the front desk and ring that little bell. i'll sort it out for ya."
"i'll manage."
"independent type, huh?" he chuckles softly, and then— almost like he has a death wish— he reaches out and places his clammy hand on your shoulder like you're just an old pal. "i like that about you, sugar."
your body reacts before your brain does. your shoulder jerks back, pulling away from his touch, and you turn to him with a glare sharp enough to kill.
"don't touch me and don't call me sugar."
trevor blinks, caught off guard. his hand hangs limply in the air for a moment before it dramatically drops back to his side. he scoffs, hand returning to his hips.
"alright, alright—" he says, lips pursing like you've personally offended him. "no need to get snappy with me."
you don't reply. you just turn and walk away.
trevor stalls for a second, hands on his hips like he's deciding whether he should follow you or just let you go. the clanking from earlier has stopped, but you barely notice it through the ringing in your ears and the crunch of gravel underneath your shoes.
"we also got laundry service if you wanna change outta those rags." trevor calls from behind you, hand cupped around his mouth to make himself louder. "maybe get a new shirt on— it doesn't do much for your figure!"
you ignore the jab, keeping your eyes straight ahead as you reach your room. you reach into your pocket for your keys and pull them out, but your hands shake just enough for you to miss the lock on the first try, the key scraping uselessly against the painted wood. you manage to slip the key in, but then—
"everything alright over there?" a low, calm voice calls out from the far end of the lot.
you pause halfway through turning the key. your shoulders tense before you can fully control it, your breath catching just slightly as the words sink in. you've never heard his voice, but there's only three people here and it's not hard to guess who it belongs to. you glance over your shoulder, half expecting him to be speaking to you, only to realise that his eyes aren't on you at all; they're on trevor.
the trucker has gone still beside the hood of his truck. the rag that once rested on his knee is now thrown over his shoulder and his hands rest on his hips as he takes in the scene in front of him. his posture is calm, almost casual as he glares at trevor like he knows exactly what he's looking at.
"all is good, sir." trevor says quickly, with a thin smile and a weak thumbs up, "jus' helpin' a guest get settled."
the trucker doesn't look away. "doesn't sound like it."
the words aren't loud or aggressive. they're calm in the same way that his posture is calm, and somehow that makes them carry more weight than if he'd raised his voice at all.
trevor shifts in his spot. its subtle and barely noticeable, but you see it anyway— in the way his shoulders drops, in the way his cheeks dimple into an awkward smile, in the way his hands flap around like he's searching for the words.
"everything's fine." he insists with a forced smile. he turns to you and gestures to you like you're supposed to back him up. "isn't that right, lil miss?"
but you don't reply. you twist the key and shoulder the door open, stepping into the room and shutting it behind you. you lean against the door for a second just enough to catch your breath before throwing the fanta bottle onto the bed.
through the thin curtains, the motel parking lot stretches out like a stage. the trucker and trevor are standing in what looks like a stand-off, their bodies still and eyes locked. there's a few words exchanged, but you can barely hear what's being said before trevor flaps his hand once and turns to walk away.
you watch as the trucker shakes his head, and then— just slightly— he tilts his head, and you swear he's looking right at you. your chest tightens and you press yourself a little closer to the wall beside you.
until long, the stranger goes back to working, bending back over the hood of his semi, the metallic clanking noise breaking the tension, and for the first time since you arrived here, you dont feel like you're the first person to realise something is off about this place.
you spend the next three days doing all that you can to bunker down in your motel room and avoid any and all interaction with trevor.
you keep the curtains drawn. you reuse the same towel over and over again just so you don't have to face him. you time your trips to the vending machine with the noises outside of your door. you listen for footsteps, for whistling, for anything that signals his presence before you even think of placing your hand on the door handle.
although it helps, you find that the isolation keeps your mind running rampant with no distraction from it. everything you'd once pushed down floods to the forefront of your mind until they feel like they're echoing— the reason why you'd run from home, the reason why you'd chosen to ditch the travellers, the reason why you're even here at all. its an endless cycle of staring at the roof and spiralling into thoughts that you can't escape from.
and by the third day, your hunger overpowers your caution. the vending machine had stopped offering anything desirable and your stomach has been gnawing at itself for hours by now. later that day just as the sun had set, you find yourself sneaking off to the motel kitchen with the hunger of a man starved, and just like the rest of the motel, you find that it's anything but special.
the fluorescent lights above poorly illuminated the room. the linoleum floor is cracked and sticky with every hesitant step you take. the contact paper on the cupboards is peeling, and they smell of dust and mildew. there's an odd mould stain on the roof in the corner of the kitchen that watches you as you step inside. the refrigerator hums in the corner and the counters are clean apart from a thin layer of dust and— trevor was right— there was a microwave and a coffee pot and a working sink, but theyre so outdated that you aren't even sure whether they function properly.
the first thing you do is inspect the kettle. it's dusty and it's text a little faded, but otherwise useful. you brush the thick layer of dust from the metal and bring it over to the sink, humming softly to yourself as it fills with water. the stove flicks on— surprisingly— with little hesitation, and you waste no time in placing the appliance onto the flames.
you wander towards the kitchen cabinets in hopes of finding something edible. the last proper meal you had was a week ago, and even then, it wasn't much more than something to keep you upright.
most of the shelves are empty or packed with things that have long outlived their usefulness— dusty imploded bean cans, jars of preserves that weren't preserved well, and cardboard boxes full of cereal that were certainly stale by now. your stomach growls anyways as you rifle through the mess, your hand landing on a cup of instant ramen, the kettle whistling as you do so.
the ramen container is slightly dusty and the use-by date had passed a handful of years ago, but it sat like treasure in the palm of your hand. desperate times count for desperate measures, sure, but you really did not want to eat red beans smothered in crystallised strawberry jam anytime soon.
you peel open the foil of the ramen container, empty the sachets, pull the kettle from the stove, and begin filling the container with the boiling water. the faint smell of sauce and dried vegetables mixes with steam, and for a moment, the kitchen feels like its yours; a small refuge in a motel that otherwise reeks of tired paint and decay.
but then the door squeaks open behind you and you freeze, hand hovering over your food as you pray in your mind that it isn't trevor. you tilt your head just enough to glance over your shoulder, and the small breath of relief that leaves you is almost instant.
it's the trucker.
he steps inside the room with the same quiet confidence he's been holding onto ever since he pulled into the lot. he holds a plastic container in one hand and a set of plastic utensils in the other, and for a moment, he takes the time to glance at you. he doesn't say hello or really acknowledge you in any way; he simply moves towards the microwave on the other side of the kitchen like this is his own home and opens the door, sliding in his food, pressing a few buttons, and then leaning back against the counter as he waits, his arms crossing loosely over his chest.
neither of you speak, but you're sure you're both aware of each other. it's a constant battle against your brain to try not to stare at him and watch his every move, not because he's threatening, but because he's unfamiliar— unlike trevor, he's a presence you haven't learnt how to place just yet.
and as you continue trying to make your old ramen soak up the broth, you hear his boots press against the old linoleum as he heads towards the table— the only table in the room— and place his keys and his utensils onto the surface with a soft clink like he hasn't even considered whether or not you might have wanted it. its a small table with only two chairs, but he takes up the space in a way that makes it feel like there's only room for one.
so you stay where you are, hip pressing into the kitchen counter as you stab at your noodles with a fork, watching as the steam lazily curls from the cup, and pretending you're not waiting for him to move.
but he doesn't.
the microwave beeps three times, and the trucker steps forwards and pulls at the handle. the smell of plastic and artificial food spills into the kitchen, and he wastes no time in tearing the plastic seal off and tossing it haphazardly into the trash before setting it down onto the table, pulling a chair out, and sitting down to indulge.
he eats in silence like it's all he knows. his eyes are on his food and his plastic fork scratches at the plastic container, his shoulders loose and his jaw working as he makes quick work of the microwaved slop.
eventually, you turn— just a little, just enough to check whether he's still there. you try not to watch him, but you fail, and thats when your eyes meet his.
he's already looking at you. not in a sharp way, or in a way that feels judgemental, but more like he's observing you. his gaze almost feels the same way as your first night when his semi truck pulled into the motel parking lot and the high beams blinded you, and in a funny way, you almost feel like a deer in headlights.
his gaze flicks from you to the empty chair across from him, then back at you. there's a small shift in his composure— the pause of his jaw as he scavenges for food in his teeth, the scoot of his jean-clad butt in the squeaky metal chair, the cock of his head as he lets out the softest sigh you've ever heard— and then he moves.
he reaches out with his foot and nudges the other chair out by its leg. it scratches against the floor as he pushes it towards you, creating a space where there hadn't been one before. he lifts his chin in a gentle gesture towards it, lip jutting out just slightly.
"i don't bite." he simply says.
you hesitate. your fingers tighten just slightly against the warmth of the cup, your brain running through all the reasons why you shouldn't— all of the ways this could end horribly for you— before you suck in a soft breath, push off of the counter, and move towards the table anyways.
you take the seat across from him. the chair legs shift slightly as you sit, and the sound feels louder than it actually is in the silence of the kitchen. you dont bother tucking in your chair, afraid of invading his space, and the trucker goes back to eating like nothing has changed, his fork stabbing at various vegetables and chunks of artificial meats, eyes on the container in front of him; but not entirely.
every so often, his gaze finds you. he doesn't stare long enough to make it obvious, but his eyes find you frequently enough for you to wonder what he's looking for, and you have to pretend you don't feel it. you believe it's because he's checking on you, like maybe he's trying to figure out what someone like you is doing out in the middle of nowhere.
you shift under the weight of it, not uncomfortable, just hyperaware of it all— of yourself, of him, of the little space there is between you, and of the silence that surrounds you. it's something you didn't necessarily prepare for when you left your room a little while ago.
you continue swirling the noodle around the cup, putting off actually eating them. you dont know whether you should just get it over with and possibly be sick for the rest of the week or if you should just pour it down the sink and live off of stale vending machine chips.
eventually, the table creaks under his arms as the trucker sits back up and sets his fork against the side of his container. you pause at the sudden shift, eyes drifting slowly up to find that he's already looking at you— not in a way that feels invasive or creepy, but thoughtful, like he's trying to piece together the puzzle that is you instead of asking for answers out loud.
"you been on the road long?" he asks like its not even a question he really needs the answer to, but something to fill the silence.
there's a small raise of your brow as you huff out a small breath, the corner of your mouth twitching like you almost find his question funny. you stop stirring your noodles and let the fork sink into the cup.
"not long," you say, head tilting just slightly. "but it feels like it's been forever."
he hums quietly at that like he knows exactly what you're talking about, and you're sure he does. you can see it up close in the lines of his face, in the soft greying of his hair and his stubble, in the freckles surely painted on by the sun through his truck windows, and in the tiredness that sits heavy in his eyes as he nods.
"yeah," he says after a long moment. "roads'll do that to you."
he doesnt say anything after that. he simply shovels food into his mouth, quick but still neat like he hasn't lost interest in eating. a part of you thinks he's only invited you to sit for the company, and you appreciate the gesture for what it is, because you believe you needed it too.
your eyes flick to the dirty curtain-covered window without really meaning to— to where his truck sits out in the parking lot, the hood up more often than not. it sits in the dark, toolbox still on the ground beside it and a half-empty beer bottle laying on the ground next to that.
you decide to ask a question next; something to fill the silence that sits in between the two of you just like he did.
"is there something wrong with your truck?" you ask, trying to seem casual and actually landing somewhere close to it. "i heard you working on it all day."
there's a second where you think you might've crossed an invisible line— asked something too personal or maybe been a little too demanding in your question. his fork pauses over his food, jaw working as he swallows what remains in his mouth. there's a small pause as he follows your eyes out to his truck before he gives you a half shrug.
"somethin' like that." he sighs like the topic is something that stresses him out. "she runs, but not as good as she used to. somethin' in the hood exploded back in shamrock and i've been tryin' to keep her alive long enough to get where i'm goin'."
you blink. "where are you headed?"
he glances at you, just briefly, like he's deciding whether or not the question is worth answering. the corner of his mouth tugs like he's in on some inside joke you aren't aware of.
"california. america's very own golden state."
his words land heavy as they leave his mouth, and your brain moves before any other part of you does.
california. warm. bright. somewhere that isn't here or home. somewhere thats still so, so far.
three days. that's all you have. three days before the cash you have tucked in your duffel bag grows thin, before trevor gets bolder and meaner and before you inevitably have to leave. you can't stay here and you know that. you dont have a car or a plan. you dont even have a general direction, just a need to keep moving; and suddenly, sitting across from you, is a man who is already doing exactly that.
you hesitate.
you shouldn't ask. you know you shouldn't. this is how people get into trouble— they trust sketchy strangers from dingy motels, follow their impulses, mistake a well-time coincidence as opportunity, and end up on the evening news as a missing person. it's something you know all too well and you're not going to leap into it headfirst.
you're smart and you know it. you'll come up with a plan and you'll stick to it. all you have to do is ration, stick to yourself, and try not to think about how three days is so much closer than you think.
so you keep your mouth shut and simply nod. your eyes fall back down to the neglected cup of ramen in your hands. it's gone lukewarm and a thin film has formed over the broth. the noodles finally suck up the liquid, but they swell into something soft and mushy and vaguely unappetising. you wouldnt even feed this to starving a stray animal.
the man's eyes briefly drop to the cup of ramen that sits in your hands. you stare at it like you dread even thinking about it, and he furrows his brows.
"you gonna eat that, or are you just gonna stare at it until it goes cold?"
"oh, it, uh... i was going to, but..." you grimace like watching the corn pieces swimming around in the soup has suddenly made you loose your appetite. "i'm not even sure if it's still edible."
"here," he motions gently for you to come closer, and you're confused for a moment before he points a finger vaguely at your mug of mediocre noodles. you slide it over and he wastes no time shovelling some of his food into yours. vegetables and meat sink into the soup. the gesture is sweet and you feel your stomach growl at the thought of having actual food for once.
he slides your cup back towards you, and you dare yourself to dip your fork back into the soup, stab at a floating piece of meat, and bring it to your mouth. you chew on it and swallow the bite, the warmth of it settling in your stomach like a small comfort.
"young girl like you has to eat food that hasn't been rottin' in a cabinet for god knows how long." he says, and then continues before you can respond, "trust me. i've been on the road long enough to know what malnutrition looks like."
you shovel another forkful of noodles into your mouth, ignoring the way the soup sloshes around in the cup and certainly sending droplets of the liquid into the air. you shake your head, half-amused and half-unnerved by how closely he seems to be watching you.
"thanks, but i'm not young." you manage between bites.
the low laugh that leaves his mouth catches you off guard.
"well, you definitely aren't old. skin's all plump and clean and you've still got all your teeth." he says, his voice low and almost teasing, eyes still glazing over you in a way that makes your stomach twist. "i've probably got tools in my truck older than you."
the way he says it makes all the noise you hear go silent. suddenly the soup that drips from your chin and the noodle hanging out of your mouth doesn't feel all that casual nor does it feel presentable. he's watching you like you're something he's never seen before, eyes steady and intent, and you're unsure what to do with all of the attention.
you hastily wipe at your mouth with the back of your hand, clear your throat, and sit up a little in your chair. maybe a small part of you wants to prove him wrong— show him that you might be young but you're wise beyond your years— and you try to do so by fixing your posture and looking at least somewhat put together even with a cup of reasonable ramen in your hands.
it doesn't go unnoticed. if anything, it seems to catch his attention more.
his gaze lingers, but not in the way that trevor's did— not with hunger or entitlement— but with intrigue, like he's catching the shift in you and filing it away in his head. there's something softer in his expression now, a faint crease in his brows that you've only noticed just now as if you've just become a little more intriguing than he had first assumed.
he gently nods, curiosity trickling into his face. he leans forwards just slightly, elbows digging into the table. "what's your name?"
and the question hits you off guard even though you know it was inevitable.
for a moment, you consider dodging his question— lying, deflecting, keeping yourself small and unremarkable like you've been doing for days. it's not that you don't want to tell him, it's just that answering feels like you're giving this stranger a piece of yourself— a story, something to hold onto, something from your past that you'd been running from this entire time, and the reason you're here.
you turn your head, eyes flicking to the large crack in the middle of the kitchen's linoleum floor that sits split in two. it feels safer to look at something broken that isn't you. he takes your silence as an answer.
"that's alright. you don't owe me anythin'." he says as he leans back in his chair like he's trying to ease the pressure off of you without making a show of it. "my name's james, but you can call me bucky."
hm. he doesnt look like a james, but he sure as hell looks like a bucky.
you turn back to him with a turned lip. "what's bucky short for?"
"full name's james buchanan barnes. it was just a nickname my pa gave me that stuck." he says easily. then, like he's joking, he adds, "now you've got my full name just incase i try to pull somethin' on ya."
you huff softly, "how do i know you aren't lying about your name? i could come up with about fifty fake names right now, and you wouldnt know any better. criminals lie all the time."
he quirks a brow as he pops open the top of his coke bottle, the bubbles popping at the surface as he lifts it to his lips with a sneaky smile. "guess you just gotta trust me then, sweetheart."
you hum softly in acknowledgment, the faintest smile on your lips, fork scrapping at the bottom of the ramen cup for scraps. the food settles warmly in your stomach, and it reminds you that you're tired— really tired.
you stand, the empty ramen cup in your hand, and awkwardly brush your other hand on your pants before vaguely gesturing to the cracked kitchen door.
"i think i'm gonna head back." you tell him like you're unsure of what you should do. you don't know if he even cares, but it feels like the respectful thing to do.
bucky inhales a breath, the sound low and sharp, and it feels like you might've just pulled him from his thoughts. he reaches up and runs a hand over his head before nodding once. "s'pose that's fair. princess needs her beauty sleep."
you hesitate for a second, but a small smile tugs at the corners of your mouth despite yourself. "night, bucky."
he offers you a smile of his own, head tilting just slightly with a soft nod. "sleep tight, sweetheart."
you turn and push the kitchen door open, slipping into the night. the door creaks shut behind you as you tread through the parking lot, unaware of how long bucky sits there after you're gone, or how long he stares at the empty seat across from him like you might come back.
you've never been a great judge of character— you have the scars and the pain to prove it— but this man didn't seem bad, or at least didn't seem like an axe murderer, and unless you want to walk along the edge of route 66 with your thumb stuck out hoping that another car full of non-murderous travellers picks you up to take you to california, your only other bet is trying to hitch a ride with bucky.
and plus, there are worse ways to get to california than riding shotgun with a trucker who calls you princess and sweetheart.
the next morning doesn't come with any great revelation, and you wake with the same boring nothing. there's no obvious sign, no sudden clarity, no omnipresent voice from the universe telling you what to do. theres only the texas heat seeping through your room windows, pressing in in you like it wants you to stay and rot in your room.
the heat is so prevalent that at midday, you've already had about three showers in the dingy bathroom.
it doesnt help much. the water never gets quite cold, the shower head sprays water in every direction but yours, and the humidity clings to your skin before you even step out of the shower. the towel you'd received when you'd checked in had served you well, but now it smelt of dirty laundry and damp cloth, and no amount of air drying or shaking it out seems to fix that.
you stare at it for a second before deciding you're not desperate enough to use it again.
you get dressed into something that could battle the heat yet leave you covered enough when you inevitably have to face trevor and leave your room with your dirty towel tucked underneath your arm.
the lot shimmers in waves under the sun, radiating the kind of heat that you might think will melt the soles of your shoes.
unsurprisingly, bucky's already out there. his truck's hood is up as per usual, his tools scattered all around the front, and he's leaning over the engine with the focus of someone who's been at this for hours, and you could already tell by the metal-against-metal noises that he'd had been up before you'd even opened your eyes.
and the second you shut your door, the noise pulls him from his work.
his head turns to see the cause, and when he noticed it's you, he straightens like he's trying to get a better look at you. for a moment, the truck seems forgotten, his attention caught on the sight of you leaving your room with your little shorts and your towel tucked under your arm. he doesn't rush to get back to what he's doing, and his gaze lingers instead, taking you in like this is a rare pause he doesn't mind stretching out.
sweat darkens the front of his tank top, clinging to his body in a way that makes it clear that the heat is winning. the thin fabric is stretched across his chest, damp and heavy, tracing every muscle earned through years of labour rather than vanity. his jeans are stained with grease and grime from his work, and what little hair he has on his head sticks to his temple in small soft curls.
his tongue darts out and swipes across his bottom lip almost like he's forgotten you can see him, a reflex born from the heat— or maybe something else entirely.
god, he looks good.
after a long moment, he straightens with a soft exhale, grips the hem, and pulls the tank over his head in an attempt to free himself of the wet fabric. the muscles in his arms flex with every move he makes, glistening under the texan sun, and the light catches the sheen of sweat that forms over every inch of his body. the fabric finally slips free and gets tossed over the hood of the truck, leaving him bare to the heat.
you nearly walk straight into the curb. the toe cap of your shoe bumps against the concrete, jolting you from your wandering thoughts. you only barely manage to catch yourself, the towel sliding slightly from your arm, and bucky knows exactly what's happened.
he tilts his head just slightly, a small grin tugging at the corner of his mouth like he knows exactly what's he's doing. his eyes flick briefly to the curb you'd almost stumbled over, then back to you, a mix of amusement and some genuine concern flooding his face.
"you alright, princess?" he calls out, his voice low but carrying easily over the heat-laced lot, and you realise you've been staring like a madman.
"i'm fine." you awkwardly reply, and he hums.
you break eye contact and pick up the pace towards the front office. sweat prickles along your skin, and the warmth of the sun suddenly feels more invasive than it does comforting. you dont even know if youre sweating because of the heat or because of him.
you hadn't expected this when he'd sat in front of you in a baggy denim jacket last night in the kitchen. where had he been hiding all of... that? the broad shoulders? that lean muscle? the six pack? it had all been covered by fabric and shadow, and you almost want to drop to your knees and thank mother nature for deciding to work in perfect harmony to reveal bucky like this.
you skid to a stop in front of the front office door. the handle squeals as you push down on it and shoulder the door open, and a cold blast of air hits you— blessed, if a little stale. it smells faintly of mold, the result of a leaky unit, and of vinegar potato chips.
trevor is there slouched in his chair like he hasn't moved since the first time you met him. his eyes flick up as you step inside, and with a lazy smile and lopsided glasses, he turns to face you like he's excited to see you.
"hey, you." he drawls with a hint of surprise in his voice. "thought you'd never come back 'round to see me."
"you said you handle the laundry and all that stuff?" you recount, your voice stiff and to the point. you place your folded towel onto the counter and slide it towards him, the action swift. "i'd like a new towel, please. maybe two."
trevor smiles, a yellow tooth poking out from his lips. "i do do the laundry. i can fix up a towel or two for you, gorgeous. can't have the little princess walking around here with a dirty towel now, can we?"
you don't reply, nor do you give him the pleasure of seeing you smile. the rhetorical question hangs in the air between you, practically gathering dust as it remained unanswered. the nickname doesnt roll off of his tongue nearly as good as it does when it comes from buckys—
oh my god. stop thinking about that man.
trevor leans back in his chair with his shoulders raised. "c'mon, that was funny. you gotta admit that i'm the best thing about this dump."
"the best thing about this dump is the air conditioning." you quickly retort before crossing your arms against your chest. "how long is this gonna take?"
his grin falters just slightly before twisting into something sharper. "it'll take no time, but it'll cost ya a pretty penny."
something cold settles in your chest. "you said it was FREE."
"boss raised it to ten bucks per piece." trevor stays like it's perfectly reasonable. "but if you wanted to discuss another form of payment, you can always come back after dark and we can see how it goes from there."
your jaw clenches. its one thing to demand ten dollars to wash a singular piece of clothing, but it's another to continuously press down on you with the threat of a good time to see if you'll break.
"i'll figure something out." you grab your towel from the counter and turn towards the door. "thanks anyways."
the word thanks tastes bitter on your tongue, but you don't give him the satisfaction of seeing it. you push open the door, and just before it shuts, you can hear trevor shout out—
"oh come on, sugar! you know you want it!"
the door slams behind you harder than you meant it to.
heat hits you all at once, thick and suffocating as it wraps around you like a punishment. you clutch the towel tighter in your hand as you stomp back out into the parking lot, your pulse ringing in your ears.
metal clanks somewhere to your left, and then stops. you dont look, but you can feel the way the air shifts; the weight of someone's attention.
you risk a glance, and quickly find that bucky's no longer bent over the hood of his truck. he's standing upright now, a hand on his hip and a rag in the other. his expression is unreadable, his lips parted just slightly, his eyes slow and assessing, and whatever he sees on your face makes his grip on his rag tighten.
"you okay?" he asks, breaking the silence like he's testing the ice. his voice is calm like it usually is, but there's something sharper that rests underneath it.
you hesitate. every instinct you've honed over the years tells you to just shrug it off, that this is just another case of a man expecting something, to say its nothing and to keep moving. but you're done holding it in.
you huff, gesturing angrily at the front office where trevor is still sitting like a king. "asshole wanted ten bucks for a new towel. and he keeps—" you pause, the words echoing in your mind, "he keeps making these horrible passes at me and i just—"
you stop yourself and bucky's expression changes almost immediately. its not dramatic, nor is it explosive; it's colder, like something you'd said had rubbed him the wrong way.
you look at him then. "it's fine. i'll figure it out."
he studies you for a moment longer as you stand there soaking up the heat. its silent as his eyes flick from your face to the towel and then back to your face. then he exhaled and reaches into his jean pocket.
"i've got a spare towel in my room that you can take. it's clean." he says as he digs for something before he pulls out a pair of keys with a cheap plastic keychain that you recognise as his room key.
you quickly shake your head, "you don't have to—"
"i wasn't askin'." he tosses his room key to you and you catch it, the metal rattling in your palm. "you can take it."
your jaw tightens as you fidget with the keys. they feel heavy in your hand and still warm from his pocket. "i don't want to owe you anything."
the corner of bucky's mouth lifts just a fraction— not quite a smile, but something softer. "good. wouldnt want you to." then quieter, like he can sense your hesitation and like he doesn't want anyone else to hear it, he adds, "it's just a towel."
you really do want to turn him down, but the heat presses in on all sides and you're sure that if you use your towel one more time, it'd leave you stickier than you'd entered the shower feeling. to top it off, bucky is looking at you like he expects nothing in return.
"...thanks, bucky." you finally say.
he nods once, easy and almost proud of you for accepting his help. "it's folded up on the tv console. you cant miss it."
your fingers curl around the key and you give bucky one last glance before you turn and head towards his room. the walk across feels longer than it should, every step you take heavy with the awareness of bucky's eyes on your back. sweat sticks to your skin and the sun is relentless overhead, but the heat isn't what's bothering you— it's the fact that you're about to walk into the room of a stranger and cross a line you didnt even know you were standing on.
you stop in front of the door, slide the key into the lock, and twist— but it doesn't open. you try again, a little harder this time, but there's still nothing. you glance over your shoulder towards bucky.
"oh, the door sticks." he yells from across the lot. he makes a stranger gesture with his shoulder, "gotta give it a shove."
you hesitate, then brace yourself before shouldering your way into the room. the door pops open with an awkward crack, swinging inward enough for you to slip inside.
the first thing you notice is how lived in it feels. its similar to yours, but it's warmer somehow. the curtains are half drawn, letting in a thin strip of sunlight that cuts across the bed and the worn carpet. the air smells faintly of engine oil and generic dollar store soap— the grit hidden underneath the clean— and something distinctly him, like heat and metal and long hours on the road.
there's very little decoration, but what is there counts. a denim jacket is slung over the small desk chair in the corner and a pair of black jeans sit messily folded on the table, scuffed with red dirt like they've seen more miles than most people. a half empty water bottle sits on the rickety bedside table beside a folded up receipt and an open pocketknife, the blade well-used.
the bed isn't neat, the blankets thrown to the side without much care. an open duffel bag sits on the end of the bag, and you hate how nosy you feel when something in it catches your attention.
you take a few steps forwards until you're able to peek inside, hand brushing against the zipper of the duffel. there's not much; a wallet and folded clothes, a blend of worn and clean fabrics— a flannel, torn blue jeans, crisp white socks— but then something out of place catches your eye.
paper.
it's not loose. it's tucked carefully into a pocket on the inside of the bag. you tell yourself that you're only looking because it's there, and you reach in before you can even think, pulling it out with care. just a glance— that's all.
the edges are worn and it's creased down the middle like it's been folded and unfolded more times than it should've survived, evident by the thin piece of tape that's holding a corner of it together. the colour has faded into something dull, but the frozen memory printed onto the front is anything but.
two men stand in the centre of it, close in a way that feels more personal than anything you'd ever known. you recognise one of the men as bucky— younger, happier, and clean shaven— a bright smile on his face as he stares at the other man. the other man is broad shouldered, his features sharp underneath his stubble, and wearing a smile similar to bucky's, one so wide that it almost looks like world hasn't had the chance to take anything from them yet.
your thumb absentmindedly brushes against the photo where bucky's face is, the finger curling right down the curve of his jaw.
there's no writing on the back, nor is there an explanation. who is this mystery man, a friend? a boyfriend? either way, they look awfully close.
your chest tightens, red hot guilt flaring in your stomach with the awful realisation that this is something extremely personal to bucky and you've probably just crossed hundreds of lines. the open bag seems to stare at you, and for the first time since you stepped foot in the motel room, you've become acutely aware of how much of an invasion of privacy this is.
you look away from the photo like it might burn you, heart thudding as you fold it back up and shove it back into the pocket you found it in. you find the towel folded up on the tv console just as bucky had said— white, clean, and untouched— and you grab it quickly, beelining straight towards the door.
you shut the door behind you and lock it. you cross the lot, quicker this time and with your eyes fixed on bucky like he might see through you if you blink. he's still by the truck, arms deep in the engine system, but he stops what he's doing as soon as he hears your rushed feet heading towards him.
"you find it?" he asks as he steps off of the bumper.
you nod and hand him the key. "yeah. thanks again."
your fingers brush when he takes it— just the briefest touch of his calloused fingers against your soft ones— and he curls it into the palm of his hand, gaze flickering at the clean towel in your hand.
you turn to leave, a half smile on your lip. you're halfway through a step when—
"hey." bucky calls.
you pause and turn back around.
"you busy tonight?" he asks,
"unless you count watching old reruns all night and listening to the rats in the walls, not really." you try to joke, but the humour dies halfway in your throat when you realise it's your reality. "why?"
he shrugs like his suggestion is nothing big. "there's a decent diner about ten miles down the road. thought maybe we could get something in you that isn't shit from a vending machine."
for a split second, you almost say yes immediately. the idea of real food, of leaving this place even if its just for a little while, of just having someone normal to talk to, feels like a god-given grace. but instinct cuts in fast. the logical part of your mind tells you to not get comfortable.
comfortable is how you get stuck. comfortable is how you get hurt.
"yeah, i don't know about that." you gesture vaguely to your room, and then to your empty pocket. "running low on cash."
"don't worry bout it." bucky says almost immediately. "my treat. least i can do after you've kept me company these past few days."
you blink. "we met last night."
then, almost like you'd just told him a joke, a small laugh falls from his mouth, and god, something about it makes you weak in the knees. "maybe, but you sittin' in your room all day staring at me fixin my truck is still better company than listenin' to trevor watchin' cheap cable porn in his office all day."
oh. he noticed that?
you open your mouth but shut it again. there's no point in denying it, and the cheeky grin that sits plastered on bucky's face shows that you can't gaslight your way out of this one.
the texas heat presses in and the motel hums around you, and for once, the idea of staying in your room all night feels worse than the risk of saying yes. you lift your eyes back to him and sigh, the fight leaving your shoulders.
"okay." you say, more to yourself than anyone else, then you nod. "yeah, okay. dinner sounds... dinner sounds nice."
bucky's smile spreads across his face, slow and satisfied like he knew you would accept. "good. i'll knock around seven."
and he does.
the knock comes at 6:58pm, solid knuckles banging against the wood. the sound echoes through your room louder than it needs to, and it sets every nerve in you alight.
you sit up straighter in the edge of your bed, your heart giving a traitorous jump. for a second, you stare at the door like the sound might go away, but it doesn't. there's a soft scuff of boots against concrete on the other side, and then there's a quiet huff of breath, patient and unhurried.
"hey." bucky's voice comes through the door, low and careful, almost like he's giving you an out. "it's me."
you swallow. your hands are clammy and there's a strange heaviness that sits in the pit of your stomach. you can't remember the last time someone knocked on your door for you.
"yeah—" you rub a hand over your face, clearing your throat as you push yourself to your feet. you're too aware of how your clothes fit and how you look. "uh, just... give me a second."
"i'm not goin' anywhere."
you smooth your hands over your shirt, eyes glazing over your reflection in the small hanging mirror, and then you look down at yourself. you're presentable enough. with one final breath, you cross the room and open the door.
the creak of the door catches bucky's attention. he's standing there with his hands shoved into his jean pockets, his boots scuffed and his hair a little wet like he's washed up since the last time you saw him. there's something pleasant about the way he smells— like sandalwood and leather and him, a welcome change from the stale mix of dusty carpet and mouldy insulation.
he looks good. he looks handsome.
"ready?" he asks, and you cant ignore the way his eyes travel down the length of your body like he's taking you in for the first time instead of the girl he's seen coming and going all week. "let's get some food in you."
it isn't scrutinising, but it's thorough enough for warmth to creep up your neck, to make you suddenly aware of where your hands are, how you're standing, how close he feels in the narrow doorway. you haven't felt this way since— never mind.
your brows knit as you glance past him and towards the lot. "wait, are we taking your truck? i thought it was fucked up."
bucky's face relaxes as he turns over to glance over his shoulder, then back at you. "she's fucked, but she can still drive."
"i hope so." you murmur as you lock your door and slide the keys into your pocket. you hear bucky chuckle.
as you walk beside bucky, you manage to sneak a glance at him. he's relaxed, his shoulders loose and his steps casual. he carries himself with the confidence of a man who does this all the time— talking to strangers and helping them out, letting himself form connections that inevitably lead nowhere— meanwhile your pulse is throbbing throughout your body, struggling to differentiate the difference between the first date jitters you feel and your fight or flight response kicking in.
you force yourself to suck in a deep breath. bucky is nice. he's done nothing but help you., and even if he weren't, you aren't helpless. you know how to run and you know how to fight. you've done it before and you'd do it again. the thought settles the restless anxiety in your chest, and that gives you enough clarity as you near the truck.
the first thing you realise is how big the truck is. from afar, it looks just like every other semi you've seen in your life. up close, it's rusted metal and worn paint, scratches and dents adorning the length of it, and it towers over you like a skyscraper.
bucky reaches up and over and pulls open the door. "might be a bit of a climb. you think you can get up there yourself?"
"i think i'll be fine." you quickly reply, already stepping forwards.
you reach up and grab a hold of the support handle and plant your foot on the step, and you immediately realise you have no idea what you're doing. something about the layout of the truck is strange in a way that makes your brain short circuit for a long moment. the step is higher than expect, the handle a little too far back, your arms criss crossed and your leg is suspended for a moment as you try to figure out where to go next.
its not graceful at all.
you drop to the ground in defeat. before you can try and embarrass yourself again, bucky's hands are there, firm and warm on your waist, steadying you without being rough.
"'s alright, princess," he murmurs. "i've gotcha."
he lifts you like you weigh nothing. your hands instinctively brace against his shoulders, solid beneath your palms, and you can feel the heat of his skin through the fabric of his shirt. for a second, all you can feel is his hands. you're painfully aware of how close his face is to your stomach— to that area— and you feel a little breathless as he hoists you up and sets you down into the passenger seat like you belong there.
you look down at him with a tight lipped smile, "sorry."
"don't be." he says gently as he gives you a small pat on the side of your thigh, already stepping back with a small smile and his hand on the door. "truck's old. not exactly built for somethin' little like you."
you blink as he shuts the door for you and circles the truck before clicking open his own door and climbing in with ease. the cab feels smaller when he settles into his seat, filled with the low rumble of the starting engine and bucky's scent.
he glances over as you as he pulls his door shut. he glances over at you, eyes flicking downwards. "seatbelt." he reminds you, and you quickly buckle in. he nods once when it clicks, satisfied.
bucky clicks some switches and tugs at some levers, and the truck lurches forwards with a load groan. gravel crunches under the tires as bucky reverses the truck with ease, manoeuvring the huge vehicle out of the small lot. the headlights sweep across the cracked paint of the motel, illuminating the stretch of route 66 that it sits on.
it feels strange— being here on the road again, moving again after a stagnant period— like your body remembers the rhythm of the road even if your body hasn't quite caught up.
for a few miles, neither of you speaks. the radio hums softly between stations, bucky skipping until it lands on something that vaguely resembles dire straits before he finally leans back, one hand on the wheel and the other resting along the sill of the window, the glass cracked open just enough for wind to funnel into the cab.
you watch the world go by through the windshield. there's desert scrub, flickering neon motel lights, the occasional passing set of headlights that fly past before you even really notice them. it's peaceful in a way you hadn't really expected.
"so," bucky breaks the silence without turning to look at you, his voice just slightly louder than the hum of the radio and the growl of the truck. "california."
your head turns towards him before you can really control it. "california." you echo, the word sitting strange and heavy on your tongue despite it being the goal you'd been trying to reach for so long.
theres another small pause before bucky hums.
"what's so special about california? job? family?" he turns and glances at you for half a second, throat bobbing once before he turns back to the road. "or did you just throw a dart at a map and decide it was good enough?"
a small laugh slips from your mouth before you can stop it— soft, surprised, one that almost catches you off guard— but it fades into something you'd barely call a smile. you glance down at your shorts, fingers picking at the fabric, and although bucky doesn't look over, you get the feeling that he's listening in a lot closer now.
"i don't know." you admit. "i just needed to get the fuck out of chicago."
bucky nods once, slow and understanding. "that's fair. not always good to stay in one place forever."
he doesnt ask you to explain, nor does he pry. he simply adjusts his grip on the wheel and shifts in his seat before he adds, almost absentmindedly, "a lotta people end up on the road for that reason."
"hmm." you softly nod. then your head lulls to the side just slightly, enough that you can gesture to the back of the truck that rumbles behind you. "what about you? what've you got back there in the trailer?"
bucky glances over at you for just a second, his brows furrowed like you'd just recounted a complex math equation. "who taught you that?"
"taught me what?" you ask, "trailer?"
"yeah." bucky's lips curl into a soft smile, and you can see the small crinkle of his eyes in the rear view mirror. "usually pretty girls like you just refer to the back— or they just call it the truck. you knew what you were talking about, and that's not usually something you just know unless you've picked it up from someone."
you ignore the pretty part of the sentence, and instead try to put on a teasing grin. "do you talk to a lot of pretty girls?"
and then, almost like he can sense the playfulness in your tone bucky turns his head just enough for you to catch the smirk that sits on his lips. "only the ones who can tell the different between a cab and a trailer."
your chest flutters in a way that unconsciously makes a smile grow on your face, warmth creeping up your neck until bucky finally turns away from you and back to the road. there's something in the curve of his jaw, in the blue of his eyes, in the quiet confidence he drives, in the faint rush of his scent carried by the wind— it's confusing, but also exciting. you can't help the pull of curiosity or the way your mind lingers on the idea of him for longer than you should.
but something horrible tugs at your heart. it's something familiar, something you've know for so many years, something that's made its home in your body; guilt.
"my, uh..." you scratch the side of your neck, pausing just momentarily to pull your eyes away from the side of bucky's face. "my boyfriend built semis. he taught me all about the parts and the frames and stuff to try and get me into the business to help out but—" a small, self conscious shrug follows. "not a lot of it stuck."
"boyfriend?" bucky asks. "and where's he?"
"far away, i hope." you say. there's a tightness in your chest, and you reach up to fidget with the necklace that hangs around your neck. "he's actually the reason why i left chicago."
you're looking out of your window now, but you can feel the burn of bucky's eyes on the back of your head as he turns to look at you for a moment.
"he an asshole?" he asks, half joking, but his tone is soft and patient like he already knows the answer.
"you could say that." you reply with a soft laugh, a little tight lipped and a little sad, but relieved that he isn't prying for more, and for the first time in days, it feels okay to leave it out in the open and mostly unspoken.
the road ahead stretches into flat darkness. the radio hums quietly. the truck rumbles as it rolls over rocks and asphalt. ahead, a bright pair of headlights glow bright. it's peaceful.
"garden gnomes."
your brows furrow. you turn your head towards bucky, who's eyes are set on the road. you're sure you'd misheard him. "what?"
he glances at you, then back at the road, his voice low like he's confessing a classified secret. "in the back. it's garden gnomes."
you blink, a bubble of a laugh slipping free before you can stop it. "you're hauling gnomes across the country? is that a joke?"
"sounds funny, but apparently those little bastards are worth more than both you and i and this truck." he says, dead serious, but there's a small twitch of a smile on his face. "rich people have nothin' better to spend their money on."
you snort again, laughter bubbling from your chest and breaking the heaviness that had settled there. bucky smiles at the sound— small, satisfied, toothy— like that was exactly the reaction he had hoped for. you press a hand against your mouth to try and suppress your laughter, but it barely works.
"hey— they're gettin' a nicer trip than most people do." he half-heartedly adds with a grin. "they're drivin' with the best trucker in america. not everybody can say that."
"the best trucker in america and the most humble."
"don't start, missy." bucky warns you, but the amusement on his face gives him away. "you're apart of the lucky few who can call themselves a passenger of mine."
you scoff, "whatever you say, buck."
the nickname slips out before you can stop it, and for half a second, you wonder if you've crossed a line. but you watch how bucky's eyes linger on you and the way his knuckles flex against the wheel, turning white just ever so slightly as his grip tightens. there's a slight tick in his jaw before his tongue darts out and swipes across his bottom lip.
a neon light catches your eye. it's bright against the dark of the sky, the singular word DINER illuminated in bright pink and faint blues. it's a simple sign, but it gets the work done. a small building comes into view, small and unassuming yet warm and homey, like it's just waiting for people to stumble in for a feed.
"that must be it." bucky mutters as he squints through the windscreen. he pulls at a few things, and the truck rolls to a slow as you near the building.
"good." you murmur. "i'm starving."
bucky slows the truck, turning off of the highway steering wide and pulling the truck to the far end of the lot where the truck won't block anyone in (even though there's only three or four cars in the lot).
"she's too big to squeeze in there." he adds as he pulls the brakes and shuts the engine off. the rumbling stops, and suddenly it's quiet again. "hope you don't mind the walk."
"it's fine." you tell him as you unbuckle your seatbelt. you click open the door and push it open, almost falling out at the weight of it. you glance down to the step, and then towards the trucker. "uh, bucky... would you be able to—"
before you can finish, bucky's door swings open, the cab groaning at the shift of weight. "i've got it." he says, voice calm but amused before he hopes out and shuts the door behind him.
you watch the top of his head as he circles the front of the truck, and he appears at your door. he reaches a hand out before you can even think about trying to hop down yourself.
"here." he says as you take his hand, the other arm extended just in case you slip.
you let him guide you down, one hand in his and the other on his shoulder. you hop down knowing that bucky would catch you if you fell without hesitation. the gravel crunches beneath your boots when you touch the ground and your hands slip from bucky's.
he takes the time to give you a small smile like it was nothing, and the two of you head towards the diner. the evening air carries the scent of grease and coffee and something faintly like him, and you're not sure if you're smelling him because he's so close or if its because
bucky steps ahead of you to push the door open for you, and the bell overhead dings and echos through the diner. the first thing you notice as you step inside is the clatter of dishes in the kitchen and the soft buzz of the coffee machine on the counter.
although clean and well-kept, the diner looks like it hasn't been updated in decades. the checkered vinyl floor is worn in some places from years of customers, the metal trim around the counter and the stools shine in the bright led light, and the red leather of the booths fray and tear at the corners. there are dozens— if not hundreds— of framed black and white photos on the wall of passing customers, food, and the employees, and next to those are various old school records hung haphazardly.
a few customers are scattered around the diner, all invested in their own world, and don't dream it's over by crowded house plays faintly from the jukebox in the corner, filling the space with music where otherwise would be ambient diner noise. a bell dings and your eyes dart to the kitchen where a chef passes the waitress a plate full of fries and a cheeseburger. the sight makes your stomach growl despite the vending machine snacks you'd had earlier that day.
bucky seems to catch onto your hunger and is quick to place a hand on your lower back and usher you towards an empty booth in the emptier half of the diner. the leather creaks as you both slide in, your hands instantly grabbing for the menu and flipping it open.
the first thing you look at— almost instinctively— are the prices.
"it's a bit expensive for a highway diner." you think out loud as you scan the menu, your thumbnail in between your teeth.
"get whatever you want." bucky says as he watches you. you catch him looking, and through your lashes, you watch his expression soften. "i don't like keeping a bunch of cash on me anyways."
you feel bad, but he's offering. you look down at the menu again, thumb playing with the frayed corner. after a minute, you ask, "so... what are you getting? the BLT looks good."
he shrugs lightly as he leans back against the booth. he gives you a small smile as he shakes his head. "i had somethin' back at the motel."
before you can reply, a waitress appears at the side of your booth. she's older, grey streaks in her brown hair and her eyes kimd but tired. her hair is pulled into a loose bun, and a red apron is tied around her waist. she reaches for her notepad and her pen, and then she smiles.
"evenin'." she greets. "what can i get for you folks?"
you sit up straight and smile, menu in hand. "hi. could i get one classic cheeseburger with fries? and two cokes, please."
the waitress nods and jots down your order on the notepad. you put the menu down thinking you're done, but then you look at bucky, and find that he's already looking at you. you blink at each other before an idea pops into your head.
"actually, sorry, could you make that two cheeseburgers?"
the look at bucky gives you makes you grin.
"of course, sweetheart. so two cheeseburgers with fries?" the waitress recounts, and you nod feeling a little victorious. "alright, it'll be out in no time."
"thank you." you smile.
the waitress leaves, and you lean back in the booth like you hadn't done anything. there's a moment of silence where you're smiling at bucky and he's staring back at you with a perplexed look.
"what was that?" bucky asks after a moment. his brows are raised, and the look on his face turns into amusement.
"what was what?" you reply, feigning innocence.
"that." he gestures vaguely to you. "the— you know... the cheeseburger thing."
you lean forwards. "i'm not gonna sit here and eat a burger while you stare at me, bucky. if we're doing this, we're gonna eat fries and drink out cokes together."
bucky scoffs and shakes his head. "anyone ever told you you don't play fair?"
"once or twice." you grin.
and just like the waitress had said, your cheeseburgers were out in now time. she slides the plates in front of you with practised ease, and you dive in without hesitation.
the bun is soft, the cheese is melted just enough that is droops off of the patty, and the fries are the perfect amount of crispy. you take a bite, one that makes you sigh in relief, and you dont even bother to eat politely. you scarf down half of your burger before bucky's even touched his.
he shoves a fry into his mouth as he watches you chew. "should i be worried you're gonna steal mine too?"
you swallow. "if you dont eat it fast enough, then maybe."
he huffs a laugh through his nose and shakes his head before he finally leans forwards and takes a proper bite of his burger.
the two of you keep eating, but your eyes drift back to bucky every so often. there's something about him that you just can't look away from— the way he holds his burger, the way he chews, the way his eyes watch the other customers behind you, the way his shoulders relax now that he's finally eating— but then, uninvited, your mind slips back to the photo in his duffel bag.
the worn edges. the fading colour. the way bucky looked. the man beside him. everything about it pulls at something in you.
you finish your burger and slow down. you wipe at your mouth with a tissue, your stomach full as you lean back to digest. you watch him for a moment longer before you tilt your head just slightly, reaching for a fry as if to imitate cluelessness.
"what did you do before all of... this?" you start, aiming for casual but landing somewhere more questioning. "the hauling, i mean. the travelling and all that stuff. did you always do this, or was there... someone who got you into it?"
its subtle— something in the way your words trail off, in the way your eyes search his for an answer— and bucky clocks it immediately.
his jaw pauses mid-chew. his eyes flick between yours like he's replaying what you asked word-for-word. he swallows his food, and he squints just slightly.
"you snooped in my bag, didn't you?"
your shoulders tense. for a moment, you think about denying it or telling him that he's crazy, but you respect him too much to lie.
"i swear i didn't mean to. it was just... open, and i just—" you blink, huffing out a small breath. "i'm sorry."
bucky doesn't say anything for a moment. he takes another bite of his burger and continues chewing on his food while you stress the fuck out. you sort of just stare at him as he places his burger back down and takes a breath.
"'s fine. not much in there for you to take anyways." he says as he leans back. he crosses his arms against his chest, eyes flicking towards you. "i'm guessing you wanna know who he is."
"only if you want to tell me." you tell him.
a beat passes. then bucky exhales through his nose, the corner of his mouth twitching like he's decided on something.
"alright. i'll tell you about sam—" his gaze sharpens just a bit, more intent now. "but you have to tell me more about your boyfriend."
the proposition sits in front of you heavier than you'd expected. your stomach twists, not with fear, but with the awareness that agreeing means opening a door you've been keeping shut.
but your curiosity— or maybe your resilience, that stubborn part of you that refuses to let your past dictate every choice you make— overcomes your fear.
"okay." you nod. "fine."
bucky leans back in the booth, hands reaching out to rest on the table. his fingers drum slightly on the table, his eyes unfocused for a second like he's replaying a memory in his mind.
"the man in the photo... his name is sam." he begins. "we were... friends. real good friends. we had a truck together once— an old thing, nothin' fancy, but we'd spent hours tinkerin' with it, fixin' whatever broke. sometimes we'd race the damn thing down the road just for somethin' to do. felt like we could do anything' back then."
his lips twitch, not quite into a smile, but into something fleeting. you watch as it passes on his face, brief but visible.
"where's sam now?" you ask softly.
bucky exhales. "i don't know. one day, we got into an argument about... everything and nothing, really. it was stupid. and then we just... went in different directions." he speaks slow like he's trying to remember, or maybe he's trying not to feel. there's something underneath, like he's choosing to trust you even if it costs him a second of discomfort.
"do you ever think of going back? of ever talking to him again?"
"all the time. not a day passes where i wish i could just... call him up and tell him i'm sorry." bucky admits. "i've done a lot of things wrong in my life, but not fixin' that... not tryin' to make it right... it sticks with me."
he pauses, fingers stilling on the table. "no matter what i do or where i go, a part of me stays back there— with him."
its said plainly, but there's something in the way that his jaw works that shows he's already said a lot more than he usually allows himself to. the memory isn't old or something fleeting he thinks about every so often. the memory of sam is still very much alive in bucky, and he carries it with him mile after mile.
bucky reaches over and grabs his coke. he brings the straw to his lips, takes a long sip, and sets it down with a sigh. he crosses his arms again, and his eyes flick back to you, steady now.
"that's all i've got. your turn."
you nod once, then again, like the motion might knock you out of the daze you'd pulled yourself into. there's a small inhale through your nose,
"right. okay, um— where do i start..." you think out loud, eyes focused on the condensation of your glass like it might give you an answer.
"i guess it started back in high school. i didnt have many friends or talked to anyone, so the moment a guy started paying attention to me, i guess i didn't know any better." you swallow, eyes unfocused now. "he was older. he knew how to talk, and he was confident, and i fell head over heels. it felt like it was the first time anyone had ever actually seen me."
"but then we moved in together, and it got bad. he hurt me— a lot." the laugh that leaves your mouth is more uncomfortable than anything humorous. your finger traces the edge of your plate just to try to ground yourself. "he knew how to do it in a way that made sure i'd always somehow come running back to him."
your voice wobbles on the last word, and thats when bucky moves.
its not abrupt or enough to startle you, and you barely even look up. he just leans forwards, forearms resting on the table now, like he's making sure you know he's there and that you don't have to do this alone. his jaw tightens, not angry at you, but in anger at the man who left scars you dont name.
"i didnt realise that the attention started turning into control." "you admit softly. "or how easy it is to mistake the control for love when you don't know any better. i don't know. sometimes i wish i could just... shove it all into a box and throw it from a moving car... and then go to bed and sleep for once."
"but would you be able to rest?" bucky asks.
"no." you shake your head. "no, i don't think i would."
you can hear a small sigh slip from his mouth, and you almost feel pathetic. you hated being pitied, and this was prime pity territory.
but then bucky reaches forwards to hold your shaking hand, his grip warm and steady. his thumb presses against your knuckles, grounding, like he knows exactly how close you're coming to slipping.
a part of you still shivers at the vulnerability you display— at being seen like this— but the tired part, the honest part, of you doesn't mind the contact if bucky is the one pitying you.
"sweetheart, people like that... they're good at makin' it feel like you're the problem. like you're the one who keeps messin' up. but that doesn't mean you were weak or stupid. it means you were young and you were lonely, and someone cruel decided to take advantage of that." his thumb presses into your skin just slightly. "you got out."
you look up for the first time since you started talking. your waterline burns with unshed tears, and there's a quiver in your lip despite your best attempts to keep it steady.
"i did something bad, bucky. i did something really bad."
he doesn't interrupt. he doesnt tense nor does he pull away. his hands stay exactly where they are in yours, his thumb stilling. his eyes search yours, waiting, giving you the space to speak.
"i shot him."
the words hang heavy in the air between you, whispered but still deafening, and for a second you think the world might come crashing down on you. you prepare for bucky to rip his hands away from you, to spit in your face, and leave you here to rot— but it never comes.
if anything, his grip on your hands tightens. bucky exhales through his nose. he's not shocked. he's not angry with you either— he could never be angry at you. his jaw tightens, and you watch as his thoughts pass in his eyes. his thumb resumes the small circular motion on your knuckles like he's trying to calm you down.
"okay." he says quietly, like he's afraid he might shatter something more fragile than you, like anything louder that leaves him might break you. "okay. thats okay."
his hands never leave yours, but you watch his face change like he's distanced himself from you.
"did you mean to?" he asks gently, not prying nor accusing, just trying to understand what happened. and before you can spiral into whatever answer you're forming, he adds, still soft, "you don't gotta justify yourself to me. i just wanna know what you're feelin' right now."
you pull away from his touch. it almost feels like too much. you retreat into yourself, hands holding yourself just for another sense of safety, but even then, you dont feel safe in your own skin. your fingers press into your sides just to remember that you're there and that you exist outside of the memory and the guilt and the fear.
"i don't know. i was just scared, and he was— he was yelling, and it was so loud. and i shot him, and i was— god, i don't even know if he's alive." you spit out all at once. you turn to bucky, "please don't be scared of me—"
"i'm not scared of you, princess."
bucky says it immediately— no pause, no hesitation— like there was never another option. his voice doesn't rise in anger or soften in pity, and he never once looks away from you.
"you were scared and you did what you needed to survive." he adds quietly. "nobody can blame you for that."
and for the first time since you've said it out loud, the word shot doesn't echo as violently in your mind as it once did. its still there, but it isn't screaming at you anymore.
you nod because its all you feel you can do. you wipe at your eyes with the back of your hand, embarrassed by the wetness, the vulnerability, the rawness you feel after admitting it for the first time.
"how about we get this packed up, and we'll head back." bucky suggests like he's offering you an out.
"yeah." you blink and nod, "okay."
and that's exactly what you do. you leave the diner in silence, and you drive back to the motel in the same silence. bucky helps you down from the truck, and he hands you the entire bag of food with the soft assurance that he 'isn't hungry', bidding you a good night at your room door.
in the shower, you stand under the running water until your skin prickles and your fingers prune, letting the water run over your body for what seems like hours, and when you get out of the shower, you lay in bed half under the covers staring at the ceiling and tracing the cracks and bumps for what feels like even longer.
your body is exhausted, but your mind won't follow. every time you blink, it's there again; the yelling, the smell of sweat and metal, how loud is was. god, it was so loud.
you see it in fragments. the way his face had changed, the split second wgere you realised this was going to happen whether you wanted it to or not, the recoil, the ringing in your ears, the sound of him collapsing, and the blood.
you suck in a breath and sharply turn your head to the side.
the alarm clock glows an ugly red. 3:04am. you reach over and click on the table lamp, and before you can overthink it, you swing your legs over the bed and pad over to the dresser where your duffel sits, half open and slumped against the wood.
you kneel in front of it and unzip it the rest of the way. you begin sifting through your belongings, your fingers clumsy but determined as you dig through scraps of your life that you've shoved together without much care.
and then your hand brushes against something heavy and metallic. you reach in and grab the gun by the barrel, pulling it out and watching as the metal glows under the lamp light before you pull it into your lap. a shotgun. it looks smaller there, stripped of context and fear, but your hands still remember the weight of it. your body itches like it's bracing for something you know has already happened.
you stare at it for a long time— the stupid, ugly thing that changed everything.
it'd been the thing you shoved into your boyfriends face when he'd threatened to keep you locked up in that cramped apartment of his. it'd been the reason he'd let you go, and the thing that saved your life; but simultaneously, it'd also been the thing that'd ruined you.
you decide to be rid of it.
one second you're sitting on the carpet with the shotgun on your lap, and the next, you're pulling on a spare hoodie and stepping out of your room, completely barefoot and all sense of rationality thrown out of the window. you dont even lock your room door.
you cross the small space between your room and bucky's. you knock once, twice, and then once more for good measure, knuckles stinging as soon as they make contact with the wood.
there's a pause. there's a shift. then the door opens.
the door creaks open, and from the dark, bucky emerges. the first thing that you notice is that he's shirtless, and the first thing he notices is that you're carrying a shotgun.
"what's wrong?" is the first thing he says. his voice is still gravely with sleep or something close to sleep, and you almost feel bad for dragging him into your drama again. he doesnt sound scared or in fear for his own life, but you can hear the concern laced in the question. "is that—"
"i want to get rid of it." your hands tighten around the barrel of the gun.
bucky doesn't ask why. he just nods once and steps back inside of his room to tug on a shirt and grab his keys.
the truck eats the miles quickly, the headlights carving a thin path through the dust and the scrub of the texas desert. the land opens up the further out you go, and the two of you drive until you can't see anything but the darkness. bucky pulls off of the road where the tires fade into the sand and kills the engine.
the land bucky helps you down onto is bare in a way that only places with nothing to witness can be. you cant see much further than a couple of feet ahead of you, and the silence is almost deafening. nobody is driving past on route 66 at this time, and nobody is there to watch you hide the weapon.
you hold the gun while bucky holds the shovel and a flashlight.
you dont know how far out you walk. the ground shifts under your bare feet, toes digging into the cooling sand and small stones, but you keep going until the heavy metal in your hands starts feeling heavier than your body can hold. when you glance over your shoulder, you can barely see the moonlight silhouette of the truck in the distance.
in front of you, bucky slows, his flashlight scanning the area out of habit, then he nods.
"here should be good." he says quietly, turning back to you just to check on you. "doubt anyone every comes out this far."
you don't reply. you simply nod, the action small, fingers curling tighter around the barrel and the handle. your throat feels thick, your words lodged there with nowhere to go, and maybe it's better that way. you dont know what you'd say even if you tried.
bucky holds the flashlight out for you to grab, and you take it and shine it at the ground. the light cuts a pale circle onto the sand, and your brows furrow when bucky presses the tip of the shovel into the ground, tasting the density.
"maybe i should do it." you interrupt, the words coming out thin, like you're testing out the question more than asking it.
he doesnt even look at you. "i've got it."
but you still feel so guilty. he doesnt even know your name and he here is on the border between new mexico and texas buring evidence for you.
"it's my gun, bucky." your grip tightens around the flashlight, the muzzle of the gun scratching against the ground. there's a quiet guilt and responsibility in it, a quiet belief that this is something you have to carry alone. "you don't have to do this for me—"
bucky sighs as he finally pauses to look at you. he pulls his hands from the handle of the shovel and folds them on top of each other on the handle, his eyes soft and unyielding like he's already made up his mind and he's just waiting for you to catch up.
"you already asked me to bring you out here, sweetheart. i'm not lettin' you do this on your own anymore." bucky says, quieter but no less sure, and his eyes never leave your face. "you've done enough survivin' by yourself. let me do this for you."
you hesitate for half a second longer like you might still argue, but the fight drains out of you instead. the way he's looking at you feels like he's willingly shouldering the weight with you— or maybe for you.
you nod once. "okay."
bucky gives you a short nod back like your compliance is all he needs before he turns to the shovel again. he drives the shovel down, the metal biting into the ground with a dull clang. he pulls the shovel from the ground before slamming it back down again, harder and stiffer this time like he knows exactly how much force to use and when.
you keep the flashlight trained on the growing divot, the beam wobbling just slightly whenever the shovel meets the ground. after a while of staring at bucky, you swallow, your voice low.
"do you think i could go to jail for this?" you ask him. the question had been running rampant in your mind ever since you'd left y the apartment in chicago.
bucky pauses mid-scoop for a second, head tilting upwards towards you. the raise of his brows and the small huffed out laugh he gives you makes the question you just ask feel stupid— and in retrospect, it probably was.
"people go to jail for less serious shit than shooting your ex-boyfriend, princess." he says, not unkind, just honest. he turns back to the ground and stabs into the sand. "if that asshole's still alive and he gives the cops a story about how you left guns a-blazin', you could be set up for attempted murder."
"oh." you mutter as you fight the urge to roll your eyes. "thanks bucky. that really helps. super comforting."
he huffs quietly. "you asked."
you kick at a mound of sand like it had personally wronged you, and it's only then that you realise you're completely barefoot. you're not sure when that happened.
"well—" you pause, flashlight dipping just slightly, "yeah, i asked, but hearing it that way instead of a simple yes or no or maybe just freaks me out."
"sorry." bucky exhales through his nose. "not much point in worryin' about it now. thinkin' that far ahead'll eat at you, and it sounds like it already has been."
"whatever." you grumble. "i at least wanna get to california before i get thrown in a cell to rot."
bucky glances at you. "and you will."
bucky finished digging the hole with a finally jab of his shovel, sand piling up around it in a large mound. he steps back and nods towards it, giving the the go-ahead without saying it out loud. you lean down and place the gun inside, pushing it down as far as it can go, the metal scratching against the sand as it sinks inside. when you stand back up, you cross your arms over your chest.
the weapon you'd used to maim someone now looked so small. stripped of its power and its noise. just a cold, ugly thing sitting in a hole in the ground.
for a long while, the two of you just stare at the gun. there's not much to look at, but there's something about it that just feels different now. it doesn't look like fear or adrenaline anymore. it just looks out of place, almost wrong, like it never belonged in your hands in the first place.
bucky breaks the silence first, his question a little too casual for the context behind it. "was it a good shot at least?"
you turn your head just slightly to look at him, and he does the same. he watches you as you search for the answer, a soft sigh falling from your mouth.
"i got him right in the shoulder." you bluntly reply, your voice quiet even in the silence of the desert. "he was bleeding a lot, though. almost thought his arm was going to fall off."
bucky hums once, his face unreadable, then he steps forwards and starts pushing the gathered sand back into the hole. you watch as the ground swallows the gun, and inadvertently swallows up everything else you'd brought with you— the dread, the panic, the buzzing tension you'd felt for so long.
but you feel a lot better now. of course you still have the topic of being homeless and being arrested on your mind, but at least you aren't carrying around the immediate weight of that cold metal in your hands. the gun is gone, and you can rest a little easier now.
you stand there for a moment longer as bucky finishes up, kicking the sand around so it looks a little less messed with. then, almost wordlessly, the two of you walk back to the truck.
he opens the truck door for you, helps you in, and then he circles around the front and gets in his seat. the engine growls as it comes to life and the headlights blink on like the sun on a bleak morning, and with a few pressed buttons and pulled levers, bucky is pulling the truck back onto the road and back towards the motel.
the road is steady underneath the wheels, and for the first time in a while, you feel a little lighter. neither of you really speak at first. the desert stretches onwards, and your eyes glance to the small analogue clock on the dashboard— 4:17am.
and it's almost like bucky can sense the exhaustion that laces your bones. he glances at you, his own eyes tired although his mind is anything but. "you think you're gonna sleep much tonight?"
you shrug, staring out of the windscreen. "i'll try. there's still a lot on my mind."
your thoughts drift, unbidden and unruly— memories of your boyfriend, the way things had been once and how they are now, and the tension you felt in your body when you left home— but the thought of your him somehow brings you back to trucks, and the thought of trucks and sleep brings you back to the thought of the sleeper cab of a semi truck.
a little impulsively, you twist in your seat and pull at the curtain that sits behind you and you peek inside. the little bed sits neatly against the wall, the blankets neatly made and the singular pillow slightly askew at the head of the bed. it's nothing inherently interesting, but it's something that's always confused you.
bucky glances at you in the rear view mirror, "what are you lookin' for back there?"
"just looking at the bed. i've never seen one in real life." you casually reply, "is it comfy back there? mattress looks thin."
bucky half shrugs, his eyes ahead on the road. "it gets the job done, but its not as good as the real thing."
you pull the curtain back just a little further. it's hard to see in the dark, the shadows making it hard to see any object in real detail, but you can make out the pillows and the blankets, a small shelf with a basket full of miscellaneous items— a couple of batteries, a bottle of painkillers, an empty water bottle, and a couple of magazines. you cant read the words, but even in the dark, you can make out the shape of a... is that a lady wearing a playboy bunny costume?
you turn back to bucky and find that he's already watching you through the rear view mirror like a hawk. his brows are slightly furrowed, his eyes dark and steady, but theres a small, sly tilt of his lips.
"are those... playboy magazines?" you almost laugh, glancing at bucky with your brows raised and a cheeky grin. you tease, "those get the job done too?"
theres a moment where bucky sucks on his teeth and glances at you over his shoulder, and you think you should've probably kept your mouth shut— but then he smirks.
"like i said—" bucky lets the corners of his mouth curl, his voice low as he replies. "not as good as the real thing."
oh.
you blink. you blink again. you blink so much that you think you might actually start crying, or throw up, or do something equally humiliating. heat crawls up the length of your neck, settling in your cheeks. what the hell do you reply to that?
"right." you manage, pushing it out a little too quickly. you slide the curtain shut and turn back in your seat, tugging at your seatbelt to get it adjusted right. "yeah. that— that makes sense."
you clear your throat, forcing yourself to stare forwards at the dark stretch of highway instead of paying any attention to bucky. you can feel him glancing at the side of your face, lingering whenever you feel particularly flustered, and you can hear the soft chuckle he makes at your reaction that he doesn't even try to hide.
it settles somewhere low in your stomach, warm and aggravating and far too effective for how little he's actually doing.
god, that image is gonna be burnt in your mind forever.
the motel sign flickers back into view not long after, and the breath of relief that leaves you is almost instant. the neon lights buzz as bucky pulls into the parking lot, headlights beaming over the building before he kills the engine and opens the doors. you follow, and he circles the front and he helps you down from the truck just like he usually does, your hands on his shoulders while his wrap around your waist. it lasts for only a second, but it lingers on your skin all the same.
you walk side by side towards your rooms, the ground luke-warm under your feet and the air cooler now that the night has deepened. it's quiet now in the way most empty places are— no noises or other people for miles, just the two of you sliding your keys into the locks and pushing open your doors.
and when you're about to step foot into your dark room, that's when bucky clears his throat. you pause, poking your head out of the doorframe.
"hey. i'm, uh..." he pauses, voice slower than usual. "i'm sorry about earlier. in the truck. i didnt mean to make things weird."
you blink before the conversation floods your mind. you take a step back out of the door and put on your best attempt of trying to act nonchalant before swallowing down the butterflies that come with the memory.
"there's nothing to be sorry about. its a normal human function and we're both adults." you reply with a casual smile, but you're not sure if you're actually convincing anyone. "right?"
bucky doesn't answer right away. he just sort of looks at you like he's thinking about something that he hasn't decided how to say yet, his jaw clenching once as if he decides against saying anything at all.
"right." he watches you for a second longer, unreadable eyes falling to the dip of your neck, his gaze tracing your collarbone before he looks up again. he gives you a small nod, "get some sleep, okay?"
"i'll try. thanks again for tonight. i really do appreciate it." you pause with a small, faint smile, then quieter, you add, "goodnight, bucky."
"goodnight, princess." bucky replies, his voice soft and steady, carrying enough warmth to make your chest tighten.
and then you're both retreating into your own rooms, doors closing and keys clicking, the thin motel walls swallowing whatever else might've been said.
you don't bother turning on the lights. you pad towards the bed, feet brushing against the carpet to get rid of the sand that sticks to your toes, drop keys onto the tiny table and crawl into bed like sleep might take pity on you if you lie down fast enough.
minutes pass. you glance at the clock. 4:56am. its only been thirty minutes, but it feels like you've been in bed for hours. you lie there on your back half under the covers, your eyes tracing the cracks and divots in the ceiling like they might lead somewhere else, trying to will your brain to shut up, but it doesn't.
the magazines. the sleeper. the idea of bucky
you had meant what you said earlier about how it is a normal human function and that you're both adults and can joke about this sort of stuff all the time and it shouldn't matter, but the mere thought of bucky getting himself off makes you feel like a pervert.
you roll onto your side with a frustrated huff, pulling the blankets tighter over your body as if it might smother the thoughts that plague you, but you have no such luck.
not as good as the real thing.
your brain is cruel enough to supply you images you definitely don't want— bucky alone in the sleeper cab in low light and the magazine crinkling awkwardly in his hands. his pants pool just above his knees, his hand gliding down his stomach, brushing past his happy trail and the waistband of his underwear, the rough palm of his hand wrapping around the base of his cock, the slow looseness of his jaw as it falls open with every tentative stroke—
oh god. you squeeze your eyes shut, heat blooming under your skin, mortified by how fast your own brain betrayed you. you try to push the thought away before it can fully form, like distance is something you can try to manufacture in your head, but it's difficult.
"jesus," you mutter into the empty room.
this is ridiculous. you're exhausted. you're emotionally wrecked. you're traumatised. you should be asleep, and thats all you want to do; so why do you feel so wet? it's pathetic, really, getting wet over the thought of a handsome stranger after he made one joke, but now you're never going to be able to sleep when the heat between your legs feels inescapable.
your hand— almost like it senses your desperation— trails down the length of your stomach and slides past the band of your underwear, fingers dipping through your folds, and the ragged breath that leaves you is almost shameful.
you slide a finger into your weepy entrance, the rhythm you set is slow, the pads of your fingers brushing against your insides at the same pace you imagine bucky would touch you. you can't stop imagining it's his fingers instead of your own.
"bucky." you whine breathlessly into the air as you glide in another finger, the stretch almost delicious.
you pump in and out of your cunt until youre panting into the side of your pillow, until your hips move on their own, until you feel that familiar heat growing deep in your stomach.
then you catch it. cedarwood. musk. his scent. your shirt still smells like him from all those miles you spent sitting in his truck, and the small whimper that leaves your mouth at the smell brings you closer to the edge.
"faster— god, please." you beg, brows furrowing and mouth falling slack as you speed up the assault on your pussy.
you continue until you feel that tight ball of heat finally in your stomach snap. you barely have time to shove your face into your pillow before a borderline pornographic moan rips from your throat, breath hot into the cotton as you grind into your hand.
you pull your shirt over your nose, inhaling bucky's scent with every breath you take, and you find that sleep washes over you easier that night.
the morning light seeps into your room in thin and warm stripes through the curtains, landing across your legs and the crumbled up sheets. you wake slowly— not startled or filled with dread, just rising with a sense of awareness of things of you'd been too overwhelmed with to notice before.
your body feels lighter than it has in a while, rested in a way that almost surprises you. you're not sure if it's because you'd buried one of your biggest worries under four feet of sand or if it was because of your late night self-love session. either way, it was a win for you.
you sit up in the bed, sleep still fuzzy in your eyes, and you look over at the alarm clock— 2:34pm. you'd slept for a while.
then you hear it. the low rumble of a truck outside. it's definitely bucky's— because who else would pull over into this fuckass motel— but it sounds different, almost steadier, not rattling like it had been the last few times you'd heard it. it idles smoothly and confidently, like it finally wants to be running.
you kick the sheets off, pad across the room, shove your feet into your shoes with half-assed effort, and push the door open without bothering to check yourself in the mirror.
the afternoon suns shoots down at you from the sky, rays burning against your skin as you step outside, door closing behind you as you make yourself towards the scene.
bucky is at his usual spot near the hood, shoulders bend and back hunched over the engine, a dirty rag thrown over his shoulder and his grey tank dark in places, spotted with sweat and oil stains, clinging to his body in a way that makes it very hard for you not to notice how broad he is.
but you try to ignore those thoughts and the fact that you'd fucked yourself to the thought of him last night. you perk up, hands folding in front of you as you put on an award winning smile.
"morning." you greet, your voice still a little scratchy from sleep but still light.
bucky is quick to cock his head to the side, and when he sees it's you, he straightens, hands still leaning against the metal of the vehicle, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as the truck continues to purr under his palms.
"mornin'." he says back, low and easy like it's the easiest thing in the world. his eyes flick over you once— almost habitual— before finally settling on your face. "you look happy."
you grin. "i feel happy. she sounds better than she has all week. did you figure out what was wrong?"
bucky groans as he leans back up, pulling at the rag on his shoulders and wiping off his hands, eyes focused on the newly fixed engine. "yup. figured it out about an hour or two ago. somethin' wrong with the fuel line, but i managed to fix it up. i think she'll be ready for the road tomorrow morning.
he gives the metal of the truck a light tap as you nod before his attention drifts back to you. this time, his eyes dont just flick over you once; they take their time, slow and analysing, like he's reading something you're trying not to show.
his gaze lingers at your face, on your posture, on the way you hold yourself in an unwittingly protective stance in response to his peering eyes. his mouth curls into a smirk, almost amused.
he nods towards you, "how'd you sleep?" he asks, voice even, but now there's something in the way he speaks that makes you wonder if he knows.
"it was fine." you meekly reply with a pathetic smile.
bucky hums under his breath in acknowledgment. his eyes stay on yours, unreadable in nature but not unkind. after a second, he exhaled and rolls his shoulders back like he's trying to release the tension that weaves through his muscles.
"hey, you still got the leftovers from the dinner?" he asks.
you blow out a huff of air through your mouth as you glance back towards your room. "i think so. i can heat it up if you're hungry."
"yeah." he says easily. "that's be great."
so that's exactly what you do— after all, it's the least you could do for bucky after he'd practically sidelined his own mission just for you. you head back to your room, pull out the leftovers, head over to the kitchen.
you pop the lid off of the leftovers and slide it over to the microwave, but when you press the button, but there isn't a beep nor is there any numbers on display. you press it again, harder this time like it might flicker to life, but it doesn't. the microwave sits there dead and useless, smelling faintly of popcorn and disappointment.
"great." you murmur.
after a moment, you snap the lid back onto the container. there's only one other option, and you already dread it— trevor.
you enter the office, the air conditioning hitting you square in the face the moment you open the door. you step forwards and ring the cheap desk bell on the counter, and the back room door opens by the second ding. trevor steps out, glasses askew, a few strands of his dirty blonde hair sticking up in strange directions, and a lit cigarette hanging from his mouth like it's part of his uniform.
you don't bother with pleasantries and are quick to get to the point. "the microwave in the kitchen is broken. is there any way you could fix it or maybe heat this up for me?"
trevor squints at you, unimpressed. "i'm not doin' no favours for you after the attitude you've been givin' me ever since you stepped foot onto the property."
"it's not for me." you tip your head towards the window. "it's for him."
both of you glance towards the parking lot. bucky's by the truck, still working, still sweating, still leaning over the hood in a way that makes his muscles look extra toned in the sun and his body look carved out of heat and hard work. you feel your heart thump against your ribs and trevor lets out a pathetic huff, but you're sure you and trevor both look away for different reasons.
he sucks on his teeth as he looks you up and down once because he holds his hand out and makes a gesture for you to hand it over. "i got one in the back. it'll be a minute."
you hand it over with a shit-eating grin. "i can wait."
trevor murmurs something under his breath as he disappears behind the back door. a few seconds later, the microwave kicks on— a loud, rattling sound that you can hear even through the shut door.
you tap your fingers against the counter, eyes wandering around the offie. there's a popping noise that catches your attention, and you find yourself looking out of the window and watching bucky again.
he wipes his hands on his rag and tosses it back onto his shoulder, unaware of your eyes on him and focused enough that his tongue sticks out against his lower lip in concentration. there's something unusually calming about watching him work like this, like the world is simple under the hood of a truck.
"... authorities are still searching for the suspect responsible for the shooting of a man in central chicago last week.
your fingers curl at the edge of the counter? your eyes darting towards the small red radio in the corner of the room. you lean over and turn the volume knob until you can hear the words clearly over the microwave.
"witnesses describe her as..."
your blood runs cold.
the description never seems to end. your hair colour and texture, your eye colour, your skin colour, your height, your build, your type of clothing. everything is listed. it feels like everything about you is being peeled open and dissected live on air for millions to hear.
"... authorities urge anyone with information on the whereabouts of this individual to come forward..."
you turn to the back room door.
you're not sure if trevor can even hear the broadcast, but you hope that he set the timer for longer than a minute. the microwave whirs loudly behind the door, drowning out the radio, and you go silent as if the broadcaster could hear you if you spoke, like any sound you make would make them aware of where you are.
and then it ends. just like that, the radio clicks, replaced by cherry country music that spills back into the room as if nothing had ever happened. you don't realise how tight you'd been holding the counter until you hwar the beep of the microwave from behind the door, and trevor pushes it open with his foot soon after, the steaming container in his hands.
you swallow your fear as trevor slides the leftovers across the counter towards you, forcing your hands to uncurl from around the table.
"it's hot—" he starts, but your hands wrap around the container anyways and you pull it from him.
you turn and shoulder the door open with little care.
"not like i wanted a thank you or anythin'." trevor shouts behind you as you practically shut the door on his face.
the heat seeps through the container and into your palms as you cross the lot towards bucky. he straightens when he sees you, lips already curling into a smile and his mouth parting like he's about to say something.
"what were you doin' in th—"
you lean down and place the leftovers on the top of his toolbox, catching his wrist and pulling him to the side of the truck all without missing a single step. the shade from the truck's body swallows you both, and you almost bucky's quick to steady you, brows knitting as his free hand comes up almost instinctively to hold you by the upper arm.
his brows furrow at the worry in your face. "woah, what's goin' on?"
"we have to go. we have to leave today or tonight, okay? like right now." you rush out in a singular breath. it almost feels like everything from chicago had come back to bite you in the ass.
"hey— slow down." he says, another arms reaching out to hold you steady by your shoulders. he lowers his head slightly, looking at you through his eye lashes. "what happened, sweetheart?"
your lip quivers, and bucky reaches up to cup your face in one of his hands. his thumb presses firmly into the skin on your cheekbone, and the touch is reassuring enough for you to speak.
"in the office, they were talking about what happened— what i did. they started listing all these things about me. my hair, my eyes, my— just everything."
something ticks in bucky's jaw. he glances past you towards the office for half a second, his expression almost unreadable. his shoulders square like he's bracing himself for a hit he'd been expected but still hated taking.
the hand that cups your cheek falls back to your shoulder. "did they say anythin' about a location?" bucky asks, eyes boring into yours.
you shake your head. "no. it just said that there's a suspect, said my full name, and described exactly how i look." "
"and did he hear anythin'?" he asks again.
"no, he was—" you shake your head, glancing over your shoulder towards the office where you can see the top of trevor's head. "he was in the back room with the door closed and the microwave was way too loud."
bucky exhales long and slow, like he's trying to come up with both a plan and a promise at the same time. it doesnt help that you're watching him like he's the only thing keeping you afloat.
his hands fall from your shoulders and rest on his hips.
"alright," he says at last. "we're okay for now."
your chest tightens. "but bucky—"
"hey." his voice softens, his eyes the calm of the storm in the hurricane of emotions you feel. "if they knew where you were, they wouldn't be broadcastin' it all over the radio. this place'd be locked down and you wouldn't be talkin' to me right now. we're fine."
you nod, hesitant, but you're sure he means it.
"and even if they were here, i wouldn't go done without a fight." he adds, trying to cheer you up. "i've had my fair share of encounters with the law."
the mental image is ridiculous enough to shake a bit of the nerves out of you. you let out a soft scoff, eyes rolling just slightly as some of the tension actually manages to bleed away.
"i'm serious, princess." bucky defends himself, brows raised in complete seriousness even though you can hear the tinge of dry humour in his tone. "i fought the cops before and i'll do it again if i have to. just say the word and i'm goin' in there, fists swingin'."
"you can't fight the cops, bucky." you tell him.
"fine. maybe not, but look... how about you just—" he exhales through his nose, the humour escaping from his voice. he gestures vaguely to the toolbox you'd set the food down on. "sit down while i work, have somethin' to eat, and then we'll figure out a plan."
you nod, the last of the tension seeping out ouf you as you finally let yourself believe him. you both turn, bucky's hand falling to your back to direct you to the large toolbox, the metal still warm from the sun. you grab the food and sit down, appetite slow but present, while bucky turns back to the truck, his hands disappearing back into the engine.
you watch him while you eat. the way his shoulder flex, the occasional mutter of something irrelevant under his breath, the pause he takes every so often to think, his jaw set and his eyes focused. its ordinary— almost domestic— and somehow that normalcy steadies you a lot more than any reassurance could.
every so often, bucky glances over just to make sure you're still there with him, and you always are.
as you continue to eat, you realise you'd practically consumed the entirety of the leftovers. all that's left is a quarter of a cheeseburger and a couple of fries, and you feel a little guilty for taking what was meant to be bucky's food.
"are you going to eat anything?" you ask.
bucky pokes his head out from the hood. "no, i'm good. have what you can and i'll have whatever's left over."
you furrow your brows at the slight smile he has sitting on his face, and then it slowly dawns on you. he never really wanted the food— not for himself, anyway. he just wanted to make sure you ate.
you glance down at what's left, then back up at him. without a word, you extend the container out to him, eyebrows lifting just enough to make your point.
bucky pauses. he looks at the food, then at you.
"bossy." he mutters, but there's no real malice in it.
he reaches out and takes what remains of the cheeseburger and takes a bite out of it like he hasn't eaten all day. then another, and another, and the burger is gone in seconds.
you can't help the smile the spreads across your face.
bucky wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, gives you a quick, almost sheepish look, because he clears his throat and goes back to fixing the fuel line like nothing had happened.
you stay right there, sunlight warm on your skin, the truck humming beside you, bucky working hard, and for now, you decide this is enough.
night comes gently.
the texas heat bleeds out of the day, replaced by silence and the occasional cricket chirp, the low buzz of the motel sign outside ringing softly in your ears as you shuffle around the belongings in your duffel bag, reorganising the mess and ensuring you have everything you left with.
you have less than a day left here. in the morning, you'd have to leave. you dont know how you'll get there, but you've mustered up enough courage to ask bucky if you could hitch a ride to california. after all, you'd basically spent the past three days spilling your deepest darkest secrets to him; you aren't just going to leave him now.
you're in your room in the partial darkness, body enveloped in the shadows while the far corner of the room is covered in light from the table lamp. the curtains stir slightly in the breeze of the rattling air conditioning, and its so quiet that you can almost hear the electricity running through the walls.
you pause mid-movement, fingers brushing against something small and cold at the bottom of your bag. you reach in and pull it out.
a locket.
it's small. easy to forget. you'd ripped it off the moment you'd gotten on a bus to st louis and thrown it into your bag hoping it'd get lost and you'd never see it again.
you turn the locket over in your palm, the snapped chain curling around your fingers as you inspect the scratched piece of jewellery. it doesn't open, at least not anymore. the hinge bent inwards and snapped the last time you'd forced it closed, and you're almost grateful for your harsh treatment of the metal. you dont even try to open it. you already know what's in there: a picture of you and your boyfriend, one where you're forcing a smile and he isn't bothering to even try to look happy.
for a moment, you just stand there. the weight of it heavy against your skin in the same way it'd been heavy around your neck when you still cared for it. then you cross the room and drop it into the trash. it makes a soft, dull thud at it hits the bottom, and you barely flinch as the engraved flowers stare back up at you.
it's gone now, and although a version of you from the past wouldve mourned the cheap locket, the version of you now feels better without it weighing you down.
then comes a knock at the door. it's soft but firm, and you know who it is before you even look over your shoulder. you wipe your hands out of habit as if the locket was filth and cross the room, the lock clicking and the handle squeaking as you open the door.
bucky is standing there. he looks cleaner than he did when the two of you said goodnight a few hours ago, and truth be told, you're not sure why he's here. he's wearing a clean white shirt and a pair of jeans he probably thinks are comfortable but are covered in splashes of paint and dark spots of dried enamel. the shitty LED light that glows overhead bathes him in a glow that almost makes him look angelic, and you almost have to do a double take.
"hey." he says.
you blink. "hey."
the two of you stand there for a moment. bucky rocks on his heels with his hands in his back pockets and your fingers drum against the back of your door, both of you waiting for the other to say something.
"uh," you clear your throat. "did you... need something?"
his brows raise just slightly like you'd pulled him out of a thought, then he shakes his head once, "no, i just... wanted to check in. make sure you were okay."
something soft blooms in your chest at his words, and a part of you is glad that you shot your boyfriend. that asshole wouldnt have bothered to check on you, and he certainly wouldn't have asked if you were okay. if anything, he would've been the reason you were feeling like complete shit.
"you can—" you hesitate, door creaking open a little more as you step to the side, "you can come in. if you want. i could use the company."
"yeah." he nods. "okay."
you step back as he steps inside, his once confident footsteps falling just short of awkward as he steps into your room. you close the door behind him, the lock clicking shut, pushing the night out and sealing the two of you into the silence of your room.
bucky glances around the room, and the poor guy looks like he's never been in a woman's room before. his gaze falls on your shoes messily discarded by the door, then towards the bed and it's mess, and then it lands on your duffel bag. clothes are still thrown everywhere, and he looks like he might combust at the sight of so much... woman.
you smile softly as you walk back over to your bag, glancing over your shoulder just to glance at him. "you can sit down if you want to, bucky. you're not gonna get cooties or anything."
"...right." he mutters with another nod, and yet he hesitates anyways and decides to sit on the edge of your bed, his thigh just barely brushing against the side of your duffel bag, and he glances down at it before looking back at you. "reorganising?"
you huff out a small, tired breath as you go back to digging in your bag. "just trying to see what i brought. it all happened so fast that i forgot how fast i packed up my shit and left."
you pull out a hoodie and hold it up to the light. the logo of one of your favourite bands stares back at you, you haven't worn it in ages because your boyfriend insisted that you listen to 'girlier' bands, and you being naive and compliant, you listened. the small frown that grows on your face doesn't go unnoticed by bucky.
"you should put it on." he suggests, leaning back on the bed with his palms pressed firmly into the mattress.
you "i'm not even sure if it fits—"
"then you should see if it does. no harm in tryin'." he's quick to interrupt.
you blink at him, but he just cocks his head like he wants you to do just as he said. you hesitate, fingers tightening over the worn fabric, then you huff out a breath and tug it over your head.
its a little oversized, but it fits better than you expect it to. the sleeves fall just past your wrists and the hem brushes against your thighs, the fabric warm against your skin, finally yours again in a way it hasn't been in a long time.
you glance down at yourself, then at bucky. "happy?"
"very." he says, a grin pulling easy at his mouth as he tilts his head. he jokes, "suits you. i don't think you should ever take it off."
you roll your eyes at him, already reaching for the hem of the hoodie. "very funny, buck." you say dryly. "it's a million degrees outside. i'd die if i kept it on forever."
you grab the bottom of the hoodie, pulling it upwards to pull it off, the action slow and barely thought through. the cotton slides back over your stomach, the cool air brushing against your skin as it takes your shirt up with it for a couple of inches.
and bucky's eyes drop without meaning to— for a long, gruelling second— just long enough for him to catch the tiniest sliver of black lace peeking out of the waistband of your shorts, the fabric digging into the plush of your hips.
it's practically nothing— barely there— but it's enough.
"shit." he mutters under his breath, the word barely audible but still loud enough for you to catch it as you pull the hoodie over your head.
but just as quick as it had appeared, it vanishes as your shirt falls back down the length of your stomach. his eyes linger for a second longer before flicking back up to your face, hair messy from the hoodie.
"hmm?" you hum as you toss the hoodie somewhere on the bag, brow raised just slightly as you ask him about what he said. "did you say something?"
bucky blinks before he quickly shakes his head, tongue running over his teeth as an involuntary way to distract himself. he sits back up and readjusts himself, digging his elbows into his knees to try and hide the growing tent in his pants, but the faintest amount of tension in his posture has you furrowing your brows.
"nothin' important." he mutters, but there's a tightness in the way he says it. "it was, uh... nothin'."
you brush it off. you lean back into your bag, sifting through clothes and belongings before deciding that you've had enough. you lean over and grab a shirt and shove it back into the bag, not bothering to fold it.
bucky watches you for a second, completely silent. you can feel the weight of his eyes on you as you move, and you try your best to not pay him any attention. finally, he clears his throat.
"your... boyfriend," bucky starts, the title cold and a little accusatory on his tongue, but there's something in his tone that's more careful than it is angry. "you always talk about how he wasn't good to you. talks all big, but inside, he's really just an asshole with a tiny dick."
you sigh, just shy of a laugh. "sounds just like him."
your words come out flat, but there's a crack underneath them that gives you away. you hadn't meant to sound hurt— you tried not to— but the ache sneaks through anyways.
bucky. notices. of course he does. before you can turn back to your things, he reaches out and catches your wrist, his fingers closely gently around your skin, stopping you mid-motion.
"sit." he tells you.
and pathetically enough, you do exactly as he asks. his demands dont fall onto you in the same way your boyfriends did. bucky's are softer and rooted in certainty rather than control, and you're not sure if you could ever disobey him.
you sit on the edge of the bed beside him, your hand settling in your lap while bucky holds the other. your heart thuds against your ribs as your eyes flick between his, never quite brave enough to stay there for long enough. you exhale a small breath, eyes trailing down the curve of his throat, tracing over the bump of his adams apple, and settling on the hollow at the base of his neck where you can see the soft thump of his pulse beating underneath his skin.
bucky swallows when he notices. his thumb just barely shifts against your knuckles, like he's trying to ground himself more than you are.
but god, he smells so good. it's unfair how something so subtle can make your thoughts slow and your pulse speed up. you don't want to think about it, you just want more of it. you almost want to slip his shirt off of him and wear it so the scent lingers even when he moves away.
you want to sit a little closer. you want the bed to be smaller. you want any excuse just for him to touch you more, for him to stop holding onto your hand and touch you in all of the places you'd imagined him touching the night before.
bucky's head dips, eyes focused on where his hand begins to trail down to your fingers, the rough skin on his hands ghosting over your soft knuckles like he's memorising every single joint and every swirl embedded in your skin.
"did he ever pay attention to the little things?" he asks quietly. his thumb brushes gently over your ring finger, pressing into the skin where an expensive ring would sit if he had his way. "like how pretty your hands are. how careful you are with them."
your breath hitches as his hand trails back up your arm, the tips of his fingers climbing up until they're pressed firmly on the skin just under your shirt sleeve, warm and intrusive in all of the right ways.
"or how when you're nervous, there's a little hitch in your breath like you forget how to breathe." his thumb shifts, feeling it happen again as he presses into the plump skin. his eyes lift to yours then, searching your face for something you'd never say out loud. "he ever notice that?"
you whisper, "bucky, what are you talking about—"
"your boyfriend never... took care of you, did he?" the question is innocent, but there's something deeper hidden in the words. this isn't idle curiosity, this is something that wants to claim.
"what do you—" you swallow, your mouth suddenly thick with saliva that makes the words stick half out. "what do you mean?"
bucky doesn't answer immediately. his eyes drop back to where his hand is held against your arm, his other hand sliding slowly up the side of your thigh until he has a firm grip on you. his thumb traces tiny circles into the skin, and he can feel the slight quiver you try to hide so hard.
"never made you feel good? never made you cum?" he murmurs, lips parting just enough for his tongue to dart out and wet his lips. then a small smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth. "you probably got off better last night than he ever did for all those years."
and just as head observed, your breath hitches ahain, catching in your throat at his words. god, you thought you were quiet. fuck this stupid motel and fuck its stupid thin walls and fuck bucky. fuck him and his stupid deep voice and his stupidly big hands that make you shiver under his touch.
you blink. "you... heard that?"
he shifts in his spot, moving further onto the bed so he can face you completely. his hand moves from your arm and slides up the side of your neck. his hand cups your jaw, thumb digging into the dip of the bone as he tilts your head, eyes glazing over the soft skin and imagining how pretty it'd looked all bitten and bruised.
"the walls are thin. i heard everything, sweetheart." bucky admits, his voice so low and his lips so close to yours that arousal starts pooling low in your stomach. "your breathing when you touched yourself through your panties... that gasp when you finally dipped your fingers into your needy pussy. could practically hear every time you pumped yourself full of those pretty fingers."
the hand that rests on your thigh slides a little higher, just enough that his thumb digs into your inner thigh, dangerously close to where you need him the most.
"bucky." you almost whimper.
"heard you say my name too, just like that. almost burst through the door right then and there." he continues, his voice low and even, but you watch as his brows knit together softly as his thumb digs into your inner thigh. "but no. had to settle for my hand instead and imagine it was yours."
you lean into his hand, the warmth and the roughness of his skin something you'd been craving for far too long.
"tell me." he whispers, close enough that you can feel his breath against your lips. "tell me you want me to stop and i will."
you shake your head. "i don't want you to stop—"
and he doesnt wait any longer. bucky leans in fast, almost crashing into you as he pushes you back onto the bed. his lips find yours, demanding and insistent, and your chest tightens as soon as you meet him halfway, caught off guard with how much heat he's radiating. there's no teasing or testing, just the urgency of him needing to close the space between the two of you.
his tongue parts your lips in a quick and desperate action, pressing against yours like all he wants to do is taste you.
his knee slips up until it presses against your clothed cunt, the denim of his jeans rubbing against the soft cotton of your shorts. you pant into his mouth and he swallows them with ease, pressing his leg harder against you as you press down onto him.
the hand that rests on your throat trails down until he has a firm grip around your neck, pressing gently into the skin. his other hand digs into your hip, dragging your hips against his thigh until you leave a spot of your own arousal on the fabric of your shorts. you grind down on his knee, trying to find friction where you need it the most. your hands rest on his sides, and you barely have time to break away for a breath before he's swallowing your words.
"buck." you manage to whine.
a low groan leaves his mouth, his hands leaving your hips despite the small hesitant 'no' that leaves your lips.
"i like when you call me that." he murmurs before his lips are back on yours, his voice thick with something heavy and almost inhumane— a need to be close, a need to be in you.
his hands trail away from your hip, rough fingertips dipping inside of your shirt and dragging along the soft skin of your stomach, reaching higher and higher until he hits the band of your bra. you reach down and pull the hem of your shirt up until it bunches just below your neck, putting your bra on full display for him.
bucky pulls away from the kiss, his lips all bitten and coated in saliva. almost impatiently, he slides a hand under your back and lifts you up, hand fumbling with the clasp of your bra before it clicks open with a satisfying pop. they spill out as bucky pulls the confining fabric away.
"fuck." he groans, "such pretty tits."
his head dips down before he can even really think, dragging his tongue across the flesh of your breast, lapping up any of the salty sweat that'd gathered in the valley of your chest, his other hand massaging what he can't abuse with his mouth. and when he takes one of your nipples into his mouth, the sound wet and loud in the quiet of your room, you arch into his touch. your hips rut against the air trying to find friction— any friction— but he moves his leg the moment he feels you press against him.
"no, please—"
he detaches from your nipple with a wet pop, a string of saliva connecting his lips to the bruised skin. he pushes himself up onto his knees and eagerly tugs his shirt off, throwing it onto the ground beside the bed. he glows in the dim light, catching the dips of his shoulders and his chest, highlighting all the soft scars and burns from his work, and all of the muscle that he'd gained over the years of hard work. it's nothing you haven't seen before, but you're not complaining either.
he tugs at the waistband of your shorts, sliding them off, and you lift your hips to give him easier access. he slides them down the length of your legs and off of the tip of your toes before he discards them just as he did with his shirt, and the site that greets him steals his breath.
you're wearing possibly the laciest panties he's ever seen. there's almost no opaque fabric, thin lace barely covering anything. its more of a thong than actual underwear. his thumb runs along the edge of your panties, tracing the lace like it's a physical manifestation of everything you need and want.
"did you wear these for me?" he asks.
he sounds so sweet— so sure— that he's the reason you're wearing them, and if you entire body wasn't already warm with desire, you're sure it was burning from embarrassment.
"no, they were—" you swallow, almost embarrassed as the truth slips out of your mouth. "they were my only clean pair."
he hums softly, a small smile playing at his face as he lets out the smallest amused huff. "cute."
you smile, and he leans down to press a warm kiss to your lips. you chase his mouth when he pulls away, but let out a soft gasp when he presses a kiss to your cheek, then another onto your jaw. he presses one onto your neck, kisses your collarbone, and continues downwards until his lips find the delicate lining of your panties.
he hooks a hand under your knee and gingerly places it into his shoulder, his hands wrapping around your waist so he can pull you closer to his face. you hold your breath, waiting for what you think is going to happen to happen. your boyfriend could never get this part right.
and then he does it. bucky presses a chaste kiss to the fabric of your panties, lips pressing into the fabric with a delicious pressure. his tongue darts out of his mouth as he licks a long, slow strip across your clothed pussy, soaking what little fabric there is covering you with his saliva and your slick.
you bite down on your hand and he groans at the taste, eyes flicking from your face to the soaked fabric. he reaches forwards, hooking a finger around it and tugging it to the side, and you instinctively clench at the knowledge that you're practically laid out for him and on full display. he's so close that you can feel his breath fanning over your cunt, and you don't think you'd trade this feeling for anything in the world.
he leans in and presses a kiss to your inner thigh before he licks a slow wet stripe from the bottom of your leaking pussy right to your clit.
you let out a moan, biting down on your finger until it burns, but he reaches up and pulls your hand from your mouth. he interlocks his fingers with yours and places your hands firmly against your hips.
"don't be shy, baby." he murmurs into your cunt, not bothering to come up to make sure you can hear it. "wanna hear every noise you make."
he leans in again and laps at what he can, his nose nudging against your swollen clit every time he tries to stick his tongue further into you. you're not sure if you're the one grinding down on his face or if he's doing it himself, but his tongue pokes through your entrance and you find yourself hooking your other leg over his shoulder and holding him there, and bucky gladly accepts his fate.
his tongue plunges in and out of you, pulling away ever so often to suck on the soft skin of your folds. the ball of heat in your stomach in your stomach is so close to snapping and bucky can tell. he lets go of your hand and slides two thick fingers inside of you, pushing until he brushes up against the spongy spot that makes you curl into his touch, and you can't help but slide your fingers through his hair and tugging at the salt and pepper strands.
he continues the rhythm until your legs are clamping around his head and he tastes the sweetness that leaks from your heat.
"fuck—" you cry, your brain fuzzy and your body hot with arousal, "bucky, i'm gonna—"
but just as you're about to spill all over his face, he pulls away. you gasp, your legs instinctively try to tighten around his head to pull him closer, but bucky's stronger. he pries your legs open like it comes naturally to him and rises until he's on his knees.
and then he reaches for his belt buckle. the noise is startling, but it also brings a flurry of butterflies through you. the band of his underwear peeks from his jeans and you can't help but stare up at him as he pulls his belt from his jeans. his eyes bore into yours as he undoes his jeans and slides them down like he knows he's torturing you.
bucky's thumbs slide under the waistband of his underwear and he slides them down, his cock springing out and hits his stomach, the head all flushed and leaking and begging to stretch you open.
his eagerness is barely hidden in the way his hands are back on you, calloused palms running up your sides and cupping your breasts. the blunt tip of his cock presses against your entrance, sliding past your folds and resting there as he leans down for another messy kiss, but you stop him.
"wait, bucky—" you whisper against his lips, hands flat against his chest. you push him away with little resistance. you can feel his breath against your face, and the worry on his face sends a pang of guilt through you.
"am i hurtin' you?" he murmurs with furrowed brows.
youre quick to shake your head. "no, i'm okay, i just... you still don't know my name. you still don't know my name and we're about to—"
bucky's hand slides up from your breast and cups your cheek, his thumb running against your bottom lip. "you don't have to tell me it if you don't want to, princess."
your head shakes the slightest bit, "but if we're gonna do this, i want to tell you."
so you do. your name falls from your lips like a secret you're whispering to him in the dark, and bucky repeats it back to you with such reverence that you've never experienced before, and you find that you never want him to stop saying it.
you lean forwards and kiss him. the kiss is slower than the others you'd shared, and bucky groans into your mouth as he finally pushes into you. the stretch burns, but your hips push against him despite the pain because he feels just like safety.
his cock drags against your soft walls, every second feeling like pure heaven. every sound that slips from your lips is swallowed by bucky and echoed back into your mouth, a chorus of moans and heavy breathes that never seems to end.
he bottoms out with a low groan before he grinds against you like he can't get enough of how you feel, but before you can beg for him to start moving, he pulls out and rams back into you. a yelp jumps out of you, but you try to hold it back.
"be loud, sweetheart. i wanna hear those pretty moans."
"trevor's still— fuck— trevor's still here."
a breathy scoff spills from bucky's mouth, and the shit eating grin that he wears on his face tells you he couldn't care less. "let him hear. the only time that lowlife's gonna get any action is when he hears how good i fuck you."
then bucky's thrusts get harder and sloppier. his chest presses against yours with a welcomed weight, dragging out all of the pathetic bodies you'd been trying to hold back, and your nails dig into the rough skin of his back to try and make them stop. you're embarrassed. your eyes fall shut in a daze, but a growl stops you.
"no, look at me." bucky huffs out, hands coming to grab you by the jaw and redirect your eyes. his thumb digs into your cheek. "look at me, princess. want you to see who's fuckin' you better than that pathetic boyfriend of yours ever could."
and god, you can't do anything but obey. you practically fall limp in his arms as he looks into your eyes and fucks you, every thrust bringing you closer and closer to where bucky wants you. he's brushing against your walls and pressing into spots that you didn't know where there and dragging noises out of you that you didn't know you could make. your name falls from bucky's mouth like he's a sinner begging for forgiveness, like he's been promised that your name is all he needs to be pure again.
all you feel is warm. bucky's skin as your nails carve your presence into his back, your insides as he fucks you better than your stupid boyfriend ever could, your heart as you pull yourself closer to him with every bit of your being— everything is so perfect.
the noise the fills the dingy motel room is wet and filthy, the stickiness between you building, and with a few final thrusts, you cum with a loud moan, and bucky follows soon after, his head tucked into your neck as he fucks his seed into you with a groan.
you're trembling, every small movement wringing out the aftershocks of your orgasm. bucky pulls his head out of your neck and places a chaste kiss to the soft skin below your ear.
"took me so good, baby. just perfect for me," he murmurs.
bucky pulls out of you with a soft breath. his thumb swipes at the liquid that leaks from your weeping cunt before he brings it to his mouth without a second thought, his lips closing around the digit with a soft hum. his thumb pops out of his mouth and he lays beside you, quick to make sure you're tucked into his side, your body pressed against his perfectly like you'd both been shaped from the same mould. your head falls to his chest, a soft tired sigh escaping you.
a while passes. there's no noise coming from the outside world anymore— no cars or trucks, no planes overheard, no game show playing on full volume coming from trevor's office. you're not sure how long it's been quite for, but you know for a fact that the only thing that could've been heard for miles was your moans.
the bedside table lamp buzzes. bucky's heart beats steadily in his chest. there's the faint call of a coyote, and then another, and then silence. it's the kind of quiet that only happens when you're sure everything will be already.
but of course, nothing stays perfect forever. doubt creeps into your mind like a parasite and feasts on the security you feel. bucky is a stranger and you are just another girl. who's to say he won't just abandon you at this motel and leave you for another sketchy trucker to pick up?
"bucky?" you whisper into the silence, unsure if he's awake or if he's simply staring off into space just as you are. your fingers run through the wispy hair on his chest as you try to anchor yourself, but the wave in your tone gives you away.
"hmm?" he hums, his head tilting just slightly towards you.
"can i ask you something?"
"of course, sweetheart."
"this is probably too much to ask, and you can say no if you want." you hesitate. "but can i come with you? to california, at least. and you don't have to say yes, because i know it's sort of your thing to travel alone and everything, but—"
"i was just inside of you, sweetheart. i don't do that with just anybody. thought it was already a given that i'd be takin' you."
you shrug. "you might've changed your mind."
there's a soft silence until bucky shifts. his hand slides up the back of your next and his fingers glide through your hair. you prop your chin up until you're looking straight at him, eyes flicking between his as you await his answer.
"i'd take you around the world if you asked me to." he says.
your breath falls short, replaced by a smile that makes its way onto your face before you can stop it. "thank you, bucky."
"'course." bucky meets you with a similar smile. "now get some sleep. we've got a long drive ahead of us."
morning arrives faster than you'd like. the truck is packed, your duffel bag sitting snugly on the floor of the passenger seat, and the engine rumbles steadily outside in the texan sun. the familiar sputtering and mechanical sounds that had plagued it for days before was finally gone, and you couldn't wait to get the fuck out of this place.
"checking out." you announce as you place both yours and bucky's room keys onto the counter. the metal clatters against the counter, echoing in the silence of the office.
trevor looks up from the magazine in his lap and stops chewing on his piece of strawberry gum, eyebrows lifting from the keys to you, then towards bucky, who stands behind you with his arms crossed.
"hm." trevor sniffs. he eyes the two of you like you'd dropped a suspicious package right in front of him before he puts his magazine down and stands up. "didn't think you'd get your truck fixed. thought you two were never gonna leave."
"tempting." bucky replies dryly.
"right. you're all set. safe travels, sir." trevor grabs the keys from the counter and holds them in his hands for a second before he nods towards you. "you too, sugar."
the word spills from his mouth like he knows it'll be the last time he can piss you off before you disappear into the desert like all of the other visitors. you want to walk away— it's the responsible thing to do— but you're already on the run, so what's the harm?
you pull your fist back and slam it directly into trevor's face. a loud crack fills the office as he yells, his hands flying to his fac to figure out what damage you'd done. red seeps through his bony fingers and curses spill from his mouth, the man too preoccupied with his broken nose to notice that you and bucky are already leaving.
the last thing you hear is "you fuckin' bitch! you'll pay for—" before the office door shuts. his yelling is drowned out by the glass, and even if you could understand what he was yelling, you really couldn't care less.
bucky steps forwards with a smug smile. he reaches up and opens the truck door for you, a hand extended. "you feel better?"
"a little." you sigh, your hand in his as he helps you climb up the steps and hop into the passenger seat. "would've been better if i knocked out a few of his teeth."
"i could go back in there and bring back a few of 'em." bucky suggests with a grin, though you're not entirely convinced he's joking.
you shake your head, "nah, he can keep them. i'm sure i'm not the first person to hit him and i definitely won't be the last. they'll need something to aim for."
bucky sucks in a sharp breath with a playful shake of his head. "i think spending time with lil old me turned you into a monster."
you roll your eyes. "i shot my boyfriend, fled my homestate, and ran from the cops, bucky. i was a monster before you even pulled into this parking lot."
he hums, "touché."
the passenger door shuts behind you. bucky circles the truck and hops into his seat. the truck rolls forward, tires squealing as the vehicle veers into the road and takes off, and for the first time in a while, you finally know where you're going. your final destination? california.
