✮ synopsis: bucky's gotten good at keeping his distance from his harmless, sunshine-y neighbor. but when you get taken because of him—because someone figured out you're his weak spot—he realizes how spectacularly that plan backfired. turns out the winter soldier's soft spot is a lot more dangerous than he thought.
✮ pairing: post-thunderbolts!bucky x fem!reader
✮ disclaimers: violence, kidnapping, blood and injury, torture (not graphic), angst with a happy ending, emotional hurt/comfort, established feelings but complicated relationship, second person POV, fem!reader, miscommunication, intense yearning, emotionally constipated!bucky, past trauma, mild language, fighting sequences
✮ word count: 10.6k
✮ a/n: first fic on this blog and it's basically just 10k words of soft bucky yearning xoxo
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The first time Bucky Barnes sees you, you're trying to shove a couch through a doorway that's at least six inches too narrow, and losing spectacularly.
He's coming home from another pointless congressional hearing—the kind where everyone talks in circles about defense budgets while carefully not mentioning the alien invasion from three months ago—when he spots you in the hallway. You're wedged between the arm of what looks like a vintage velvet monstrosity and the doorframe of 4B, hair escaping from whatever you'd tried to contain it with, muttering a stream of increasingly creative profanity.
"Fucking—come on—you absolute bastard of a—"
The couch shifts. You yelp. Bucky's halfway down the hall before he realizes he's moving.
"Need a hand?"
You twist around, and something in his chest does this stupid, inconvenient flip. Your face is flushed, one cheek smudged with what might be dust or maybe yesterday's mascara, and you're looking at him like—well. Like he's not Bucky Barnes. Like he's just some guy in the hallway who might know how geometry works.
"Oh thank god," you breathe, and the relief in it makes his mouth twitch. "I've been battling this thing for twenty minutes. I think it's winning."
He assesses the situation with the same tactical precision he'd use for a Bulgarian arms deal, if arms deals came upholstered in emerald green and smelled faintly of vanilla perfume mixed with fresh sweat. The angle's all wrong. You've been trying to force it through horizontally when it needs to go vertical, then rotate.
"Here." He steps closer, and you shift to make room, your shoulder brushing his chest in a way that absolutely doesn't make his pulse stutter. "If we flip it—"
"Oh, you're strong," you say, like an observation about the weather, as he essentially deadlifts one end of your couch. The metal arm whirs faintly. You don't flinch. "That's convenient."
Convenient. Right. He maneuvers the couch through the doorway in three efficient moves, trying not to notice how you smell like coffee and something floral, how you hover just inside his peripheral vision like you're trying not to crowd him but can't quite stay away.
"There." He sets it down in what's clearly the only spot it could go in your tiny living room. The space is chaos—boxes everywhere, art leaning against walls, books stacked in precarious towers. "You just moving in?"
"Yeah, from—" You wave a hand vaguely eastward. "Nicer neighborhood. Turns out freelance graphic design doesn't pay for Manhattan rent. Who knew?" The self-deprecation comes with a grin that transforms your whole face, and Bucky has to look away, focus on the box labeled 'KITCHEN SHIT' in aggressive Sharpie. "I'm—well, you probably don't care what my name is."
He does, actually. Cares in a way that makes his teeth ache.
"Bucky," he offers, even though you clearly already know. "4C."
"The grumpy congressman." Your grin goes wider, teasing. "I've seen you on C-SPAN. You look like you're being held at gunpoint during those hearings."
"Feel like it too," he mutters, and the laugh you give him hits like a shot of whiskey—warm and slightly dizzying.
"Well, Congressman Barnes of apartment 4C, you've just saved my Saturday. Can I pay you in beer? I've got—" You dig through a box, emerge triumphant with two bottles. "Hipster IPA or hipster IPA?"
He should say no. Should maintain boundaries. Should remember what happened the last time he let someone get close—the scar on his ribs from Belgrade still aches when it rains.
Instead, he finds himself accepting a bottle, listening to you chatter about the neighbor who warned you about the rats (definitely real) and the ghost (probably not real but who knows), watching how you gesture with your whole body when you talk, like you're too much for your own skin.
It's dangerous, how easy you are to be around. How you look at him like he's just Bucky, not the former Asset, not the killer, not the congressman who can't pass a single fucking bill. Just a guy who helped with your couch.
He stays too long. Drinks two beers. Helps you unpack exactly three boxes before some long-dormant self-preservation instinct kicks in and he makes excuses about constituent emails.
"Thanks again," you say at the door, and there's something in your eyes—curiosity, maybe. Interest. "For the couch. And the company."
"No problem."
He's halfway to his own door when you call out: "Hey, Barnes?"
He turns. You're leaning against your doorframe, backlit by the disaster zone of your apartment, smiling that smile that makes his chest tight.
"I make really good coffee. You know. If congressional hearings ever drive you to caffeine dependency."
It's an offer. An opening. Everything in him screams to close it, lock it down, maintain operational security. Instead, his traitorous mouth says, "I'll keep that in mind."
He's so fucked.
The thing is, Bucky's gotten good at keeping people at arm's length. Seventy years of being a weapon teaches him that distance equals safety—for them, not him.
When you're already dead, what's a little more damage?
So he shouldn't notice when you start leaving your apartment at 7:23 every morning, shouldering a bag that's always slipping off your shoulder. Shouldn't time his own exits to avoid those encounters, then feel like an asshole when he succeeds. Definitely shouldn't lie awake listening through the thin walls as you sing along to whatever pop music you play while cooking, off-key and enthusiastic.
But here's the other thing: you make it really fucking hard to maintain distance.
You leave cookies outside his door with notes that say things like "for emergency constituent-induced rage" and "survival fuel for C-SPAN." You knock when you know he's home, ask to borrow sugar or vodka or a screwdriver, then stay to chat like his apartment isn't just bare walls and a couch Sam made him buy. You touch—casual, constant. A hand on his arm when you laugh, fingers brushing when you hand him things, like physical contact isn't something that makes his brain static out.
"You're a really good listener," you tell him one evening, three weeks into whatever this is. You're sitting on his floor, back against his couch, because you'd knocked asking for wine and then somehow ended up staying. Your knee presses against his thigh. He's catastrophically aware of every point of contact. "Like, actually good. Not just waiting for your turn to talk."
"Not much of a talker," he says, which is true and also easier than explaining that he's memorizing everything—how you twist your rings when you're nervous, the way your voice drops when you're saying something real, how you look in his space like you belong there.
"Bullshit." You bump his shoulder. He doesn't flinch anymore, which is either progress or a sign he's completely fucked. "You're just selective. Quality over quantity."
You say things like that—observations that feel like being seen, really seen, not just looked at. It's terrifying. It's addictive. It's going to get you killed.
Because here's the thing Bucky knows down to his bones: everything he touches turns to ash. Everyone he cares about becomes a target. And you—with your sunshine laugh and your disaster apartment and your way of looking at him like he's worth something—you're exactly the kind of light that attracts the worst kind of dark.
He should stay away.
He doesn't.
"So," Sam says, watching Bucky check his phone for the third time during their coffee meeting. "Who is she?"
"What?" Bucky pockets the phone. You'd texted asking if he knew how to fix a leaky faucet. He knows seventeen ways to kill a man with a faucet. Fixing one can't be that different. "Nobody. Work thing."
"Uh-huh." Sam's doing that face, the one that means he's about to be insufferably perceptive. "That's why you just smiled at your phone. Over a work thing. You. Smiled."
"I smile."
"No, you do this thing with your mouth that's like a smile's evil twin. This was an actual smile. So. Who is she?"
Bucky takes a long drink of coffee, considering how much lying is worth the effort. "Neighbor."
"Neighbor." Sam leans back, grinning. "Cute neighbor?"
The memory of you last night, paint in your hair and gesturing wildly about your latest client, flashes unbidden. His silence is apparently answer enough.
"Buck. Man. This is good. You need—"
"I need to not get people killed," Bucky cuts him off. "I need to remember that anyone who gets close to me ends up hurt. I need—"
"You need a life," Sam interrupts right back. "You need to stop punishing yourself for shit that wasn't your fault. You need to let yourself have something good."
Bucky's jaw works. The phone buzzes again. He doesn't check it.
"She doesn't know what she's getting into," he says finally. "She's—" Bright. Warm. Good. "She's not part of this world."
"So keep her out of it." Sam makes it sound simple. Like there's a way to compartmentalize, to have you without putting you at risk. "Be her neighbor. Be normal. Be happy, for once in your goddamn life."
Normal. Right. Because nothing says normal like a centenarian ex-assassin with more kills than most armies and a metal arm that could crush a skull like an egg.
But then he thinks about your smile when he fixed your garbage disposal last week. How you'd said "my hero" in this teasing, fond way that made him want impossible things. How you treat him like he's just Bucky, not a weapon someone else aimed.
"I don't know how," he admits, quieter than he meant to.
Sam's expression softens. "Nobody does, man. You just try anyway."
The faucet thing turns into a whole production.
You answer the door in tiny pajama shorts and an oversized t-shirt that says "FEMINIST KILLJOY" in glitter letters, and Bucky's brain shorts out for a solid three seconds. Your hair's piled on top of your head in what might generously be called a bun, and there's toothpaste at the corner of your mouth, and he wants to—
"Oh good, you're here," you say, grabbing his arm and pulling him inside. Your fingers are warm through his henley. "It's making this noise like a dying whale. I tried YouTube tutorials but I think I made it worse."
The kitchen is a disaster. Tools scattered everywhere, water pooling on the floor, YouTube still playing on your laptop ("—sure to turn off the water main first—"). You've clearly been at this for a while.
"Did you turn off the water?" he asks, already knowing the answer from the growing puddle.
"I turned off a valve," you say defensively. "Several valves. None of them seemed to be the right valve."
He finds himself fighting a smile as he locates the actual shut-off. You hover behind him as he works, close enough that he can feel your breath on his neck, keeping up a running commentary that's part apology, part stand-up routine.
"—and then the wrench slipped and I maybe screamed a little bit, and Mrs. Nguyen next door started banging on the wall, and I had to yell that I wasn't being murdered, just defeating by plumbing—"
"Hand me the—" He turns to ask for the wrench at the same moment you lean forward to see what he's doing. Your faces end up inches apart. Time does that thing where it forgets how to work properly.
Your eyes are very wide. There's a water droplet on your cheek. Bucky's hand twitches with the urge to wipe it away.
"Wrench," he manages, voice rougher than intended.
"Right. Wrench. That's a—" You scramble backward, nearly slip on the wet floor. He catches your elbow automatically, steadying you, and your skin is so warm under his fingers it feels like a brand. "Thanks. I'm not usually this much of a disaster. Actually, that's a lie. I'm exactly this much of a disaster, you've just caught me on a particularly disastrous day."
He fixes the faucet in under ten minutes. You insist on making coffee as payment, which turns into leftover pizza, which turns into three hours on your couch watching some reality show about people making elaborate cakes. You provide running commentary that's funnier than the show itself, and Bucky finds himself actually laughing—not the dry chuckle he's perfected for public appearances, but real laughter that comes from somewhere deep in his chest.
"See?" you say during a commercial break, grinning at him. "I told you this show was addictive. Next week they're making a life-size dragon cake that actually breathes fire."
"Next week?" The words slip out before he can stop them, too revealing.
Your grin softens into something else, something that makes his chest tight. "Well, yeah. You can't miss fire-breathing dragon cake. That's un-American."
It becomes a thing. Thursday nights, your couch, increasingly ridiculous cooking shows. You always have too much dinner ("I'm terrible at portions, shut up"), he always fixes something that's broken ("it's not broken, it's just temperamental"), and somewhere between cake disasters and your laughter, Bucky forgets to maintain distance.
"Your boyfriend's here," Mrs. Nguyen announces loudly when Bucky knocks on your door a month later, because apparently the entire floor has decided they're invested in whatever this is.
"He's not my—" Your voice cuts off as you open the door. You're wearing a dress, which is new. Red, which is newer. Lipstick, which is going to kill him. "Hi."
"Hi." His brain's stuck on the curve of your shoulder, the way the fabric clings. "Going out?"
"Wedding. Old college friend." You're fidgeting with your earring, a sure tell that you're nervous. "I hate weddings. All that optimism and overpriced chicken."
"So don't go."
"Can't. I already RSVP'd, and I'm a good friend even if I'm a wedding-hating gremlin." You pause, still fiddling with the earring. "Unless..."
He knows what's coming by the way you're biting your lip. "No."
"You don't even know what I was going to ask!"
"You were going to ask me to go with you."
"...okay, so you did know." You lean against the doorframe, giving him a look that's probably supposed to be convincing but mostly just highlights how your eyes catch the hallway light. "Come on. You're a congressman. You must love overpriced chicken and small talk."
"I really don't."
"There's an open bar."
"Still no."
"I'll owe you one. One big favor. Anything."
That makes him pause, but not for the reason you think. The idea of you owing him anything makes his skin itch. You already give too much—your time, your laughter, your casual touches that rewire his brain. But the idea of watching you navigate a wedding alone, of other people getting to see you in that dress...
"Fine," he hears himself say. "But I'm not dancing."
The smile you give him could power Brooklyn for a week.
He's absolutely, catastrophically unprepared for how you look in candlelight.
The wedding venue is one of those rustic-chic places that thinks exposed beams equal personality. You're at table eight, which puts you safely in "college friends but not close enough for the wedding party" territory. You've been providing whispered commentary all through the ceremony ("five bucks says she wrote her vows the night before"), your shoulder pressed against his in a way that makes paying attention to anything else physically impossible.
"See that bridesmaid?" You nod toward a blonde who's definitely already three champagnes deep. "That's Amber. We were roommates sophomore year. She once tried to seduce our RA by leaving Post-it poetry on his door."
"Did it work?"
"Depends on your definition of 'work.' She did get his attention. Also a conduct violation." You're playing with the stem of your wine glass, fingers tracing patterns. "Thanks for this, by the way. I know wearing a suit and making small talk isn't exactly your idea of fun."
He could tell you that wearing a suit is nothing compared to tac gear, that small talk is easier than Senate hearings. Could mention that the way you keep unconsciously leaning into him makes any discomfort worth it. Instead: "It's fine."
"Such enthusiasm." But you're smiling, soft and maybe a little fond. "Dance with me?"
"I said no dancing."
"You said that before you had champagne. And before they played—" You tilt your head, listening. "Oh my god, is this Bon Jovi? We have to dance to Bon Jovi. It's the law."
"That's not a law."
"It's a law of wedding physics. Come on, Barnes. One dance. I promise not to step on your feet much."
The thing is, he can't say no to you. It's becoming a problem. You want him to fix your sink? Done. Need someone to hold your laptop while you Skype your mother? He's there. Want him to dance to "Livin' on a Prayer" at some stranger's wedding? Apparently, that's happening too.
You're a terrible dancer. Genuinely awful. You have no sense of rhythm, keep trying to lead, and you're laughing too hard to even pretend otherwise. It's perfect. He spins you out just to watch your dress flare, pulls you back too close, and for a moment—your hand in his, your face tilted up, surrounded by fairy lights and other people's happiness—he forgets why this is a bad idea.
"See?" you say, slightly breathless. "Dancing's not so bad."
His hand is on your waist. He can feel your pulse through the thin fabric. "No. Not so bad."
Someone bumps into you from behind, pushing you fully against his chest. Your hands come up to steady yourself, one landing over his heart, and he knows you can feel how it stumbles. Your smile falters, shifts into something else. Something that looks dangerously like realization.
"Bucky—"
"They're cutting the cake," he says, stepping back. The loss of contact feels like losing a limb. "Should probably watch. For your show."
You blink, then recover. "Right. Yeah. Cake."
But you're quiet for the rest of the reception, and he catches you looking at him with this expression he can't decode. Like you're working through a complex equation and not liking the answer.
He drives home. You spend the ride fiddling with your phone, uncharacteristically silent. When he pulls up to the building, you don't immediately get out.
"I'm sorry if I—" you start.
"Don't." It comes out harsher than intended. He tries again, softer: "You didn't do anything wrong."
"Feels like I did." You're still not looking at him. "I forget sometimes, that you're—that we're—"
"Friends," he supplies, even though the word tastes like ash. "We're friends."
"Right." You finally meet his eyes, and there's something careful in your expression now. Guarded. "Friends."
You're out of the car before he can figure out what to say to fix this. He watches you disappear into the building first, red dress like a wound in the grey evening, and knows he's fucked everything up without quite understanding how.
You pull back after that.
It's subtle—you still smile when you see him in the hall, still text him memes at inappropriate hours. But you stop knocking on his door for impromptu dinners. Stop touching him casually. When he offers to fix your eternally-dripping showerhead, you say you'll call the super instead.
"You're moping," Sam tells him two weeks later, during one of their mandatory "make sure Bucky's not spiraling" brunch dates.
"I don't mope."
"You're the Black Widow of moping. The Michael Jordan of emotional constipation." Sam pauses. "That neighbor you mentioned?"
Bucky's silence is damning.
"What'd you do?"
"Why do you assume I did something?"
"Because you always do something. You get close to someone, panic, and pull some self-sabotaging bullshit." Sam's voice gentles. "Talk to me, man."
Bucky stares at his coffee like it holds answers. "She wanted to dance."
"...okay?"
"At a wedding. And I—we danced. And it was..." He doesn't have words for what it was. How you felt in his arms, how the world narrowed down to just the two of you, how for a moment he forgot he was dangerous. "And then I shut it down."
"Why?"
"Because." He sets the mug down too hard, coffee sloshing. "Because she's sunshine, Sam. She's late-night cooking shows and glitter pens and leaving snacks for the delivery guy. She has no idea what I've done, what I'm capable of—"
"Did you ever think maybe she does know and doesn't care?"
"Then she's naïve."
"Or maybe she just sees you better than you see yourself." Sam leans forward. "Buck, you can't protect people by pushing them away. That's not how it works."
"It's worked so far."
"Has it? Because from where I'm sitting, you're miserable, she's probably confused as hell, and nobody's actually safer."
Bucky wants to argue, but then his phone buzzes. Your name pops up: my smoke alarm is having an existential crisis. is it supposed to beep in morse code?
He's already standing before he realizes it.
"Go," Sam says, shaking his head but smiling. "Fix her smoke alarm. Talk to her like a human being. Maybe try not to fuck it up this time."
Your door is already cracked when he gets there, smoke rolling out in lazy waves.
"I'm not on fire!" you call before he can knock. "Well, the oven mitt was, but I handled it."
He finds you on a chair, ineffectively fanning the smoke detector with a dish towel. You're wearing those little pajama shorts again and his brain still isn't prepared for the sight.
"How does an oven mitt catch fire?" He reaches up, disables the alarm with practiced ease.
"Well, when you forget it's on your hand and rest it on the stove burner..." You shrink a little at his look. "I was distracted."
"By what?"
You don't answer, just hop down from the chair. This close, he can see the flour in your hair, the way you're worrying your bottom lip. "Thanks. Sorry for texting, I know it's late—"
"Why are you apologizing?"
"Because—" You make a frustrated gesture. "Because I'm trying to give you space. Because you clearly regretted the wedding thing and I'm trying not to be that neighbor who develops inconvenient feelings—"
"Feelings?" His brain snags on the word like cloth on a nail.
You go very still. "Shit. I mean. Not feelings. Just. You know. Neighbor...ly concern. Very platonic. Super appropriate."
"You're a terrible liar."
"Yeah, well, you're terrible at—" You stop, visibly collecting yourself. When you speak again, your voice is carefully level: "I like you, okay? More than I should. And I know that's not what you want, and I'm trying really hard to be okay with that, but you standing in my kitchen looking all concerned while I'm having a feelings crisis is really not helping."
The words hit him like a physical blow. You like him. More than you should.
"You don't know me," he says, defaulting to the easiest argument.
"Bullshit." There's heat in your voice now. "I know you reorganize my bookshelf when you think I'm not looking because the chaos bothers you. I know you bring me coffee on Tuesdays because you noticed I have early meetings. I know you have nightmares—yeah, the walls are thin—and I know you pace afterwards like you're trying to walk off whatever you dreamed about."
Each observation feels like being flayed open.
"I know you're careful," you continue, softer now. "I know you think you're dangerous. And I know you've probably got reasons for that. But Bucky? I also know you'd never hurt me. Ever."
"You can't know that."
"Why? Because you're what, too damaged? Too dangerous?" You step closer and he should step back but he's frozen. "You carry my groceries. You fixed my faucet. You danced with me at a wedding even though you hate dancing. Really dangerous stuff there, Barnes."
"You don't understand—"
"Then explain it to me." Your chin juts out, stubborn. "Give me one good reason why we can't—"
He kisses you.
It's the wrong thing to do. Selfish. Stupid. But you're standing there in your flour-dusted pajamas, looking at him like he's worth fighting for, and his self-control just...snaps.
The sound you make—soft, surprised, maybe relieved—shorts out every rational thought in his head. Your hands come up to frame his face, fingertips cool against his burning skin, and then you're kissing him back like you've been waiting for this, like you've been drowning too.
You taste like smoke and whatever you were baking, sweet with an edge of burn, and he's dizzy with it. His hands find your waist, fingers spreading wide against the soft cotton of your shirt, and he pulls you in until there's no space between you, until he can feel your heartbeat hammering against his chest. You're so warm, so alive, radiating heat like a small sun, and he wants to map every degree of it with his mouth, his hands, his—
Reality crashes back like ice water.
He jerks away, but his hands won't let go of your waist, like his body's in revolt against his better judgment. You're both breathing like you've run miles—harsh, ragged pulls of air that fill the space between you. Your lips are swollen, kiss-bruised, and he did that, he marked you, and the savage satisfaction of it wars with the knowledge that he's just made everything infinitely worse.
Your eyes are huge, pupils blown wide, and you're looking at him like he's just rearranged your entire understanding of the universe. One hand is still on his face, thumb pressed to the corner of his mouth like you're trying to hold the kiss there, keep it from escaping.
"That's why," he says roughly. "Because I want—because you make me want things I can't have."
"Says who?" Your eyes are very bright. "Who decided what you can have?"
He doesn't have an answer for that. Doesn't know how to explain the mathematics of survival, how everyone he's ever cared about becomes a liability, a target, a grave.
"I should go," he manages.
"Or," you say, "you could stay."
The offer hangs between you like a lit fuse. He can see the future unspool in both directions: leave now, go back to safe distances and polite nods in the hallway, watch you eventually move on with someone who doesn't come with a body count. Or stay, and risk you realizing what a mistake you're making. Stay, and selfishly take whatever you're willing to give for however long you're willing to give it.
You're still looking at him, patient and terrified and hopeful all at once.
He leaves.
The word echoes in his head all the way back to his apartment. Coward. Coward. Coward. But it's the right thing to do. The safe thing. You'll hurt for a while, maybe hate him a little, but you'll be alive to do it.
He doesn't sleep. Just sits on his couch, staring at the wall that separates your apartments, listening to the muffled sounds of you cleaning up. The shower runs at 2 AM. He knows you cry in the shower when you think no one can hear—learned that three weeks into being neighbors, when your freelance client stiffed you on a big project. He'd wanted to break the fucker's legs then.
Now he wants to break his own.
You're a better person than he'll ever be, which is why you still smile at him in the hallway.
It's careful now, contained. The kind of smile you'd give any neighbor, not the one that used to light up your whole face when you saw him. You don't knock anymore. Don't text about your smoke alarm or your leaky faucet or the rat you're convinced lives in the walls. You just...exist, parallel to him, in a way that makes his chest feel like it's full of broken glass.
"Fixed it myself," you say one morning when he catches you wrestling with a new deadbolt installation. Your drill slips, gouging the doorframe. "YouTube University, you know?"
He could fix it in under a minute. Could show you how to align the strike plate properly, how to test the throw. Instead: "Good for you."
Your smile flickers. "Yeah. Good for me."
Mrs. Nguyen gives him dirty looks now. The whole floor does, really. Like they know he's the reason you don't laugh as loud anymore, why your music's quieter, why you started getting grocery delivery instead of making three trips up the stairs, arms overloaded, dropping things and cursing cheerfully.
It's fine. It's working. You're safe.
He tells himself that every night when he hears you through the walls, moving around your apartment like a ghost of the person who used to dance while cooking.
Three weeks post-kiss, Valentina calls them in for a mission that's barely legal on a good day.
"Weapons shipment," she says, sliding photos across the conference table with her usual theatrical flair. "Enhanced tech, off-market, very much not supposed to exist. The kind of toys that make governments nervous."
"So we're stealing them," Walker states, not asks.
"Recovering," Val corrects with a smile sharp enough to cut. "For the safety of the American people, of course."
Yelena snorts. Alexei's already studying the compound layout like there'll be a test. Bob's doing that thing where he shrinks into himself, trying to become invisible. Bucky catalogs exits, counts guards in the surveillance photos, and tries not to think about how you looked last night, hauling groceries with your hair falling in your eyes.
The mission goes sideways in minute three.
"Intel was wrong," Ava's voice crackles through comms, too calm for the situation. "Triple the guards. And—"
The explosion cuts her off. Then another. The "barely defended warehouse" is a fucking fortress, crawling with military-grade security who definitely got the "shoot to kill" memo.
"Fall back," Bucky orders, but Alexei's already charged ahead, yelling something about Soviet glory. Walker's trying to flank, Bob's panicking, and somewhere in the chaos, Yelena starts laughing like this is the best thing that's happened all week.
It takes two hours to fight their way out. By the end, Bucky's left arm is sparking, his ears are ringing, and he's pretty sure at least three ribs are cracked. Yelena's favoring her right leg, Walker's bleeding from somewhere he won't admit, and Bob—Bob's dissociating so hard Bucky has to physically guide him to the extraction point.
"Well," Val says over comms, observing from her safe distance, "that was bracing."
Bucky doesn't trust himself to respond.
They limp back to New York in sullen silence. No debrief—Val's already spinning the disaster into something palatable for the brass. Bucky goes straight home, ignoring Sam's calls, ignoring everything except the need to get somewhere quiet before he starts breaking things.
His hands are still shaking when he reaches his floor. Adrenaline crash, probably. Or the delayed realization that they'd all nearly died for some bureaucrat's idea of asset recovery. Or—
Your door is open.
Not open-open. Cracked, like it didn't latch properly. Like someone left in a hurry. Or—
The deadbolt is broken.
The one you installed yourself three weeks ago. The one he'd watched you struggle with, pride keeping you from asking for help.
Bucky goes utterly still.
His body moves before his brain catches up. He's through your doorway, cataloging details with mechanical precision: lamp knocked over, books scattered, coffee table shoved sideways. Signs of a struggle. Signs of—
Blood.
Not much. Just droplets on the hardwood, leading toward the kitchen. But enough. Enough to make his vision tunnel, his chest compress until breathing becomes theoretical.
"Sweetheart?" The pet name slips out, raw. No answer. He clears each room like he's back in Hydra facilities, except his hands won't stop shaking because this is your space, your things, your—
Your phone is on the kitchen floor, screen cracked. There's a handprint on the wall—bloody, smeared. Too small to be anyone's but yours.
Something inside him breaks. Clean, sharp, like a bone snapping. The careful distance he's maintained, the walls he's built, the conviction that keeping you at arm's length would keep you safe—all of it crumbles in the face of your empty apartment and that small, bloody handprint.
He's already moving, phone out, calling in favors he's been hoarding. Because someone took you. Someone came into your home—the home he was supposed to be protecting by staying away—and took you. And they're going to learn exactly why the Winter Soldier's name still makes people flinch.
His phone rings. Unknown number.
"Barnes." He doesn't recognize his own voice.
"Ah, the infamous Winter Soldier." The voice is male, amused, completely at ease. "I was hoping we could talk."
"Where is she?"
"Safe. For now. Though that really depends on you, doesn't it?"
Ice spreads through his veins, familiar as an old friend. This is what he was trying to prevent. This exact scenario. You, hurt because of him. You, taken because someone figured out—
"What do you want?"
"You've been playing house, Barnes. Getting soft. Forgetting what you are." A pause, calculated. "I'm going to remind you. And your little neighbor? She's going to help."
The line goes dead.
Bucky stands in your ruined apartment, surrounded by the evidence of his failure, and feels something fundamental shift. Not break—he's been broken before. This is worse. This is the cold clarity that comes after, when there's nothing left to lose.
Someone made a mistake today. They touched you. They made you bleed.
He's going to paint the city red for it.
"Buck, slow down—"
"No." He's already moving, gathering gear with brutal efficiency. The weapons he's not supposed to have. The tech that's definitely illegal. Every favor, every resource, every skill Hydra beat into him over seventy years.
Sam's on speaker, trying to be the voice of reason. "You can't just go in guns blazing—"
"Watch me."
"This is exactly what they want. You, isolated, operating without backup—"
"They have her, Sam." The words come out raw, flayed. "They took her because of me. Because I was stupid enough to think distance would keep her safe."
Silence on the other end. Then: "What do you need?"
That's why Sam Wilson is Captain America. No more arguments, no more trying to talk him down. Just immediate, unwavering support.
"Intel. Cameras in my building, surrounding blocks. Last twelve hours." He straps a knife to his thigh, then another. "And get me backup."
"I can rally your team. Get Walker, Yelena—"
"No." The word comes out sharp. Another knife. Extra magazines. "The Thunderbolts are compromised. That clusterfuck of a mission proved it."
"Buck—"
"They're not ready for this. Half of them can barely work together without Val pulling the strings." He's checking his tactical vest, muscle memory taking over. "This isn't a government op. This is personal."
"So what, you're going in alone?"
Is he? Bucky stops, considers his options. The Thunderbolts are a mess on a good day—Walker's still trying to prove something, Bob's hanging on by a thread, and Alexei treats everything like a performance. They're not who he needs for this.
"They touched her," he says simply.
"I know, man. I know. But—"
"Get me what intel you can. I'll handle the rest."
"Buck, come on. At least let me—"
"They have her, Sam." His voice cracks, just slightly. "Every second we waste talking, they could be—"
"Okay. Okay. Intel coming your way. But Barnes? Don't do anything stupid."
"Too late for that."
Bucky stops in your doorway, looks back at your apartment. There's a photo on your bookshelf—you and him at the building's July 4th party. Mrs. Nguyen had insisted on taking it. You're laughing at something, leaning into him, and he's looking at you like—
Like you're everything he never thought he'd get to have.
"I'm coming for you," he tells the empty room. A promise. A threat. A prayer to whoever might be listening.
Then he disappears into the night, and the Winter Soldier goes hunting.
The trail goes cold in six hours.
Whoever took you, they're not amateurs playing at being dangerous. They're ghosts—professionals who know exactly how to disappear in a city of eight million people. Every camera angle's been scrubbed. Every witness suddenly develops amnesia. Even the blood in your apartment leads nowhere; cleaned of DNA markers by something that makes Bucky's teeth ache with familiarity.
"Talk to me, Buck." Sam's voice through the earpiece, carefully level. "Where are you?"
Bucky stands on a rooftop in Queens, staring at another dead end. Another empty warehouse that should have had something, anything. "Nowhere."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one I've got." His metal hand clenches, servos whining. Below, the city keeps moving, oblivious to the fact that you're somewhere in it, hurt, taken because of him. "They're good, Sam. Too good."
"We'll find her."
We. Like this isn't Bucky's fault. Like his past isn't bleeding into your present, staining everything he tried so hard to keep clean.
He drops from the rooftop, lands hard enough to crack pavement. A passing couple startles, hurries away. Good. He doesn't feel particularly human right now anyway.
Hour twelve. Yelena finds him in your apartment, sitting on your couch like a grieving statue.
"This is pathetic," she says, stepping over the crime scene tape he'd ignored. "Even for you."
"Get out."
"No." She perches on your coffee table, uncharacteristically serious. "You think sitting here feeling sorry for yourself will find her? You think guilt helps?"
"I said—"
"I know what guilt looks like, Barnes." Her voice cuts, precise as the knives she carries. "I know what it is, failing someone you—" She pauses, searching for the English word. "Care about. But this?" She gestures at him, at the apartment, at the bloody handprint he can't stop staring at. "This is just... как это... self-pity? No, worse. Useless."
The laugh that tears out of him is ugly. "Thanks for the pep talk."
"Someone needs to knock sense into your thick skull." She leans forward. "Whoever has her, they want you like this. Emotional. Sloppy. Making mistakes."
"I know that."
"Then stop giving them what they want."
Easier said than done when every surface in this apartment carries your ghost. The mug on the counter with your lipstick stain. The book splayed open on the side table, marking your place. The sweater thrown over the chair—his sweater, actually, stolen three weeks ago when you'd claimed your apartment was freezing.
"Keep it," he'd said, trying not to notice how it made something primal in him satisfied, seeing you wrapped in his clothes.
"Just until I fix my radiator," you'd promised, but you'd worn it three more times that week, and he'd never asked for it back.
"Barnes." Yelena snaps her fingers in his face. "Сфокусируйся. Focus."
"I am focused."
"You're spiraling." She pulls out her phone, shows him surveillance footage he's already memorized. "Look again. Really look. Use your brain, not your bleeding heart."
He wants to tell her he's looked at nothing else for twelve hours. Instead, he watches you leave your apartment at 6:47 PM, mail in hand. Watches you come back at 6:53. The timestamp jumps—7:31 to 8:15, forty-four minutes missing. By 8:15, your door's ajar and you're gone.
"Professional crew doesn't need forty-four minutes for grab," Yelena says, her English getting rougher as she thinks. "So why take so long? What were they doing?"
Bucky's phone buzzes. Unknown number.
His blood turns to ice, then flame.
"You're going to want to watch this alone," the familiar voice says. "Though I'm sure your friend is lovely. Hi, Yelena."
She stiffens. Bucky's already moving, putting distance between them, some instinct screaming danger.
"Just me," he says. "Let her go."
"See, that's your problem, Barnes. Still trying to protect everyone. Still thinking you can control who gets hurt." A pause. "Check your messages."
The video file is already there. His hand shakes as he opens it.
You're in a concrete room—could be anywhere, everywhere, the kind of place that exists in every city's bones. Sitting in a metal chair, wrists zip-tied but not apparently hurt beyond the cut on your temple still sluggishly bleeding. You're still wearing his sweater.
"Say hello, sweetheart." The voice comes from behind the camera.
You look up, and the defiance in your eyes makes his chest seize. "Go fuck yourself."
The slap comes fast, snaps your head sideways. Bucky's phone creaks in his grip.
"Language." The camera shifts, focuses on your face. "Try again."
You spit blood, manage a smile that's all teeth. "Hi, Bucky. Nice weather we're having."
Another slap. Harder. Your lip splits.
"I told you he made you weak." The voice continues conversationally as you work your jaw, testing damage. "The Winter Soldier, reduced to playing house with some nobody. It's embarrassing, really."
"You talk a lot for someone hiding behind a camera," you mutter.
This time it's a fist. Your head rocks back, and when you look up again, your nose is bleeding. But you're still glaring, still unbroken, and Bucky loves you so fiercely in that moment it feels like drowning.
"Here's what's going to happen," the voice continues. "Every hour Barnes doesn't come alone to the address we'll send, things get worse for you. And before you get any ideas—" The camera pans to show three other men, armed, professional. "—we've planned for contingencies."
Back to you. Blood drips onto his sweater. You notice the camera returning, look directly into it. "Don't you fucking dare," you say, and despite everything—split lip, bloody nose, zip-tied to a chair—you mean it. "You hear me, Barnes? Don't you—"
The video cuts.
Bucky stands very still in your empty apartment, phone in pieces at his feet.
"That bad?" Yelena asks.
He can't speak. Can barely breathe around the rage threatening to tear him apart from the inside. Somewhere in the city, you're bleeding because of him. Hurt because he was selfish enough to let you close, stupid enough to think distance would be enough.
Another text. An address in Red Hook. Come alone or we start cutting.
"Is trap," Yelena says, dropping articles like she does when she's focused. "Obviously trap."
"I know."
"You can't just walk in there like idiot."
"I know."
"So what's plan?"
He looks at her, and whatever she sees in his face makes her step back. "I give them what they want."
"Barnes—"
"They want the Winter Soldier?" His voice sounds wrong, mechanical, like something dredged up from permafrost. "They've got him."
The address leads to a warehouse because of course it does. These people, whoever they are, lack imagination. Bucky counts heat signatures through thermal imaging—six outside, unknown inside. Doable, if he's what he used to be. If he's willing to be what he used to be.
"Don't you fucking dare."
Your voice echoes, but it's drowned out by older programming. By muscle memory that never quite faded, no matter how many therapy sessions or good days or shared dinners with someone who looked at him like he was worth saving.
"In position," Sam's voice, because fuck going alone. Fuck giving them what they want. "West entrance."
"Rooftop," from Yelena.
"Back door," Walker, surprisingly. "For the record, I think this is stupid."
"Noted," Bucky says, and walks through the front door.
The space is exactly what he expected. Concrete floors, exposed beams, the kind of place that swallows sound. They're waiting for him—five men in tactical gear, no identifying marks. Professional contractors, not ideologues. Which makes this personal.
"Dramatic entrance. I respect that." The voice from the phone materializes into a man in his forties, military bearing, forgettable face. He's standing next to a metal table laid out with tools that make Bucky's scars ache. "Though you were supposed to come alone."
"Yeah, well." Bucky spreads his hands, easy target. "I've never been good at following orders. Ask anyone."
"Funny." The man circles him, predator studying prey. "That's not what your files say. 'Perfect compliance.' That was the phrase, wasn't it?"
Old wounds, precisely targeted. These people have done their homework.
"Where is she?"
"Close. Alive. For now." The man stops in front of him. "You know, I studied you. The Winter Soldier. Hydra's perfect weapon. And then you just... stopped. Became this." He gestures dismissively. "James Barnes, failing congressman. Playing superhero. Pretending you're not what we made you."
"We?"
The man smiles. "Not Hydra, if that's what you're thinking. Hydra was sloppy. Cult-like. No vision beyond control." He pulls out a tablet, shows Bucky a logo—a chimera, three-headed. "Cerberus. We're more... refined. We deal in weapons, not world domination. And you, Barnes? You're a weapon pretending to be human."
"Cool speech." Bucky's cataloging angles, distances, how fast he'd have to move. "Must've practiced in the mirror."
The man's smile tightens. "Bring her out."
Two more men emerge from a side room, dragging you between them. You're conscious but barely, feet stumbling, head lolling. They drop you on the concrete, and you don't get up.
Everything in Bucky goes very, very quiet.
"So here's the deal," Cerberus continues. "You're going to work for us. Exclusive contract. Your particular skills in exchange for her life."
"No." Your voice, cracked but clear. You push yourself up on shaking arms, meet Bucky's eyes across the warehouse. "No deals. No trades."
"Sweetheart—"
"Don't you 'sweetheart' me." You manage to get to your knees, swaying. Blood's dried on your face, but your eyes are blazing. "You think I don't know what they're asking? You think I'd let you—" You have to stop, catch your breath. "I'd rather die than be the reason you become that again."
"How touching," Cerberus says. "But not your call." He nods to one of his men, who pulls out a knife. "Barnes? Your answer?"
The knife moves toward you.
The world explodes.
Flash-bangs through windows, smoke grenades, the distinctive whine of repulsor beams. Cerberus shouts orders, but it's too late—the Avengers don't do subtle when one of their own is threatened.
Bucky moves. Not the measured approach of a soldier, but the brutal efficiency of a weapon. The man with the knife goes down first, arm snapping under metal fingers. The second barely has time to scream. He's not thinking, just reacting, just removing threats between him and you.
Someone shoots him. Barely feels it. Someone else tries hand-to-hand, which is adorable. He puts them through a wall.
"Barnes!" Sam's voice, sharp. "Shield up!"
He spins, catches the thrown shield, uses it to deflect a spray of bullets meant for you. You're trying to crawl to cover, leaving bloody handprints on the concrete, and the sight shorts out whatever restraint he had left.
When the smoke clears, Cerberus is the only one left standing. Backed against the wall, gun trained on you because of course it is. These people are predictable to the last.
"Come any closer and—"
Yelena drops from the ceiling, lands on him like gravity given form. The gun goes flying. Cerberus goes down choking on his own blood, Yelena's knife finding the gap in his armor like it was designed for it.
"Predictable," she says, wiping the blade clean. "I told you they were predictable."
But Bucky's already moving, dropping to his knees beside you. You're conscious, breathing, alive. That's all that matters. Everything else—the mission, the cleanup, the questions—fades to white noise.
"Hey," he says, hands hovering over you, afraid to touch. Afraid to hurt. "I've got you."
"Took you long enough," you manage, then promptly pass out in his arms.
He catches you, holds you against his chest, and something in him breaks. Or maybe it finally, finally mends. Either way, he's done pretending distance keeps anyone safe. Done acting like he deserves to make choices about your safety without you.
"Med team's three minutes out," Sam says quietly.
Three minutes. He can hold you for three minutes. Can keep you safe for three minutes.
After that? After that, everything changes.
But for now, in the blood and smoke and aftermath, Bucky Barnes holds the person he was stupid enough to fall in love with and makes a promise:
Never again.
Never fucking again.
The medical bay at the Tower is too bright, too sterile, too full of people who keep looking at Bucky like he might snap. Maybe he will. He's been sitting in the same chair for four hours, watching machines monitor your breathing, and every beep feels like an accusation.
"You need to get that looked at," Sam says, nodding at the blood seeping through Bucky's shirt. Gunshot wound, probably. He honestly can't remember.
"I'm fine."
"You're bleeding on their fancy floors."
"I'm fine."
Sam exchanges a look with Yelena, who's been uncharacteristically quiet since they arrived. She's cleaned the blood off her hands but keeps flexing them, like she can still feel it.
"At least change your shirt," she says finally. "You look like extra from horror movie."
He doesn't move. Can't move. Because what if you wake up while he's gone? What if you open your eyes and he's not there, again, like he wasn't there when they took you?
"Barnes." Dr. Cho's voice cuts through his spiral. "She's stable. Three broken ribs, concussion, various contusions, but nothing life-threatening. She's lucky."
Lucky. The word tastes like copper in his mouth. Lucky is winning the lottery, not surviving a kidnapping because you had the misfortune of living next to him.
"When will she wake up?"
"Soon. The sedatives should wear off within the hour." She pauses, studying him with that look medical professionals get when they're about to say something pointed. "You, however, need treatment. You're actively bleeding on my floor."
"Sam already made that joke."
"It wasn't a joke." But she moves on, knowing a lost cause when she sees one. "I'll send a nurse with supplies. Try not to die before she wakes up. The paperwork would be tedious."
She leaves. Sam leaves. Even Yelena eventually wanders off, muttering something about vodka and terrible life choices. And then it's just Bucky and you and the steady beep of machines he'd tear apart if they stopped working.
Your hand is smaller than his. He knows this—has known it since the first time you grabbed his wrist to drag him to see some neighbor's new puppy—but it feels more pronounced now. More fragile. Your knuckles are split from fighting back, and there's still blood under your nails. His blood? Theirs? He doesn't know, and the not knowing makes him want to put his fist through the wall.
"You're spiraling again."
Your voice is hoarse, barely above a whisper, but it might as well be a gunshot for how hard it hits. His head snaps up to find you watching him, eyes half-open but alert.
"You're awake."
"Mmm. Kind of wish I wasn't." You try to sit up, wince, immediately abort that mission. "Fuck. Did anyone get the number of the truck that hit me?"
"Don't—" He's hovering, hands fluttering uselessly, afraid to touch you. "You shouldn't move. Dr. Cho said—"
"Dr. Cho can kiss my ass," you mutter, but you stop trying to sit up. Your eyes track over him, cataloging damage. "You're bleeding."
"It's nothing."
"It's literally dripping on the floor, Barnes."
"It's fine."
You stare at each other. Four hours of practiced speeches evaporate in the face of your actual consciousness, leaving him with nothing but the memory of your blood on concrete and the sound you made when they hit you.
"So," you say finally, voice carefully neutral. "Cerberus. That was fun."
"Don't."
"Don't what? Make jokes about my kidnapping? Process trauma through humor? Acknowledge that you're sitting there bleeding because you decided to Rambo your way through—"
"You could have died." It comes out louder than intended, raw. "You almost died because of me."
Something shifts in your expression. "Bucky—"
"No." He's standing now, needing distance, needing space between him and the way you're looking at him. "You don't get to—to act like this is fine. Like this is some funny story you'll tell at parties. They took you because of me. They hurt you because of me."
"They took me because they're assholes who thought they could use me as leverage." You're struggling to sit up again, ignoring whatever pain it causes. "That's on them, not you."
"You're only leverage because I was selfish enough to—" He stops, runs his hand through his hair. "I knew better. I knew what would happen if I let someone close, and I did it anyway."
"Let me get this straight." Your voice is gaining strength, and with it, heat. "You think you 'let' me get close? Like I didn't have any say in it? Like I didn't practically force-feed you cookies until you acknowledged my existence?"
"That's not—"
"And what, you think keeping me at arm's length would've magically made me safer? News flash, Barnes: I live in that building because it's what I can afford. That makes me a target for regular criminals on a good day. At least with you around, I had someone who actually gave a shit if I made it home."
"Don't." The word cracks. "Don't act like I was protecting you. I'm the reason you were bleeding. I'm the reason they—"
"You're the reason I'm alive!" You swing your legs over the side of the bed, bare feet hitting the floor with determination that makes his chest tight. "You think they took me because they wanted leverage? They took me because they were cleaning house. Because they knew you'd gotten soft, gotten close to someone, and that made you unpredictable."
You stand, sway, catch yourself on the bed rail. He moves forward instinctively, and you hold up a hand.
"No. You don't get to touch me right now. Not when you're about to do something stupid and noble and self-sacrificing." You take a step, then another, closing the distance between you despite your own warning. "They were going to kill me either way, Barnes. Whether you came for me or not. The only difference is that you did come, and now I'm alive to be really fucking pissed at you."
"You don't understand—"
"I understand perfectly." You're close enough now that he can see the bruises forming on your throat, the way you're holding your ribs, the tears you're refusing to shed. "You think you're poison. You think everyone you touch gets hurt. You think the best thing you can do is be alone forever because that's what you deserve."
"Stop."
"No. Because here's the thing, James Buchanan Barnes—you don't get to make that choice for me." Your voice breaks, just a little. "You don't get to decide I'm better off without you. You don't get to kiss me in my kitchen and then run away like a coward. And you sure as hell don't get to sit there bleeding and act like it's some kind of penance."
The medical bay feels too small suddenly, like all the air's been sucked out. You're looking at him with eyes that see too much, that refuse to let him hide behind the careful walls he's rebuilt in the last three weeks.
"They hurt you," he says, quieter now. Lost.
"Yeah. They did." You reach up, slowly, telegraphing the movement. Your hand cups his face, thumb brushing over the bruise on his cheekbone. "And it wasn't your fault."
"How can you say that?"
"Because blaming you for what they did is like blaming a bank for getting robbed." Your other hand comes up, framing his face, forcing him to meet your eyes. "You're not responsible for other people's evil, Bucky. You're only responsible for what you do about it."
"I should have protected you better."
"You literally threw yourself between me and automatic gunfire."
"I should have never let them take you in the first place."
"Oh, so you're psychic now? Can predict the future?" Your laugh is watery. "Add that to the resume. Congressman, ex-assassin, part-time fortune teller."
"This isn't funny."
"It's a little funny." But your smile fades, replaced by something fiercer. "You want to know what's not funny? Spending three weeks watching you shut me out. Sitting in that chair, knowing you were hurting, and not being able to do anything because you decided I was better off without you."
"You are—"
"Finish that sentence and I swear to god, Barnes, concussion or not, I will punch you in your stupid, self-loathing face."
He almost smiles. Almost. "You could barely stand five seconds ago."
"Adrenaline's a hell of a drug." But you're swaying again, and this time when he reaches for you, you don't stop him. His arms come around you carefully, mindful of injuries, and you lean into him like you've been waiting for permission. "I'm so fucking mad at you."
"I know."
"Like, incandescently furious."
"I know."
"You don't get to leave again." It comes out muffled against his chest, but he hears the steel underneath. "I don't care if the entire population of supervillains decides I'm their new favorite target. You don't get to leave."
His arms tighten fractionally. "Sweetheart—"
"No." You pull back enough to glare at him, and even bruised and exhausted, you're the most beautiful thing he's ever seen. "No 'sweetheart.' No soft voice and sad eyes. You're either in this with me or you're out, but you don't get to half-ass it anymore. You don't get to knock on my door at 2 AM because you had a nightmare and then pretend we're just neighbors. You don't get to dance with me at weddings and then act like it meant nothing. You don't get to—"
He kisses you.
There's no grace in it—just collision, pure physics as his mouth finds yours with the same brutal efficiency he'd use to take down a target. Except this isn't violence, it's something worse. It's capitulation. It's three weeks of want compressed into the space between one heartbeat and the next.
The noise that escapes you—half gasp, half sob—unlocks something feral in his chest. Then your teeth catch his lower lip, sharp and unforgiving, and his vision whites out entirely. You kiss like you fight: dirty, determined, taking no prisoners. Your tongue slides against his and his knees actually buckle, what the fuck, he's faced down alien armies without flinching but you're going to be what finally kills him.
His hands fly to your face, metal and flesh cradling your jaw like you're something precious even as he devours your mouth like you're anything but. You're pressed so tight against him he can feel every hitch in your breathing, every shudder that runs through you when he angles his head and deepens the kiss into something filthier, something that has you making these broken little sounds that he wants to bottle and keep.
The medical bed hits the back of your thighs—when did he walk you backward?—and you use the leverage to pull him down, down, until he's curved over you like a question mark, like gravity itself has reorganized around the heat of your mouth.
When you finally break apart, it's only because biology demands it. You're both wrecked—breathing like you've run marathons, lips swollen and spit-slick, staring at each other like you're not quite sure what just happened.
Your pupils are blown so wide he can barely see the color of your irises. There's a flush spreading down your throat, disappearing beneath the hospital gown, and he has to physically stop himself from following it with his mouth. His hands are trembling where they frame your face, thumbs pressed to your cheekbones like he's checking you're real.
"That's not an answer," you manage, but your voice is thoroughly fucked, and your hands are still twisted in his vest like you'll shoot him if he tries to move away.
"Yes, it is."
"No, it's really not. It's a deflection. A really nice deflection, but—"
"I'm in." The words feel like jumping off a cliff. Like defusing a bomb. Like coming home. "I'm in. Whatever that means, whatever that looks like. I'm in."
You study him for a long moment, and he tries not to fidget under the scrutiny. Finally: "You're going to therapy."
"I'm already in therapy."
"You're going to actually talk in therapy instead of just staring at the wall and hoping Dr. Raynor gets bored."
"...fine."
"And you're going to let me have a say in my own safety. No more unilateral decisions about what's 'best' for me."
"Okay."
"And you're going to teach me self-defense. Real self-defense, not just how to throw a punch."
"Deal."
"And—" You sway again, this time more dramatically. "Oh. Okay. Maybe sitting down now."
He guides you back to the bed, hands steady even if nothing else is. You let him fuss, let him adjust pillows and pull up blankets, and he tries not to think about how easily you fit into his hands. How right this feels, even with blood on his shirt and bruises on your skin.
"For the record," you say as he settles back into the chair beside your bed, "I'm still mad."
"I know."
"Like, really mad. There's going to be yelling. Possibly throwing things."
"I can take it."
"And groveling. Lots of groveling. I'm talking flowers, chocolates, the works."
"Noted."
You reach for his hand, lace your fingers through his. "And you're going to tell me you love me."
He freezes. You squeeze his hand.
"Because I know you do. I've known since you reorganized my bookshelf by genre and then pretended you didn't. And I love you too, you absolute disaster of a man, but I need to hear you say it. When I'm not concussed and you're not bleeding. When we're both safe and no one's trying to kill us and we can actually have a real conversation about what this means."
His throat feels tight. "I can do that."
"Good." You close your eyes, exhaustion finally winning. "Now get your gunshot wound treated before you bleed out on my watch. I'm not explaining that to Sam."
"It's not that bad."
"Bucky."
"Fine."
But he doesn't move. Not yet. Instead, he sits there holding your hand, memorizing the way your fingers fit between his, the steady rise and fall of your chest, the fact that you're alive and here and somehow, impossibly, still want him around.
The sun's coming up by the time a nurse finally corners him, threatening sedation if he doesn't let her treat the gunshot wound. You're properly asleep by then, fingers still tangled with his, and he lets the nurse work around your grip rather than let go.
"She's tough," the nurse comments, applying what are probably too many bandages.
"Yeah."
"And stubborn."
"Definitely."
"Good." She pats his shoulder, maternal despite being half his age. "You're going to need it."
He doesn't ask what she means. Doesn't need to. Because you're right—he's a disaster. A work in progress on his best days, a barely controlled catastrophe on his worst. But you looked at all that and decided he was worth fighting for anyway.
The least he can do is try to prove you right.
When you wake up again, he's there. When Dr. Cho kicks him out so you can rest, he goes to therapy and actually talks. When Sam asks if you're together now, he says yes without qualifying it.
And when you're finally released, when you're back in your apartment with its new locks and its carefully cleaned floors, when you knock on his door at midnight because the nightmares found you too—he opens it. No hesitation. No distance.
"Hey, neighbor," you say, and the smile you give him is worth every risk, every fear, every moment of doubt.
"Hey yourself."
You step inside, and he closes the door behind you, and for the first time in longer than he can remember, Bucky Barnes stops running from the possibility of happiness.
Tags/Warnings: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Bodyguard, Bodyguard Romance, James “Rhodey” Rhodes & Tony Stark Friendship, Bucky Barnes & Steve Rogers Friendship, Past Tony Stark/Tiberius Stone, Flirting, Forbidden Love, Strangers to Lovers, Sexual Content, Alcohol, Past Abuse, Past Torture, Tony Stark Has PTSD, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Dirty Talk, Misunderstandings, Mutual Pining, Denial of Feelings, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Protective Bucky Barnes, Alternate Universe - Neighbors, Bucky Barnes Has Issues, Bucky Barnes Has PTSD
Summary: Bucky's quiet morning with Tony takes a twist when Rhodey finds Bucky and Tony in bed together. Rhodey and Bucky have a heart to heart and it opens the door to a new aspect of Bucky and Tony's relationship.
Notes: This story was written as a sequel to my one shot Neighbors and will be a multi-shot fic. Thanks to everyone who is reading this. I hope you enjoy this chapter as it's a bit of a calm after the storm for the time being :)
The Fisk Trump parallels are literally soooooooo good but it’s so funny because Fisk is historically a smart dude who speaks multiple languages and Donald Trump can’t read
I know I’m late today, sorry! So no fuss this week--our trope is:
MAFIA AUS!
I love mafia aus. I love the inherent danger of them, and the burn the world down for each other of them, and the sexiness of it all, and how they’re genuinely soft only for each other. Here’s some of my favorites.
The Consultant by DC_Chan
Mafia AU. Life in the mafia is fairly simple, until something has scared two-thirds of the underground into tightening their defenses. Fury wants to know what has them on the run and how he can turn this to his advantage.
Tony "Iron Man" Stark just wants to get what's his after ten years of imprisonment: Revenge.
kings of the city by Areiton
The Irish mob held Brooklyn.
The Spider held Queens.
And where Tony fits in the city has never been clear...
Sometimes though, he thinks he fits here--at Steve's side.
Patriarch by spqr for sweetafterdark
Steve ducks into the hall and comes back with a warm, freshly-laundered towel, which feels so good when he wraps it around Tony’s shoulders that he almost lets out a moan. “There we go,” Steve says. “Don’t want you to catch cold.”
“Thanks, daddy,” Tony quips, because he’s an idiot.
Except Steve’s close enough, his hands wrapped around Tony’s biceps through the towel, that Tony can feel his full-body shudder.
Danger Is Silent by jay_girl88
Tony is the front-running name in clean energy and defensive combat tech in the world, but what a lot of people forget, is that he was groomed for his whole life to be a weapons manufacturer. He grew up in war, around war, immersed in war, and somehow, people think that he did that without ever being part of it, but that’s not true. Weapons – whether it’s designing them, making them, or handling them – is practically coded into his DNA, but because he doesn't use that knowledge, it’s easy to assume that he doesn't have it.
But he does.
And just because he doesn’t use it, doesn’t mean he can’t or he won’t.
The most dangerous thing in the world, is the thing that people don’t see coming.
Completely Different Things by Faillen
Tony Stark was a genius. It was something he prided himself on. But being a genius didn’t mean that he always understood the effects of something beyond the tangible.
Exhibit A:
It was one thing to know that your boyfriend killed people.
It was another thing to see your boyfriend kill people.
It was a completely different, and far more alarming thing to know that your boyfriend would kill people for you.
The Unspoken Rule by MimmyWrites for Awmieksdead
It is an unspoken rule in the mafia to never fall for your boss' partner.
That genuinely shouldn't have been a problem for Tony. He's not interested in women, hasn't been for a while. But maybe he shouldn't have assumed his boss was straight.
start a fight ('cause i need to feel something) by Areiton
Steve figures he’s been stateside a month, been out in the world for a week--it’s past time for things to go tits up.
It goes like this: someone shoves a gun into his back when he unlocks Peggy’s car after spending a few hours not finding a job.
“Look, man, I’m real sorry, but I need the car.”
OR:
Steve has a never met a fight he didn't like, and it's awful for Tony's blood pressure.
For the au headcanon prompt, would you write a little bit about royal!Tony and his bodyguard!Steve
Being Tony’s bodyguard doesn’t mean being just Tony’s bodyguard. Steve has to get to know Tony, has to know him inside and out to know instantly if something is off. It means knowing the teenage Prince Harley and the young Princess Morgan, too.
If Morgan, still in that childish phase of loving Disney movies and idolising the relationships that she sees on the screen, watches Disney movies every night before bed, then you can bet that Steve does too.
The routine is pretty much the same every night that Tony is at home with his kids instead of attending a function. As much as Harley pretends he can’t stand to watch Disney movies and sing along with his little sister, he can be found in his armchair with his eyes on the tele screen instead of the phone in his hand whilst Morgan prances around the floor in what she likes to think is a ballerina dance.
Every time the movie reaches the big kiss scene, she turns to Steve (always standing dutifully on guard at the exit) and says “do you want to marry a Prince?” and every time she does, Steve smiles and points at Tony and says “one Prince is enough for me.”
And then it goes wrong: (gun violence warning)
Tony can be an asshole, but he’s not stupid. That’s why Steve is so goddamn angry when the eldest Prince drops off the radar. When Tony was a dumb kid he’d do the same shit, but Steve thought they’d gotten past that stage. They trusted each other.
Sure, the award show had been boring, but Tony knew better than to slip away from Steve. Steve could be invisible. He knew when to turn his head and let Tony have his privacy. There was no need for the Prince to run off and jeopardize himself.
The first gunshot has Steve crouching on the floor, weapon already in his hand. The second has him flinging himself across the room towards a familiar head of dark hair. The third, fourth and fifth have Steve wincing in pain but at least the Prince is safe in his arms. He finds the rest of his team by the sixth and the world goes dark at the seventh.
An ending of sorts:
When Steve wakes up, it’s to a Disney movie playing on the tele in an other-wise white and bare room, Morgan sitting crosslegged at the end of his bed and Harley curled up in an uncomfortable-looking chair to his side.
Morgan turns to him when he makes a noise and she looks like she’s been crying. “Do you want to marry a Prince?” she asks.
Steve winces. “Why? Have you got an offer for me?”
Morgan sniffs loudly and Steve wishes he could reach out and hug her. He can’t - because of both protocol and the fact that he can’t feel his left arm. “You’re meant to say that you already have a Prince.”
“Yeah,” Steve hears from the doorway and, man, is he a shit bodyguard for not having heard someone else come into the room. “I thought I was enough for you.”
Steve looks up at Tony. Safe. Safe and in one piece and more beautiful than ever. “You are. More than enough.”
From the prompt list: 5) “Wait a minute. Are you jealous?” For stevetony w/jealous steve, please, if you feel up for it? ☺️
Hi there, thank you for the prompt and sorry for the long wait!
This is 2k of no powers/bodyguard au that can be read as a standalone fic or a prequel to this fic of mine, as the two fics are set in the same universe. I feel obligated to warn you that although this one is fluffy, the linked fic contains angst with an unhappy ending (which I may or may not end up fixing with a happy ending eventually). I didn’t even plan to add another fic in the same universe, and yet here we are. I just love the concept of young heir!tony and bodyguard!steve too much, I guess.
Enjoy! :)
TL;DR: click here for part 2 of this no powers/bodyguard au (warning: linked fic contains unhappy ending.)
a fool for you
steve/tony, fluff, au: no powers, bodyguard!steve, young!tony, 2204 words
(5 from this list)
“It’s so hot out here,” Tony groans, using the collar of his shirt to fan himself.
“Well, would you rather be in there with them?” Pepper nods at the general direction of the mansion, where he knows his and Pepper’s parents are still sitting together in the dining room.
Tony makes a face. “No.”
He wants to be as far away from them as possible.
The two of them escaped to the garden just before dessert. This has become a routine of some sort, something they always do during the monthly lunches their parents insist on having ever since they arranged their marriage contract. Tony knows the only reason they are allowed to get away with it is because their parents think that it’s good for Tony and Pepper to spend some time alone, to get to know each other before their marriage.
An arranged marriage. Seriously, Tony’s life is one huge cosmic joke.
Don’t get him wrong; Tony adores Pepper. She is one of his best friends and they have practically known each other since they were in diapers, but they definitely don’t see each other that way. Pepper has little to no interest in dating, and Tony is—
Well, Tony’s heart has been very much occupied by someone else for quite some time now.
“Anyway, back to the matter at hand. I’m telling you, Pep, it’s so hard to figure him out. I just never know what he’s thinking.” Tony leans back in his seat with a sigh, the rigid wood of the bench digging into his spine.
“He is so gone on you, it’s ridiculous.” Pepper fans herself with a folding fan. As usual, Pepper looks well put together despite the weather, dressed in a white eyelet dress that looks lovely on her and her hair up in a neat ponytail.
“But how can you tell?”
“I just can. Trust me. Have I ever let you down?”
“Well, no, but…” Tony trails off, looking into the distance. His eyes land on Steve, who is stationed far away from the bench Tony and Pepper are sitting on, with rows and rows of the red and yellow tulips of the Potts family estate’s garden separating the distance between them.
His blond hair gleams golden under the scorching heat of the sun. The man is standing straight, hands clasped in front of him. Tony wonders if Steve has always had perfect posture or if it is something he cultivated in his training as a bodyguard. Steve must also be suffering under the heat, dressed in the mandatory dress code for bodyguards of the Stark family—a black and white suit that fits him like a dream. Tony is sitting on a bench under the shade of an umbrella, and even his shirt is already sticking unpleasantly to the skin of his back, damp with sweat.
“Just look at him. He’s always so proper and polite,” Tony grumbles.
“Well, can you blame him? It is his job.”
Tony pouts at that, even as he knows that Pepper is right, like she always is. It’s just that he knows how improper and impolite Steve can be. Steve is hilarious when he wants to be; he has demonstrated his dry humor multiple times in front of Tony. Granted, it is usually only on display when he is in the company of Tony and the other guys in the security detail with no one else around or when he and Tony are alone. The thought of those moments brings a smile to Tony’s lips. Those secret moments are when Steve allows himself to relax, his real personality bleeding into his job persona.
He turns to watch Steve again. Steve is looking down at the ground, a hand pressed to the earpiece Tony knows he wears in his left ear. Tony watches as Steve nods almost imperceptibly before raising his wrist to his lips, speaking to the microphone resting inside his sleeve. When he finishes, he lowers his wrist back to his side. He looks up and meets Tony’s eyes by accident.
Tony stills and stops breathing.
Steve holds his gaze for a few moments before looking away almost immediately, reverting back to his previous posture.
Tony slumps in his seat, dejected. Pepper slaps his back with her folded fan and Tony yelps, straightening his back immediately.
“Don’t slouch. What time is the party again?”
“Seven, but you know me. I like to be fashionably late. Besides, no one can say anything about me being late tonight because I am the birthday boy. The party only starts when I arrive. Then again, that is also true for any other party.” Tony winks. “What did you get me?”
Pepper shrugs, not giving him an answer.
Tony narrows his eyes before gasping dramatically, a hand on his chest. “Pepper Pot, did you even get me anything?”
Pepper rolls her eyes.
“Why?” Pepper deadpans. “Is it your birthday?”
***
“I’ve called Happy. Car will be here in fifteen,” Bucky says as he arrives at Steve’s side. Steve nods.
Anthony Stark and Virginia Potts are casually chatting on a bench in the distance, looking like two completely normal 24-year-olds instead of the heirs to two of the most powerful companies in the world, Stark Industries and Potts Enterprises. With the way Stark behaves sometimes, Bucky tends to forget that the man has a net worth of a couple billion dollars.
Catching sight of the man behind them, Bucky snickers. Sam looks calm and collected as he stands behind the bench to hold an umbrella over Stark and Potts’ heads, but Bucky knows that he is going to complain about his sore arm to Bucky later.
“Look at Wilson. Poor bastard. He hates umbrella duty.” Bucky’s smirk widens an inch when he catches Sam’s gaze, the latter widening his eyes dramatically. “Also, what’s with the sudden switch? I know it’s your turn for umbrella duty today and you never give up umbrella duty ‘cause it gives you a chance to ogle at Stark’s ass.”
Bucky turns to face Steve when his friend and commander-in-chief says nothing in reply. Steve always reprimands him whenever Bucky teases him about his gigantic crush on Tony Stark, something about “protocol” and Bucky being “inappropriate”.
Steve is staring at Stark and Potts with unbridled focus. To the untrained eye, it may look like Steve is just doing his job of guarding his client but Steve’s eyebrows are furrowed and his jaw is doing The Clench and—
“Wait a minute, are you jealous?” Bucky gasps, part scandalized, part incredulous. “Is that why you asked Wilson to switch with you?”
Steve’s head snaps upright and he turns to Bucky with wide eyes.
“No,” he says, sounding equally as scandalized, but the way his eyes slide away as soon as they meet Bucky’s is telling. Ever since he was little, Steve has always been a terrible liar.
“Stevie.” Bucky gawks at him, shaking his head in disbelief. “I’ve never seen you moon over someone like this before. You weren’t even this bad with Peggy Carter back in high school.”
“I’m not mooning over anyone,” Steve says through gritted teeth. “Fix your posture.”
Bucky snorts, but clasps his hands in front of him obediently.
“I keep telling you, you should tell him how you feel.”
“Stop talking nonsense. It’s against protocol,” Steve says, eyes once again staring longingly at Stark, who is listening attentively to whatever Potts is saying.
Bucky rolls his eyes. “As if Stark ever cared about that.”
Just when Bucky thinks that the conversation is dead, just like the million other times Steve has shut Bucky down whenever he attempts to talk some sense into his best friend, Steve says in a quiet voice:
“Besides… they’re engaged.”
Bucky sighs in exasperation, refusing the increasingly strong urge to bash his own head against the nearest tree. They have gone over this exact problem countless of times.
He loves Steve like a brother, but never let it be said that the man is not stubborn.
Bucky opens his mouth to protest some more, but then Happy announces that he is entering the estate’s premises and Steve begins barking orders into his microphone to prepare the team for mobilization.
***
Tony loosens the tie around his neck as he steps into his bedroom, sighing in relief. If it were up to him he would have left the party hours ago, but alas, being the birthday boy comes with its own responsibilities. The older he gets, the more his birthday feels less like a day to celebrate his birth and more like a day to mingle with his father’s business associates. The fact that his glad-handing skills have practically been hardwired into him by now is his only saving grace. Well, that and…
Turning around, he finds Steve standing at the doorway of his bedroom. Tony waits for the obligatory ‘Would that be all, Mr. Stark?’ and is surprised when it doesn’t come immediately. Having Steve by his side throughout the entire night was Tony’s favorite part about his birthday bash. Tony absolutely lives for the minute twitches of Steve’s lips whenever Tony whispers witty quips and insults about various high-profile people mingling around him at every public event, and tonight was no exception.
As much as Tony enjoys Steve’s company, however, he is also well aware that Steve must be exhausted. After all, as tiring as the event was for Tony, it was still his birthday party. Steve, on the other hand, was dutifully doing his job of shadowing Tony and looking out for potential threats.
Tony is about to dismiss him for the night when he is suddenly struck with the realization that Steve is... hovering.
“Steve?”
“Sir,” Steve says in reply, back straightening immediately. His eyes are wide and he opens his mouth once before closing it again without saying a word. He looks like he has something to say and is struggling to work out a way to say it.
“Tony,” Tony corrects automatically as there is no one else in the room but them, but otherwise he says nothing, waiting patiently for Steve to gather his thoughts.
“Tony, I…” Steve trails off. Tony watches in amazement as Steve’s fists clench and unclench at his side, a rare sight for a person who is usually so graceful and poised. He lurches forward, walking towards Tony before stopping in front of him.
With his eyes trained on the floor, Steve fishes out a slim black box from his breast pocket and holds it out to Tony.
Tony’s breath catches in his throat. “Is this…?”
Steve looks up and finally meets his eyes, jaw clenched in determination.
“Happy birthday, Tony.”
Tony reaches out to take the box, his fingers brushing Steve’s.
“Can I open it?”
Steve nods with a swallow. Gazing down at the box, Tony opens it carefully and takes a deep breath the second he sees what is lying inside—a beautiful red tie, made of some soft fabric that seems to gleam under the moonlight streaming in through the windows of Tony’s bedroom. He unfolds it to admire the tie in its entirety.
Something flutters in his stomach when he sees the gold monogram sewn into the tip of the necktie. Tony traces the initials ‘A. E. S.’ reverently with his index finger.
“Steve.”
“Do you… like it?” Steve asks, watching Tony with trepidation.
Tony beams at him. “I love it. Thank you.”
A reluctant smile appears on Steve’s face, even as the man scratches the back of his neck with an air of bashfulness.
“I know it’s not much and I know you’ve already received lots of gifts. Better and more expensive ones. It certainly is no golden cufflinks, but I—”
That gets Tony’s attention.
“Golden cufflinks?”
“Uh, I mean— I might have seen, um, the golden cufflinks Ms. Potts got you, and I know—”
Tony barks out a surprised laugh, realization dawning.
Confusion takes over Steve’s face, his eyebrows furrowing adorably.
“Why are you laughing?”
Tony takes a step closer to Steve, grabbing the knot of Steve’s tie and pulling Steve down to his height.
Steve’s blue eyes are staring back at him, pupils blown wide with shock. Tony gazes at him intently, lips tugged upwards in a helpless smile as his heart swells with affection.
“You’re so cute when you’re jealous, you know that?” Tony says, standing on tiptoe to plant a soft kiss on Steve’s forehead. He releases Steve afterwards, stepping backwards.
Steve proceeds to stare at him like a deer caught in the headlights of an oncoming car, mouth ajar and breath coming out in ragged pants. A delightful blush blooms on his cheeks.
Tony bites his lower lip to stop himself from laughing. Then he raises his eyebrows, saying:
“Well, you’re dismissed. Thank you for the birthday gift.”
Tony watches in amusement as Steve flounders to regain his composure. Eventually, he gives Tony a curt nod before leaving without a word, blush still high on his cheeks.
The moment the door closes behind Steve, Tony throws himself onto his bed and lets out a stupidly hysterical giggle into his pillow, feeling giddy with joy.
He makes a mental note to send Pepper some flowers in the morning.
Warnings: nervous reader, Sam has his soul back, FILTHY SMUT, cursing, kissing, oral sex (f), soft smut, rough smut, body worship, big dick Sammy, Sam calls reader beautiful (pet name), mentions of Soulless Sam, face fucking, Sam uses his tie to tie up the reader, cute ending
Summary: After Death places Sam's soul back, he remembers the things that you and he did but you don't know that. What happens when you decide to come clean to him about what happened between the two of you?
What do you do when the love of your life has no memory of the ways he touched you nights ago? You should have known he wouldn't remember. That night was a moment of weakness. You know it wasn't Sam but everything was Sam. His body, his touch, his voice. Oh God his voice was like velvet. You know that you should not have done what you did but how else were you going to say no. Not with the way his hands dominated your body and touched places that some couldn't.
Sam got his soul back, which you were happy about it, but he had no memory of what happened. So he says. He claims that he didn't remember the year that he spent outside of hell as a shell of himself. You looked at him as he talked about the things that he could remember. At least, what he was willing to say.
Days passed and Sam never mentioned that night. Neither did you, but it was weighing on you. Nights were hard to sleep when you know he is so close, just out of reach. He was forbidden from you and it made you want him even more.
On a day that Dean was out with Castiel on a hunt, you were going to confess to Sam. You had to tell him because you couldn't hold it in anymore. You needed him and you needed him now. Even if it ruined your friendship.
----
"Sam?" You say, walking up to him.
He made a sound to tell you where he was. He was in the library which when you walked in, he was sitting in a gray shirt with jeans. His hair was a bit messed up from him running his hands through it over the day, making him look even better. God, you needed to get a grip.
"What's up?" He asks, looking up to you.
Your breathing went uneven for a second but you gained composer.
"I need to tell you something and I understand if you never want to speak to m-"
"Whatever it is, we will get through it." He stands to walk to you. He stands in front of you, his chest close.
"I-uh. When you didn't have a soul, we uh- we uh had sex. It was only one time and you left as soon as you finished fucking me into sleep. I didn't know what to do and the only reason that I did it was because I had such strong feelings for you and you kinda made it hard to say no." Sam says nothing.
"I understand that it wasn't you but it felt like you, looked like you," You say as you step closer to the man, "It smelt like you. The ways you touched me, oh Sam, it was as if it was you but I wish that it was you. You completely."
Sam cocks his head to the side as if trying to debate in his head whether or not this was a good idea but of course when your breasts pressed against him with your breath, he knew that he needed to have you. He wanted to be consumed by your touch, your smell, your taste, just you in general.
---
Sam presses a kiss to you lips, slowly kissing you. Wanting the kiss to never end, he starts walking you back to his bedroom. He pulls away to close the door, looking at you with love and lust. He doesn't get to look long before you pull him into a heated kiss.
The two of you started to make your way to the bed before Sam laid you down on the soft mattress. He kissed your jaw and nipped at your throat but he didn't do anything rough. His touch was light, as if you were made of glass and he didn't want to break you. You weren't having it so you moved your legs to his hips to pull him down to you but he didn't budge. Instead, he pulled your shirt up with your help and he placed sweet kisses to your newly exposed skin. He took his time as he kissed down your body, mouthing at your body as he made his way back up to your breasts. He looks at you for permission before pulling the simple black bra off. Even though he had seen you before, this time it was really for the first time. It was completely him. And you didn't want it any other way.
He took your breast into his warm mouth and rolled the bud with his tongue. You gasped at the sensation and grabbed his hair. He groaned against you, which made your core tighten. Your hands roam his back before pushing him off you so he could take his shirt off, revealing his toned body. He pressed against you, kissing your neck again. He was careful not to leave any marks but god did he want to. He wanted everyone to know that he did this to you.
"Sam," You moan out when his hips ground into yours.
"He didn't take his time with you, did he?"
"Not really," You gasp out.
"I wanna take care of you, beautiful."
With that, he sat up, pulling you with him. Now in his lap, he attacked your neck once again before making work at your shorts. He removed them with ease and he rolled the two of you over so that he was on his back, with you above him. You look down at him, leaning down to take his hands in yours, pressing them to the bed and then kissing his kiss swollen lips. He got his hands free and one hand gripped your hair as the other began moving you above his face. You look at him with question as if to ask, "Are you sure?" but the look he gave you showed that he was never more sure than he was right in that moment.
His hands came to hold you by your ass and he placed you onto his mouth. His warm tongue flicked against your puckered hole, tasting you. Once he tasted you, he wanted more. He pushes you against he face and you were sure he couldn't breathe. His mouth began to work your pussy and all you could do was grip his hair. His tongue played with your clit, drawing circles as his hands kept you in place. You were a shaking mess but it felt so good. Way better than what the other version of himself had felt. He pushed you up just a little bit to say, "Fuck my face."
He pulled you back down and continued his assault on your cunt. You rut your hips against his face and it sent shock waves through your veins. You moan as you get closer and closer to your orgasm. Sam must have felt it because he started to work harder. You came within seconds and Sam continued until you physically couldn't take it.
"Fuck, beautiful. You taste good."
Sam kissed your lips, allowing you to taste yourself on his lips. You wanted to suck his dick again so you started to fiddle with his jeans but he stopped you.
"Another time," He says as he lays you down again and starts worshiping your body as if it was the only thing he knew how to do. As if he it was all he needed in his life to be fulfilled.
Sam kissed your body, licked at your neck, sucked on your body as you pulled his pants down. You wanted him now.
"Sammy," He looked at you.
"Touch me," You say.
"I am touching you."
"Touch me more."
"What do we say?" He asks.
"Please touch me sir," He groans at the title you give him. He pulls his pants off completely and his underwear.
He starts to gently touch you and you weren't having it.
"Samuel, I won't break."
"I just want to be careful with you because I know what that asshole did," He said with his head down.
"You knew?"
"Yes, but to be fair, I wanted to tell you that I did but I was afraid that you would stop talking to me."
"Sammy, I would never. I chose to engage in it and I was scared more than you would ever know," You say before kissing him softly.
"Just, do some fun stuff with me."
He nods and starts to get up. You look at him confused. He pulls out a tie. He gestures for you to move closer to him and he ties the soft silk around your wrists and he tightens it until you can't get undone. He kisses your bound wrists before moving over you. He holds your hands above your head and lines up his dick with your entrance. He teases you a bit and you huff but it gets caught in your throat as he presses completely into you. His size is so big that it takes a moment for you to adjust.
"Fucking hell, Sammy."
"It's not Sammy or Sam. It's sir when we are like this."
"Yes, sir." You gasp out when he pulls back before pushing back in.
His thrusts are still soft, shallow. He still was trying to keep under control. You noticed and lifted your bound hands and placed them around his neck. You pull him closer to you as your breathing becomes ragged. He nips at your collarbones as you lean up to his ear.
"I want you to lose control. I need you. Don't be scared, I won't break."
He grunts as he picks up his thrusts. His hips set a steady pace as he sits up on his knees with you wrapped around his body. He continues to fuck up into you as you cling onto him.
"Oh god," You moan out.
"Not God, just me beautiful."
You spread your legs wider around him, trying to bounce onto him, to meet his thrusts but all you could do is hang there on him as he fucked you so good. He kissed your breasts and collarbones as he moved your bodies in sync. You use your weight to push him down into a seated position and you began to rock your hips against his. His cock dragged against your walls as you fucked yourself onto him. You pressed passionate kisses onto Sam's neck and when Sam felt you get closer to another orgasm, he started to rub circles on your clit. He wanted to get you there.
Your core squeezed him so tightly, causing his thrusts to stutter before going back to the rapid punches to your pussy.
"He didn't make you feel like this. No one could make you feel like this," He grunts as you climaxed on his dick. He smirked before fucking into you a little bit harder.
"Sam, I can't anymore."
"One more, beautiful." He kissed your sweaty body as he made you cum so hard, you nearly blacked out.
"Fuck," he moaned.
"Cum inside me, Sammy." And with that his thrusts became more ragged and he fucked up into you without rhythm. Three more thrusts later, he stills inside of you as he releases into your womb. He gasps air into his lungs after the heated session the two of you shared.
"That was way better than anything I have ever had." You smile.
"I'm sorry I didn't tell you that I knew."
"Sam, it's okay. I understand."
"And I am terribly sorry I did that to you when I had no soul," Sam apologized.
"Sammy, it wasn't your fault. I shouldn't have let you."
"You said that I made it hard for you because of your feelings."
"Yes, Sam, I have feelings for you."
"Good because I have feelings for you too."
"You better get some sleep, beautiful." He kissed you.
"Why?"
"Because now that I got a taste of you for real, I ain't letting you go. I want another taste of you."
"Sammy!"
"It's sir, right now, beautiful."
He rolls over you and kisses your neck. The two of you kiss and cuddle until the two of you fall asleep in each other's arms.
Warnings: SMUT, cursing, fingering, oral (m&f), praise kink, throat fucking, spitting, rough sex, name calling (whore/slut/bitch), squirting, SOULESS SAM, I REPEAT SOULESS SAM
Summary: You miss the old Sam and the new Sam shows you that he is better than the regular Sam.
Sam was tired of his brother trying to fix him. He felt better. He was a better hunter, faster at killing than he was before. He no longer had to worry about freezing when it came to killing monsters. He was just better. Now Dean and Castiel had left you to watch Sam while they talked with Death to get Sam's soul.
He watched you as you cleaned the small apartment that you were in, watching as you bent over just the right way so he could see those pretty little red panties. You were turning around to ask him something when you stopped to find a shirtless Sam in your living room.
"Uh Sam," You lifted an eyebrow, "where is your shirt?"
"I wanted to work out," He shrugged. He noticed your eyes racking over his body.
"Oh uh, okay sure."
He started to do whatever he was planning but he couldn't help but smirk when he saw that you were checking him out. He knew that you found him attractive but he wanted to see if you would act on it.
"Can I get a glass of water?" He asked about thirty minutes later.
You nod before heading into the kitchen to get him a glass. You returned but Sam wasn't there. He was gone. You were going to turn around but he was standing behind you. You let out a gasp at the closeness.
"Sorry, I went to the bathroom." He smiled down at you.
The air was thick with sexual tension. His bare chest moved up and down with his shallow breaths and you looked up into those brown eyes. They didn't show the same kind of emotion they once did. You handed him the cool glass of water, which he gladly drank. You watched his throat as he swallowed. You were so turned on at the moment you were scared he could smell it.
Sam looked at you before placing his hands on yours. He pulled them to his chest, letting you touch him. His skin was warm but soft. He held your hands to him for a moment later before he let them go, but your hands didn't drop from his chest. You slid them around his pecs and moved them to his shoulders. He placed his hands on your waist and pulled you closer. You looked at him before kissing his chest.
"Fuck," he whispered under his breath.
You took it as a green light and kissed his skin again. This time allowing your tongue to flick against him. He leaned down to kiss against your neck, causing you to wrap your arms around his neck, playing with his hair. He suckled your sweet spot as you moved agaisnt him. His hand went to your ass to pull and squeeze against him, you pressed your hands into his back.
"Jump," He orders.
You do as he says and wrap your legs around his waist. Your cunt came right in contact with his hips. He moved your to the wall before pressing his erection to your clothed core. He kissed down your neck to your chest where he rips your shirt open to reveal your breasts.
"Sam," You moan.
He pulled your bra off and starts marking up your chest. He isn't soft about it. It was all teeth and tongue. You had never felt like this before.
"Get on your knees." You do.
You pull his jeans down and mouth at his clothed dick. He grunts above you before pulling himself out. He was big in size and thickness. You leaned in and licked the head. His head fell back as he fisted himself. You take his cock from his hand and moved it to your mouth. You began to suck the tip and run your tongue over the slit. You loved the taste of him in your mouth. He was heavy and warm.
"Fuck your mouth feels so good."
You take more into your mouth and you deep throat him. He touched the back of your throat before you looked at him to start fucking your face. He pulls out before slamming back in. He does this a few times as you sputter around him. You weren't expecting him to be so hard to take as he fucked your throat. He moved against your mouth as you sucked him for everything he had. You wanted him to cum in your mouth. He pressed deeper in your throat as you gripped his thighs in hopes of him letting up.
"One more second," He coos to you.
You gulp in a breath of air when he pulls out completely.
"Fucking hell, you are such a slut."
He moves the two of you to the couch and putting you on your hands and knees before pulling your pants down. He played with your thong before pulling them off too. He leans in to smell your pussy (yes he does baby). His tongue goes straight into your little hole which causes you to scream. He tongue fucks you for a little bit before moving up to your clit. He sucks it into his mouth which has you pushing back on his mouth. He continues until you are almost there but he stops.
"I want you to cum on my dick."
He presses his cock to your hole and presses inside. The stretch felt like it would never end. As he pressed in, you felt full already and he was not even half way in.
"Just a few more inches baby."
He does not stop for a second before he pulled almost all the way out, only the tip left in. He pushes back in, hard. Your knees buckle and the couch moves. Sam then wraps an arm around your waist to pull you against him. He sits back and has you sitting on his lap. You looked at the TV in front of you, seeing Sam's face in the reflection. He winked at you before picking you up and slamming you back down. He fucks up into you as he does this over and over again.
You moan as he whispers about you being his whore and that he isn't going to let you go. He keeps fucking up into you with fever and the only thing you could do was to take it. You had no choice with how good he was fucking you.
"Whose whore are you?"
"I'm yours Sam."
He turned your head and gripped your jaw. He spit into your mouth and watched as you swallowed it with a smile.
Your sweet pussy clenched around him and he rubbed your clit as he bounced you up and down on his dick. You got closer and closer before you climaxed. It felt as if you were drowning. You could only scream as Sam doubled his efforts and you orgasmed again.
"No more Sam. Too much."
"One more," he says before thrusting harder. He thrusts one last time before spilling into you. His orgasm triggared yours and you squirted a lot onto his lap. He looked down and smiled at his achievement.
"You look so fucking hot right now," He said as he kissed your neck again.
"Sam, I'm tired. No more." You really were tired and your core was sore.
"I'll let you rest but I'm keeping you right here." He said as he moved his hips one last time.
"Sam, I don't think I can go another round."
"Don't worry sweetheart, I know you can." He said before circling your clit.
You arch your back as his fingers slip inside of you, along side his dick. He pulled out but left his fingers in. He played with the cum inside as he fucked you with his fingers. He wanted you to cum one last time. It didn't take long before you did and fell asleep right after. He smiled at you asleep on the couch as he got dressed and closed your apartment door.
Summary: Castiel has fallen, too soon. Madness and desperation plague him, but, as always, his heart is still in the right place...with Sam Winchester.
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2. Run Right; or Lie by orphan_account
Gen, M/M | Rating: Teen+ | Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings | Words: 5,197 | Chapters: 1/1
Tags: Supernatural Kink Bingo 2021, Porn, Smut, Blasphemy, Angels, Angel Kink, Religion, Religion Kink, Angel Wings, Wings, Flying, Clouds, Cock Worship, Dom/sub, Sub Sam Winchester, Dom Castiel, Dom Castiel/Sub Sam Winchester, Dreams, Blow Jobs, Post-Episode: s04e07 It's the Great Pumpkin Sam Winchester
Summary: After first meeting Castiel and being disappointed in It's the Great Pumpkin, Sam Winchester (Season 4, Episode 7), Sam has a dream about Castiel being the classic sort of angel he had expected to meet. Sam dreams of using his mouth to worship Castiel's holy cock, which Sam sees as an extension of god.
Tags: Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Top Castiel/Bottom Sam Winchester, Riding, Sweat, Hook-Up, Secret Relationship, Canon Compliant, canon adjacent?, Making Out, Early season 5 Supernatural
Summary: “This is something you’ve wanted before today,” Cas states, and it’s true. He’s not sure if Cas even had to read his soul to get at that.
Sam’s breath stops. He freezes momentarily. “Yeah,” he admits. “Shit, Cas, yeah. I’d have done this the day we met.”
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5. A First Grasp by Fae-and-night (goodgirlgonegeek16)
M/M | Rating: Gen | No Archive Warnings Apply | Words: 1,034 | Chapters: 1/1
Tags: Season 5 angst, Episode: s05e03 Free to Be You and Me, or at least the sastiel alternate ending to that episode.
Summary: Sastiel-flavored coda for “Free to be You and Me” with some early seasons bamf!castiel.
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6. My Sastiel Valentine by rosworms
M/M | Rating: Mature | Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings | Words: 3,371 | Chapters: 3/3
Tags: Boy King of Hell Sam Winchester, Post-Apocalypse, Dark Sam Winchester, Insanity, Alice in Wonderland References, Blasphemy, Self-Destruction, Madness
Summary: Sam said no. Dean said yes. Sam lost his mind. Castiel lost his friends. That’s the road so far.
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8. A More Profound Bond by confxsed
Gen, M/M | Rating: Gen | No Archive Warnings Apply | Words: 5,824 | Chapters: 5/5
Tags: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Jealous Dean Winchester, Protective Castiel, Hurt Sam Winchester, Emotionally Hurt Sam Winchester, Angst, Season/Series 05, Sam Winchester Has Self-Worth Issues, Mentions of Suicide, Pre-Slash
Summary: Five little moments where Dean notices the relationship between Sam and Castiel growing.
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9. some space underneath my skin by hellsreluctantheir
Part 1 of touch -- The soulless Sam and Cas were fucking verse.
Summary: Humans liked to touch each other in ways that baffled Castiel. Not just in the manner they slyly referred to as biblically. He watched them clap hands onto shoulders and backs, lean into each other in exhaustion, sleep sitting up with feet resting against each other on the floor. A constant, reverberating, nonverbal hymn. I am here. You are here. We are here, and we are alive. Angels did not need that kind of reassurance. Castiel could hear his siblings' songs no matter how near he was to them physically. Prayers and psalms in the back of his mind. It saddened him, somewhat, to think that humanity would never know that.
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10. The Unexpected by muzivitch
M/M | Rating: Gen | No Archive Warnings Apply | Words: 1,253 Chapters: 1/1
Summary: Sam and Castiel discuss his missing year. Also, Sam has a crush that would be obvious to anyone but Castiel (except it might even be obvious to him, after all). Takes place after 6.12 "Like A Virgin."
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11. Doing Just Fine by masterlynovak
M/M, Multi | Rating: Explicit | Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings | Words: 1,069 | Chapters: 1/1
Tags: idk it's a threesome but not really?, Dean is just watching Sam and Cas have sex, voyerism
Summary: Dean wakes up in a room with a naked Sam spread out on the bed.
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12. Wings by Rowan203
M/M | Rating: Teen+ | Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings | Words: 1,415 Chapters: 1/1
Summary: AU after season 6. Sam comes back from the cage broken and changed. Dean and Castiel deal with it in different ways.
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13. Between the Shadow and the Soul by Vee (Vera_DragonMuse)
M/M | Rating: Teen+ | Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings | Words: 6,456 | Chapters: 1/1
Tags: Poetry, hell is the absence of love, take shelter in me, castiel thinks sam is the wolf, sam thinks castiel is in another story, really they're both just lost in the fog
Summary: What if Sam was the one that went to Purgatory with Castiel?
Tags: POV Sam Winchester, Season/Series 08, Purgatory, Post-Purgatory, Slow Burn, Nearly Human Castiel, Post-Season/Series 07
Summary: Instead of Dean, Castiel is the one to return from Purgatory first. He finds Sam, and together they spend a year. Looking for Dean and not looking for Dean.
Tags: Angelic Possession, Consensual Possession, basically possession (romantic), Trials of Hell, Canon Divergence, Hurt/Comfort, Trauma From Lucifer's Cage, Sam Winchester Has an Eating Disorder, a minor point but i wanted to mention it, references to honey!cas, Developing Relationship, Romantic Fluff, Sharing a Bed, Sharing a Body, includes art!! [complete tags on Ao3]
Summary: Sam's sickness worsens after the second trial, resulting in him being rushed to the hospital, the extensive damage has left Sam drained of his fight. To continue with the trials Sam must allow Castiel to heal him, by possessing him. While having an alien home under his skin is nothing new for Sam, Castiel's constant presence unwittingly unburies a host of issues. Two people desperate for forgiveness in the same body should get crowded at times but between the nightmares, the sickness, and the blood; there are some cookies, a quiet beach on the coast of Oregon, and a chance at something new between them.
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16. ficlet - sastiel, a/b/o dynamics by wrenseroticlibrary_archivist
Tags: Post-Episode: s09e06 Heaven Can't Wait, Missing Scene, Human Castiel, Newly Human Castiel, Love Confessions, Not Actually Unrequited Love, First Kiss, First Time, Masturbation, Sexually Inexperienced Castiel, Castiel and Sam Winchester in Love, Sastiel - Freeform
Summary: Concerned about newly-human Castiel's decision to leave the Bunker on his own, Sam sets out for Idaho to find his best friend - and get some answers for himself.
Tags: Possessed Sam Winchester, Memory Alteration, Human Castiel, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, First Time Blow Jobs, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Divergence, Sam Winchester Has Self-Esteem Issues, Castiel Has Self-Esteem Issues, Alternate Season/Series 09, Winchester communication skills
Summary: Cas has discovered his sexuality as a human when the Winchesters bring him to the bunker, and he and Sam fall into bed together. When Gadreel forces Dean to drive Cas away, the two must find their way back to each other, freeing Sam from Gadreel in the process.
Tags: Season 9, Angst, Sam topping from the bottom, Erectile Dysfunction
Summary: “Please,” was whispered into his mouth. So polite. Sam was in control here.
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20. Had Worse by posingasme
Gen, M/M | Rating: Gen | No Archive Warnings Apply | Words: 3,687 | Chapters: 1/1
Tags: Bunker Fic, Hurt/Comfort
Summary: Sam has a very high threshold for pain, and an iron will. So this current hunting injury, even with its weird attack on his view of reality, is nothing compared to what he has been through in the past. He’s had worse. But that does nothing to reassure those who love him.
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21. I'm always dragging that horse around by Trojie
Summary: Sam has a horror of angels and Cas has a compulsion to heal. It doesn't help that they speak the same languages, or that Dean is elsewhere - somehow he's always between them, and somehow they still have to meet in the middle.
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22. The Best Medicine by sarasaurusrex
Multi | Rating: Teen+ | No Archive Warnings Apply | Words: 1,247 | Chapters: 1/1
Tags: Comfort, Fluff, Depressed Sam Winchester, Season/Series 09, Misunderstandings, Castiel Takes Care of Sam Winchester, Established Castiel/Sam Winchester, Domestic Fluff
Summary: Castiel confuses Sam’s symptoms of depression with symptoms of the flu and tries to help. Set mid season 9.
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23. anything you need, that's what i'll be by starlightswait
Summary: Sam lost his soul, slept with an angel, got his soul back, lost his memory, and then lost his mind before they could have a conversation about it. It's fine. The Hell trauma is gone, and he's coping. Even when Castiel comes back, he'll continue to cope.
Tags: POV Sam Winchester, Protective Castiel, Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Kissing, First Time, Porn with Feelings, Anal Sex, Bottom Sam Winchester, Top Castiel, Bottoming from the Top, Angelic Grace Play, Angel Wings, Morning Sex, Oral Sex
Summary: Coda/AU scene to episode S09E11, First Born. "But nothing is worth losing you", Castiel shows that what he said was something he meant. Held safe in his arms and wings Sam learns the stunning truth about 'his' angel. How he heals the pain inside of him with something more than trust, care and touch.
Tags: Having Faith, Loss of Faith, First Kiss, First Time Blow Jobs, Anal Sex, Pining
Summary: Sam finds his faith and loses it and finds it again, albeit in a very different form. A Sastiel love story and exploration of Sam’s faith and spirituality. [Note: prayer during sex🙏]
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27. Table For Two by the_diving_fox
M/M | Rating: Gen | No Archive Warnings Apply | Words: 1,775 | Chapters: 1/1
Tags: somewhere in s9, Human Castiel, valentine's day fic, POV Outsider
Summary: A tired waitress at Ann's Diner happens to serve Sam and Castiel amidst all the other obnoxious Valentine's Day couples. Sam and Castiel manage to surprise her, though.
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28. Two Beat Up Humans by PacJazz
M/M, Multi | Rating: Gen | No Archive Warnings Apply | Words: 3,863 | Chapters: 1/1
Tags: Fluff and Angst, Pre-Slash, PTSD, Post-Gadreel, Human!Castiel, Hurt Sam Winchester, Post-trials with no angel healing hurt, Hurt/Comfort, Season/Series 09, Nightmares, Domestic Fluff, Hair Brushing, Insomnia, No Smut, Enochian-Speaking Sam Winchester, Sleepiness, Literal Sleeping Together [complete tags on Ao3]
Summary: Both broken, yet eager to help the other heal.... Sam and Cas are living in the bunker now, sans-dean after the gadreel betrayal. Cas is newly Human now, and while he needs some help learning the intricacies of that, Sam needs some help healing. They both share things, and think through what they've lost. *In slight AU where post-gadreel Sam is living in the bunker with newly human Castiel*
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29. A Crucifixion Without A Christ by angelshotgun
Tags: Angelic Possession, Castiel's Angelic Grace, Major Character Injury, Hurt Sam Winchester, Angst with a Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hell Trauma, Sam Winchester is Loved, Hurt Castiel, Guilty Castiel, Crying, Cuddling & Snuggling, Sam Winchester Needs a Hug, voicemail fixit, Post-Gadreel, Trust Issues, Sam Winchester Has a Crush on Castiel, Happy Ending, Schmoop, Hunter Retirement [complete tags on Ao3]
Summary: When Sam Winchester is badly injured on a hunt, Cas has to possess him to keep him alive and help him heal. And though Sam agreed to let him in, Cas is acutely aware of how many times Sam has had his bodily autonomy taken away from him, and how much Cas himself has contributed to Sam's pain. And now that he's inside Sam's head? Well, he tries to be as unobtrusive as possible, but Sam is just... traumatized. And hurting. Maybe, he thinks, maybe this is his chance to put aside his own feelings for Sam to help heal the hurts he had a hand in creating?
Summary: There is a fear in Cas that if he lets Sam make himself at home in all of the places that Dean had declined to fill, he will lose the ability to ever refuse it again. Or: Sam is sick, Cas is failing, and Dean is nowhere to be found. [implied unrequited destiel]
Tags: Hurt/Comfort, Angel Wings, Castiel in the Bunker, Permanent Injury, Protective Sam Winchester, Hurt Castiel, Fever, Delirium, Castiel & Charlie Bradbury Friendship, Alternate Canon, Season/Series 10, Angst [complete tags on Ao3]
Summary: Castiel has been hurt, but he won't reveal how bad it is. Sam distracts him from the pain by reading him classic love stories, and Cas just doesn’t think any of them depict a love as strong as theirs.
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34. Since When Does Sam Have PLANS? by Fae-and-night (goodgirlgonegeek16)
Gen | Rating: Gen | No Archive Warnings Apply | Words: 343 | Chapters: 1/1
Summary: "Dean’s POV on Sastiel, late seasons Sastiel, the ‘mistaken for a couple’ trope.
Tags: Mark of Cain, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Stolen Grace, Protective Dean Winchester, Demon Blood, BAMF Castiel, Sam Winchester on Demon Blood, Alternate Angel Lore, Canon-Typical Violence, Torture, Dean Winchester Bears the Mark of Cain, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Guilt
Summary: Dean is dealing with guilt, and fear of losing control to the Mark again. Castiel has new Grace, but eventually, it will burn out just as before. Sam just wants a fresh start all around. Life in the bunker is getting a bit...crowded. Memories and tempers are boiling over, along with something that has been heating up for a long time. Things get nasty when an old foe comes for Sam, and it's all hands on deck.
Tags: Spoilers, Mark of Cain, Dreams and Nightmares, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Psychological Torture, Canon-Typical Violence, Dean Winchester Bears the Mark of Cain, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Self-Destructive Dean Winchester
Summary: Now that Sam and Castiel have been honest with one another, and Dean has given his blessing, the two are forced into the awkward stage of figuring out where to go from here. Dean is still battling against the Mark, and his anxiety manifests in various ways, some of which are healthier than others.
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38. Sentimental Iterations by fabella
M/M | Rating: Explicit | Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings | Words: 33,370 | Chapters: 1/1
Tags: Future Fic, Season/Series 11, Season/Series 10, Slow Burn, Friends to Lovers, Betrayal, Deception, Winchester Style Death (Not Typical Death), Semi Curtain Fic, Resolved Sexual Tension, Anal Sex, Rimming, Bottom Sam, Oral Sex, Sam is a big damn hero, Castiel-centric, Human Castiel, Big Brother Dean, Angst, Hurt Sam Winchester, Mental Instability, Sacrifice, Brother Feels, Grief/Mourning [complete tags on Ao3]
Summary: Castiel learned everything he knows about devotion from the Winchesters. In this peaceful future built on the back of Sam Winchester’s most recent sacrifice, Castiel discovers that death itself can be overcome. If he’s willing to pay the price. [Notes: Set after season 10. An entirely different take on season 11.]
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39. Sam's Room by NobleHouseOfBlack
M/M | Rating: Not Rated | No Archive Warnings Apply | Words: 1,864 | Chapters: 1/1
Tags: No Dialogue, Nightmares, Sharing a Bed, Platonic Cuddling, Feel-good
Summary: Sam's room in the bunker didn't seem like his room. He slept there occasionally but there was nothing that would indicate he lived there.
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40. The Devil’s Gonna Let On That You’re In The Details by sahwen
M/M | Rating: Not Rated | Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings | Words: 3,055 | Chapters: 1/1
Tags: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Lucifer Possessing Castiel, Post-Episode: s11e10 The Devil in the Details, Episode: s11e14 The Vessel, Post-Episode: s11e14 The Vessel, Season/Series 12, this fic spans across a lot of time, Hook-Up, Sam Winchester Has Mental Health Issues, Trauma, Protective Dean Winchester, Supportive Dean, Post-Possession
Summary: Sam and Cas have been hooking up casually for a while when something feels off to Sam. He’s sure it’s just his mind playing tricks on him.
Tags: Rape/Non-con Elements, Abusive Relationships, Angst, Dubious Consent Due To Identity Issues, everybody needs a hug, and therapy, Hurt/very little comfort, Unhealthy Relationships, No really every relationship in this is fucked up on some level, Hurt Sam Winchester, Season/Series 11, Lucifer Possessing Castiel, Enochian-Speaking Sam Winchester
Summary: Cas has loved Sam for quite some time. Then he said yes to Lucifer and everything went to hell.
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42. Heartbreak is Savvy and Love is a Bitch by Cuda (Scylla)
Tags: Lapdance, Light Dom/sub, Dom Castiel, Sub Sam Winchester, Sensation Play, Post-Episode: s11e14 The Vessel, Implied/Referenced Torture, Sam Winchester Deserves to be Happy, Safewords, Sam Winchester is Bad at Feelings, Sam Winchester is Bad at Self Care, Castiel's not the most experienced dom, Established Relationship, Light Angst [complete tags on Ao3]
Summary: Castiel and Sam work on some fractures in their relationship. A gentle attempt at sensory play goes awry, leaving them scrambling to ratchet things back up to normal. Part of the 2020 Supernatural Kink Bingo.
Tags: Hurt Sam Winchester, Protective Dean Winchester, Protective Castiel, Aftermath of Torture, Implied Mind Rape, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Protective Mary Winchester
Summary: Mary Winchester has rescued her son. She’s just thirty years too late. Or: The aftermath of Sam’s rescue from the British Men of Letters
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44. whore of babylon by angelszn (artbabe)
M/M | Rating: Mature | Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings | Words: 2,465 | Chapters: 1/1
Tags: Infidelity, Movie Night, Sam Winchester Has Self-Worth Issues, Dean Winchester is Bad at Feelings, Floor Sex, Non-Penetrative Sex, Drinking, Dubious Consent, Past Rape/Non-con, Guilt, Gift Exchange [contains background destiel]
Summary: “Dean is a good man, and I love him. But sometimes, I…” Cas licks his lips. “Sam, I’m afraid.” Sam should leave. He should walk away. He should run. But his body is heavy and wine-drunk, his head spins at what Cas might be hinting at. “What are you afraid of?”
Tags: Unrequited Wincest, Unrequited Sastiel, Platonic Sex, Friendship, Sexually Inexperienced Castiel, Fuck Or Die, Curses, Frottage, POV Sam Winchester, Season/Series 12, Hung Sam Winchester, Present Tense
Summary: Sam knows better than to touch anything in the bunker that looks even the slightest bit suspicious. And yet…
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46. Wins & Losses by Threshie
M/M, Multi | Rating: Teen+ | Major Character Death | Words: 17,384 | Chapters: 8/8
Tags: Temporarily Dead Castiel, Heartbroken Sam Winchester, Comforting Dean Winchester, Sharing a Bed, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Sastiel, Wincest, Wincestiel, Poly Vee With Sam Pivot, Cuddling & Snuggling, Men of Letters Bunker, Angst with a Happy Ending, Touchy-Feely, Grieving Sam Winchester, Idiots in Love [complete tags on Ao3]
Summary: A few months after Sam and Castiel start dating, the angel is killed. Still reeling from the loss of his best friend, Dean can’t just sit and watch Sam’s heartbreak slowly pull him away, too.
Tags: Friends to Lovers, Asexual Relationship, Literal Sleeping Together, Sharing a Bed, Feelings Realization, Hugs, Boys Kissing, Case Fic, Monster Hunters, Crime Scenes, Angst, Blood, Hurt, Pagan Gods, Magic
Summary: Castiel and Sam have come to another nameless town to free it from the claws of a dark and ancient power. As they work the case their friendship grows stronger, changing into something more or does it? This, here, now… brings the confirmation they each needed.
Tags: Food Issues, showtunes, Sleep Deprivation, Hurt Sam Winchester, Sick Sam Winchester
Summary: Everyone deals with their losses in their own way, and Sam prefers to work things out on his own. But his angel friend can’t stand on the sidelines as the hunter wastes away in pain. Sam may have had a complex past, but an angel’s love is proof that he must have done something good.
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49. Something to Talk About by Fae-and-night (goodgirlgonegeek16)
Summary: Jack discovers the joy of comic books, and reminds Castiel of a time when Bobby Singer called him Superman. And Dean had an opinion about who his Lois Lane was.
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51. Happy Ain't a Two-Story Victorian, But it Might Be This by Cuda (Scylla)
Tags: Episode: s14e15 Peace of Mind, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Fake Marriage, Mind Control, Mind Manipulation, Dean Winchester Tries, Family Issues, Jack Kline & Dean Winchester Bonding
Summary: Sam and Castiel have been on a mission to an Arkansas hamlet, and they haven't checked in. When Dean and Jack trail them to a quiet street in Charming Acres, what they find is nothing like either of them expected. To be honest, cleaning out a nest of vampires might be easier than this, but Dean's going to give it the old college try. Whatever that means.
Tags: mildly homophobic!Mary, inappropriate anniversary gifts, protective!Dean, Sam Winchester Has Self-Worth Issues, Season/Series 14, Fluff, Tumblr Prompt, Oblivious!Dean
Summary: There is something different about Sam and Cass. The lingering stares, the intimate touches. The careful whispers and secret smiles. Dean knew it. He was going to get to the bottom of it, one way or another.
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53. Stricta Dormire by klove0511
M/M | Rating: Teen+ | Major Character Death | Words: 3,583 | Chapters: 1/1
Tags: Temporary Character Death, Fairy Tale Type Death, Established Relationship, Hurt Sam Winchester, Angst with a Happy Ending, Hell Trauma, Season/Series 14 Spoilers, Sad Dean Winchester, Sad Castiel, Grief/Mourning, True Love's Kiss
Summary: When Sam is hit by a spell, Cass is the only one that can save him. Meanwhile, Dean is grieving his brother, unaware of the struggle going on within Sam’s mind.
Tags: Curtain Fic, Alcohol, Hurt Sam Winchester, Retired Hunter Sam Winchester, Bartender Sam Winchester, Permanent Injury
Summary: The last tangle with the last archangel ended with an act of spite, from which Sam will never recover. Lucifer’s bitter parting gift to his wayward vessel means Sam’s forced retirement. He runs the hub from his very own Roadhouse, and watches over a powered-down nephilim, while a weakened but recovering Castiel hunts at Dean’s side. It’s a rough life, but someone’s got to do it.
Tags: Wisconsin - Freeform, The Beast of Bray Road, References to Norse Religion & Lore, Season/Series 15, Monster of the Week, Case Fic, Sastiel Secret Santa Exchange, Sastiel - Freeform, Sastiel Secret Santa 2019
Summary: Fills in a little gap of time between 15-7 and 15-8. Sam's on the hunt for Eileen, and winds up on a case in the middle of Wisconsin in December. What seems like a straightforward case of werewolves gets out of hand, when the werewolves turn out to be something Sam's never encountered before. It's Castiel to the rescue, but in the middle of the night in a refrigerator of a forest, one wrong move could be the last one they ever make.
Tags: faerie - Freeform, possibly in some way a Canadian shack fic, except Faerie, Consent Issues, animal death (hunting), Unrequited Destiel, Soulless Sam Winchester, POV Castiel
Summary: Castiel walks back into Faerie with Sam's soul in a jar in his pocket.
Tags: Hurt Sam Winchester, Comforting Castiel, samcas, Sastiel - Freeform, Hurt/Comfort, Season/Series 15, Angst, Crying Sam Winchester, Don’t Look at These Messy Tags, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, no beta we die like men
Summary: The one where Cas hears Sam crying and realizes he’s been avoiding the youngest Winchester for much too long. Set somewhere in season 15.
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58. It’s Good to Be Here Again, With You by raisinghellonstarbug
M/M | Rating: Gen | No Archive Warnings Apply | Words: 2,240 | Chapters: 1/1
Tags: Canon Compliant, Reunions, Mentioned Dean Winchester, Fluff and Angst, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Sharing a Bed, Season/Series 15, Episode: s15e07 Last Call
Summary: Sam is missing Castiel and doesn't understand why he left. He knows Dean has something to do with it. But then he shows back up just in time before Sam's in real trouble.
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59. wishing too hard for them to stay by angelfishofthelord
Gen | Rating: Not Rated | Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings | Words: 1,727 | Chapters: 1/1
Tags: Episode s15e17 coda, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Angst, One Shot, Season/Series 15, Season/Series 15 Speculation, POV First Person, POV Sam Winchester [complete tags on Ao3]
Summary: You tell me you’re doing to die, and I don’t yell at you. Instead I say, “Let’s go for a walk.”
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⚠️ Unfinished Fic - last updated in 2013
60. Of Blood And Water by lovedsammy
M/M, Gen | Rating: Mature | Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings | Words: 20,081 Chapters: 7/?
Summary: Now AU to season 9! Post-8x23, "Sacrifice". Both of them were wounded, broken, in need of repair; both of them had done things in the name of the greater good and had ultimately failed and caused something or another to bend and break and destroy upon itself. They'd both wrecked themselves to achieve an end, and in turn wrecked others. But they couldn't have been more than two opposites on the end of the spectrum that somehow aligned at the middle-point, and now there was no going back.
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💜💀🖤 Self Rec 💜💀🖤
(because this is a list of my favs, and I wrote it for me)
61. grief and husbands on the interstate by ladygizarme
Tags: background wincest, background wincestiel - Freeform, they're a polycule but they're sam-centered, Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Rimming, Bottom Sam Winchester, Spit As Lube, Wound Tending, Episode: s14e01 Stranger in a Strange Land, part coda, Part fix-it, Polyamory, Anal Sex
Summary: En route from Detroit back to the bunker, Cas makes them stop at a motel. Sam is exhausted, and so is everybody else. But right now, Castiel's priority is Sam, and he knows just what he needs. Part coda, part fix-it to 14x01.
