Summary: You are a criminal and he is a bounty hunter–how else could this possibly end.
(Rivals to something more. Romantic tension. One bed. Huddling together for warmth.)
Warnings: None.
You’d warned him not to come after you.
Had told him, sweet as syrup, that you would lead him to hell and back if he didn’t ditch your puck and forget the bounty on your head.
He’s the only one you’ve been unable to shake, every other bounty hunter to take up the task to detain you has either given up or died, whether by the treacherous places you choose to inhabit or by your own hand.
But not this one.
He’s different–your Mandalorian shadow– smarter, more calculating and controlled than those who take the jobs to stoke a power complex and often meet a violent end as payment for their ego.
He’s in it for the credits, 'it’s nothing personal' he tells you and you believe him. At least you do until you've danced out of his leather-gloved reach just one too many times with a delighted grin, a teasing wink and the honey-sweet purr of your voice on the wind.
Better luck next time Mando.
Yeah, he comes for you a little bit harder after that– loses that professional detachment piece by piece as every meeting that follows feeds the charged tension growing between you, each new spark of contact painted with just a touch more ferality than the last.
Now it’s a challenge.
There’s no discussion anymore, any attempt at reasoning a simple, quiet capture long forgotten because you’ve initiated this little game of cat and mouse through the galaxy and apparently woken something within the previously stoic hunter.
He attacks quick and ruthless when you’re hiding on Maldo Kreis, a ghost in the shadows of the darkest frost-bitten cavern you could find. Sure there was no chance he would follow you here, let alone find you, until he’s suddenly right there. Behind you, snatching at your waist and yanking you tight against the sharp, broad width of his chest.
He’s got you locked to him. Thick arms like a band of steel around you as the clasp of worn leather encircles your wrists before your fingers can so much as twitch in the direction of your weapons.
You buck and writhe but it’s useless, he’s too large– heavy with muscle and the strength of his armour hunched over your frame. If only you could have a moment to think, though its slightly difficult with him crushed to you in a way that makes your already racing pulse jump erratically.
You can’t throw your head back like your instinct initially demands, there’s no soft flesh or fragile bone for you to hit, just unforgiving metal that promises the worst fucking headache known to man if you decide to be so rash.
You take in a steadying breath and test the waters but it’s like he can sense your thoughts. Like he’s so deeply attuned to how you think after spending maker-knows how long following you through the galaxy.
Any ideas you have are burned up, turned to ash and carried away on the icy wind the moment you enact them as he blocks and parries every single attempt to hit out at him, keeping a secure hold on you despite your savage clawing and kicking.
And it’s not until your muscles ache, your breath hitched on a quiet pant whilst you sag back into him that to add insult to injury, you realise his grip on you isn’t as restraining as it should be. It’s almost light, gentle even.
Taunting.
He’s trailing soft circles over the tender skin of your wrists, the rise of his chest deep and even against your back. Everything about him is calm, collected— self assured and bordering on smug. He knows you can’t get away from him, that he’s got you for good this time and is simply amusing himself by watching you jerk and thrash and snarl in fury.
“Fuck.” You huff.
He chuckles then.
The sound like rough velvet and it’s impossible to not give in to the shudder trying to slip over your spine, to lean back into him when he presses closer and dips his chin to your shoulder. The cold kiss of beskar against your cheek and the deep rumble at the back of his throat drifting through the modulator in his helmet to curl around your ear like smoke.
“Better luck next time mesh’la.”
**
But now it’s your turn to be smug.
After all there’s a reason you chose a planet like Maldo Kreis to hide on. It’s not like you're here for the entertainment, although watching the typically quiet Mandalorian grow steadily more agitated as his ship fails to regain power has been quite the satisfying experience for your wounded pride.
He might have caught you unaware but the capture is only half of his mission and it’s looking pretty impossible for him to complete the remaining part when he has no way of hauling your ass out of here. You’re at a stalemate–the arctic climate working in your favour to trap him whilst he’s been preoccupied trapping you.
There’s ice everywhere. Creeping through the Crest like webs of frosted glass, burrowing inside the already temperamental mechanics of such an old ship and with the loss of light as the dark stretch of night slips in there’s no sign of things being fixed before morning at least.
Something that you're sure has already become irritatingly obvious to him given the way he stomps back and forth as he secures your home for the evening.
With every piercing howl of frigid wind that cuts through the cockpit he curses. His shoulders tensing that much harder, tone dragged through with grit, as he hastily shoves another threadbare blanket into your lap when you begin to shake before throwing himself into the pilot’s seat and trying the controls again with no more result than he had ten minutes ago.
“You need to stay warm.” He casts a sideways glance at you, grunts. “Otherwise you’ll die before we get off this fucking planet.”
You blink in surprise before grinning through the click of your chattering teeth. “ I didn’t realise you cared, Mandalorian.”
He goes silent– his helmet tilting an inch as he stares at you but your eyes are drawn to the minute twitch of his fingers on a switch. The soft creak of leather as his hands subtly flex and clench whilst he watches you watch him until a thick tension blooms in the air.
When he eventually breaks it, slashes through the slow suffocation that holds your lungs tight in its fist as you wait, his words are detached. Clinical. And maybe you’d believe them if it wasn’t for the echo of a strain they’re shaded in.
“I get paid less if you’re dead.”
“Right, yeah of course–that’s what this is.”
**
It only grows colder – the type of chill that hooks into your bones and bites deep.
And Mando must see it on your face, the discomfort, the stabbing ache of your insides turning to brittle glass beneath your skin, because he’s suddenly on his feet. Grabbing your wrist in the broad circle of his hand and dragging you quickly behind him, balling the blankets beneath his other arm as he leads you to an enclosed nook with a thin mattress inside.
You both seem to stare at it for a short cluster of awkward seconds before he gestures towards the bunk A jerking, almost insecure movement that you gather is from showing you something so mundane, yet so personal.
And you get it.
It’s becoming more difficult to simply see him as your ruthless hunter when he’s trying to offer you all that he has– his protection and his kindness (even if it is buried deep under a mountain of grumpiness) and now the place where he’s most vulnerable.
It makes your gut twist strange, creates an odd tickle in your chest and draws a shaky breath past your lips as he clears his throat.
“It’ll be warmer for you in here.” He mutters. “Get in and close it after you.”
You frown. “What about you?”
He makes a non-committal noise, shrugging. “I’ll be in the cockpit if you need me.”
“You can’t be serious?” You protest, concern colouring your voice before you can swallow it down, followed by a soft chirp of disbelief when he stares at you blankly in return. “Maker, Mando it’s practically frozen over in there, are you trying to tell me you’d prefer to suffer a miserable, icy death in that pilot chair rather than share a bed with me?”
That startles him visibly, somewhat comically. This warrior, who’s imposing presence can terrify so many, choking on an abrupt cough before he shifts uncomfortably enough to convince you he’d rather bolt right this fucking instant than answer that question.
His reaction makes you wonder if he’s ever just simply shared a bed with someone or if that’s a tenderness he can’t allow himself to indulge in his line of work, your treacherous mind conjuring a hazy, soft edged image of him wound around you. 0f all those sharp edges moulded to the velvet plush of your skin as his hands stroke your cheek, your arms, your belly.
Fuck, okay that’s enough of that.
There’s a flush of heat blooming in your face before it’s thankfully snatched away by the sting of ice in the air. Mando is still quiet whilst you're having some kind of internal crisis–the pitch dark blankness of his visor trained on you before his fingers twitch and he crosses his arms over his chest.
“It’s not that–I don’t–it’s not necessary. Don’t worry about me, I’ll be fine.” He eventually murmurs but he sounds different than before, huskier.
You gulp as it slides over you, as that tension from earlier in the cockpit seeps in the spaces between you once again. Thick enough to make your skin tingle and your heart palpitate and if you don’t break it now you might do something very, very, stupid.
So, of course, you joke instead. “Isn’t sharing body heat like the first rule of survival in this kind of situation? It’s because I’m a bounty isn’t it?" You heave a dramatic, long suffering, sigh. "Well then I hope the bastard who sent you after me didn’t plan on gloating when you take me back–he’ll probably have to defrost me first."
He moves towards you then, a single step before he seems to restrain himself, amusement briefly colouring his tone. “He did say I could bring you in warm or bring you in cold, my choice.”
“Ah. So let me guess, you're choosing frozen for the convenience then, a little peace and quiet? Wonderful.”
In response he nearly makes you swallow your own damn tongue–he reaches for you and cups your chin, brushes the skin just below your lip with his thumb, soft and slow, as his voice pitches to a low rasp.
“No, I prefer you warm.”
Oh.
Maker help you.
**
He retreats after that, after your eyes go round and wide and your breath shudders from your lungs.
You had almost swayed into him, your fingers itching to curl into his cowl and pull him to you as things better left unsaid clogged up your throat, the beginnings of molten pleas that you shouldn’t be asking of someone who intends to hand you over for credits.
That thought effectively douses you in cold water, the reminder of what you are to one another, enough for you to take a step back out of his reach and attempt a strained smile when his hand drops and silence stretches between you.
“So are we bunking together or not because I’d really like to get some sleep sometime soon.” You say flippantly.
And it’s not exactly a lie – you are exhausted. Bone-tired from everything that has lead to this moment right here, but you know Mando picks up that it’s not the full reason for your abrupt reroute of the conversation. The unnatural lilt in your voice as you strive to appear unaffected by his touch, the heat coiling in his words.
His visor is on you, the blankness of it somehow piercing as he stares, tries to figure out what's going on inside your head. To decipher what’s made you shift and draw in on yourself when you’ve always been so unflinchingly honest with him.
But this is different, this is something you can’t be upfront about because where that path could lead is not somewhere you can go.
“Sure,” He finally says. “If you’re okay with it, if it’s what you want.”
It isn’t.
Not even close.
**
There’s something you hadn’t considered when opting to share such a tight space with a fully armoured Mandalorian–something that would have been great crossing your mind before your skin felt like it wanted to peel itself back from the searing pain that comes with touching frosted metal.
Beskar, like any other metals, turns excruciatingly cold when exposed to such a glacial climate. A fact you miserably discover when Mando slides in next to you, the length of his body, that chill-bitten armour, pushing close to your back.
“Fuck, fuck, stars that’s fucking cold.” You shriek, your body bowing and twisting in a desperate attempt to get away.
But there’s nowhere for you to really go in what’s essentially a narrow hole in the wall, the ridiculousness of the situation eventually getting the better of you as the two of you try everything you can think of to not be in some kind of contact.
It’s a drawn out moment of desperate wriggling –of practically trying to crawl up the wall amongst the echoes of your startled noises everytime you feel that shock of cold and Mando’s guilty muttering “shit, sorry.”
And then you start laughing, you can’t help it, a delirious giggle spilling past your lips. He’s a Mandalorian and you’re a criminal– you both have this reputation that makes others wary, makes people think you're tough, dangerous.
If only the galaxy could see you now.
You feel like teenagers. Especially when after a moment of stunned silence he joins in, a low, warm chuckle that grows into a truly beautiful laugh, drifting through his modulator to wrap around the pounding flesh of your poor, unsuspecting heart.
How can someone’s laugh be that fucking attractive.
Nope, no, not going there–focus.
“Okay, this obviously isn’t going to work.” You mumble, sensing him turn to you in the dark when you sit up and pass a weary hand over your face. “I’ll go sleep in the cockpit.”
“No.” There’s the sound of him moving then his fingers catching yours, the heat of him radiating through the leather. “You said it yourself, it’s frozen over, there’ll be no way for you to stay warm enough–I’ll go.”
And here we go again.
You roll your eyes, a teasing edge to your voice. “Mando I’m not kicking you out of your own bed, I might have some questionable morals but I’m not that rude.”
He snorts before his hand jerks. Stilling at the short, hesitant slide of your fingers up and down his, the motion of it tangling them together further as he inhales sharply. “A thief with manners–cute.”
“I try.”
They both slip into silence then, falling quiet to the gentle exploration of the other’s hand, the swell of warmth blooming outwards from the links of their fingers to encase them whole.
He’s watching you, not that you can see, but you can feel his gaze. The weight of it trailing over and over, every inch of your being until you feel almost certain he’s somehow managed to see inside of you too. All the soft fleshy parts, the fears and the insecurities, the secrets you bury deep along with those thoughts you have about him.
“I could take it off.” He says quietly.
You're confused for a few seconds, your brain attempting to backtrack the last few moments for something you must have missed whilst you were too far in your own head. "Take what off?"
He swallows hard. "The armour." He murmurs. "I could take it off if it would make you more comfortable."
Oh.
That punches you somewhere deep, knocking the breath right out of your lungs as you whip your head in his direction to stare at him, incredulous. You don't know much about his culture, just tales and rumours, but you're positive that what he's offering to do for you is no small thing.
"I thought that was forbidden for a mandalorian." You whisper.
"We don't remove the helmets." He replies softly, clears his throat as he crinkles the sheets in the tense, iron grip of his other hand. "But it's our choice to remove the rest of the armour in front of another."
You allow that to sink in for a moment, a little dizzy with it–this trust he's willing to tentatively slip into the trembling cup of your hands despite the muddied history you share, the time you've spent not necessarily as enemies but certainly rivals.
"I don't–I'm not–I, fuck ," He's struck you completely fucking dumb, tongue tied in some impossible knot with his waiting gaze fixed upon you. "I don't want you to do anything you're not comfortable with." You manage to breathe out eventually.
His fingers draw away from you and your mourn the loss, the sudden emptiness as your heart drops somewhere by your toes.
Have you upset him?
Offended him somehow?
But no. There's the faint brush, a whisper, of worn leather over the swell of your cheek almost to quick to recognise before he's moved by you and opened up the cosy little nook to the blistering chill.
He cuts a terrifying figure as he looms over you but when he speaks his tone is gentle, shy almost.
"I want to."
**
Is it rude to look or is it somehow more rude to look away?
Fuck, you don't know.
You quickly decide when he begins the process of removing the armour, choosing to fix your gaze to your lap because it seems like the right thing to do, respectful. For a Mandalorian you imagine removing the armour is like removing a layer of their being, baring themselves in some significant way that isn't simply just physical.
It feels private, intimate and vulnerable, and you don't want to cheapen the moment by gawking at him like he's some exhibit in a museum.
When the final clink of metal hitting the floor fades into an echo there’s a rushed exhale to follow, an expulsion of relief-tinged anxiousness, that you subconsciously mirror.
You wonder if his palms are a little slick like yours, if his heart rate is that little bit too quick to try and convince himself that this isn’t going to change something monumental in whatever your relationship is.
“You can look at me.” He says gently, touched through with a whisper of fear. “I’m pretty sure you won’t turn to stone or something.”
It defuses the tension you’re brewing within your own bones just enough that your lips quirk slightly, your eyes flicking up before you can stop yourself and then you’re biting into the thick of your tongue until the coppery taste of your own blood floods your mouth just to prevent the gasp rattling in your throat.
He’s just as breathtaking as he is with the armour. Maybe even more so.
Because now in addition to the broadness of him–the curves and ridges of his thick muscular body that you’ve witnessed exhibit a type of strength that can be explained as nothing short of powerful, there’s just this smidge of softness to his makeup now.
This glimpse of him that is so obviously human and so heart-stoppingly endearing that it feels like a herculean effort to not reach out and touch him.
It feels like your heart is jammed up in your windpipe as you offer a shaky smile–a timid offering of reassurance. “Good to know you actually have a body.” You muse, lips splitting into a broader grin when the Mandalorian seems to stare at you in a way you read as utterly confused. “I was beginning to think you might just be a soul attached to the armour or something.”
He’s silent, a blank slate, but then after a few beats he huffs. Drawls, exasperated and somewhat fond. “You have some fucking imagination, you know that.”
You wink at him, patting the flimsy mattress beside you teasingly. “If you hurry up and get in here before I turn into an ice block, I’ll tell you some other theories I’ve had.”
“Can’t wait.” He remarks dryly, voice dipped in the shine of a grin.
He climbs back in, closes the hatch and slides up to stretch himself alongside you and then it’s like neither of you dare move. You lay side by side with only the faint sounds of your breathing and the burning heat of his arm nudged up against your own to convince you this is really happening.
And when you shiver he feels it reverberate through his own body, rolls onto his side in this tight little space where the action of it brings him close enough that had he been helmetless, he would be able to watch the way his breath stirred the long sweep of your lashes.
“Are you still cold?” He asks.
“Just a little.”
He makes a soft noise of an acknowledgement before you feel movement against the mattress – the slide of fingers over the sheets as he reaches to tangle them with your own and tug slightly.
“Come here.”
Your heart stills, seizes up, and then fucking pounds like the heralding cry of a war drum. Yet your body has a mind of it’s own, his words are a warm, low rumble through his chest sinking into the vital parts of your own, hooking into clumps of tissue to reel you into him.
And you go, of course you do, because whatever power you have, whatever innate strength the maker gifted you at birth, it was clearly never meant to hold up against him.
Not when he asks you like that.
You go like you were made to do so and he seals himself around you like he was born to fit with you. And in the perfect pitch dark off the cot the simple act of it is everything.
It’s the heat of him at your back, ridges of firm muscle pressed tight to the curve of your spine and the way you move in time with his every soothing breath. It’s his chin notched atop your head, the fact it’s somehow weirdly comforting when he speaks and it vibrates through the base of your skull.
It’s his hands. Stars, his hands.
He gives you his bare hands and they steal your breath away. These hands that have dealt pain and death , calloused with unsavoury deeds yet still so lovely, threading through your own with a gentleness you could never imagine he was capable of had you not felt it firsthand.
All of it feels so soul-shatteringly natural – and that, you think, is the scariest fucking thing in the galaxy.
You absolutely cannot allow this, it’s impossible this amount of peace in his arms without having to tear some part of yourself and leave it behind when you inevitably decide to make your escape again. And you don’t want to give any more pieces of yourself out into the galaxy, to someone who could take that piece and tear it to shreds, roll it in glass and set it on fire until there’s nothing but ash.
Because you are a criminal and he is a bounty hunter – how else could this possibly end.
Move away. Just move away from him now and you'll be fine, there’s no damage done yet.
But it’s like he can sense your unsease, your sudden intention to flee. “Sleep.” Mando chastises softly. “I can practically hear your brain whirring.”
“But what about all the theories I promised to enlighten you with.” You struggle to keep your tone light, praying he doesn’t notice and it seems like maybe for once today, luck is on your side.
There’s the huff of his laugh as he curls around you tighter and squeezes your hands between his. It’s so fucking tender that you feel like sobbing. “Tomorrow. You can tell me all the theories you want tomorrow.” He murmurs– brushes a thumb over your knuckles. “Sleep now, mesh’la.”
And because it’s warm, because you feel safer than you have in a long damn time, lulled by the deep, rhythmic breaths at your back, you do. You tell yourself that this is fine, that it’s just one night in his arms.
t.w.: Dark-ish, Smut, PinV, Slight breeding/lactation kink, oral (f!receiving), Reader is a SW who owes money, themes of forced sex work/blackmail/Trafficking, Din is a good man! (but a man nonetheless), Needles and Drug used on Reader (for tracker extraction), Din kills sex traffickers and saves those in need! (implied), He's delulu and in love with Reader, Unrequited love, misunderstandings...
a/n: Please read all warnings before reading any of my works. 18+ Only!!!!! This is an edited version of a post I did based on an ask that was part of my birthday celebration like three years ago, lolz.
Summary: Din saves you from a secret underground Coruscant brothel.
“I’m taking you with me.”
You don’t look surprised; your eyes flicker with a hint of desperation before you compose yourself again. Tongue flicks past glossy and pinch plumpened lips. Your hand was firm as you gripped his to press against your neck. This move was usually done when you wanted to tempt him to caress your warm skin. Like you were taught to do with most clients.
Your forefinger presses against his. Underneath his orange tipped glove he feels the small disk underneath your skin. Then you angle his hand up, the tips of his fingers touching your earlobe.
They have you recorded and tracked. Like an animal. His head tilts as his fingers lightly pull at your earlobe, as if probing your skin, teasing the give of your flesh like most of the men passing through this planet’s hellish underworld.
“I belong here.”
He shifts closer, the cheap material of the couch crinkling from the movement. The plastic jewels hanging from your shoulders and undergarments jingle like fairy dust. A care-free tone slips from your lips but doesn’t quite last long enough to convince him.
“What if you belonged to me?”
Instead of them.
“I don’t belong to anyone,” you retorted quickly, as you were trained to respond.
He was quiet for a moment. You sat still. He liked looking at you, especially when you weren’t performing an act. Even if you couldn’t see his face, you knew he was frowning. His hand cradles your jaw, forcing your head to tilt up, to meet his stare. It always breaks your facade.
Your smile was too teasing, too curved. Fake. It twitches with a frown of your own briefly as he sustains the awkward silence.
“What if I purchase you?”
That caught you off guard. You blink before you respond in humor.
“You're silly, Mando.”
Your breath hitches slightly, eyes flickering to your door and the cameras he knew were angled towards you in the corner of the spacious and well furnished suite.
“Even if I did have a price, you wouldn’t be able to afford me, even with your beskar.”
He nods as if discussing war plans. Crossing out his options and making new ones. His thumb absentmindedly smoothing over your cheeks as he pivots his scheme.
“What if I steal you away?”
Your eyes widen and you swallow thickly. He can see you think, your eyes flickering to him and the door with urgent frequency.
Then, as you take a breath in and look at him straight on, you present a challenge with a smirk, your eyes brightening with hope underneath the mirth you kept up for the cam.
“That is, if you could steal me away. I doubt it. There are guards at every door, cameras at every angle the second you step out the building.”
You press a kiss to his gloved palm and sit up straighter, his hand running down your arm and to your hand. He declines your offer for a glass of wine but he gestures for you to indulge. You’re only allowed a drink if your clients ask you to directly.
“Y’know, I know most of the guards actually.”
He tilts his head. He can feel heat build in his stomach at your words. He knows who they are, they don’t particularly look nice.
“They talk to us when we wake up for breakfast, they slack off…”
You look at him pointedly.
“I don’t even think they pay attention to their own job at that point,” you sigh. You hope the droids looking over the footage and sound didn’t pick up the conversation. It was all said playfully, with the candor of tease.
For a moment you think of what would happen if they caught you now. A shiver runs down your spine. They would probably ban him from the city at that point, they had the power to do that. The fear of never seeing him again was far greater than the punishment they would deal you, you realize.
His hand squeezes lightly, stopping your fingers from trembling and directing your focus to him again.
“Do they-?”
“No. Everyone knows I’m off limits.”
He nods, staring at the way you try to smile, your eyes reddening and your lashes starting to stick together from the moisture of your welling tears. His grip tightens reassuringly before letting go on your lap gently.
“Good.”
You chuckle when he stands as he moves to the door, body clinking as if he were a machine underneath his armor. You knew he was hard sturdy flesh beneath.
“I’ll be back soon.”
For a moment your smile falters.
The soon coming after his usual departing words was new. He was always truthful, like that one time he mentioned how he didn’t really care for the uncomfortable lingerie you were forced to wear or how he only chose you because of the way you stood as the head of the brothel showed him around the suites and their ‘pleasures’.
Soon was never going to be the truth for him. He had bounties to hunt, responsibilities to take care of and he would come by every two weeks.
His initial request of having himself be your sole “client” cost him some heavy credits. You fucked him the whole night when he came back, just having found out all of your other appointments were cancelled for good, or at least as long as he comes back to pay the next time he returned back for services.
He knew he would be gone, he never lied to you. So the soon was peculiar. You smile genuinely when he reaches for you one last time, urging you to stand and dismiss him. His soon meant soon.
His helmet makes you shiver, he started bumping heads with you whenever he left two months ago. He said it was like a goodbye kiss, and for once, in a long time, you were the one swooning.
You willed the joyful tears in until you shut the door, collapsing into yourself in a heap on the floor. They don’t care if you cried after your clients left, they just didn’t want the loose threads to show when the services were being given.
…
He lied to you.
The two weeks were up, you cringed when they handed you a tablet, names upon names of clients scheduled for the next week. You trusted, you gave your true companionship to a man whose face you've never seen. You've fantasized of salvation, of freedom because of him.
An inkling of trust was built when he reassured you that nothing had to happen, that he just wanted to get rid of the chip he was given in exchange for a bounty.
The 'boss' didn't care that much, especially since he kept coming back, even if his free services, brought to him by his gifted chip, were up. He wanted to take up your time, give you rest from the others that would come your way.
He thought himself oh so noble, helping someone out, bringing peace of mind.
It suddenly became something much more, one night he was pent up, tense, and heaving with energy. He had lost a bounty, some credits, but he was always on schedule for you.
You did like you were supposed to every time he entered your suite. You moved to relieve, expecting him to push you away. Preparing for him to lift your hand away softly like all of the other times, making you chuckle from the exasperated shake of his head.
You were surprised when he didn't move to remove your hand gliding up his thigh from where he sat on the recliner. He didn't stop you when you reached into his pants, pressing your robe down so that you could straddle his thighs and so he could cup your breasts.
He was hooked the second you licked your hand covered in his spill. His chest heaved, his hands gripping your hips, your robe now discarded on the floor.
The thought of someone else seeing you like this made him pause. He decided then that this sight was only for him.
You guess he was like the rest. Demented in his mind games, manipulating you to think he had ever cared for you as a person. You should have known you became an object the moment he started fucking you.
It was only a matter of time before he got tired.
…
You lay in bed, eyes wide open, watching as the drapes to your room flowed and flapped from the wind. You dread going to sleep only to wake up with a man that wasn't Mando coming into your bedroom. It was unfair, you thought.
Why did he get your hopes up?
As you start to let your eyes droop closed you hear a tapping on your window. You choose to ignore it. But the next time was louder.
You were upset, throwing on a robe and grumbling towards the window to see what the commotion was. You hoped it wasn't those guards again, throwing pebbles at windows in order to get the attention of the workers.
Your breath rushed out of your lungs as you turned from your closet, body freezing in place. Mando’s shadow looms over the floor, the city lights blooming behind him. His hand was flat against the glass, his fingers tapping repeatedly now that you were up.
His chest fills with pride at the fact that you rush to open the frame as recognition registers in your mind. His hulking form squeezes through precariously. You pull him inside, closing the curtains quickly.
He chuckles when you look him over, running your hands over his arms and chest, looking for signs of altercations.
"They didn't see you?" you ask, panicked.
He pats his waist, his blaster sitting nicely in his holster.
Typically, all weapons were taken at the door, you've only seen him as bare as he could be, armor and his flight suit only. It was jarring to see how many weapons he carries on his person now as he stands before you; you wonder how much it weighs, he was practically covered in ammunition and guns and knives.
"I took care of them."
He was dangerous, you realized, a splatter of red almost glowing on his helmet the second you noticed it. He grabs your hands, you continue to stare, your body tense in caution.
His helmet makes you shiver, he slouches so that your foreheads touch. He sighs.
"We need to leave."
You step back. He came to save you. Your heart drops after a moment. The other girls were still here. Others, like you, that wanted to clear their debts, were still going to be held in the brothel for who knows how much longer. Fees increased, which increased total due. It never stopped, a new tax added every time you were close to paying off.
"We need to get the others..."
He stands straighter, he sighs again. His hands now at his sides.
"We don't have time."
"Please. I've known them for the longest, they deserve freedom too."
For a moment he stands completely still. It unnerves you, his sudden silence at times. He nods. For a brief moment standing still with his hands on his hips. You purse your lips, moving to sit on your bed as he contemplates, most likely coming up with a plan.
"What took so long?" you ask softly, not really complaining about his absence but hating the silence. He ignores your question, instead digging into the satchel on his side. The glint coming from his pocket makes you pause. The device in his hands was box like, probes by the sides.
He kneels before you, pressing it against your hands and when you stare down at him in question he points to your neck.
"It deactivates it, I had to search for one that pairs with yours."
From his pocket he takes out a syringe, you tense. You hated medical equipment, you hated needles. Anything to do with doctors. It was never a good sign when you had to go to the doctors down here.
"It hurts. Badly,” he says softly. His voice betrays his usual blunt tone, instead showing a hint of pity.
“It's better if you're numb to it."
You shake your head, scooting closer onto the middle of your large mattress, as if protecting yourself.
"I can handle it,” you say stubbornly.
His helmet tilts.
"No, you can't," he says plainly.
His hand grips onto your shoulder, you try to push him away. The needle was getting closer to your neck, you kept on shuffling back until your body hit the headboard.
"It's for your own good."
You shake your head, his grip on your legs was solid, unmoving. He crawls over you and you close your eyes tightly, knowing you couldn't fight back even if you wanted to.
You feel a prick slightly above the bump on your neck.
For a moment you thought it was over with, and then he pressed down, the liquid now moving through the needle and into you, making you yell out.
He shushes you. It felt like he was shoving half molten metal down your veins. You start to get drowsy, from your head to your toes and all around your body, you feel heavy.
A minute after you lay limp in your bed, he pulled the sheets over you, you could barely move your eyes, your fingers twitching to reach his hand. He intertwines your fingers together, as an anchor.
He pulls away from you for a moment. You think he was going to leave you in the brothel then, paralyzed with whatever he injected you with, feeling numb even to the sheets beneath you.
But as he raised the boxy device up to your neck, your eyes widened ever so slightly.
He was right. It would have hurt. You could feel the tingle of it, a slight prick as it turned on. You let out a breath of relief when it stopped, but then he lowered the probes to your arm, directly on top of your birth control device.
You watched as it vibrated under your skin, the same prickles you felt from your neck now on the inside of your arm.
The drug's effects were starting to work more efficiently, your eyes started drooping, your hearing getting cloudy and your fingers starting to lose sensation.
The last thing you heard was the sound of whooshing, the faint glow of a black tinted light glowing even as you closed your eyes. You could feel the heat from the glowing blade from where you laid, crinkling with energy. His footsteps resound around the room, the door sliding open.
You hear the shouts and screams seconds after, right as you lose consciousness.
…
You wake in his arms, a fur blanket covering you from the cold of the underground city of Coruscant. You recognize your surroundings as a hangar, a large ship in the center, shiny and luxurious.
Your surprise gasp as the hull of the ship opened amused him. He chuckled as you grip onto his shoulders and he walks up the ramp. It was very clean, seats and amenities lining the walls of the hull, the lighting low and warm.
You pull the coat over your back as your feet touch the ground, warmed from the heater beneath the floor panels. He leads you to a seat, you hum when you sink into the plush couch, it’s soft, and well padded.
Suddenly the ship lurches, and you wait a few moments, the window blinds open and you rise to the upper levels of Coruscant. You finally see the sun and stare until it feels as if your eyes were burning.
His hand meets your shoulder, kneading into it.
"Don't cry," he whispers. "You're safe now."
You smile at him, wiping tears you didn't even know were falling and chuckling.
"Thank you," you stutter through emotion.
He likes the way you smile, and he likes the way you smile because of him.
…
You stare into the mirror. It was strange to see the bandage on your neck, you didn't even remember him taking out the chip, or the small pill shaped birth control device on your arm.
He told you it was better that way, the small incisions he made would heal quickly, if you were conscious, you would have risked messing him up.
The bandage was expensive, bacta patches were hard to come by, especially the good kind, but bacta shots and cream? You should have known the man paying for your services all to himself had much more credits than you could imagine.
The cut was practically gone as you peeled off the bandage. You stare amazed at how neat the line was.
And then you look around the bathroom. It was big for a ship, some products were lined against the walls, high end shampoos and conditioners that you've seen be gifted to some of the girls at “work”.
Oils, hair masks, lotions and waxes were sprawled around the cabinets. Makeup you couldn't even recognize their uses for as well. A bottle of lube makes you chuckle.
There was even an array of options on the shower head. You tried all of the various pressures and settings, deciding on a harsher spray, wanting to rid the feeling of Coruscant off of your body.
You stay there for a while, half amazed at how the water was still running warm and trying to take your mind off of where you were before.
Your anxiety rises when you think about where you were going to travel to, where you would stay, and what if they somehow found you again.
Mando startles you as he slides the door open. You clutch your chest, making yourself smaller under the spray of water. For a brief moment, you shake your head from the way your heart beats out of its chest.
He starts taking pieces of his armor off, you let your hands fall to your sides and relax your body. He was wordless whenever he came into your room. Most of the talking was done after the deed was done.
You step from the shower, starting to lift your legs out of the tub but he lifts his hand for you to stop. You look at him quizzically. He holds your hips in place, pushing you under the showhead to keep warm.
You appreciated that about him. He liked you to feel good too, comfortable. He was the only person to make you cum, the only one that gets turned on by hearing your moan and squirm in his hold.
He was good with his hands that was for sure, he even gave you a pair of his gloves once. Something to remember him by as you get lonely.
You were concerned when he stood in front of you, unmoving, his hands flexing nervously.
When you extend your hand he takes it, you've done this several times, calming someone nervous, someone unsure of themselves. You didn't expect yourself to do this for him.
"You know me. Don't be nervous."
He nods stiffly, and he does the unexpected. Using the hand that was held in your own he lifts his helmet. You stare and suddenly he feels younger, worrying if his crush likes his haircut, if you like the way his nose sloped downwards into his plush lips, if you thought the patches of grey on his beard were attractive or not.
Your eyes narrow and he feels vulnerable, much more vulnerable than you even if you were the one completely naked, at least he still had his underwear on.
"What if I told you I expected you to be orange."
He tilts his head down, smiling sheepishly, his full head of hair attracting your hand like a magnet. It was soft, of course it would be if he wore the helmet all the time.
Your hand tightens over his arm, pulling him in to step into the tub.
"Who knew I got lucky with such a looker."
He finally sees you, without a filter, without cameras or the helmet. He couldn't help but lean in, to feel your lips against his even if he didn't really know how to kiss.
But you stop him, a finger on his lips, tapping playfully. He didn't see the way you swallowed harshly, too focused on the way you smiled teasingly.
Of course, why would you want your first kiss to be in a random ship's fresher. How unromantic of him.
"No kissing, Mando,” you say softly. A rule established in the brothel. A rule you actually liked and encouraged the clients and the other girls to follow.
"Din," he corrects breathily, "Din Djarin. T-that's my name."
You cup his cheek lovingly. Clients like to get personal, thinking the relationship was deeper than it was. Mando-Din was sweet. You smiled up at him, you cared for him deeply.
He was giving you the eyes, it was strange to imagine those same lovesick eyes were beneath the helmet the whole time. It was making your heart race ever so slightly. Maybe, you thought, this last time before he left you god knows where, should be special.
You kiss right next to his lips, pushing down his boxers, and gripping his cock. He kicks off the fabric with his foot before getting under the spray, crowding you towards the wall, having water cascade over your both as you kiss down his throat.
You were surprised when he took the lead, holding your hips against his and leaning down to nip at your jaw. His tongue lays flat against your skin, drinking in the water that slides down your neck and to your clavicle.
It was holy. It touched your skin, making a path down towards your breasts and to the peaks of your nubs.
He sucks it in greedily, moaning as if he were drinking water for the first time, thirsty for more. Your taste was intoxicating, it was making him feral at the thought of sucking something else from your nipples.
More sweet and nutty than the floral taste of your skin. Now that your birth control was deactivated, he thinks that in the next few months, it could be possible.
He moves further down, your hands caressing through his wet locks as he bites over parts of your flesh, gripping and squeezing as he explores you with open mouthed kisses.
He gets down on his knees. He stops and stares in between your legs.
"Can I...?"
You shift but his arms around your waist keep you still.
"No one's ever... I don't know if it'll be good,” you say softly, a soft puff of air escaping between your lips.
He feels many emotions at once. On one hand it's pride that he gets to be the first to have you like this, on the other it's the anger that no one had ever attempted to.
"I don't want to disappoint you..."
In our last time you wanted to add, but he shushed you before you could speak further.
He looks up at you, his palm pushing your thigh up until it is over his shoulder. You swallow thickly, feeling his breath on your folds. He licks his lips curiously.
He's never done this before, but he's seen holos, holos of men and women going down and spreading legs, kissing and sucking as if they were real lips. Making their partners shout out into the air, their backs arching and their hips twitching to their mouths.
He's seen how the crook of a finger can make someone gush mouthfuls of arousal. He wanted that for you, he wanted to do that for you.
He dreamt of the day he could finally taste you.
He shuffled forward and your back met the wall making you shiver so hard you had to grip onto his head to stabilize. You chuckle awkwardly. He was looking up at you, his head level with your mound.
His intense gaze broke and he pushed his face into you. He adjusts you upwards, making your back slide against the walls.
You were on the tips of your toes, the backs of your shoulders pressing harshly against the metal walls and your back arching, pressing your hips into his mouth so that his tongue could slide in deeper.
This was amazing you thought, all of the years of giving pleasure and just now getting it back in return because of Mando-no-Din. It made you sad, it made tears fall from your eyes from how lucky you got.
You would pray to whoever gave him the chip in the first place, get down on your knees and bow for leading the only kind soul you've ever known in your life to you.
He moans for you, for the musky taste of your slick, now spreading around his face and down his throat from the spraying water. He kneads your thigh, his other hand pressing against your ass so that he could push you closer to his face, so that he could tighten your legs around his head.
He wanted to suffocate, he only wanted to live to please you.
His fingers run over your opening and his lips wrap around your clit. When he pushes in two of his thick digits you cry out, your hands moving over his head to pull at his locks. He sucked relentlessly, furiously as he felt his scalp burn.
His hand thrusts quickly, and he licks greedily from your opening, interchanging between his mouth sucking on your clit to lapping at you as more of your arousal is scooped out with the curl of his fingers.
He hits the sensitive spot at the edge of your opening every time he flicks his hand.
Your chest was burning, your stomach tightening as he continued, your orgasm approaching like a train, hard and heavy and knocking the breath out of you.
Your whole body burned when he continued despite the way your cunt tightened around his fingers so tightly he couldn't even move, despite the way you practically threw your head back against the shower walls and gave an animalistic cry.
"Din!" you shouted. He growled at that.
A harsh suck on your swollen and overused nub finally makes your body shake uncontrollably, your voice was lost to half silent groans and the way your body was willing your lungs to stop working.
You gushed over his hand, the lower half of his chest covered in you. He licked what he could, the water washing off most of it from his chest.
He stares at your pussy, amazed. It was so swollen and you were still twitching. Even as he moved your thigh off his shoulder and gently put you to your feet, he could still taste you in his mouth.
He hummed from the way you clutched onto his shoulders, shaking and only able to stand for so long before your legs gave out and he had to lift your legs up and around his waist.
He holds you, angling the showerhead above to hit your back and head so that you wouldn't get cold.
Your hot breaths against his neck made him shiver. You chuckle when you stop shaking, finally able to take a full breath in without panting. He presses you against the wall again, your legs still tightly wound against his waist, your pussy rubbing against his cockhead, hard and aching.
He groans when you shift against the wall, reaching to the base of his cock and angling towards your opening. When you tighten your legs he groans, simultaneously pushing himself into you as your ankles lock together.
You stay like that, leaning most of your weight against the wall, reaching for bottles of shampoo and conditioner and massaging it into his scalp.
He moans every now and then, fighting the urge to bury his head back in your neck and start fucking you when you pull him back to rinse off his head with a smirk.
You wash him with a sponge, moaning softly and stopping to close your eyes and rock gently against him every now and then.
"Fuck, Din, you've always been huge," you murmur, catching your breath against his collarbone.
He thrusts when you rinse him off completely, getting lost in the way you moan his name so sweetly, the way you claw at his back and clench down tightly.
The water stops, running out. You don't even notice from the steam surrounding you, both of your bodies producing enough heat to keep you warm. His thumb lazily traces around your folds, moving over your clit when you bite into his shoulder, sucking bruises after your, this time weaker but somehow still leg-shaking, orgasm.
He grunts, pushing as deep as he could, your hips flush against each other as he came for what feels like minutes. You both catch your breath. You rub his back and rest your head against his shoulder as he keeps you plugged with his cock.
“I love you,” he moans, kissing the side of your head. You tense slightly, barely able to hear him.
Your hands tighten around him as he moves, curling around the back of his neck.
You moan lightly from the way you bounce lightly on his cock as he carries you to a room, as spacious as the bathroom and just as full of goodies you didn't know the uses for.
He was emotional, you assured yourself, he just came in you without protection, your taste probably still on his tongue. It was just an overdose of oxytocin running through his body. Of affection.
He didn't mean it.
“Flattered,” you murmur. He chuckles while lying down with you on top of him. A small oof coming from your lips as he adjusts on the bed.
His hands wound themselves around you and as you finally dried amongst the warm air, he pulled the sheets up your body, covering you both completely with the scent of cleanliness.
Your head rests against his chest, your stomach on his.
You didn’t do cuddles. Even if you wanted to, you couldn’t before. But now, with Din holding you close, feeling his breath in his chest lift and fall, you think you liked them.
…
It was strange seeing him with his armor again. You felt honored, as if you knew a secret no one else did. But when he led you outside, wearing clothes that fit you perfectly and that were of the finest quality you've ever seen, you thought he was playing you.
Of all places to dump you in, he decided that Tatooine was where you belonged?
Just as you were about to plead for him to at least take you to the planet over, a short woman with a thick head of curly hair pops out behind a pile of crates, small droids following behind her.
"Take this piece of space trash out of my hangar, Mando!"
She stalks over to him with a wrench in her hand but stops when she sees you slightly behind him and sticking close to his side.
"Oh not you, sweetheart. That."
She points to the ship; you nod as if you understood.
"What happened to the starfighter?"
The woman gasps, not allowing him to answer. He sighs.
"Don't tell me it was incinerated by the imperials again."
You turn, clutching his arm in worry. There was so much you didn’t know about him…
"Imperials?"
His head flickers between you both quickly, stuttering. He finally has the chance to answer as the woman gives him an expectant look.
"No. It's fine. I just have special cargo at the moment."
She looks between you both, your hand lightly on his forearm and his chest puffing beside you.
"Aaah. I see. I’m Peli."
She eyes you up and down and you shift on your feet, suddenly feeling nervous. He told you he was going to introduce you to one of his friends, someone who was going to help you. He also mentioned she knew about you. How much is what you worry about.
She turns suddenly, shouting over her shoulder about a gift she had for a green baby? and that she had to scrounge around for it.
You look back at him, and he shrugs, shaking his head as the question doesn’t leave between your brows.
She came back, procuring a small doll and shoving it into his arms as the tiny droids dragged you by the pant leg to the side, a small door sliding open and revealing a room.
It lifts its arms, as if shouting 'ta da'. You smile softly. It was comfortable, humble. You start imagining a life here. At least the start of it. You think of maybe learning a few things from Peli, start working along with her, maybe expand to other towns in Tatooine.
Your heart warms at the prospect of friends, maybe finding someone to spend your life with. Someone kind and caring. Someone who didn't see you as an object.
That would be nice, you think.
Peli shouts your name. You walk out of the room to them. Din was discussing something with her, expressing himself with his hands clasped together in front of him as if he were explaining something to a child.
You chuckle when she waves her hand, pulling you roughly by the arm to her side.
"Yeah, yeah. I'll take care of her, alright? Stop whining."
You chuckle, she was growing on you.
But then she let go of your arm and Din stepped forward, his hands placed on your waist to pull you forward. You look up at him, your brows furrowed. The way he was holding you was intimate.
"Din, what-"
His helmet made you shiver, he stayed still against you for a while, holding you close. He backed away slightly, his hands caressing over your arms.
His hand lands heavily on your shoulder, Peli was watching intently.
"You'll be safe here. I'll come back once I finish preparing our home for your arrival.”
Our?
Your head perks up at that. You look up confused. His words repeated in your head. Our... home? But he was a client. A friend, someone you trusted. That was all he was, you thought he knew that too.
You repaid him for rescuing you in the shower, you didn't think that you owed him anything after that. You wanted a normal life, with normal friends and a normal spouse and normal kids.
Surely he didn't think you would stay with him after everything that happened. After everything it seemed he was dealing with in his own life.
His palm covers your cheek, his thumb rubbing over it lovingly.
You smile, he was too lovesick to realize it was the same face you made when you were attending other clients, fake, too sweet. He leaves with a nod to Peli, his hand sliding down your arms and squeezing your hand.
She gives you a once over when his ship was finally out of sight. You looked dazed, you were probably tired. And by the crease of your eyebrows when he mentioned home, you were out of the loop.
“He lives on a planet near Mandalore. That’s where he’s taking you. You’re going to meet his son, Grogu.”
Son?
Now you were even more confused. Everyone knew about him and his son, they practically became legend. Well, everyone in the galaxy but you who had been stuck in a brothel for the past four years.
“You don’t know who he is, do you?” she asks softly, with a slight leer of amusement.
You shake your head. She sighs exasperated.
“He’s the most powerful mandalorian in the galaxy. He’s their ruler,” she says proudly.
He was her friend and he saved her life maybe once or twice. She also liked to boast that she practically knew royalty.
“I thought he was a bounty hunter, he told me he was a bounty hunter. That was the reason he could afford-…”
“Oh, he is. But it’s mostly for sport now.”
You stay quiet.
“He talks about you all of the time. This woman he met that makes his heart squeeze- my words not his- he’s not the sentimental type, at least not like that.”
You seemed fidgety, your legs shifted, you fiddled with your hands. You were cute, she thought. You easily flustered.
“You wanna know something?”
She didn’t look to you for a response.
“He told me once that he thought you would be a strong queen.”
Your heart stopped, your eyes were watering.
“Aw don’t cry! I hate to ruin the surprise, it’s just I heard so much about you! I couldn’t help it, I’m excited.”
You smile, wiping your face, forcing yourself to appear content.
“He said he’ll make you the most beautiful wedding too. You two will make such cute babies afterwards, I’ll even lend you the nurse droid I just fixed up. It’s in the back actually let me go get it.”
She scurries to a storage room full of scraps and metal, leaving you standing and looking up to the sky, wondering how the hell you were supposed to manage so many surprises at once.
--------------------
I saw Mando and Grogu movie and he was so papa. It was very adorable. I missed bubba Din Din.
Din requests open. Also working on a Clark request so keep an eye out for that...
Summarize: Din Djarin and Grogu weren’t supposed to go back to Earth… until you unexpectedly brought them back there.
Words count: +2.6k
A/n: Here we are... the start of this new book I hope you'll enjoy as much as I enjoyed writing this first chapter! I'm a bit unsure about it, since this story doesn't have the same impact that it had back in 2019, but I love it dearly so I want to keep exploring it!
For the ones who discover this story, I recommend you reading the first book "Horizon" to understand what's happening here, you'll find it in the Ner Naak masterlist.
And as always: Enjoy your reading!
Ner Naak masterlist // The Mandalorian masterlist
The world had never felt so vast. It was as true as it was frightening, and in a way, despite all the time that had passed since they left, you had remained stuck somewhere between those two states: lucidity and fear.
There was still a part of you trying to make sense of what you’d been through, much like those mornings after a night of heavy drinking when memories of the events remained hazy. You knew it from the way you kept returning to where the Razor Crest had stayed, using the excuse of walking your dog to venture there. Over time, the grass scorched during take-off had regained its deep green colour, and the muddy holes dug by the landing gear had been covered with fresh wild grass. But despite all the evidence being gone, there was still a feeling… a presence… a force that kept drawing you back to that same clearing to remind you that it had all been real. That the secret you’d been carrying for over a year and a half wasn’t some nonsense your mind had made up. That it made sense, because as for the rest, there seemed to be none left.
Perhaps the world was starting to feel too vast. Either way, you’d seen only a tiny fraction of it, but even though the door had been opened just a few millimetres, it had made your head spin. A dizziness so great that you’d quit your job at the university. Because what was ordinary had become too much to bear. Waking up at the same time every day to carry out the same tasks tirelessly left a bitter taste in your mouth. As if the flavours of the world no longer sparkled as brightly. And how could it be otherwise, you who had been the only one able to take a bite of what the universe had to offer. A delicate appetiser so stunning and dazzling that you had never been able to forget its taste.
So you returned there every day.
To that clearing in the middle of the woods.
You watched your dog running around in the tall grass. He had surely forgotten all about it. His enthusiasm for chasing every butterfly or bee that crossed his path made you envy his innocence. He didn’t care that, for a few days, he’d had a friend from another world. He didn’t care that he had stepped on the metal of a spaceship with his paws. And he cared even less that he had been the lucky one to experience the undeniable proof that he wasn’t the only living being travelling through the universe. His life was simple, rooted in the present, dealing only with the information that came to him in the moment, without ever dwelling on it any longer than necessary. But you, your mind remained focused 24 hours a day on the events that had unfolded in the middle of that field of flowers.
The buzzing of bumblebees had replaced the roar of aircraft engines, the song of cicadas echoed in place of the screech of bolts being tightened, and the chirping of birds, singing their serenade, constantly reminded you that life had never ceased to exist despite the passage of an alien craft. As if it were the most normal thing in the world. As if nature itself had always known and found nothing unusual in carrying on as normal. As if only your own world had been turned upside down, leaving only a silent din amidst a melody played in harmony between the breeze and the rustling of leaves dancing amongst one another.
And as always, for the past 18 months, you took a deep breath as you tried to recall the right notes for the melody you were playing. You sketched the lines of the Crest in the middle of the page once more, bringing to life your dog’s back-and-forth movements around the spacecraft, carrying Grogu on his back, and you added the picture of a man in Beskar armour at the foot of his ship, wondering at what point this piece of music had gone from a symphony to an out-of-tune guitar.
And as always, every time you opened your eyes, the strings began to screech in the face of emptiness.
From the extraordinary to the ordinary. From silence to incessant noise. From peace to storm.
And all of this in the deepest secrecy.
Would you have liked to explore space? Would you have preferred not to have experienced any of this? A shiver ran through your body at these thoughts, yet you couldn’t bring yourself to give a clear answer.
Because perhaps the world had become too vast for the simple Earthling that you were. And it was in this that you remained clear-headed, for there was no one to pull you out of the turmoil in which you were immersed. No one, except perhaps a Mandalorian—whatever a Mandalorian actually was—and his child, who would never set foot on your planet again.
You looked up at the sky, perfectly blue at this time of year, perfectly blue and above all… endless. The depth of the sky stretched on forever and you couldn’t tear your gaze away, so much would you have liked to see some sort of ceiling, or an end. A surface on which to stand and climb back up to the surface. But there seemed to be nothing but birds flying over the forest in that vast expanse of blue.
Birds…
You were so captivated by the vastness of the sky that you hadn’t noticed your dog slipping up to your feet, almost hiding between your legs. He nudged you unintentionally and, becoming aware of his presence, you stroked his head gently, without taking your eyes off the sky.
Birds… or rather, the absence of birds. Your dog fidgeted a little more and you had to remind him to calm down whilst you were focused on trying to hear… the birdsong.
But nothing. There wasn’t a single bird’s song left in the forest. Even the cicadas had fallen silent. And a strange feeling settled in the pit of your stomach. And that was where the fear lay. Instinctively, you gave your dog’s collar a gentle tug to lead him with you towards the forest path you’d taken earlier that day.
Fear at the slightest change. The silence of the birds had lasted only a minute, but it had been enough to stir a sense of unease within you. A sense of unease that seemed unfounded, yet had managed to carve out a small, permanent place in the back of your mind. Perhaps because the world was too vast, and being the only one to bear the weight of that immensity was simply too much to bear.
But there was no psychologist specialising in treating people who had been through what you had been through. An innocently simple event, yet with the impact of a tank. And even if there had been, you couldn’t have talked about it. The world wasn’t ready, and neither were you. Speaking out would have been like small stones triggering an avalanche of consequences you weren’t even aware of. So you kept the secret, because the world wasn’t ready.
At least, that’s what you thought.
Until that evening.
That evening when a simple ring of the doorbell turned the rest of your life upside down.
∞-∞-∞-∞-∞∞-∞-∞-∞-∞∞-∞-∞-∞-∞∞-∞-∞-∞-∞∞-∞-∞-∞-∞
A sudden hit on the table brought you back down to earth in the blink of an eye. It took you a split second for your eyes to focus on the man standing in front of you and see him clearly.
‘Now, you need to tell us the truth,’ the man wearing a suit ordered sharply.
“Which one? Yours or mine? Because they’re likely to be very different,” you replied without batting an eyelid.
The man rubbed his face in frustration, and you began to wonder how long it would be before he gave in to his nerves. The world was a vast place, but this police officer’s world was clearly much smaller than yours.
“We have the plans, miss y/f/n, so please stop making things worse for yourself,” he went on in the same irritated tone, as if that would change anything about your side of the story.
“Yes, the ship’s construction plans,” you persisted.
It had been about five days since they’d been questioning you about the Razor Crest and where it came from. Whilst you’d insisted for the first few days that you didn’t know what the cops were talking about, when they’d made a sarcastic remark about a spaceship, you’d seized the opportunity. The world was definitely not ready to hear the truth, so you’d decided to play along. A truth too big to handle, which had caused plenty of laughter but allowed you to avoid lying to the police officers. While the reality was too staggering, it did, however, allow you to stand your ground.
And in a way, it anchored you a little more to Earth.
“You mean a spy plane,” he said.
“We’re not in some action movie, officer, and do you really think these plans look like a plane?” you went on, not without a touch of sarcasm in your voice.
The man sighed heavily, and you could see the tension tightening his shoulders, as if this interrogation was more challenging for him than it was for you. There was a certain irony in that. You had stood tall with unshakeable composure for five long days, whilst your mind struggled fiercely against a rope that kept stretching irrevocably and painfully until it snapped.
Challenging. The word was so weak. You watched this man fidget, crossing his arms before opening them to press his hands against the desk—a pointless act of intimidation that seemed all the more ridiculous in the face of the world’s vastness. He could pace up and down, raise his voice or, on the contrary, lower it, appear reassuring or aggressive; you, however, remained there, observing him calmly without flinching, skillfully concealing the chaos that raged within you.
You were quite amazed at yourself. For most people, they would have snapped long ago. To be honest, even if you were to eventually lose it, you wouldn’t know what form it would take. But the throbbing headache in your skull was starting to make things more difficult for you.
‘Listen, you’re not getting out of here until you’ve told us the truth,’ he finally said, gathering up the documents scattered across the desk.
And you clenched your teeth at the news. It was… just plain madness. You swallowed harder than expected and forced yourself to chew slightly to try and relax your jaw muscles. The tension really wasn’t helping your headache, but you took great care to remain calm in front of this man.
There was a strange feeling, like a gear trying to spin and start up a machine that had decided to stop working due to a malfunction. No matter how hard you tried to reset the system, it would start up again for a brief moment before grinding to a halt once more, blocked by a rusty stick that should never have been there. Ignoring it was pointless, but your brain kept trying to work around it, perhaps hoping to return to its original state. But that was impossible. And this interrogation only made the presence of that rusty stick even more obvious. Which was a bit annoying.
“I'm not responsible for what you consider to be the truth or not,” you answered, more to yourself than to him.
“You don’t even believe in it yourself.” he finally said before closing the door behind him.
And the rope snapped. You instinctively buried your face in your hands, letting out a deep sigh in an attempt to release all those emotions, each one more overwhelming than the last. Your fingernails dug into your scalp in a desperate effort to keep yourself grounded, but the whole situation was mind-boggling. Five days… five long days on top of everything else. Everything else that you’d never taken the time to really process. Everything else that felt like nothing but fiction and that you unconsciously refused to accept. Everything else that had kept you holding your breath from the very first day you met Grogu and Mando. Everything else that was constantly colliding with every part of your whole world.
And all of this was making you sick. Sick of questions that would never be answered. Sick of discoveries you would never be able to make. Sick of this world which was too small to ever accommodate anything greater. Those tears that suddenly began to roll down your cheeks became impossible to hold back.
There was nothing dramatic about it. There were no loud sobs or cries, despite the flood of your feelings. There was only silence. A heavy, deep silence, accompanying the cascade of your emotions down your skin. There was only that lump in the back of your throat, rolling painfully, and there was only your breath, a little longer, a little warmer. Even your heartbeat wasn’t racing. It beat slowly, steadily, waiting for the silence to end.
There had been no dramatic emotional outburst. There had been only a silent call fading into the vastness of outer space. And somewhere on the other side of the galaxy, a tiny soul to receive it.
To Grogu, it felt like a gentle breeze. A breeze that had barely grazed him, but when he opened his eyes after a long nap in his father’s arms, that breeze had seemed familiar. He had to focus on it for a moment. There was something strange about this breeze which, after all, was not moving over his skin but somewhere a little deeper, inside his mind. It was a faint, distant sensation, almost… weary, as if it had traveled a long way before it could find him. He had to close his eyes again to focus more intently, longer, deeper, to better receive this message.
Your message.
He opened his eyes again, feeling a sense of joy at having picked up such a distant signal—and, above all, that it came from a friend he’d met in a strange world. But his joy gave way to a sense of worry. This tiny wave of energy didn’t feel like anything he’d ever experienced from you before, and a nervous chirp slipped out of him. There was a problem. You had a problem.
Grogu turned his head towards his father, who was still fast asleep in the Razor Crest’s seat. There was no other option. Grogu knew that when his father slept so deeply, there was only one thing that would wake him. He turned towards the cockpit control panel and, without hesitation, pressed every button he could reach until the Razor Crest lost its stability and became nothing more than a shaking ship. The alarms suddenly went off due to the loss of altitude, and Din woke up abruptly, regaining control of the ship before he even realised what had just happened.
“Dank Farrik!” Din swore before setting his eyes on Grogu, who was wriggling on his lap. “I already told you not to touch these buttons! ” Din scolded him, his heart racing. But Grogu had a plan in mind and kept babbling sounds his father couldn’t understand, all the while pointing at the one thing he knew belonged to you to try to get the meaning across. “What’s the matter?” Din asked, struggling to figure out what was going on.
And Grogu climbed onto the dashboard to press the only button he’d been allowed to touch since leaving this faraway planet… the button controlling your radio.
summary: You’re trapped inside a Din x Omera love triangle, struggling to get to your lover who’s entranced with your new host.
pairing: din djarin (the mandalorian) x reader
warnings: angst, blood, mild violence, fluff
rating: T
word count: 4.716k
main masterlist • din djarin masterlist
This planet is supposed to be your shelter, your safe place. You and Din had decided that you needed somewhere to hide out for a while, to lay low with the child so you could form a better plan—or at least see how long you could make it without having to deal with another bounty hunter.
summary: Din reunites with you many years after your whirlwind romance for a mission you begrudgingly accept to help him with.
pairing: din djarin (the mandalorian) x reader
tags: angst, injuries & blood, hurt/comfort
rating: T
word count: 15.387k
main masterlist • din djarin masterlist
As soon as you saw the flash of silver at the open doorway, you froze. Your grip on the rag pulsated, your stare assessing the silhouette that was too achingly familiar.
And immediately, you wanted it gone. Him gone.
“Get the hell out of my bar, Mando!” Your voice was a bark, as piercing as your threatening gaze. You tossed the rag over your shoulder and crossed your arms, defiant. Though you knew his real name, had even exclaimed it in private before, you still refused to out him by using it now in front of others—despite the hurt he had caused you.
Din’s amused huff wasn’t lost on you as he ignored your directive and strided into your establishment. “Nice to see you, too.”
It was only inevitable that he would show up one day, but to do so like this was simply insulting. The Din you knew was far from an asshole, but this version of him was already threatening to challenge that notion.
“Is that beskar on your head keeping you from hearing me?” You took up the rag again and snapped it towards the doorway. Din froze and raised his gloved hands in surrender. “Get. Out.”
“I won’t stay long.” Din nodded his helmet. “Promise.” You rolled your eyes and didn’t bother hiding it from him. This was the honorable Din Djarin that you had known, and while it used to be endearing to you, it was nothing but annoying now.
“You won’t stay at all.” You narrowed your eyes at him. “I mean it.”
Din shifted his weight between his feet. You hated how it made your chest ache for him. The years hadn’t erased that tell of his. “I only need a few minutes.” His modulated voice was getting desperate. “Please.”
Of course it was working on you, but you couldn’t let it. You had spent all this time building your resolve to prepare yourself for this day, so that you could confidently turn your back on him without remorse—just like he had done to you. “You should’ve thought of that before you left.” You threw the rag at him, and he caught it without so much as flinching. “Mind wiping those tables on your way out?”
Then you did it. You turned your back on him, intent on hiding in the back room for the next standard hour or so with a glass of the galaxy’s strongest whiskey.
But the strong grasp on your wrist kept you from getting anywhere.
You spun around, your gaze a raging fire as it met Din’s cold visor. He still had the rag clutched in his free hand, and you watched his hold on it tighten in your periphery. As much as you didn’t want to admit it to yourself, the feeling of his touch still sent as many shockwaves through you now as it did years ago.
Din’s low, modulated voice broke the tense silence between you. “Please.”
Your jaw ticked as you gave him a thoughtful once-over. It was only just now that you were realizing he had an entirely new suit of armor, having exchanged the ragtag tan flight suit and mismatched red armor for brown and pure silver. Something had changed, and it was no doubt that something that had his voice so strained and desperate.
Still, you tugged your arm out of his grasp and scowled. “I never took you for the type to put your hands on someone like me without permission.”
Din’s armored shoulders deflated. “You’re right. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that.”
You waited for his excuse, but he didn’t give one. You raised your brow. “But?”
Din lifted the rag without looking away from you, his helmet tilting as he fumbled with the cloth between both his hands. “But what?”
You scoffed and shook your head, your gaze falling to the small amount of distance that was still between the two of you. “Fine. I’ll ask.”
Whether he was playing your own curiosity against you intentionally or not, it was a genius strategy. You couldn’t help yourself. You reached out for the rag and snatched it back from him, throwing it over your shoulder again and setting your weight on one hip.
“What brought you here?”
Din let out a soft sigh. His visor gave the room a careful stare before he leaned in closer. You nearly did the same out of habit. “I need your help with something.”
You crossed your arms and gestured with your chin to the doorway. “I’m retired. Can’t you tell?” You let out a terse laugh. “But of course the only reason why you’d show up here all these years later is for help.”
Din stiffened. The amount of pity you wanted to give him was exhausting. Old habits die hard. “I… didn’t think you’d want to see me.”
You lifted an eyebrow, unimpressed. “Well, thank you for making the decision for me.” You turned and started to walk back behind the counter. “You’ve lost my interest. Your few minutes are up.”
Din’s gloved hands all but slammed against the countertop. You jumped and looked at him with wide eyes. “Your research.” His voice was even lower, even more secretive, than before—but it had only grown even more desperate.
You blinked a few times, fighting against your shock. Your tone matched his when you finally found words to say. “What about it?”
Din relaxed once you spoke to him. “Do you still have the list?”
Your brow furrowed. “The list of what?”
“M-count targets.”
You stepped up to face him across the counter so fast that the end of it jutted into your stomach, but you didn’t care. Your face was only inches from his helmet when you spoke through gritted teeth. “You should know better than to say that out here in the open.”
Din was unfazed. “Do you still have it?”
You searched the horizontal section of his visor before letting out a heavy breath. Your gaze fell to your hands, which were splayed on the countertop right next to his. “Even if I did, I haven’t updated it in years. I have no idea if any of the targets are still active.”
Din took a steady breath, his visor looking to the side as he processed your words. Meanwhile, you were doing the same with this entire situation. His sudden interest in this was baffling, and there was only one conclusion you could think of for someone like him. It made you grimace even more harshly than you had before.
“You want exclusive access to track them down, don’t you?”
Din’s visor snapped back to your gaze. “No.” His tone got sharper, finally matching your own. “You really think so little of me?”
“Seeing as you left me for this line of work without hesitation or care, yeah, I guess I would consider it to be a pretty strong possibility.”
Din looked down at his hands. His armored body rose and fell with another deep breath before he changed the subject. “I had an M-count target.”
You scoffed. He was proving your words right, and you hated how devastating that really was for you.
“I didn’t realize it when I got assigned to the job. I was told the target was fifty years old. But…” Din paused, and when he went on, there was a new emotional strain to his words, “it was a child.”
Your brow jutted up at that. A fifty-year-old child was certainly new, but in this galaxy, it was definitely possible, especially if they were non-human.
“I saved him, took him on the run, and returned him to his own kind.” Din’s voice nearly broke on his last few words. You tried to picture it; Din Djarin, running around the galaxy in that old-ass Razor Crest, all while taking care of a child. It was a hilarious yet heartfelt image, because it was something only he would do, especially after what he went through as a child.
You hated that you knew that about him.
You pushed these thoughts aside and prioritized one of the many questions that lingered. “His own kind?”
Din’s helmet tilted at you, as if the answer should have been obvious. “The Jedi.”
You were the one to grab his wrist this time, tugging him along the edge of the countertop until he was next to you again. Then, you pushed open the swinging door to the back room, waiting until it closed to question him. “You were really running around the galaxy with a Jedi youngling?”
Din nodded. Your eyes doubled in size as you balled up your fists at your sides, now coming upon a new, frightening conclusion.
“Din, not every child with an M-count is a Jedi, especially not on that list!”
Din didn’t say anything, not for a long time. Your brow began to furrow in confusion more than anger until he gave his helmet a quick shake. “Sorry.” He shifted his weight.
You narrowed your eyes. “What was that?”
Din hesitated before he went on. “You said my name.”
You rolled your eyes and let out a curt laugh. “Get a grip.” You set your hands on your hips. “Did you even hear the rest of what I said?”
“Yes. I can multitask. You know that.” The urge to roll your eyes at him again was too strong, especially once your ears started to burn. “Don’t worry. I spoke directly with another Jedi, and she said that he was raised at ‘the Temple.’” He shrugged. “Whatever that means.”
You ran your hand over your face in disbelief. “You just casually ran into a Jedi? In this day and age, when the Jedi Order is all but nonexistent?”
“Actually, I’ve met two.”
You scoffed and closed your eyes, exhaling an annoyed breath before smiling sweetly at him. “Congratulations.” You grew more serious as you hardened your expression. “But my point still stands. If your plan is to get this list and try to return all these kids to their ‘own kind,’ then it won’t work. Most of these children were never Jedi.”
Din held his hands on his hips, just above his belt. “That’s not my plan.” Worry strained his voice as he went on. “I just want to make sure they’re all safe.”
You blinked at him. “That’s it?” Din nodded. “What about hunting? Don’t you need to work?”
Din tapped a pouch on his belt. “I’ve got enough credits to last me a while.”
You gave him a cautious once-over. “How?”
Din huffed. “That’s a long story, and I promised I wouldn’t take up too much of your time.” He nodded towards your desk in the corner of the room, where your datapad was sitting. “All I need is the list.”
You bit the inside of your check as you took a deep breath. The nobility and meaning of what he was doing meant too much for you to just hand him a list that hadn’t been checked in years. It could send him chasing inactive targets, wasting precious time that could be used to save children in need.
“You need more than that.” Your tone was decisive as you spoke, leaving no room for argument—though you were sure Din would try.
And try he did. “Is that so?”
“It is.” Your gaze flickered over to your datapad. “I told you before, I haven’t updated the list in years. If you’re really gonna be tracking down these targets, then it needs to be checked.”
Din nodded. “Okay. How long will that take you?”
You shook your head. “Time isn’t a factor. Distance is.” You walked off towards your desk and explained before Din could ask. “I have to cross-check the names at an Imperial terminal.”
Din’s voice was behind you, getting closer to where you now stood with your focus on your datapad. “Do you know where to find one?”
You threw him a look over your shoulder. “How else would I have made this list in the first place?” Din tilted his helmet, and you tried hard to fight your amused smile as you turned back to the datapad. “I’ve found a few, but I usually go to Ptelan.”
Din was right behind you, now. “Where’s that?”
“The whole other side of the Outer Rim.” You held back your sigh as you turned around to face Din, pasting on that sarcastically sweet smile again. “If your old-ass ship can actually make it that far.”
Din stiffened. Your mischievous grin started to fade even before he said the words in a low voice. “I… don’t have the Crest anymore.”
You attempted to keep the mood light as you opted for the likeliest explanation. “Did she finally die on you?”
Din sighed, but it was sadder than usual. “I guess you can say that.”
Your lips tightened at the thought of whatever you weren’t being told. You spoke as you opened your datapad to make sure you still had the list. “Let me just add that story to your ever-growing list.” Din chuckled, and you fought a relieved smile at the sound of it. “So, tell me about your new ride.”
“I don’t have one.”
You paused, your gaze slowly peeling from the datapad’s vidscreen to Din’s visor. The implications of his words hit you all at once. “You took public transport to get here?”
Din set his hands on his belt. “That’s what I’ve been doing, and it’s what I’m gonna keep doing until my contact finds me another Razor Crest.”
You blew air sharply out of your nose. His stubbornness certainly hadn’t faded over the years. “So, let me get this straight.” You lowered the datapad and took a step closer to him. “You expect to show up here, years later, unannounced, have me hand over my most precious research, and then borrow my ship?”
Din’s helmet tilted. He was amused. “I never said anything about a ship.”
You laughed. “Well, you sure as hell aren’t getting to that Imperial base on Ptelan with public transport.” You waved the datapad in your hand. “And you don’t even know how to cross-check this with the terminal, anyway. This plan of yours is starting to look real lousy.”
“To be fair, I didn’t realize I was gonna need more than the list.”
You stared at him for a few solid seconds before you closed your eyes and lowered your head in defeat. Your grip on the datapad tightened as you came to terms with what you were about to say—and, more importantly, do. This is what you got for running as far away from your research as possible: a multi-day trip with your ex.
Cursing under your breath, you circled your jaw and lifted your head back up to look at him. “The list is the least of our problems. I need to get the ship fueled up for us to go.”
Din’s gloved hands fell back to his sides. “Us?”
“I’ve seen your piloting.” You pulled the corners of your lips up in a smirk. “I’m not letting your recklessness destroy my ship.”
Din sounded concerned as he looked over his shoulder. “What about your bar?”
You shrugged. “I have plenty of managers who can step in while I’m gone. We shouldn’t be away for more than a few days, anyway.”
Din’s visor gave you a quick once-over before he nodded. “Okay.” He straightened his shoulders and tilted his helmet towards you in a way that, aggravatingly, made your knees weak. His voice was strained with meaning when he spoke. “Thank you.”
You avoided his visor as you returned his nod. “Let’s just make it quick.” You turned to your desk and picked up a datarod. “Take this and head to the hangar. My ship’s in bay three.”
You extended the datarod to him, and Din was gentle in reaching for it. His gloved fingers brushed yours as you made the exchange. You silently cursed yourself when the sensation sent a pleasant chill down your spine. Remember what he did to you, and don’t forget it.
You spun away from him again. “Get the ship fueled up while I pack my things. I won’t be far behind you.”
Din nodded, dutiful as ever. He set the datarod on his belt before he turned and strided out of the back room. As soon as the door swung closed, you braced your hands on your desk and closed your eyes to focus on your breathing.
All these years, you had planned on turning your back on him the moment you saw him. Now, you had just signed up for a multi-day mission with him. That meant seeing him constantly. Sharing an enclosed space with him. Reminding yourself of what you once had, both the good and the bad.
But what he wanted was too noble for you to ignore. You were willing to sacrifice your own heart for the safety of these children.
You pulled yourself together and packed your necessities. You triple-checked that you had the datapad in your satchel before you pushed your way out of the back room and tracked down today’s manager. The Twi’lek woman gave you a concerned look as you approached her.
“Hey, is everything okay?” Her green eyes gestured to the cantina’s entryway. “What was up with that Mandalorian?”
You sighed and wished that you knew as little about Din as she did. “Everything’s fine. Listen, I’m going on a quick trip. I’ll be back in a few days.” You nodded at her. “I need you and the others to keep this place running until then.” You tapped the comm on your belt. “You know how to reach me if you need me.”
The Twi’lek nodded, but her brow was still furrowed. She lowered her voice to a whisper. “Are you sure everything’s okay?”
You pasted on a reassuring smile and set your hand on her shoulder. “I’m sure.” You squeezed and lowered your hand back to your satchel. “I’ll see you all in a few days.”
You didn’t give yourself time to dwell on her worried expression. If you did, there was a good chance you would come to your senses and realize how bad of an idea this all was. Instead, you strided over to the entryway and walked through the door that had slid open for you.
The hangar was only a block away, and bay three was one of the first in the hangar’s circular structure. You walked in to see your faithful vessel sitting there, with Din easily maneuvering the fueling source away from the hull. Your mind was suddenly flooded with the many memories of this very same sight, but with him fueling up the Crest after yet another risky mission.
No. You didn’t want the warm, familiar fondness that was flooding through your chest. You swallowed hard and pushed it away, continuing your stride as you spoke to Din without looking at him. “Ready to go?”
Din huffed in amusement. “That was fast.” When you didn’t respond, he grew more serious. “Yeah, it’s all ready.”
“Good.” Your lips pulled tight as you dropped your satchel off in the hold. Your ship was only half the size of the Crest, considering the fact it was a singular deck as compared to two, but you still had plenty of room to work with. There was a closed refresher and more than one bunk, thank the stars, as well as a booth and a small table. This was all connected to the cockpit, which was conveniently fitted with two chairs.
As if he was always meant to be here.
You scoffed and all but threw yourself into your chair. It groaned with both familiarity and age when you turned and toggled around the controls, preparing for takeoff. Din’s bootsteps soon made their way onto the ship, and the sound was just as familiar as your chair had been. Like no time had passed at all.
Stop. You gave your head a small shake to snap yourself out of it. It’s been years, and he left you. Don’t get used to this again.
You tightened your hands around the joysticks and jerked the ship up. It was hard to fight the cruel yet amused smile tugging at your lips when you heard Din stumble somewhere behind you. He cursed before speaking up over the ship’s rumbling engines. “And you said I was a reckless pilot.”
You couldn’t hold back your curt chuckle, though you wanted to. Din took his place in the chair beside yours, but you kept your focus on the clouds you were currently soaring through. You still remembered the coordinates to Ptelan as you punched them in, even if it had been years since you last traveled there. It wasn’t long before the blue light of hyperspace was swirling all around you. It would continue to do so for nearly an entire day.
Suddenly, this ship was beginning to feel a lot smaller.
With the ship in autopilot, you rose from your chair and headed to your belongings in the hold. Out of the corner of your eye, you spotted two sparkling items leaning against the wall of the interior hull, a jetpack and a long, pointed spear. The former was something Din had been wanting for a long time.
So many stories left to tell, so much time spent apart, and yet so much distance now between you. It was hard to come to terms with that after you had once known him so well, and had him so close.
“I’m gonna freshen up,” you announced, rustling through your bag and the other compartments on the ship for your necessities. “We’ve got a while to go until we get there, so I recommend resting. I’ll make something to eat when I’m done.”
You turned to head to the refresher, but Din unknowingly stood in your way. His visor was trained on your gaze as he nodded. “Can I help with anything?”
You swallowed hard and shook your head. “No.” You brushed past him, your shoulder knocking against his arm as you did so. “I’ll take care of it when I’m done.”
You’ve done enough is what you wanted to say, but that wasn’t a conversation you really wanted to have in such an enclosed space—especially with such a long trip ahead of you. Instead, you focused on washing up, hoping you could wash your thoughts of him away with the water. The refresher, unfortunately, was even more enclosed than the rest of the ship, which was only making it harder to breathe with the knowledge of who was outside it.
It would all happen again. As soon as Din had what he wanted, he would leave. Only this time, you wouldn’t give yourself the chance to be attached, and you sure as hell wouldn’t let yourself miss him. Not anymore.
Not that you had ever healed from the first time.
It was only when you finished washing up and drying yourself off that you realized the grave mistake you had made. Thanks to how Din’s mere presence had flustered you, you had completely forgotten to bring your change of clothes in with you. And there was simply no way you were going out there in nothing but a towel.
You leaned close to the door of the refresher, your eyes closing as you thunked your forehead against the cool metal. The embarrassment was already warming the tips of your ears as you raised your voice enough to be heard. “Din?”
There was a pause before you heard footsteps shuffling by the door. “Yeah?”
The gentleness in his modulated voice threatened to ruin you. With a heavy sigh, you went on. “Turns out I do need your help.” Your voice was a sardonic laugh. “Can you grab the pile of clothes by my satchel?”
“Sure.” Din’s response was immediate. You could still hear his footsteps as they made their way across the hold and then back to the door. “There. I set them on the floor.” There was an awkward pause, accompanied by a shifting of weight. “I’m… not looking.”
You let out a more genuine laugh that time and spoke before you could stop yourself. “Wouldn’t be the first time you’ve seen me like this.”
Yeah, that was definitely the wrong thing to say. It stunned both of you into silence, but maybe that was a good thing. The towel was wrapped tightly around you as you opened the door and reached down to grab the clothes, shutting the door again just as quickly. For a moment, you leaned your back against the cool metal and let the material raise the hair on your skin. It was the cold reality you needed to ground yourself again.
You made quick work of dressing to save yourself from at least part of the embarrassment. Once you were decent, you stepped out into the hold, where you saw Din swinging his spear around. He turned to face you right away, setting the blunt end of the spear against the ground. It made a faint clanging sound, reminiscent of Din’s armor.
“That’s quite a weapon you’ve got there.” You spoke to him even while you stepped forward and focused on putting your belongings away. “Did you trade that for your rifle?”
Din didn’t answer right away. You stole a look at him over your shoulder in curiosity. His gloved hand was holding the spear even tighter, and his visor had fallen to focus on his boots. “Not intentionally.”
The pain in his voice struck you hard. You were caught between wanting and not wanting to know what happened. Curiosity and genuine concern for him were fighting a courageous battle, but your resolve to keep him at an arm’s length was even stronger—at least, for now.
You found something else to say into the strained silence. “Well, at least this one fits in with your armor a lot better.”
Din chuckled. “Yeah, I guess so.”
You listened to him shuffling around behind you as you started to prepare the broth and bread. The clink of metal told you he had set the spear against the hull again, and the shifting of weight that followed said even more. With a fond smile you couldn’t shake, you spoke to him again.
“If you really want to help…” you pushed two bowls and small plates out to the side, “you can set the table by the booth.”
Din was at your side in seconds to grab them. “Thank you.”
You huffed as he walked over to the booth. “You’re thanking me for letting you help?”
“I am. It’s rare that you ever ask for help.”
You gave the broth a harsher stir than necessary. “I didn’t ask. I offered.”
Din’s amused chuckle warmed your cold heart. “Right.”
It wasn’t long before the broth was steaming at just the right temperature. You brought it over to the table, and Din made room for you to distribute the broth equally between the two bowls. After setting a small loaf of bread on each plate, you sat down, wordlessly encouraging Din to do the same.
You were prepared to watch him eat the way he always used to around you. He would lift his helmet just enough to sip the broth and tear off chunks of the bread. That was all you ever got to glimpse of his face. His untrimmed jaw, the tip of his hooked nose, his warm lips that felt like home…
Used to feel like home.
But before you could even raise the first broth-soaked chunk of bread to your lips, you saw Din lift both hands to his helmet, preparing to slide it off completely.
Out of instinct, your free hand snapped around his wrist. Din froze, his visor finding your piercing stare. “What the hell are you doing?”
Din’s tense form relaxed, a soft laugh crackling through his modulator before the hand you weren’t restricting covered yours. “Relax, sweetheart.” The familiar nickname made your heart turn over in your chest. “This isn’t the first time I’ve done this.”
His words hit you with a dizzying amount of thoughts and emotions, but the most prominent of all was hurt. He had removed his helmet for someone else, that much was clear. Had you not been worthy enough to be the first?
You didn’t say anything in response, and you couldn’t even if you wanted to. You let go of his wrist and let him follow through on the action.
You couldn’t take your eyes off him, as much as you wanted to. Dark hair accompanied the dark stubble you had once felt against your own skin, falling in soft waves over his head and coating his upper law and jaw with sweet familiarity. The rest of the hook of his nose was long and gentle, leading up to a furrowed brow. You followed those lines to meet his eyes.
Time stalled, and your breath caught. His brown eyes had already met your stare, golden flecks glinting in the flashing blue light of hyperspace that illuminated the ship’s interior. Your gaze flickered between them, imagining all the different ways these same eyes might have looked upon you all those years ago.
You wondered if they had looked at you then the way they were looking at you now.
Din’s stare fell to the helmet he had set on the booth before focusing on the steaming broth and bread in front of him. You, however, continued to look at him, to study him. It was all you had ever wanted when he was yours, even if you had refused to confess that to him.
You were startled when Din’s natural voice broke the silence. “Your broth’s gonna get cold.” His amused tone was familiar, but seeing that same emotion in his eyes made your chest unravel with sweet warmth.
Then his words sank in, and you blinked a few times before looking down at your meal. Your ears burned both in embarrassment and from the tangible feeling of his eyes on you. “Sorry for staring. It’s just…” you stopped with your bowl near your lips to let out a soft chuckle, “I never really thought I’d ever get to see your face.”
Din offered the hint of a smile. “I understand.” He took a sip from his own bowl before raising his brow. “What do you think?” When you gave him a quizzical look, he clarified. “About what you’ve seen.”
You huffed and smirked at him. “Never took you for the type to fish for compliments, Djarin.”
Din’s face started to flush, though he tried to shrug it off. “It’s just unnerving to have eyes on me after so many years of not being seen. But I’m trying to get used to it.”
You finished chewing a piece of bread before freeing the simple question from your tongue. “Why?”
Din exhaled, his lips pressing into a firm line before he chuckled. “Add that to your growing list of stories that I owe you.”
You laughed and nodded. His response filled you with an odd sort of relief. He was promising an answer, and that meant it wasn’t something he wanted to keep from you.
The rest of your meal was eaten in silence, with you stealing looks at Din whenever you thought you could afford them. He was the first to finish, clearly hungrier than he would have ever let on about. You tried to suppress the natural worry that festered in your chest for him as you watched him stand from the booth.
“I’m gonna wash up, if that’s okay.” Din gestured with his head to the refresher.
You nodded. “Of course. I left my stuff in there, so feel free to use it. I’ll just be resting if you need something.”
Din bowed his head in gratitude. He took his dishes and rinsed them out first before disappearing inside the refresher. You closed your eyes and steadied yourself with a breath, but the backs of your traitorous eyelids continued to show you the image of Din’s face anyway.
If that was all you could see whenever you closed your eyes, then you didn’t have a single chance of earning rest on this trip.
You focused on your mundane tasks and lost yourself in the routine. After washing out your own dishes, you set up the bunks, hoping to at least get some sleep during the course of this lengthy journey. A few minutes spent in your bunk, however, proved that rest would be impossible right now.
You took to pacing and flipping your blade in the air, warming yourself up for any potential fight that would come should things go south on Ptelan. They hadn’t before, but there was certainly a first time for everything. There was too much on your mind that threatened to drown you, and focusing on the shifting of your blade offered an escape.
Until the refresher door opened at the same time you paced forward, and you ran straight into Din’s firm form.
Even worse, as you clutched your blade and took a step back, you realized that he was more vulnerable to you now than before. His soft waves were wet enough to leave droplets streaming onto his forehead and face, and you followed one that fell down his jaw and over his completely exposed chest. Tanned, scarred skin was shining from the refresher’s humidity, ending only where Din had the towel he was borrowing around his waist.
And you were breathless. If you couldn’t stop staring before, you sure as hell couldn’t stop now.
“I’m sorry.” Din stammered. His face was even redder than it had been before, his gaze wandering. “I was… I needed to grab my blade so I could shave, and I thought you would be asleep.”
You managed to let out a curt chuckle. “Well, I’m awake.” It was then that his words hit you. “Wait, your vibroblade? For shaving?”
Din just shrugged.
“Absolutely not.” You spun around and headed towards one of your miscellaneous cargo crates. “I think I have one somewhere around here.”
“Have what?”
You scoffed. “A blade meant for shaving.” You found what you were looking for and checked it over to make sure it was clean. Din’s brow was furrowed now as you walked over to hand it to him. “You can keep it.”
Din looked between you and the blade. “You just happened to have one of these on hand?”
You shrugged and crossed your arms. “Someone must have left it here.”
Din didn’t respond right away. You watched as his brown gaze darkened, a change barely visible in the blue light illuminating the hold. “Who?”
“Don’t know.” You raised an eyebrow at him. “Why does it matter?”
Din’s stare cut away from you, and it was the tick in his jaw that made the realization fall upon you.
You let out a scornful laugh and shook your head. “No, you do not get to be jealous.” Din’s gaze snapped back to you. You pointed an accusatory finger towards him. “May I remind you that it was you who left me, not the other way around?”
Din’s jaw circled as he kept focusing on something behind you. “You don’t have to remind me about the worst mistake I ever made.” His brown eyes found you again, both his words and his stare knocking the breath from your lungs. “I already think about it all the time.”
Your lips stretched in a heartless smile. “And yet it still took all these years for you to show up, Djarin. You’re gonna have to do better than that.”
Din stiffened, an action that was even more visible with the muscles rippling under his skin. You swallowed hard and forced yourself to change the topic, your focus going back to the blade in his hand.
“Do you know how to use one of those?”
Din’s own stare lowered to the blade in his hand as he shrugged. “I’ll figure it out.”
You snickered. “Yeah. I guess if you could use a vibroblade to shave, you can use anything.” Din let out his own huff of amusement as you studied the small scars on his face. You kept your tone amused as you gestured to what you were seeing. “I’m willing to bet half of those are from shaving.”
Din actually laughed at that, a sound that ignited a pleasant shockwave along your spine. “Surprisingly, no, I’ve never managed to nick myself badly enough to leave a scar.”
You furrowed your brow. “So, these are all from what? Taking hits to your helmet?” It was hard to understand how something as impenetrable as beskar could still leave his face vulnerable to scarring.
Din nodded. “Only in serious cases.” His gaze had fallen to the blade in his grasp again, as if he was growing shy under your observant eye.
But you couldn’t keep it from wandering. Your stare found a long scar across the bridge of his nose, one you certainly hadn’t seen before in those rare times when he would accidentally slip his helmet up a little too far. “How did you get this one?” You couldn’t keep yourself from reaching out to brush your fingertips along it.
Din drew in a quiet breath, and out of your periphery, you could see his chest stall for a moment. His brown eyes found you again, the warm depths of his gaze pooling into yours as he responded in a soft voice. “I got caught up in an explosion on Nevarro.” Your eyes widened. “I almost didn’t make it out, but…” he chuckled, “ironically, it was a droid who saved me.”
Your hand was still raised, fingers trailing over the smooth skin along his cheekbone as you grimaced. The worried question fell from your lips before you could stop it. “You almost died?”
Din’s gaze softened at the breathlessness of your words. You hated it, this constant worry and concern for one another, but you couldn’t stop it. As much as you had tried to bring yourself to despise him over the years, it had never worked, and knowing he had almost died in your absence was frighteningly unnerving.
Din tried to lighten the mood with a small smile stretched across his lips. “It’s not like I haven’t almost died before.”
You gave your head a small shake and let yourself get lost in the movement of your hand, which was now settling more firmly upon his cheek. “But I wasn’t there this time.”
Din’s hand wrapped gently around your wrist. His words were firm yet so achingly soft and genuine. “That’s my fault, darling.” He began to run his hand down your arm, his rough fingertips skimming the exposed skin that led up to the short sleeve of your casual tunic. “Not yours.”
And there it was, your ultimate undoing, the thing that had always made Din so different from anyone else. He owned up to every mistake he ever made. Usually, he would do whatever it took to make it right, which is why it stung even more that he had never bothered to come back for you over the course of all these years.
But that harsh reminder wasn’t on your mind right now. All you could think about was the electricity crackling between the two of you, the touch of your hands igniting sparks that drew you closer to one another. He was becoming dangerously irresistible, especially with the weight of such sweet familiarity sitting between the two of you.
It was worse now that you could actually see him. The longing in his eyes, the way they darkened as he mused upon whatever desires he had for you and flickered between your own eyes and lips…
Just like that, you were running back to him, back to the familiar and the home you had once made in him. He did the same and met you in the middle, his parted lips meeting yours and sealing the gap between you.
Unfortunately, it was the most complete you had felt ever since he had left you.
Your hand slid from his cheek to the damp, brown waves that fell over his ear, and the other ran over his scarred chest towards the back of his neck. You wanted him impossibly close, as if having him there would erase the years you had to spend without him. Din reciprocated the feeling with his own gestures, one of his hands also wrapped around your neck as the other held the rib cage that protected your wildly racing heart.
Before you could stop yourself, you pulled him backwards, and he followed. Two long strides with Din’s arms supporting your weight was all it took to set your back against the cold, metal hull. Your toes had been dragging against the floor with the ease of his grasp, but he helped you steady yourself on your feet without once having to separate his lips from yours.
But that stability was lost just as quickly the moment his tongue pushed through your parted lips. He could still devour you like no one else, doing so with a reverence that purified you. All the consequences of these actions were forgotten as your hand in his hair pulled him even closer, and he relented, his hips marrying yours.
It was that, and the hand that was now lowering from your neck along the curve of your spine, that forced you to break away from him with a breathless gasp of your only conceivable thought. “Din…”
Din. The man who was making you feel a way you only had years ago. The same man who had left you alone in your bed the morning he left and never came back.
What the hell am I doing?
The thought was enough to break you out of your lustful haze. Your eyes doubled in size as you lowered both hands to Din’s bare chest and pushed him back. He stumbled but easily got his footing, his own eyes widened as he held his hands up in surrender. The two of you were heaving from both the heat of the moment and your sudden outburst.
You wanted to speak, but you were thrumming with so many emotions that it was hard to choose just one. Din blinked a few times, one hand running through his damp hair as he also tried to find his voice. “I’m… I’m sorry.” He exhaled a breath and closed his eyes, leaving his hand in his hair. “I don’t know what came over me.”
You scoffed. “Yeah, that was pretty fucking bold.” The ferocity of your words made Din’s eyes fly back open as his surprised stare met yours. “In fact, all of this is.” You waved a hand to the rest of the open hold. “This stunt of yours. Convincing me to come along with you somehow.”
Din shook his head. “That’s not—.”
“No.” You held up your hand to stop him. “It’s my turn to have the final word, since you so kindly didn’t give me a chance to the day you left.”
Din deflated at the truth of your words, but his sense of honor wouldn’t win you over this time.
“If you think that you can make things right by just showing up after all this time and apologizing, you’re wrong.” You hardened your expression. “If it’s my forgiveness you’re looking for, you’re never gonna find it.” You lowered your voice as it trembled in pure rage and true hurt. “Not even after slipping off that helmet for me.”
Din flinched, but there was no anger to be found in his expression. He simply nodded, bowing his head and drawing the blade you had given him from where he had slipped it between his body and the towel that still covered him. “Thank you for this.” Din gave the blade a small wave.
You gave him no response, instead crossing your arms as your gaze avoided him.
Din turned back towards the refresher, but he stopped himself before he walked through the door. “All I want is that list. As soon as you get it, I’ll leave, and I’ll make sure you won’t ever have to see me again if that’s what you want.” His voice wasn’t full of any bitterness. Instead, it was strained by his genuine desire to fulfill your wishes.
Din waited for your answer, but you didn’t have one to offer him. What you wanted was becoming more and more difficult to decipher, and this kiss had only made things even more complex. Din took your silence as your response and stepped inside the refresher, closing you off from him.
You lifted a hand to your face and closed your eyes, exhaling and wishing all your tumultuous thoughts and emotions would go with your breath. You were consumed with waves of anger and guilt for the things you had said and done. It was easy to hate Din at a distance, but having him back reminded you of exactly how much you had lost the first time he left.
Maybe it was really just the why you had been looking for all this time.
You numbly drifted back to your bunk, laying yourself upon it even though sleep was the last thing you were capable of doing. It was easier to hide from Din that way, to avoid the devastation he had hidden within the brown depths of his eyes that you had only just seen for the first time today. You had waited all these years to hurt him the same way he had hurt you, but now that you had taken the opportunity to do so, it didn’t feel nearly as fulfilling as you had hoped.
You were on your side facing the interior hull when you heard the refresher door open again. Din wandered to somewhere in the hold before he made his way to the bunk you had made up for him. It was built into the hull just beside yours, leaving one metal barrier between you. That wasn’t nearly enough to ease the tension that suffocated the air of your already modestly-sized ship.
You closed your eyes and flopped onto your back, letting out a sigh before you spoke loud enough for him to hear. “I’m sorry for what I said.”
Din’s response was immediate. “Don’t be. You were right, and I deserved that.”
You pressed your lips into a firm line and stared too closely at the top of your bunk. There were a dozen questions floating through your mind, but only one managed to free itself onto your tongue. “Can I just know why?”
You heard a shifting in Din’s bunk before he spoke. “What do you mean?”
You closed your eyes in a vain attempt to ward off your sudden embarrassment. “Why did you leave?”
Din was silent for a long moment. After a steady exhale, he finally said the words that your every breath hung from. “I shouldn’t have.”
You huffed. “That wasn’t the question.”
Din hummed, as if he was considering chuckling and thought better of it. “Right.” He took another brief pause. “I… was scared.” Your brow jutted up at that. Those were three words you had never heard your Mandalorian utter before. “I thought that pursuing the line of work I had been training all my life for would put you at risk. So, I did what I thought was best for you.”
“And left me without even trying to talk about it.” Your words weren’t as sharp this time, but they were still truthful. “You took my agency from me with that decision, Din.”
“I know.” Din’s voice was pained. “I’ve done more cruel things in my life than I’d like to admit, but… that was my cruelest.” He took another breath. “And I’ve regretted it every day since.”
You sighed, and oddly, the ever-present knot within your chest loosened. His words brought you a clarity and closure you hadn’t realized you needed. It wasn’t anything you had done that made him leave.
You blinked a few times and found your voice. “Thank you for telling me that.” You imagined Din nodding in response, whether he actually did or not. You took his silence as an invitation to change the topic. “Now, I believe you still owe me a few more stories.”
Din chuckled. The lighthearted nature of it filled you with relief. “Which one first?”
“Let’s go in order.” You thought back to the first mystery he had mentioned. “Tell me about your M-count target.”
It took a while for Din to say something. When he did, his voice was even lower than before. “Grogu.”
You furrowed your brow. “What?”
“That’s his name. Grogu.” You smiled at the sudden fondness in his voice. “He’s tiny, and green, and he’s got these petal-shaped ears. Really big eyes, too.”
“What species is he?”
“Don’t know. Pretty damn cute, though.”
You laughed at that.
“The first Jedi I talked to said that he was raised at ‘the Temple’ and somehow escaped after the Clone Wars ended. It was about a standard year ago that I found him on Arvala-7. He was being hunted by the Empire for his blood, just like you had talked about with your research.”
You began to put the pieces together. “So, that’s why you’re doing this.”
“I don’t want any more kids to go through what he went through.”
You beamed, rolling onto your side so that you were facing the hold. “You really care about him.”
You noticed Din shift his legs to kick them out over the edge of the bunk, putting just a small sliver of his profile into view as he looked down at his hands in his lap and nodded. “I do.” He lifted his hand to run the back of his thumb over his forehead. “It wasn’t easy giving him over to the Jedi. I… still miss him.”
The corners of your mouth turned up in a soft, sad smile as you sat up on your own bunk. You mirrored his position, glancing over at him and hoping he could sense your comforting stare. He did, and this time, you were more content to let yourself drown in the warmth of his brown gaze. “I’m sure he misses you, too.” You looked down at your hands in sudden shyness. “I know the feeling.”
Silence blanketed the hold as the two of you processed your heavy words. You cleared your throat when it became too much.
“Okay, now that that’s covered… what about all those pretty little credits in your pocket?”
Din laughed. “I don’t know if you’ll believe me when I tell you.”
You raised an eyebrow at him. “Is that a challenge, Djarin?”
Din gave his head a fond shake. “No. It’s just…” he exhaled and nodded once down at his lap, “I turned Moff Gideon over to the New Republic.”
You racked your brain for a memory to match the name to. “Gideon? Isn’t he…” you trailed off, still searching.
“The Imperial who led the Purge on Mandalore.”
You looked over a Din with disbelieving eyes. “How the hell did you manage that?”
Din’s jaw tightened. “He was the same one who was after Grogu, and he had taken the kid from me. I found a way to his light cruiser and detained him.”
Your brow shot up. “By yourself?”
“Well, I had some help.”
You splayed your palms out on the bunk behind you and leaned your weight upon them. “Sounds like another story we have to add to the list.” You both chuckled, despite the small ache in your chest. Gideon had taken so much from Din and his people, and you suddenly began to wish you were there for Din when he had to face him. “What about the Crest?”
Din inhaled air through his teeth. “Yeah, that one connects to the pulse rifle story, actually.”
“Ooo, a crossover event.”
Din chuckled, but the sound wasn’t as amused as you had hoped it would be. “It was destroyed by the Empire.”
Your eyes widened at him as your heart plunged into your stomach. “Destroyed?” It was hard to imagine the home Din had made on the Razor Crest being gone, especially with such a violent fate. “How?”
“Gideon’s cruiser made a single shot. That was all it took, really. I lost everything except that spear.” Din pointed at the spear that still rested against the hull before he drew something from a pocket on his belt. “And this.”
You narrowed your eyes as you studied the spherical object in his fingers. “What is it?”
Din steadied himself before he squeezed the metal in his palm. “The shifter knob. The kid loved playing with this thing.”
You softened, smiling as you scooted yourself just a bit closer to his bunk. “I’m glad it survived, then.” You glanced down at your feet, watching as they kicked in the open air. “I’m sorry to hear about the Crest, though. I know how much that ship meant to you.”
Din shrugged. “At least no one was hurt.”
No one but you. It wasn’t hard to imagine how Din had reacted to what happened. On the outside, he put his head down and kept going, but on the inside… it was like losing another home all over again. Like Aq Vetina, the childhood that was torn away from him.
And you hadn’t been there for him.
But that had been his choice, and he had acknowledged that. He chose on your behalf, and he would have to live with that burden, not you. It still didn’t make it any easier to deal with.
Forcing all these complicated thoughts away, you focused on the story you desperately needed to hear, your gaze studying the sharp and gentle curves of his face as you prepared to say it out loud. “What about your helmet?” Your follow-up question came out quieter than you wanted it to. “Who was it for?”
Din’s stare caught yours, and the comfort you found there washed over you in a soothing wave of relief. “It was for Grogu.”
You exhaled a light, silent breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. You may have chastised Din earlier for being jealous, but the truth was you were harboring that very same feeling at the thought of another lover seeing his face before you.
“It was the only way I could find Gideon after he took the kid.” Din’s focus fell to his hands, which were fumbling together on his lap. “I needed to get the coordinates from an Imperial terminal, probably like the one you use on Ptelan, and it required a facial scan.”
“Yeah.” Your voice was a mere breath. “That’s pretty standard protocol for those things.”
“I was hoping to get it done quickly enough to not be noticed, but… an Imperial commanding officer saw me. A drink and some blaster fire later, only one other person who had seen me kept breathing.”
You lifted an eyebrow. “One of the aforementioned allies?”
The corner of Din’s mouth raised slightly as he shrugged. “I guess you could call him that.” He grew more serious as he went on. “Then, when I was saying goodbye to the kid, he wanted to see my face.” Din nodded to himself. “So, I showed him. Grogu and the Jedi both saw my face, and a few others were in the room, too.”
You waited to see if he was done, and when he didn’t continue, you blew out a heavy breath. There was only one word you could come up with. “Wow.”
Din huffed. “Yeah, the feeling’s mutual.”
You gave him a once-over. “So, what’s up with the Creed now? Can you just start showing your face more regularly?”
Din shook his head. His brown eyes were lost, missing that golden sparkle you had already come to adore, as much as you tried not to. “I don’t know. I’ve been trying to find my covert, or at least what’s left of it, but—.”
“What’s left of it?” Your eyes widened in shock.
Din looked up at you with a wrinkled brow. There was an invisible burden weighing his shoulders down even further, and a remnant of grief in his gaze that struck you like a blow to your gut.
You softened. “I’m assuming that’s another story?”
Din forced out a chuckle. “A quick one.” He closed his eyes and let his head fall again, his chin tucked towards his chest. “Most of the covert was wiped out after they revealed themselves to help me get away from Nevarro with the kid.”
Your chest caved in with the heavy weight of sorrow. The urge to reach out and touch him had never been so strong. “Din… I’m so sorry.”
He shook his head. “It was their choice. They knew the risk, and I hadn’t even asked them for help. But…”
You know me. Those were the unspoken words that floated in the tense air between the two of you, now composed of something more familiar and wholesome than the anger that had transpired before. And it was true, you did know him, which is how you recognized the guilt that was painted all over his expression even if you had never seen it on his face before.
Din was clearly ready to move past the topic. “Anyway, it’s… yeah. It’s complicated. All this shit with the Creed.” He snorted. “Never thought I’d be in this position.”
You raised an eyebrow at him. “It has its advantages.”
Din gave you a hopeful glance. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” You leaned close enough to playfully rap your fingers against his arm. “As pissed as I still am about it, that was a hell of a kiss, Djarin.”
Din’s face began to flush even as he gave you a once-over. “I had a lot of years I was trying to make up for.”
You twisted your lips at that. Ignoring the small spark of hope that burned inside your belly, you prepared to snuff out his own hopeful flame. “Din…”
“I know.” He sighed. “I’m a few years too late. I made that choice for both of us when I closed the door on what we had.”
You studied him for a long moment, your eyes still addicted to the sight of his face. Learning the tells in his expression was both easy and enjoyable, from the small tugs he gave the corners of his mouth to the furrow in his brow that had become almost permanently etched there. It was then that you thought back to the moment when you first saw him earlier, remembering how he had responded to your initial observation of him.
“I like it, by the way.”
Din’s brow knit together. You chuckled and set aside your pride as you continued.
“What I’m seeing.” You waved a hand over your own face for reference. Din began to flush even more as he smiled shyly down at his hands in his lap. “A lot, actually.”
Din beamed. “That means a lot coming from you, sweetheart.”
You tried, and failed, to ignore the burn that crept up your neck towards your ears. Your smile was impossible to repress as his words filled you with an intoxicating feeling that made you remember why it was so damn hard to cope with him leaving all those years ago. He was the heartbreak you could never quite get over, because he made you feel like you were his whole galaxy.
But one creeping thought broke you out of this trance and stole the smile from your lips. You watched your hands run over your thighs before you got the words out. “You had to go through all of this alone.”
Din tensed, a movement you saw in your periphery that broke your heart all over again. He steadied himself with a breath before responding. “I chose to be alone.” His tone told you everything his words hadn’t: I wish I chose differently.
You closed your eyes, overwhelmed by the tragedy of it all. “I would have stayed, you know. I would have been there with you through all of it if you let me.”
“I know.” The strain of Din’s voice drew your stare back over to him. The way his handsome features were pulled taut in guilt and regret shattered you. “But that’s my burden to bear, not yours.”
You frowned, your sympathy for him being washed away by a new, smaller wave of frustration and anger. “That’s not true, Din.” Your use of his name earned you his gaze again. “You’re not the only one who had to live with the consequences of your choice. What you’ve gone through is way more tragic, but I still had to live on my own, too.” You shook your head at him. “And I didn’t even get a say in it.”
Din blinked a few times at you before he clenched his jaw and looked away. He dug the heels of his palms into his eyes as his shoulders shook with a trembling breath. “I know you don’t want to hear this, and you don’t have to accept it, but I’m gonna say it anyway.”
Din lowered his hands and folded them together, keeping his elbows against his knees as he spoke to the open air of the hold.
“I’m sorry.” His devastated yet sincere brown gaze looked in your direction, but it couldn’t quite meet yours. “I thought I was making a selfless choice, but it was actually a selfish choice. I gave in to my own fear instead of letting you help me through it. I made a decision that we should’ve made together, and what I chose ended up hurting you worse than the alternative would’ve.” He let out a self-deprecating chuckle and ran the back of his thumb over his forehead. “And I’m so fucking sorry for that.”
You had always imagined how good it would feel to hear him try to apologize for what he did without giving him the relief of forgiving him, but as it turned out, you didn’t know him as well as you thought you did. These words were nothing but sincere, and the true remorse within his gaze was impossible to ignore. Din had been mulling over what he did the same way you had ever since he left.
It wouldn’t solve every problem, and it certainly wouldn’t erase all the pain of the last few years, but you were willing to at least absolve some of the suffering he had been subjecting himself to ever since.
You maneuvered yourself close enough to him and his bunk to set a reassuring hand on his shoulder. Din’s brown eyes finally found your gaze with a look that left you breathless for a moment. Once you had gotten your words back onto your tongue, you spoke in a soft voice. “I forgive you.”
Din’s stare flickered between your eyes, his shoulders and his brow lifting as the spark of hope returned. You pressed your lips in to a firm line to stave it off.
“I can’t do more than that, but… I hope that’s at least enough for you to start forgiving yourself, too.”
Din nodded earnestly. “It is.” He lifted a hand to cover yours on his shoulder. “Thank you.”
You returned his nod. It was hard to peel your gaze away from his, but you forced yourself to do it, just as you forced yourself to pull your hand away from him. “You should get some sleep. I can imagine you’ve been losing a lot of that lately.”
Din huffed. “Yeah, that’s an understatement.” He gave you a concerned once-over. “You’ll sleep, too. Right?”
This was another promise you weren’t going to make him, but he didn’t have to know that. He didn’t have to know how hard it was to sleep alone after getting to sleep right by his side for so long. “Right.”
Din nodded once more, clearly satisfied enough with your answer to push himself back into his bunk. The movement concealed him from your view once again. You did the same, letting out a soft breath as you laid your head against the pillow and stared at the shining metal above you again. Each revelation Din had shared swirled around in your mind like a frightful, galactic storm.
There was so much you had missed, so many new wounds and scars across Din’s skin and soul that you hadn’t been there to heal. It made you frustrated, but it also made you ache. Above all, it made you want to be there with him the next time something like that happened to him, to shield him from the galaxy itself.
You just weren’t sure if your heart could take it.
You closed your eyes and willed sleep to come. With the knowledge that Din was so close by, it did, and—of course—it was the best sleep you had gotten in a long time.
You woke to the sound of light clanging in the hold. Sitting up fast enough to nearly whack your head against the top of the bunk, you spotted Din with some of your cooking supplies and relaxed. He glanced at you with wide, apologetic eyes.
“Sorry.” Din chuckled as he lifted what he was holding to show you. “I was hoping you would wake up to the smell of breakfast, not the sound of it.”
You let out a curt laugh and gave your head a fond shake. “It’s okay.” You rubbed your eyes and stepped out of the bunk. “I’m gonna freshen up and see how much time we have left.”
Din nodded as you stepped away to the refresher. It didn’t take long to reset yourself, and you were surprised to see that you only had another hour left of the trip. Thankfully, there wouldn’t be much to brief when it came to the actual mission. You would go in while Din guarded the ship, and after a few minutes, you would come back. Simple as that.
Stars willing.
You went back to the hold, where Din was just finishing with whatever he had fixed up for breakfast. “Thanks so much for doing this, Din.”
Din spared you a smile as he finished plating the meal. “It’s the least I could do to repay you for this.” When he spotted your furrowed brow, he waved a hand to the rest of the ship. “Coming all the way out here with me to get this list.”
You chuckled as you nodded to yourself. “Right.” You kept your tone playful as you accepted the dish he passed you. “It was for the kids, Djarin, not you.”
But Din just kept smiling, his admiration of you so obvious that it made your ears burn. “I know.”
You looked down, bashful, and started to eat your meal. Din did the same, and the two of you ate in peaceful, comfortable silence. It was so nice to have the tension between the two of you resolved, as if the weight of your past had finally been lifted and set you both free. You weren’t sure yet what the future would look like, especially with this mission on the forefront of your mind, but that didn’t matter. Sharing the same space with him was enough for now.
Once you had both finished, you got down to business. “We’re just under an hour away, now.”
Din’s brow shot up. “Wow.” He gestured towards the cockpit. “She’s a hell of a lot faster than the Crest ever was.”
You laughed. “Well, that’s because she’s not an ancient gunship that has to tow massive amounts of cargo and weaponry around.”
Din chuckled and raised his hand. “You got me there.”
You smiled and shook your head, forcing yourself to focus again. “It should be a quick and easy retrieval. You’ll stay on the ship and I’ll head inside to the terminal. I’ll only need a few minutes to cross-check the list.”
Din’s brow wrinkled in concern. “Are you sure you want to go alone?”
“I have to. It’s what I used to do before.” You shrugged. “Haven’t run into any problems doing this yet.”
Din released a steady breath, leaning closer to you without invading your space. “That wasn’t the question.”
You blinked at him, musing upon the same words you had thrown at him last night. You had been avoiding the truth without even realizing it. It had been years since you retired from missions like these, and that made the likelihood of something going wrong much greater. The quiet, creeping chill of fear and dread began to snake up your spine.
Din read your hesitance just as well as he read the rest of you. His hand found your shoulder just as yours had found his last night. “I’ve gone in disguise as an Imperial before, remember? When I first took off my helmet.” He nodded at you. “I’ll do it again if you want me too.”
You wanted to melt at his selflessness and the comfort his gaze was offering you, but instead, you held onto your resolve and shook your head. “I only have one Imperial uniform.” You set a hand over his. “I’ll be fine. I’m just second guessing myself.”
Din held your gaze so intensely that you couldn’t look anywhere but at him. “If anyone can pick up exactly where they left off like this, it’s you.” He offered another reassuring nod. “And I’ll be right here, ready to provide backup if I have to.”
You smiled, gently easing his hand off of you as his words sank in. “Thank you, Din.” You let out a sigh and willed your complicated emotions to go with it. “Let’s look at the schematics.”
Din accepted your topic change with grace, and he followed you up and over to the cockpit. You were able to pull up the schematics of Ptelan’s tiny, Imperial base in blue holographic light, both the hangar and the terminal marked by red dots. You talked him through the entire process, from your disembarkation to the data retrieval and exit. So long as nothing had changed too drastically over the years, it would only take a few minutes.
“I’m gonna get changed.” You gestured with your head to the refresher.
Din nodded. “I’ll clean up and help get things ready.” His gaze cut towards the dishes that still sat out in the hold.
You offered him a smile of gratitude before standing and digging through the cargo crate that contained the dusty Imperial uniform. Brushing it off and double-checking that you had all the pieces, you stepped into the refresher and exchanged your clothes for the stiff uniform. You smoothed out all the wrinkles and straightened your posture, recalling all the things that used to be like second nature to you.
A new wave of dread overwhelmed you enough to force your eyes shut. You steadied yourself with a deep breath. Think of the kids. They need you.
Then it was Din’s words that ran through your mind next. I’ll be right here.
You relaxed. You weren’t alone anymore—at least, not right now. It was more comforting than you cared to admit.
You gained enough faith to finally reemerge from the refresher. Din had already cleaned everything up and was running more drills with his spear when he caught sight of you. He stopped, his stare leaving a warm trail over your body that you tried, and failed, to ignore. You wondered if he understood the power of his gaze without a helmet to hide it.
“What do you think?” The question slipped past your lips before you could stop it. You acted casual as you put your normal clothes away and slipped your weapons into their proper places.
“Honestly?” You glanced at him over your shoulder and nodded. “I think you make everything look good.” You beamed at that. “But seeing you in one of their uniforms is… unnerving.”
You huffed. “Yeah, you and I are in agreement on that.”
The last thing you checked for were your code cylinders, which were thankfully all aligned inside your pocket. You grabbed your datapad and headed towards the cockpit, with Din following close behind.
“We’re almost there.” You sat down and fixed your attention to the comlink on your belt, removing their earpiece and fixing it into its proper place. “Let’s get you set up on the proper comm frequency, then we’ll be ready to land.”
Din nodded, obediently following all your instructions before he slipped his helmet back on and did a test run of the comms. He kept it on as the ship dropped out of hyperspace and headed towards the rainy world of Ptelan.
You had refreshed yourself on all your codes and protocols before, but they still came easy when you were prompted by their comms tower. It was too easy getting assigned to a bay inside the hangar and landing. The hardest part was taking a deep breath and preparing to disembark.
Din stood at the same time you did, his gloved hand finding your shoulder again as he gave it a gentle squeeze. “I’ll be ready.” He nodded to affirm his words. “But you’ll be fine.”
You nodded. There had always been something about him that made you want to embrace your vulnerability, to confess every uncertain thought you had to him and let him fix it. This, however, wasn’t the time. You were more than capable of doing this before, and you would do it again.
“I’ll let you know if I need you.” You tapped your ear as you said the words. Din nodded once more, and as you stepped away to lower the hatch and set off on your small mission, you felt the warmth of his brown gaze behind his visor following you the entire way.
You didn’t want to stop feeling, not now, not ever, and certainly not after this little trip of yours was over. But there wasn’t enough time to dwell on that right now.
Your face went stone cold as you descended the ramp. The usual small group of Imperials came to greet you, a lower-ranking officer flanked by two stormtroopers. You nodded at them and stopped when they stood in your path.
“Welcome to Ptelan,” the officer greeted you. “What’s the reason for your visit?”
“A layover.” You gestured back to your ship. “I’ve spent a fortnight dealing out undercover inspections on various worlds, and Ptelan was the closest outpost for me to rest for a time.”
The officer nodded. “Understood. I don’t envy your position.”
You huffed, the dignified version of a laugh. “Nor do I yours. This planet is quite dreary.”
The officer snickered. “That’s an understatement.”
He stepped aside, letting you through. You steadied yourself with a breath as you walked forward, charting out the path a million times inside your mind. The mess hall wasn’t too far from the hangar, and given how unpopulated this particular outpost was, it was unlikely the terminal you needed was being used. Only a few minutes stood between you and the trip back home.
The trip when you would have to come to terms with Din leaving you again.
You gave your head a small shake and willed your thoughts to dispel from your clouded mind. It would take all your focus to cross-check this list as quickly as possible, and you weren’t intent on spending an extra second you didn’t have to inside that Imperial base.
The mess hall was quiet, aside from the sounds of the few dispersed Imperial officers and stormtroopers eating their mediocre meals. You headed straight for the terminal, never once breaking your stride as you withdrew the datarod from your pocket. Each breath you took was magnified inside your own ears, the air rushing through your lungs in thunderous waves.
The work was instinctual, mechanical. Your face was scanned, and you tapped through the information to find what you were looking for. A few sly codes later, the updated list of names was running over the vidscreen, and you synced it with your datapad to correct the information you already had.
Just like always, you were done in a few minutes. You exhaled a light sigh of relief as you withdrew your datarod and stuck it back in your pocket. It would be your backup of the data in the event something happened to your datapad, which meant that you were keeping it just as safe as the device tucked in your arm as you turned around to leave.
Before you could slip out, an officer twice your size stepped in, trailed by two stormtroopers as he smirked at you. You stopped just a few feet short of running straight into him, straightening your posture even more and forcing yourself to make direct eye contact.
“Lieutenant.” The man’s voice was arrogant and low as he gestured with his gaze to the squares on your left chest. “You look to be in a hurry.”
You bowed your head for a moment. “Just eager to get some rest, sir.”
“What brings you to Ptelan?”
You repeated what you had told the first officer before. “A layover.”
The officer tilted his head. “From where?”
You told him the first planet name that came to mind. It was near the system, but lacked a strong Imperial presence from what you knew. You held your datapad closer to keep your hands from trembling.
“Ah.” The officer took a step closer to you, and you fought the urge to take a step back. “What did you need the terminal for?”
You lifted your chin higher. “I’m afraid that’s only for my commanding officer to know, Captain.” You narrowed your eyes just enough to look arrogant rather than aggressive. “Our work is delicate.”
“Do you see my rank, Lieutenant?” The captain’s lip snarled. “I am your commanding officer.”
Your jaw tightened. “If you must know, Captain, I was merely confirming the coordinates of my next few inspections.”
The captain reached out a hand to tap your datapad. “Show me.”
You swallowed hard and assessed the room all in a quick moment. He didn’t have much backup, and the few Imperials who had been in the mess hall when you entered were gone. There were only one or two more lingering, their attention drawn to the scene the captain was creating. It would be easy to take all these men down, and as long as you could still run as fast as you used to be able to, you would get to the ship no problem.
It was a split-second decision you had to make, and you did so without hesitation.
You drew your blaster and shot at the captain’s chest, needing him to be fully out of commission due to the size advantage he had on you. The two stormtroopers lunged towards you, but you ducked and turned just in time to shoot one of them down. The other began firing shots that you had to focus on dodging before you could take cover behind a nearby bench and take him down with another shot.
Only the two others in the room were left. You drew a blade from your boot and threw it at one of them, sinking it into the center of their chest as the other received a clean blaster bolt to theirs.
You only spared enough time for a few quick breaths before rising to your feet and running towards the exit. Din had been right; you weren’t so rusty after all.
The thought of him led you to lift your hand to your ear and speak. “Din, get the ship ready for takeoff. I’m—.”
You were forced to cut yourself off and come skidding to a stop when an entire team of stormtroopers stepped out in front of you. Backtracking towards the mess hall, you barely managed to escape their rain of blasterfire, the shots echoing down the corridor. You picked up one of the fallen stormtrooper’s rifles inside the mess hall and jammed the blunt end of it into the panel, sealing the door shut for now—and trapping yourself inside.
With the imminent threat taken care of, you were able to focus on Din’s panicked voice inside your ear. “What is it? Are you okay? I’m hearing a lot of commotion.”
You sighed and closed your eyes. The longer you and Din both stayed here, the more time they would have to get backup, and the harder it would be to get out. He might have been ready to come to your rescue, but you weren’t willing to take that chance.
The children whose names were written inside your datapad and datarod had to come first.
“I’ve been compromised.” You said the words calmly as you strided back over to the terminal. “I’ve locked myself inside the mess hall.”
Din’s response was immediate. “I’m on my way.”
“No.” You practically bit the word out as you activated the terminal once again and began feverishly tapping around its controls. “I’m transmitting the list to the ship’s databank right now. Once it’s done uploading, you need to get out of here.”
Even the crackling of the comm channel failed to hide Din’s disbelieving tone. “What? Why the hell would I do that?”
“We don’t have time for this, Din. If you stay and help me fight, they’ll have enough time to get backup, and who knows if we’ll ever make it out of here after that. You have the chance to go now, and I’m giving it to you.” You huffed to yourself at the cruel irony of it all. “You need to leave me here.”
“That’s not an option.”
Your head snapped over your shoulder when you heard a slicing at the door. The Imperials were beginning to carve a way inside. You tightened your jaw and worked even faster, your desperation mounting. “Those kids need you!”
“And I need you.”
His words gave you pause, as if he had the ability to make the entire galaxy freeze. You blinked at the vidscreen, your brain mulling over his words endlessly. The rawness of them, the vulnerability, struck you all at once.
“I’m not making the same mistake twice. I’m not leaving you again.” Before you could even think of an argument, Din repeated his words from before. “I’m on my way.”
You closed your eyes in selfish relief. He was finally choosing you. Above all else, for better or for worse, he wanted you, even at the risk of his own safety.
It healed the last broken fracture of your heart.
But the pressing matter at hand was quick in disrupting your emotional moment. The Imperials were almost done slicing their way through, and you were standing completely vulnerable to their next attack. You dove towards the nearest table and kicked it over, drawing your blaster and leaning your back against it for cover. After a few breaths, you rose enough to prop your blaster on top of the table, aiming it for whatever poor soul walked in first.
As soon as you saw the first flash of white, you pulled the trigger. The stormtrooper fell, but right behind him was a second one, a trooper who had uncharacteristically decent aim.
You ducked just in time to avoid most of the blow, but part of their blaster bolt still caught your arm. You gasped and clutched the wound with your gloved hand, baring your teeth as you glanced over at it. It had been enough to tear through your uniform and singe your skin, with a small circle of it hit bad enough to bleed.
Okay, so you were still a little rusty. But now you were also pissed off.
You set both hands on your blaster and rose again, firing in precise shots to take down two more troopers. They were the only two advancing on you, with the others distracted by something else—someone else, when you remembered you weren’t here alone.
Sure enough, there were sounds of panicked shouts and gargled last breaths, all without blaster fire. You stood and rushed out with your blaster raised to get a closer look, just in time to see Din run his spear through the last stormtrooper standing there. His visor snapped up at you before the trooper’s body even hit the floor.
“Are you okay?” Din’s modulated voice was a mere breath as he hurried over to you.
You didn’t address his question. “Let’s get out of here.”
Din’s visor found the wound on your arm in record time. “You’re hurt.”
You fought the urge to roll your eyes at him. “Barely. Come on, Mando.” You took his gloved hand and began to lead the way back to the ship. “You might love a good fight, but I’m retired.”
Din huffed at that. “I don’t love it when you’re hurt.”
You scoffed at him. “Barely!”
You tugged him along the corner hard to keep him from arguing with you further. Another team waited for the two of you there, but between you and Din, you were able to make quick work of them. You focused on aiming your blaster as Din went back in with his spear, slicing through his share until the entire team had been taken care of. With a nod, the two of you pressed on.
It was a rhythm you had been missing for a long, long time.
You turned the last corner into the hangar bay, and as it turned out, Din had already taken care of the greeting party on his way to come and assist you. You both had boarded the ship before the next wave of stormtroopers even entered the hangar, leaving their useless shots to clip the exterior hull as you pulled up on the controls and piloted the ship far away from their attack.
Inputting the coordinates back to your current homeworld, you waited to relax until the blue lights of hyperspace were flickering around you again. It was only then that you released the heavy breath you’d been holding, the adrenaline pumping through you and elevating your heartbeat inside your eardrums.
You chuckled and looked over at Din, who had assumed the same leaned-back posture as yourself. “Turns out I underestimated our abilities.” Your tone was nothing but amused as you spoke. “We didn’t have a problem getting out of there before backup arrived.”
Din snorted at that. “It’s always hard to judge how skilled these remnants will be.” He removed his helmet and set it in his lap, allowing you to openly admire his face that glowed in the aftermath of the fight. “Thankfully, Ptelan is in the middle of nowhere, and they probably didn’t want to waste resources on it.”
You hummed at that. Your order for him to leave you was starting to feel embarrassing, but everything had been charged by the past that his mere presence had dug up. The panic of something actually going wrong when it never had before only added to that.
You were about to acknowledge all this when Din spoke up first. “I’m sorry.”
You shot him a confused look. His brow was furrowed, and his gaze was downcast at his helmet. “For what?” You racked your mind for even a mere idea of what he could possibly be apologizing for. “You saved my ass back there.”
Din’s gaze found yours, and the longing there was so strong that it knocked the breath from your lungs. “I went against your wishes by not leaving.” He held a cautious breath. “I just… I couldn’t bear doing exactly what I had done all those years ago, especially after spending so much time regretting it.”
You let out a soft sigh and studied him. Din’s expression was written in guilt and remorse, both of which were so genuine that you could feel those very same emotions yourself by just looking at him. He had just proven to you that he wasn’t the same man he was when he left you, that he had learned from his mistakes and changed.
That was all you had ever wanted, and you had certainly spent enough time dwelling on the what-ifs. You wanted to know what a life with him would be like, a life where you both had made a different choice the day he left.
You stood from your chair, earning Din’s rapt attention as you peeled the helmet from his hands. Half-setting and half-tossing it onto the empty chair behind you, you took its previous place, tearing off your gloves and holding his face to bring it to yours.
There wasn’t a single ounce of regret or uncertainty in this kiss. Instead, it was a shared feeling of relief, a gesture of understanding and desperation that only brought you closer together. Using the hand that had woven into his brown waves, you tilted his head back further, deepening the kiss to prove the sentiment behind your actions.
The way Din pulled your chest against his showed his own understanding.
Still, you spelled out the words on your tongue for him to feel rather than hear, your other hand running along his jaw and gently tightening along the back of his neck. Din hummed into your mouth, the tension having melted from him completely as he melted underneath your touch.
You only pulled away when you had lost your breath, but you stayed close enough for your forehead to lean against Din’s. You opened your eyes, letting your gaze meet his up close like this for the very first time. It sent a jolt of the sweetest electricity throughout your body, proving that you were making the right choice.
“Stay.” You lifted your hand back up to his jaw and ran your thumb over his lips. “If you’re waiting for me to make the choice this time, then that’s what it is.” Your nose brushed his. “I want you to stay.”
Din closed his eyes and exhaled a breath that helped every single feature of his face relax. The small smile that began to tug at the corners of his mouth was breathtaking. “I will.” His eyes reopened to depict his severity as he nodded, minding your head against his. “And I won’t ever leave you like I did before. I promise. I swear.”
“I know.” You ran a hand over Din’s head, brushing his hair back and smiling when his eyelids fluttered in content. “You've just proven that to me.”
Din returned your smile before he kissed you again, but he kept this one brief, his sparkling gaze finding yours again. “I meant what I said the night I left.” His voice was barely a whisper, though every word he said carried its own heavy weight. “And I still do.” Your eyes were beginning to get misty from pure relief as he cradled your face. “I never stopped loving you.”
You beamed at him and whispered your own words upon his lips, the truth of them shocking you. “Neither did I.”
Even amidst all your anger towards him over the years, that love still remained, the same love that seeped into this kiss that could finally take its time. He had carved a part of himself into your heart, and that’s what had made it so difficult to watch him leave. But you knew he wouldn’t do it again. You knew he would stay by your side at all costs this time.
But above all, you knew that he would protect you from the galaxy, and he would no longer doubt his own ability to do so—just like you would protect him, too. Whatever happened next, you were doing it together.
Thank the stars you hadn’t turned your back on that opportunity.
main masterlist • din djarin masterlist
din djarin tag list: @yorksgirl @zenrobbins0021 @cyaredindjarin @cw80831 @maddiedrmr @pigeonmama @violetlilly2020
Summary: Din rents a cottage to give you both and the kid a much needed break, but whilst there, he realises that maybe the no strings attached arrangement you have isn't working for him anymore.
Warnings: 18+. Fwb to lovers. Unprotected piv. Oral sex (fem recieving). Din with a raging domesticity kink.
Word Count: 3.4K
It hits him in a way he doesn't expect.
They're taking a break from hunting– laying low in a quaint little cottage at the edge of a secluded lake that Din told you he'd rented from an old contact.
He'd wanted to do something nice for you, wanted to make up for the exhaustion that hooked into your bones like a dead weight because he'd insisted on ‘one more job' just a few times too many.
You had lit up at the surprise.
Your usual fierce expression melting into something akin to pure joy whilst he’d nervously waited for you to drink it all in.
And then his cheeks had ached with the force of his grin behind the helmet, relief bursting bright in his stomach whilst he leaned against the Crest and watched you gush to the kid over the acres of stunning meadow.
The flowers that bloomed in an explosion of colours and the towering trees with branches that reached all the way down to sway just above the ground as the breeze swept through.
His gaze followed you, riveted, as you ran. As Grogu shrieked with delight in your arms when you reached the shoreline of the lake and kicked your boots and socks off before setting him down beside you.
Din heard the sound of the kid splashing, your resulting laughter that drifted through the air to curl around his heart.
There was something almost unbearably warm unfurling beneath his ribs, swelling whilst he watched you tip your face up to the midday sun. Drenched in golden light as the blue of the lake shimmered around you.
It’s a little ridiculous. He feels ridiculous. Your his friend, his partner, and okay maybe they were fucking but that’s all it had ever been.
They didn’t do sweet or gentle.
They didn’t do emotions.
It was a release when the adrenaline still tore through their blood after a fight, an offering of themselves to the other so they could take out their rage when a job didn’t go their way.
Din doesn't know how to deal with those types of feelings. He doesn't even know how you would deal with those feelings. It was the whole fucking reason they'd started their arrangement in the first place. No strings attached, keep things simple.
And yet this thing with you has never been simple to begin with.
They're tangled hopelessly together, bound in blood and violence– sex and that startling burst of life when you're dragged back from the brink of death. All the ways that another person can be branded upon your very soul.
Maker, how had he only just realised now.
As you called out to him from somewhere with in the aged stone walls of the cottage, voice streaked through with awe, snapping him out of the screaming mess of his thoughts.
‘Mando are you coming in? You have to come see this!’
As he breathed out a ragged sigh before following the sound of your voice.
He wonders how he'd never realised just how fucked he was.
**
You're torturing him. Din's sure of it.
He's only seen you in your armour. The threadbare clothes that you wear beneath it. And he doesn't know what he expected, you obviously had no need for them here when you were on a break, but whatever it was, it wasn't this.
It wasn't the way he was wholly unprepared for what the sight of you in a pretty little sundress would do to him. The way it fits you so perfectly, slipping along your curves and swishing around the smooth, bare skin of your thighs whenever you move.
Din's a stuttering mess at the sight of it, face burning behind the shield of his helmet whilst his gaze greedily rakes over you. It's a struggle to focus on almost anything else and the effort it takes to rein in just how badly he wants to devour you, to bury himself inside you right there, is practically herculean.
And what makes it all worse, all a thousand times more difficult, is that those feelings he's suspicious of having will not go away. They refuse to be shoved back down now he's shone the barest hint of light on them.
They swirl around him. In the depths of his chest and his gut, blooming into something completely unmanageble the longer they're here.
It's the domesticity of it.
The fact that it all just fits, that it seems right, that they feel so much like a family. Something Din had never even realised he had craved something fierce until you had came along and gave him a taste of what he'd been missing.
It's the trips to the market where you get to actually take your time for once flitting from stall to stall, dragging him along with you as you point out vibrant, lavish fabrics. Different foods and spices from all over the galaxy.
The many toys you see for Grogu that Din has to steer you away from after the kid realises if he gives you a certain look and coos, you'll buy him anything.
It's the picnics they have right by the side of the lake and the times they chase the kid through the meadow for hours until he decides he's exhausted and reaches for one of you so he can burrow his little face into your neck and sleep.
You pull him back outside with you after the kid is put to bed for the night. Lie straight on the cool grass, surrounded by the silky petals of pretty flowers, before you thread your fingers through his and lead him down beside you.
They watch the stars and just talk, your head tilted so close to his helmet that as the temperature dips he can see each warm puff of your breath in the air. And the whole time Din's heart pulses, the leather of his gloves creaking as he fists his hands to try and hide the slight tremble.
It feels a lot like intimacy.
Like the rules of their agreement are crumbling around them when a tense silence suddenly falls between you– your eyes flicking from his hands to the pitch dark of his visor. A flash of soft pink as your tongue darts across your lip.
Fuck.
You whisper his name, gentle with want, and his breath hitches. It makes him hard. The simple touch of your hand stroking the cheek of his helmet. Drifting down to stroke over his chest, the softly tensing muscles of his stomach.
A ragged noise spills from his throat and then he's snatching your hand. Yanking you forward until you're draped over him, your thighs straddling his narrow hips. There's this feeling of desperation that bleeds through him. Like if he goes any longer without you surrounding him completely, he'll lose his mind. He'll burn up like a dying star.
He rips his gloves off so he can feel you properly. His fingers digging into the meat of your thighs whilst you slip your hand past his waistband and grasp the thick length of him. When you stroke him his head falls back, knocks off the ground as he hisses and strains to keep himself from thrusting into the soft heat of your palm.
"Fuck," He mutters. "How do you always feel so good."
You shiver at that and then you're shoving his pants down, hovering over him whilst he hastily rucks your dress up to your stomach.
You take him in your hand and push your panties to the side before sliding the head of his cock through your slick folds. It nudges against your clit, snags at your entrance where his hips then jerk– a moan shuddering through your throat as the tip slides into you.
"Mando." You breathe, the sound of it splintered, before sinking fully down.
And suddenly everything goes slow. Warm. Like wading through syrup.
You fall against him and one hand immediately clamps around the curve of your hip, his other gripping a fistful of your hair to keep you utterly pinned to his body whilst he rocks up into you.
Every sense he has zeroes on you. The soaked, fever-hot grip of your cunt, stretching and fluttering around him. The smell of your sweet breath as you press your mouth to the place on his helmet where his own lies underneath in the echo of a kiss and your pretty gasp when it makes him lose his head and thrust deep.
He silently thanked the maker they'd left the light on inside because it poured over you now. Your pleasure-drunk face and the way your tits heave against the tight bodice of your dress. His eyes drop lower and Din nearly bites through his lip as he sees the shine of your arousal painting your thighs, his cock slick with it as he slides in and out of you.
He wants to get his mouth on you, wants to press his face to your flush, dripping cunt and drink you down until he can hardly breathe.
It's a lot. Every part of this is overwhelming. But Din has realised he is nothing but greedy when it comes to you.
He winds an arm around your waist and surges up, your startled cry at the sudden change of angle making heat spear through his belly.
He curls his hand around your neck to drag your forehead back to his whilst he thrust deeper, buries himself inside you like he's trying to carve you open before he rips down the top of your dress to palm at your tits.
"Stars– please." You pant, lashes fluttering as your mouth parts in bliss.
He can feel you getting closer to your end. The way you're starting to clench desperately around his length, body trembling beneath his hands as his touch drifts lower to wedge between you two and press against the swollen flesh of your clit until you sob.
You wind around him when it rushes through you. Locking him tight in the cage of your arms, between your thighs, as his name cracks on your tongue and you flood him. It short circuits his brain, a feral noise clawing up his throat as his cock pulses and spills inside you.
And all he can think as their breathing calms, as the sweat dries on your body and you burrow against his chest when a breeze stirs the still night air, is closer.
He needs you closer.
**
The sex is different after that.
They've forgotten the rules, threw them away completely. It's no longer about just stress relief, not now when he can touch you whenever he wants and vice versa.
Din is insatiable with it. As soon as the kid is napping or preoccupied with food and some shitty cartoon, he's on you. His voice pitched low and husky as he yanks you against his chest.
"Need to feel you mesh'la, I've been thinking about it all day."
"It's only 10am, Mando."
"Exactly. It's been hours."
He likes to corner you when you're in the kitchen. When you've been cooking and baking for hours because you don’t get the time to do it when you're hunting and you've told him it relaxes you.
He can't quite put his finger on why he's so entranced. If maybe it's just because you look too much like a damn dream.
Sweet and soft in your pretty little dresses whilst you ice delicate shapes on cupcakes for the kid– like butter wouldn't melt in your mouth when he's seen the kind of violence you're capable of. The way those same hands have torn apart men twice your size.
Whatever it is–the sight of you humming away to yourself, flushed from the heat of the oven, the various things simmering away on the stove, flour dusting your hands and streaked across your cheek– it makes him slightly feral. Heat snaking through his blood and his belly every time without fail.
He leans against the doorframe and simply watches for a few moments.
Drink in the way the sunlight glides over your hair, your smooth skin, the way your dress flutters around your legs as you move from counter to stove and back again. Smiling softly when he hears you mumbling to yourself.
You jump when you turn and see him standing there, a sheepish grin tugging at your mouth before you beckon him over.
And he goes without a word.
Seals his back to your chest and his hands to the swell of your hips whilst you scoop some of the sauce for dinner on a spoon. He tips his chin down as you turn around to face him, chuckling as you blow a lock of hair away from your face before clamping a hand over your eyes and raising the spoon.
The simple act makes his heart thump, the levels of trust it implied between them. Din swallows hard before slowly lifting his helmet just above his mouth so he could lean in for a taste and– oh, stars.
A deep noise of satisfaction hums through his chest and he catches the way your lips quirk as he drops the helmet back down.
"Fuck, that's good."
The flash of your smile is blinding, pleased and brushed with just a hint of smugness. It was stupidly endearing. It makes him ache with something tender in his chest, his stomach clenching with a soft bloom of arousal.
He cradles your face in one hand and your eyes flutter closed, contentment oozing from you as his thumb sweeps over the swell of your cheek. The hand curved around your hip squeezes, kneading the flesh that's enticingly warm beneath the thin material of your dress before drifting lower. Fingers dipping teasingly beneath the hem.
Your eyes blink open. Fixing him with a look that's equally amused curiosity and soft heat. "Is there something you want Mandalorian?"
Oh– you know that does something to him.
So he presses forward, crowds you up against the counter whilst his hand snakes fully under your dress to stroke along your underwear. His mouth splitting into a shit-eating grin when he presses his fingers to the damp cloth covering your clit and you lurch against his chest.
"I want to taste you." He rasps, taunts until you shudder. Your palms twitching against his chest plate. Pupils blown wide. "I want to lick that pretty pussy until you come screaming my name."
And then Din's dropping to his knees. He pushes your dress up to your stomach and nudges your thighs apart, visor fixed on your stunned face when he slowly peels your underwear down your legs before flinging them to the side.
Fuck.
He can smell you. How wet you are from just his words and a few simple touches. It punches pride through his chest, a low groan rumbling in the back of his throat when he slides a finger along your dripping slit.
You gasp his name and it drizzles like warm honey down into his gut. It loosens his tongue further until it feels like he can't stop pouring out every dirty little fantasy of you he's ever had.
"Do you know how many times I've dreamed of this?" He murmurs. "How sweet you would taste– sweeter than anything in the galaxy when you finally flood my mouth. Will you let me do it? Let me make you come on my tongue and you can have whatever you want."
You nod desperately, lips parted, seemingly lost for all other words and he melts with it. Burns all the way down to his fingertips and toes as he removes his hand from your flushed cunt and places it on your thigh.
"Close your eyes then."
He watches as they flutter closed and then his helmet hits the floor. He hears your sharp inhale and feels that similar breathlessness in his own chest.
He was bare.
He was giving you as much of himself as he could, more than he'd ever given anyone, and you both knew it. It was undeniable proof that their relationship has become something more.
It swells heavy in the air and paints Din's movements, his touches tender and worshipful as he leads your hand to replace his own in holding the material of your dress. Leaving both of his free to stroke and tease at all of your soft, warm skin.
He places a kiss on your stomach– presses his face there just a moment and breathes you in whilst your trembling fingers thread through his hair.
His heart is racing. It feels like he's ripping it out of his chest and presenting it to you, like he's laying himself raw and vulnerable at your feet without realising he's done it until it's too late. He can't stop. You just bring it out of him.
He shifts again. Peppering kisses along your hips, your thighs, the patch of skin above your cunt until you twitch beneath his hands. Your fingers twisting tighter in hair. Not enough to hurt but enough that he gets a sense of your growing impatience.
"Mando, don't tease." You whine quietly and he can't help himself.
Can't help the playful grin that you can surely feel against your skin. "Is there something you want, pretty thing?"
You huff. "Maker, I swear if you're trying to torture me I'm going to–"
But whatever you were about to threaten him is lost to a startled moan as he hooks your thigh over his shoulder and shoves his face against the soaked heat of your pussy, dragging his tongue from your entrance to your clit.
He sucks the swollen flesh into his mouth and you nearly buckle, your palm slamming down on the counter beside you before your fingers curl around the edge.
You taste better than he could have ever imagined, the salt-sweet of you intoxicating. Making him dizzy as he flicks his tongue and sinks two fingers inside the fluttering walls of your cunt.
"Shit." You whimper. "Mando."
He curls his fingers and your hips jerk into his mouth, thighs twitching around his head as you clench around him. He inches back and he can feel it, his skin wet with you. "What is it, baby?" He teases softly, pressing a sweet kiss to your thigh before nipping at the same spot with his teeth. "Do you need to come?"
You let out a choked little sob. Your brow pinched and lip caught between your teeth whilst you tremble as his thumb draws lazy circles over your clit. You nod but it's not enough, he wants to hear you.
"Use your words, pretty thing."
You soak his fingers at the gentle demand and he files that little bit of information away for later. Wholly transfixed now on the way your chest heaves, the rake of your nails over his scalp. The swell of your lip when you release it that he wants nothing more than to suck into his own mouth.
You do as he says. Go soft and pliant the second he puts his mouth back on you. Begging. "Mando– please–please make me come. I need it."
He groans into you and loses himself in bringing your pleasure, pace becoming something frantic, messy. He thrusts his fingers inside you, hitting that patch of tissue that makes you cry out and yank his hair whilst he swirls his tongue harshly over your clit again and again and again.
He feels it rise. Feels the rapid build of your orgasm, your walls pulsing around his knuckles and your thighs quaking before it slashes through you and you crash into ecstasy with a strangled scream.
"That's it." He praises raggedly. "Give it to me, cyar’ika."
You're a trembling mess when it recedes, your legs threatening to give out but Din is already there.
He withdraws his fingers and presses another tender kiss to your stomach before standing and gathering you to his chest. Your hands find his face and then you're drawing him down– your mouth slotting sweetly over his as he clutches you closer.
It breaks that last part of him that held any denial, that tried to convince him that these feelings were nothing more than his mind confusing the lust element to their friendship as something else.
Because when the kiss grows heated and he lifts you onto the counter whilst you drag his pants down to grasp his thick length, stroking him so maddeningly perfect before leading him to your entrance.
As he slowly pushes forward, sinking to the hilt and pulling a ruined moan from you both.
Summary: When a hunt goes wrong and you're drugged with an aphrodisiac, Din goes to extreme lengths to keep you safe before giving you what you need. [5K]
Warnings: 18+. Dub con due to the nature of sex pollen but both people do consent. Drink spiking. Mild gore. Murder. Semi-public sex. Fingering. Piv. Multiple orgasms. Porn with feelings.
This isn’t how he had pictured it.
All the times he lay alone in his cot and envisioned how soft you would be beneath him, the warmth of your skin flushed with pleasure as he stretched you open on his fingers–as his mouth determinedly worked you towards delirium, ready for the slow slide of his cock sinking to the hilt.
He thought it would be sweet. That despite everything he was, all of his sharp edges and brute strength, he could make the memory of the first time he took you one that was untouched by pain and violence and all the other harsh things that came with being hunters.
But then this job had landed in their laps and they had been too damn quick following the first lead to the mark they got instead of doing some real digging on the guy like you usually insisted.
I don’t like surprises, you would usually tell him but this time exhaustion held your caution behind your teeth. The result of running on the fumes from too many hunts and barely any time to take breaks until all of that ragged bone-deep weariness had begun to creep in, leaving you itching to get this job out of the way so you could finally rest.
And of course, in the end, it bit you in the ass.
You had entered the club with only the knowledge that your mark frequented the place and it had all gone to shit almost ridiculously fast.
The drink that had been brought to your table, the server announcing cheerfully that first ones of the night are always on the house, had been laced. The effects taking hold of you the moment the last drop passed your lips.
And Din had watched, confused, as your eyes had become glazed. Lids heavy and gaze transfixed on the writhing bodies that crowded the glittering dancefloor.
He had asked you a question, 'any sign of the bounty?', and it was like you couldn’t hear him, like he was calling to you through water when he raised his voice to say your name.
Instead, you’d remained rooted in place at the edge of your seat– white-knuckling the smooth leather until he hesitantly placed his hand on your knee and then you had jerked. Snapping out of a trance like he’d burned you, a gasp caught in your throat and your chest heaving whilst you blinked at him.
“What–what is it?” You had demanded breathlessly and if he hadn’t been suspicious that something wasn’t right before, he certainly was then. There was a tremor to your voice he had never heard before and where his gloved hand still remained curved around your knee, heat seared through the worn leather and scorched his palm.
"Are you okay?" He'd asked, his gaze raking over you in a way he'd previously refused to allow himself.
You were wrapped in a silky little dress the colour of the midnight sky. The neckline dipping to reveal the swell of your breasts and the hemline short enough that the bare skin of your legs had seemed endless when you'd first sauntered towards him as he'd waited for you outside the crest.
Din hadn't been able to look at you for more than a few seconds at a time because he knew if he took any longer he wouldn't be able to think clearly.
He wouldn't have been able to concentrate on the job with the image of those legs wrapped around his waist blaring through his skull–that lipstick-stained mouth parted around a moan of his name as he imagined rutting into you.
But he let himself stare then– shoving down those thoughts so he could assess the situation properly. His heart dropping to his stomach as he took in the sweat that beaded at your hairline, the weak tremble of you hand as you lifted it to your forehead in an attempt to swipe the moisture away.
You glanced at him nervously as you did so, chewing your lip. “I don’t feel right, Mando.” You murmured. “Everything feels too tight, like I’m about to burst.”
He had scooted closer then, slid right along the plush seat of the booth to fit himself to your side as his thumb rubbed small circles over the flesh of your knee.
It was supposed to be a comfort, an unspoken gesture that he was there–that you were safe.
But instead you had groaned like he’d shoved his hand through your chest and gripped something vital, the sound of it nearly making him choke on his damn tongue as he thanked the maker that his helmet hid the way he’d had to sink his teeth into his lip to bite back a moan.
“Don’t stop please.” You begged, pressing your own hands over his when he went to remove it. “It hurts when you’re not touching me.”
His eyes had narrowed at that.
It sounded familiar– wisps of old tales floating around in his head before he remembered one about a poison that made you crave others, that made your blood boil beneath your skin until you found someone to offer the pleasure necessary to sate the all-encompassing need.
But how?
You hadn’t been out of his sight all day. You hadn’t ingested anything the two of you hadn’t personally made, except…
His gaze snapped to the glass you had recently drained, remnants of the shimmering liquid still clinging to the edges and he can smell it as he takes it in his hand to inspect it closer. That sickly-sweet smell, the strong blend of fruit and something synthetically syrupy.
He could suddenly feel eyes on him and when he looked up the server that gave you the drink is staring at him with wide, terrified eyes– face paling as Din’s suspicion brewed to a blinding fury that gathered around his head like a storm.
It had been intentional then. No doubt the bounty had caught wind that they were on his take and had taken measures to slow them down.
He would kill them for it–both of them. Would rip them apart and leave the mark of his violence behind in the mess of their insides as a warning should anyone else even think of coming for them in the future.
No one touched her and lived.
His vision had seeped red. His blood spitting in his veins before it surged with panic as your hand flew to your stomach and your expression crumpled into something agonised.
“Fuck.” He hissed when you hunched over beside him with a sharp cry of pain. “I need to get you out of here, now.”
“What about the bounty?” You panted, looking up at him through the fringe of your lashes that were wet with unshed tears.
You had looked so small in that moment– a far cry from the ruthless hunter people would whisper about after you had swept through their town. It made his chest ache, briefly drowning out that insatiable temper of his as he gathered you to his chest and raised a hand to cup your cheek.
“What’s happening to me, Mando?”
“Your drink was laced with an aphrodisiac, he probably knew we were following him.” He said as gently as he could, thumb stroking the swell of your flushed cheek as alarm rippled across your features. “I don’t think it’s lethal but I need to get you back to the ship before the effects get any worse. Can you stand?”
Instead of an answer you fucking whimpered. The needy sound of it shooting heat straight through his gut as your eyes grew dark beneath the flutter of your lashes and your fingers curled tight into his cowl.
Was it his touch or his voice that had prompted such a reaction?
Whichever it was you suddenly looked like you wanted to devour him and Din had to swallow down the fierce sweep of desire that urged him to let you.
To drag you onto his lap and lay himself at your mercy, the words 'use me, take what you need, whatever you want it’s yours' clawing savagely up his throat whilst he grit his teeth and wrenched his face away from yours to scan their surroundings.
They would have to exit through the back. The club was too crowded, with too many bodies between them and the main entrance, all packed tight, and when Din had stood to get a better look, another sight had stopped him dead.
Guards at the door.
One’s that definitely hadn’t been there when you both entered and he’s almost certain are slyly watching every move he makes as he quickly tugged you to your feet and bundled you into his side.
He wanted desperately to believe it was paranoia.
That it was in no way related to the poison working its way through your systemn, that the two of you were going to get outside and be able to make your way to the ship without an issue.
He’d never wanted to believe something so much in his life.
**
It was a trap.
Deep down, Din had known it as they’d stumbled into the quiet of dark corridors– the lingering thump of the music pulsing beneath his boots.
He’d known it when your legs had buckled and he’d scooped you up in his arms, cradling you to his chest like a newborn babe before he’d broke out into a run and nearly kicked the door of its hinges as they’d reached it.
But he hadn’t truly allowed himself to acknowledge it until he’d come face to face with the steel fence chained shut and the sound of a dozen footsteps descending upon them.
When he'd heard the door shut, the decisive click of the lock, and his rage had soared. You were sick and though he was sure it wasn’t lethal he couldn’t shake the feeling like he was running out of time to get you help.
And they were stood in his way.
So he lowered you carefully to the ground, his lungs tightening when a weak groan rattled from your throat as you sank back against the fence and hugged your knees to your chest.
“Did you really think you could take me down in my own club, Mandalorian?”
He needed to swallow down all that burning anger and think, needed to focus on the best way he could take them all out without letting a single one near you.
But then the bounty had made the mistake of looking past the vengeful mass of him to where you were curled up on the ground and any thoughts of a quick and calculated fight were snatched right out of his head.
“Pretty partner you’ve got there.” He’d leered, dragging his tongue over his lip. “She must be dying for someone to fuck her right about now. Maybe after I've killed you, I'll keep her as my whore and fuck that pretty pussy right next to your corpse.”
A terrifying sound had followed–something dark and ragged, drenched in a murderous brand of fury, and then Din’s vision swam black.
Just as the saber ignited in his hand.
**
When he came to, he was panting.
And in the aftermath, there was a mass of bodies, slack mouths and bulging, glassy eyes caught in the horror of their final moments. The air stained with the stench of singed flesh and the metallic tang of blood.
He stared at the carnage he created in a daze until you croaked his name and his gaze shot to where you're sat, wide eyed and trembling, staring at him in disbelief.
Or maybe it was fear.
He had totally lost his head after all, had been absolutely unhinged in the way he took them apart, piece by piece– limb by limb.
Maybe you wouldn’t be able to look at him the same now that he’d discovered what he was truly capable of when it came to you, the darkness that lay in wait ready to gorge itself on violence and spilled blood.
He approached you slowly with hands splayed wide in front of him, hesitation etched in every rigid line of him, as if one wrong move would send you scurrying away. But then, to his utter surprise, your lips quirked–voice cracking with a rasping chuckle.
“I’m not scared of you, Din.”
When he knelt before you, you reached for him easily. Lacing your fingers through his and pressing his gloved hand to the dewy skin of your cheek. “I was scared for you. I've never felt so fucking useless but then you– you did that and I–fuck–”
His voice went low before he could stop it, thick honey over gravel, a wicked flare of heat licking through his belly as your eyes suddenly burned dark. The black of your pupils drowning out their colour. “You what? Tell me.”
There was a second where you simply stared at him, lip drawn between your teeth and the admission weighing on your tongue as the space between you began to crackle and spark.
But then you took a long, shuddering breath and–
“I couldn’t take my eyes off you.” You whispered. “Seeing the way you ripped them apart for me, I liked it.”
Fuck.
He clenched his jaw, his free hand, his entire goddamn body. Everything he could to remain from lunging at you and burying himself inside you right there. It had to be the drug talking– it had to be.
At least that's what he was painstakingly trying to convince himself.
Because there were still remnants of that hungered energy within him, desperate for somewhere to go, and there you were telling him you had liked it, that you enjoyed him killing for you, when he was trying his best to be fucking honourable.
He tried to say your name, tried to curl his tongue around the letters in a way that wasn’t dripping want, but then you’d gasped and your heated expression dissolved into something frighteningly pained, tears springing into your eyes as you folded in on yourself.
His arms were around you in a second, his tone bleeding panic as he frantically scooped you up “We need to get you to the ship now.”
“It’s too late.” You sobbed as your body convulsed, arching and bending until he had no choice but to set you on your feet. His body pinning yours to the fence and his hands clamped around the curves of your hips to hold you up. “It hurts so much– please, Din–"
"We can make it. Let me carry you–I'll run and we'll get you the help you need. Some medicine or something."
"No, I can't wait that long." You whimpered. "I can't–I need you–I need you to touch me."
There was something close to defeat in the way he held himself as your hands came to cup the cheeks of his helmet, the gentle touch pleading. He didn't want it to have to be this way but stars, he didn't think he could handle you being in pain much longer either.
He should have protected you better, moved faster, fought harder.
He should have got you back to the ship the moment he realised something wasn't right, and then maybe you wouldn't have had to beg a man you had no interest in to violate you.
“This isn’t what you want, sweet girl.” He sighed, guilt bitter in his chest. “Trust me, as soon as the effects fade you'll regret what you are asking of me.”
You frowned then, sweat-damp brow wrinkling in a way that made Din ache to smooth out with his thumb as you peered up at his visor. “You think this is just the drug?” You murmured. “That I don’t know my own mind? Stars, Din, I’ve wanted you to fuck me from the moment I saw you.”
His hands spasmed at that, clamping tight as a startled groan slipped from throat before he could choke it back. Were you trying to kill him? Did tou not have any idea how close his restraint felt to snapping from that confession alone.
“Fuck–you can’t just say something like that.”
But you were too far gone, pushing up against his armour and curling a hand around the nape of his neck to wrench him down so you can whisper in his ear.
“I think about it all the time, think about how good you’d feel.” Your fingers brushed over the fabric covering his swelling cock and he jolted. “Wondering how you’d fuck me, if you’d make me come on your cock over and over until I was ruined mess.”
Shit.
His brain had turned to liquid, he was sure of it.
He caught your wandering hand, grunting as you palmed at him before he could drag it away and pin it to the fence at the side of your head. Your breath hitched softly as his other hand drifted down, ghosting past the edge of your dress, the scrape of worn leather on your bare thighs making your hips jump against his hand.
He could fucking smell your arousal and it was driving him insane–his mouth watering as he parted your thighs with one of his own.
“Pretty little thing, is that what you want?” Din asked, voice hoarse. “You want me to ruin you?”
His fingers dared to slip further, dipping past the soaked material of your underwear and when he slid a knuckle through your folds, you gasped.
“Yes.”
**
It was all too overwhelming the moment he broke.
The second your simple yes cracked him open and his breath hitched before he was burying you further into the fence. His fingers grazing the peak of your clit whilst obscene noises burst from your throat, wild and desperate.
If felt so fucking good that you were almost blind with it. All that heat and need swirling to a central point in your belly that could explode at any moment, burning brighter with every rough stroke of Din's fingers and the low rasp of his voice in your ear.
"That's it, mesh’la– let me help you."
You didn't know any words after that– none other than his name at least and the gasping chant of don't stop don't stop don't stop.
When he snatched his hands away you thought you would actually cry, a devastated wail brewed from the depths of your lungs before he hushed you gently. The cold kiss of his beskar soothing against your sweat-slick face as he nuzzled you before a different sensation against your thighs startled you.
Skin. Calloused and warm and completely bare.
In the midst of your babbled pleading you had missed him tearing the gloves from his hands and if you had thought the contact had been electric before then this was something else entirely.
His skin against yours felt cataclysmic. The moan you made when he hitched your leg over his hip and sunk those thick fingers deep inside you, unhinged.
"I want to be able to feel you when you come for me." He told you lowly, purred it in your ear, and you choked as he pressed his thumb to your clit in the most maddeningly perfect circles until you spasmed. Soaking his hand as the tension in your lower stomach snapped violently.
You were lost then.
Boneless against him whilst he curved himself over you and continued stroking your pulsing walls so all of that swirling pleasure became flame again, burning hot and wild enough that it made you let loose a desperate sob. Burying your nails in his neck, the other hand fisted around his cloak as another climax slammed through the dying breaths of the first.
“Oh maker, Din.” You cried out, hips jerking into his hand, thighs trembling whilst he eased you through it. His touch gentler this time, sweet, like he could sense anything harsher would fray you apart at the seams.
There was the cool press of his helmet touching your temple, a calming gesture that clashed with the rapid rise and fall of both of your chests. “That's it,” he murmured, pride equal parts soft and heated on his tongue, “good girl.”
You could hear when he removed his fingers from inside you. The liquid slip that would have made your cheeks flame under normal circumstances but only made you burn for completely different reasons then.
Your own fingers darting out to circle his wrist before leading the slick digits to the tempting plush of your mouth.
He made a low, feral noise–the sound of your name rumbling from deep within his chest as you let the tips of his fingers rest against your lips. Waiting for him to take the next step which he did without hesitation, pressing down until your mouth parted for him and he slid his fingers into soft, wet heat.
You were still aching, still throbbing like a raw, open wound, but it was slightly more bearable now. The orgasms that Din drew from you taking the edge off just enough for you to have this indulgence. A hint of worship.
The slow lave of your tongue against his skin as he shivered. Hips rocking into the cradle of your pelvis, making you whine around his fingers when his clothed cock caught you just right.
He dragged his fingers from your mouth with a hissed curse, rubbing the spit-shine of your lip in a daze whilst the hand on your thigh flexed and tightened its grip.
“We shouldn’t, not here.” Din muttered, swearing under his breath when you deliberately rolled your hips. “You deserve better than this and it isn't safe.”
But you heard what he left unspoken.
We shouldn’t but I will if you want it. If you don't tell me to stop, I’ll fuck you right here– surrounded by the bodies I killed for you and regardless of who might come looking.
You would die before you asked him to stop.
Even if you weren’t beginning to tremble again, your heartbeat picking up to a gallop and cunt fluttering around nothing as each nudge of his cock against your sex swept a blistering need through your veins.
Even if the reminder of the lengths he was willing to go to keep you safe didn’t make you maddeningly desperate for him.
“I don’t care.” You breathed as your stomach clenched. “Please don’t make me wait that long, I need you inside me.”
He inhaled sharply then, his broad chest heaving whilst he cupped your chin and peered down at you. A split-second hesitation before he gave in yet again.
“You’re going to be the death of me begging like that,” He groaned and then his large hands were skimming over your belly. Stroking down until he reached your underwear and tore it from your body with a brutal yank before wrenching you against him as the remains fluttered to the ground.
You made a soft noise of surprise and he chuckled, rough and deep and utterly addictive. The sound of it making heat swell beneath your skin and between your thighs, your head going dizzy.
The desire you had for him was an unhinged thing. Even without the drug you knew that you would still feel like this, like he could unravel you completely with the simplest touch or glance. Your hands shaking as you fumbled with his belt whilst he watched intently.
He let you stroke him, once then twice. His length hot in your palm, throbbing beneath your fingers when the pad of your thumb dragged over the weeping head.
It stole a rough moan from somewhere deep in his chest and then he was on you. Hands wrapping around your thighs to lift you against the fence, thin metal biting into your back but any hint of pain drifts from your mind like smoke as his tip caught at your entrance.
He took it slow at first. Let you feel every inch of him stretching you open as he bit back a wrecked noise, your cunt gripping him like a hot, slick fist, until he sunk to the hilt and your eyes rolled back.
Oh. Oh fuck.
It was a lot.
It was so much that it felt like he’d reached something devastating. That when he drew his hips back to drive into you again, you screamed– back arching violently as your vision turned white.
You nearly bit through your tongue whilst he continued to move. Each bruising snap of his hips punching you further up the fence, fucking you into it, the shrill sound of metal ringing through the night air as it shook beneath Din's strength.
You had practically begged him to ruin you and he was without even trying.
You would feel him for days after this.
Maybe weeks.
You would feel him in the marks his nails would no doubt leave on your thighs from his unrelenting grip, the hard edges of his armour that were embedded in your softness as you wound yourself around him. The way he was carving you open with each frantic thrust, creating a space inside you that only he could ever fill.
The tendrils of pain that had began creeping through your system from the drug snapped to pleasure immediately. You could feel it coiling unbearably tight, growing molten, white hot sparks making your blood catch and your stomach twist in knots.
“Fuck.” You sobbed. Nails scraping down his back, desperately trying to find some kind of purchase as your head falls to his shoulder. “Din, I think–”
“I know, baby.” He grit, shifting slightly until the harsh spear of his cock suddenly hit something catastrophic over and over and over. Your breasts bouncing with every thrust and his body shuddering as your cunt tightened around him. “Come for me, that’s it. Shit–let me feel it.”
You fell apart with a ragged cry. Bursting hot and wet around him as his pace slowed to a hint of something less punishing so he could stare, dazed, at the place where you’re joined. His skin and his armour that was dripping with your release.
For a moment there was only the strained sound of his breathing through the vocoder and then he groaned. Low and filthy.
"You're so fucking perfect." He praised hoarsely, the rough scrape of his voice making you even more boneless as you trembled in his arms. "Maker. I want to taste you. After I'm done fucking you I'm going to carry you back to the ship and taste every inch of you, clean you up with my mouth, and then I'm going to fuck you again."
That scorched you. It made something in your belly stir again despite how sated you had felt only seconds ago, made you clench helplessly around him and Din choked at the feel of it. “Would you like that?” He asked, breathless. “Think you can give me another?”
His cock pulsed inside you and you found yourself wholly incapable of response, beyond words and thoughts and anything that wasn't trembling moans as his pace turned brutal. The wet squelch of your cunt taking him deep, almost embarrassingly loud in your ears.
He bore down on that place inside you that made stars burst behind your eyes with a savage focus and all too soon there was lightning snapping in your blood. The sensation of it flaring hot and sharp, gathering into something furious and terrifying as his name bubbled up past your lips in a weak chant.
“I can’t–fuck–Din, I need–”
He slid his helmet along your cheek, tipped his head down until his forehead rested on yours. The skin of his neck felt just as flushed as your own when you gripped it to hold him there against you. The dark curls that escaped his helmet tickling your fingers.
“Touch yourself, mesh’la. Come for me again and I’ll give you anything you want.”
You shakily dropped your hand between you, spreading your fingers around the place where his cock was punching up into you before your fingers slid up to brush over the crest of your sex.
Stars, you were soaked.
All swollen and slippery and the moment you circle your clit you snapped. Bursts of energy crashing through your body so violently that your head spun with it, your lungs squeezing achingly tight, and your nails sinking in his neck as you cried out.
It made Din go rigid–a wild noise tearing through his throat as you yanked him brutally into his own release. His vision faltering and hips stuttering before they fused against your own whilst he spilled deep inside you.
**
You were exhausted– beyond spent and over-stimulated as the burn of the drug died down enough that you could feel the ache of every muscle creeping in and the kind of sleepiness that would see you comatose for days.
Your eyes were in fact already beginning drooping when Din carefully set you back on your feet. His hands warm and clasped gently around your arms, holding you up so he could peer at you whilst you were trying your hardest to sway back into the comfort of his broad chest.
“Are you okay?” He murmured, concerned. “I didn’t go too hard did I?”
You blinked up at him stunned, silent for a beat as you recognised the flicker of nervousness in the way he spoke, the way he held himself.
You cradled his face then, or where the helmet sat above his cheeks, and pulled his forehead down to yours. “No, it was perfect.” You reassured him and he let out a soft breath before melting against you ever so slightly.
“There is a slight problem though.” You laughed quietly, thumbs absentmindedly stroking over smooth beskar as Din tilted his head.” We’re locked out here and there’s no way I can climb that fence. I can barely feel my legs.”
He chuckled then–the sound of it brushed smug as his fingers stroked down your arms. “Leave it to me, sweet girl.”
He rest you gently back against the fence and your eyes slipped closed almost immediately before popping back open when you heard a loud thrum followed by the short screech of tearing metal. Chains hitting the ground with a clinking thud.
Your breath stuttered as you watched him stalk back towards you, saber in his hand, gleaming beneath the haunting light of it.
It made him look even more powerful than he already was. And the memory of what he did for you with that weapon, the evidence of it still strewn across the dirt, slammed to the forefront of your mind and made your mouth run dry. A weak flutter stirring in your belly despite your exhaustion, that he in no way helped by pulling you into him and swinging you up in his arms.
You made a soft noise of surprise and it only encouraged him to hold you tighter. Sealing every inch of you against him that he could as he carried you back to the ship– his voice brimming with promise as he murmured,
“You’re safe, cyar’ika. I’m going to take care of you.”
Summary: Din saves you after your home is destroyed, giving you both a chance to finally come clean about your feelings.
Warnings: language, descriptions of death/violence, longing/pining, hurt/comfort, angst, smut (18+ MDNI), fingering, unprotected piv sex, dirty talk, reader wants his baby real bad
WC: 5.9K
---
He knew something was wrong before he even landed.
Naxore was never what one considers a paradise, but the dusty planet never looked as ashen as it did from this distance.
It was small, but it managed to house about one thousand citizens. From his experience, they're good people. They mind their own business and require very little from the galaxy. Most of what they eat and use gets produced right on the planet itself. It's small, ugly, and hardly a blip on the radar. This never stopped the people who live there from loving it with their whole hearts.
When he first arrived all those years ago, ship in desperate need of repair and Din in desperate need of hiding, the citizens welcomed him. They fed him and cleansed his wounds without a second thought. They put their lives and their little planet in danger to keep him safe. And when he left, the doctor who tended to him and gave him a bed said, Keep Naxore a secret.
And he did. But whenever Din had the chance, he would stop by and pay them a visit. He brought goods and wares from other planets, trinkets and toys for the children, and anything else he could think of they might find useful.
He always stayed with the doctor, whose wife passed on before Din had ever arrived, but still had a daughter.
You.
He told himself he was being kind, that the reason for his visits were virtuous, but deep down he knew it was you that kept him coming back. After every visit, he became more and more infatuated. Less and less time would pass before his next trip, just so he could get a glimpse of you, and when he was away, his thoughts were consumed with your laugh, your smile, the way your eyes sparkled when he unveiled to you whatever little gift he brought. He thought of you constantly. He longed for the conversations you would have, all alone, late at night around the fire. He grew hooked on your every word, eager to learn as much about you as possible. You would tell him stories of your mother, of the children at the school where you taught, how worried you were for your father as he aged.
You never once spoke of a partner, and he never asked. It would be considered too forward. Besides, what sort of life could he offer you if he tried to make you his? A bounty hunter, living a life of danger with no real home?
No, you were safer with your father.
Still, he enjoyed his visits. It temporarily satiated his thirst to be near you, to listen to you speak, to watch the way your nimble fingers worked to mend clothes or knead bread.
Din didn't have many pleasures in life, but that was certainly one of them.
So as he began his descent and saw your little planet was barren, his heart sunk. He discovered once he stepped off the Razor Crest that what little trees and foliage you had are burnt to a crisp. Everything is grey, death looms everywhere. Corpses, nearly skeletons now, litter the streets. Buildings collapsed, rubble crunch under his boots, and the entire town is silent, yet he still follows the familiar path to your father's house. He knows what he's going to find, but he can't stop himself.
Sure enough, when your house comes into view, his suspicions are confirmed. The entire building is leveled to the ground. He stumbles a moment, fighting the pain swelling in his chest. Not much is recognizable, but there is a chair that used to be in the sitting room. The same chair you used to sit in while he regaled you with his stories.
He falls to his knees then, and dips his head, fighting the urge to cry. He isn't even sure why he bothers. No one is alive and he still has his helmet on, yet he still blinks back tears.
You were so young and beautiful. You had your whole life ahead of you. You were kind and thoughtful and patient with the children in your class and with your father.
His gloved hand digs angrily into the dirt, fingers curling like he could find some answer for his pain. If he just visited more — if he took you with him, like he always wanted — maybe you would still be alive.
He feels sick. Enraged. His heart splits in his chest and his body folds over, slowly, as if the weight of his agony was trying to bury him.
Just then, there's a noise. It sounds as though someone's walking over the rubble, albeit much softer than he just did. His breath stalls and he scans the area, freezing with his hand on his blaster when he spots the source.
He can hardly believe his eyes. Yet, there you stand. Dirty, ashen, hair a mess and clothes torn. But still, you're there.
He blinks and a tear slips past his defenses. He's convinced at first he must be hallucinating, but then you move again, looking at him like you must be thinking the same. Like he's a mirage.
When you get closer, his hand falls from his waist and he slowly brings himself to his feet. He refuses to tear his eyes away, afraid if he does, you'll disappear.
Finally, you slowly raise your hands to cup your mouth. Your eyes crinkle and streaks of wet trail down your filthy cheeks and you call out his name with a broken sob.
"Din."
He closes the distance in a heartbeat. His arms wrap around you and he feels your body heave, bawling and shaking in his arms. He murmurs your name, tells you you're okay, and promises to take care of you.
You nod and continue to cry. Your fingers grab at him, searching for comfort. They slide over his steel armor, feeble fingers clawing at unwavering metal, and he never before felt so angry. Angry at whoever did this to your planet. Angry at himself, for not doing more. Angry at the promise he kept to remain hidden behind a helmet.
He doesn't ask. He leads you to his ship, slowly. Your shoes aren't as good as his and your body seems weak and malnourished. But when it starts to grow dark and you stumble next to him, he scoops you up in his arms. A squeal of surprise slips past your lips but your arms wrap round his neck, anyway.
"You need rest," he says by way of explaination. "I can carry you the rest of the way. I have food and a warm bed. You'll be strong once again, and you will be safe."
You simply nod and lean your head against his shoulder. He feels your warm breath on his neck through his cowl and he has to resist the urge to strip himself of his armor and press his body to yours the second he gets you safely on the Crest.
He feeds you and gives you fresh clothes. He shows you to the fresher, where you can wash up, and promises to wait just outside the door in case you fall or need help. You don't, but he never once leaves his post. When you emerge, your eyes look sunken and puffy. You're exhausted and he knows there was no use in asking you for details that night. He ushers you to his bunk and you crawl inside, collapsing into his cot with a deep sigh of relief.
"I'm going to get us out of here," he says. You just nod with your eyes closed. "Call out if you need me," he adds before flicking off the light. He gives you one more glance before he ascends to the cockpit. You look comfortable. You look at peace. And you look fucking incredible in his clothes.
He stifles a growl and heads up the ladder.
His priority is to get you to safety. Everything else can wait.
---
"If you never take it off, how can you eat?"
Din's eyes flickered up to you through his visor. It's been two days. You nearly slept for one of them. You look healthier and more like yourself now. The sight made him happy, more relaxed.
"I eat alone," he explains. You're sitting across from him at the small metal table that folds out from the wall. You are halfway through your meal, which is nothing fancy, just some freeze dried rations, but based on the noises you made since the first bite touched your lips, you'd think you're eating fresh tiingilar.
Your eyes drop to the plate in front of him, untouched.
"Oh," you say, recalling from his prior visits when he would retire to his room to eat. You always thought it was due to exhaustion or perhaps he didn't want to hear you prattle on about nonsense like you had a tendency of doing whenever he lingered in your father's sitting room. It was always so hard to read him when his face and body was covered in armor.
"What if I turned my back?" you offer. His head tilts and his fingers thrum against the tabletop.
"I can wait," he assures you, then asks, "Will you tell me what happened?"
Your face falls and you look down sadly at your plate. You push around the food and drag in a shaky breath.
"We were attacked," you say. "It happened at night. They ransacked the town while everyone slept. I remember—"
You choke on your words and he stiffens.
"I remember going to the window when I first heard the shouting. I... they were dragging people from their homes. They took the women and killed the men."
Din stops breathing. His jaw tenses behind his helmet. You sniffle, then continue.
"My father built a small bunker underneath our home when I was a child," you say, wiping a tear from your eye. "He hid me down there and I begged him to join me, but he wouldn't — I begged him, Din."
Tears trickle down your face now. He reaches out a gloved hand to stop you, rests it on top of yours.
He knows it's a long shot, but still he asks, "Do you know who these people were?"
You shake your head somberly, eyes drifting now to his hand. You think it over for a moment before lifting your other hand to place on top of his. Your thumb idly rubs the tough fabric.
"I never found another living soul," you whisper. Din's gaze is still locked on your hands. "I searched for days. I suppose it's fortunate my father was a paranoid man."
"Your father was a careful man," he corrects. You smile but it doesn't reach your eyes. He feels horrible because it's clear your heart is torn in two and filled with guilt, yet he sits across from you, brimming with joy and relief that you managed to survive.
"What will happen now?" you ask, "what will I do?"
He swallows and you must hear it because you tilt your head slightly.
"I can take you anywhere you want to go," he eventually says.
You laugh, but it sounds flat. You keep his hand sandwiched between yours when you say, "I have nowhere to go. I've never even left my planet before. I have no one. Well... except for you."
Your cheeks burn. You give his hand a little squeeze before letting it go and even through his gloves, he instantly misses the heat from your touch.
"Navarro is nice," he says, "I have people there that I trust. People who can help you get back on your feet."
"Oh," you breathe. Then you blink and drop your gaze to your lap, food long forgotten. "Yes, okay. That... okay."
He studies you through his visor. He can tell the idea makes you nervous. You're shifting awkwardly in your seat and anxiously chewing your bottom lip.
Then, he says something foolish. Something reckless and selfish.
"Or, you could stay with me. On the Crest. It's not much of a life, but—"
"Really?" you ask, cutting him off. You peer at him hopefully through your lashes and warmth spreads in his chest at being the object you chose to grace with that look.
"Of course. You're welcome here for as long as you wish. I just ask you listen to me," he tells you sternly. He wants to make sure you understand the seriousness of what he's trying to say, but you're practically bouncing in your seat from excitement. "It can get dangerous, at times. If I tell you to stay on the ship, you need to stay on the ship, no matter how bored you might be, or—"
"I will, I promise," you say before jumping up and rounding the table. He barely has a chance to blink before you throw your arms around him for a hug. It's clunky and awkward with his armor, but you don't seem to mind. You're grinning from ear to ear, the happiest he's seen you look in days. He inhales deeply, breathing in your scent through the filter in his helmet. It makes him dizzy. With his soap and clothes, you smell so good that it leaves him breathless.
"Thank you," you say softly. You pull back slightly to gaze up at him and for one second, he thinks you can actually see him. Your eyes lock on his and you hold it, and it all feels so real that it has his breath catching in his throat. Without thinking, one of his hands lifts to cradle your face. You immediately lean into his touch but your gaze never falters. Nobody has ever looked at him the way you did. It cuts him to the core in a way he never imagined.
The air between you grows too heavy and he can't resist quickly scanning your body. Through his visor, he picks up your heat signature is slightly elevated in your face and chest. And he tries to fight the urge, he really does, but he can't help scanning lower. He clocks the temperature between your legs and his cock stirs when his suspicions are confirmed.
"You said you've never left your planet."
His voice breaks the tension. You blink and nod with a smile before stepping back, creating some breathing room between you.
"You shouldn't hide down here, then. You're missing the entire galaxy. Let me show you the cockpit."
Your eyes flicker nervously to the ladder before slowly nodding.
"O-okay," you reply shakily.
Din frowns and reaches for your hand. "There's nothing to be afraid of. I think you'll like it."
Your shoulders square up. Your chin lifts confidently and he smiles when you say, "I trust you."
He climbs the ladder first, then reaches down to help you up. When you clamber to your feet and look around, your eyes grow wide and your lips part with wonder.
"Oh, my..." you breathe, gaze raking over all the lights and controls before settling on the huge windows. He can see the reflection of the stars in your eyes and he can't tear himself away. As he suspected, all traces of your earlier apprehension vanished. You're hypnotized by the way the bright stars stretch and swirl through hyperspace, completely enraptured.
"This view. It's... beautiful," you whisper, unblinking.
With his attention still fixed on you, he replies, "Yes, it is."
Your eyes dart to him and you try to bite back a shy smile when you realize he wasn't looking at the stars.
"I've never flown before," you tell him, "it's so incredible. I can't believe you can do this all on your own."
"Really? Never?" he asks, and you shake your head. "Then we should celebrate," he adds. Your eyes light up when he spins around to a small cabinet bolted to the wall and pulls out a half filled bottle of liquor. As he pours the dark red liquid into two glasses, he realizes he hasn't stopped smiling since you stepped foot in the cockpit.
"What is this?" you ask when you take the cup he offers you. You sniff it and your nose scrunches up.
"It's Mandalorian wine," he says, "try it, it's good."
You take a tentative sip then look up at him with surprise. "It's sweet."
"I don't have it often, it's hard to come by," he admits. Then his free hand unlatches his helmet and your eyes snap to the place his fingers hook under the edge. He swears he notices excitement flicker across your face for a brief moment before you turn around.
"I won't look," you promise.
He opens his mouth to tell you it was fine, that he was only lifting it a few short inches to take a drink, but he doesn't. He sips from his glass and allows himself to take you in fully without your heated gaze pinning him to the wall. He can just make out your reflection in the windows and you faithfully have your eyes squeezed shut, just in case you catch an accidental glimpse. He sips again and his eyes darken. He can feel his body responding to how obedient you are and it's growing uncomfortable.
He slips his helmet back down and when you hear the telltale hiss of the latch, your eyes open.
"Can I turn around now?"
A muscle flickers in his jaw. Fuck, you're such a good girl.
"Yes," he says, voice rough.
You pick up on his tone. Your face warms as you slowly turn around to face him and its imperceptible, but your thighs squeeze together in his fucking pants. It's a good thing you can't see him because underneath the helmet, he is fighting every urge to pull you into his arms. He's sure it's written all over his face. Maker, he wonders what it would be like to be touched by you, to be held by you, to be kissed by you. It's been so long.
You're nervous again, he notes, but not due to fear this time. Your gaze shifts around the cabin and you swallow thickly before pointing towards the controls.
"W-what do all these do?"
He follows your finger. You're pointing to the control wheel and dials right in front of his chair.
He sets down his mostly empty glass and sits. He begins to half heartedly tell you what certain switches and knobs do, and you nod along, sipping from your glass and leaning into the side of his chair.
You lean forward, across his lap, and squint at one particularly important looking lever.
"What about this?"
His eyes slide closed and he breathes deep. You're so close to him he can feel the warmth from your skin through the slivers of exposed fabric that lies underneath his armor.
"It— it's one of the controls that sends us into hyperspace," he mumbles. You hum curiously and take another sip, draining your glass. Your body still stretches over his lap as you study the control panel and he hopes you don't notice the twitching in his pants.
"One of?" you echo. Then your beautiful eyes find his visor. He swallows harshly, leather creaking over his knuckles.
"Yes," he rasps, "there's — well, there's levels I need to check first and a course needs to —"
He stops speaking when you straighten up and sidestep so that you're wedged between him and the control panel. He watches in a haze when your small hands wrap around the control column, right where his hands normally go to steer the ship.
His gloved fingers dig into the arms of his chair.
His legs straddle yours where you stand. If you sat, you'd be right in his lap. His hands twitch and his heart stutters in his chest. You're so fucking close, he could simply wrap one arm around you—
The ship hits an unexpected rough pocket and it jolts. It's small, nothing he would even wake up for, but you're not used to flying. Your knees give out and you fall back, right into his chest.
His arms circle your waist and you let out a squeak of surprise. Then your hands cover his. Instead of pulling them off your body, you tug them tighter and squirm a little in his lap, as if you're trying to get your bearings and stand, but it's taking just a little too long.
Din murmurs your name and you still.
"Cyar'ika, I'm a patient man. But you're testing me, and I think you enjoy it."
He can't see your face, only your back and shoulders, which tense at his words. There's a long pause as if you're trying to decide your next move and he holds his breath, hoping he didn't read things wrong.
Then, your shoulders drop.
Your fingers loosen around his hands but still remain in place, holding them to your stomach. When you tilt your face to the side and look at him over your shoulder, you give him a sly grin.
"Am I that transparent?"
He doesn't respond right away, but his cock does. It swells underneath you and a soft noise that has him forgetting how to breathe slips past your lips.
"Din—"
He shakes your hands off his so he can pull frantically at his gloves, one at a time. They drop to the floor, then his hands are back on you again. Your eyes flutter shut and you tip your chin up when you feel him — really feel him — for the first time as he explores the skin under your borrowed tunic. It has been so long since he's felt the warmth of another that it makes him weak. Under his helmet, his jaw drops open in wonder. You're breathing heavy, he can feel it, and it's making his vision blur.
He cups your left breast and you whimper before leaning into his hold. Stars, you're so soft and warm and perfect that he never wants to stop touching you.
Your body sags against his chest when he rolls your nipple between his thumb and forefinger. Your back presses against his beskar and your head falls backward onto his shoulder with a loud thud. You wince and try to hide it, but he sees it.
"Sit up," he orders. He releases your breast and you whine but you do as you're told and lean forward so he can remove the metal that covers his upper body.
He eases you down so your back rests on his chest once again. Now, the only metal you have to contend with is his helmet and the plates on his thighs. When the back of your head comes to rest on his shoulder, you instantly twist so you can bury your face into the crook of his neck. You inhale deeply, like you're committing his scent to memory, before fumbling for his hand and guiding it down, past your waistline. His fingers dip underneath your pants and he bites back a groan. The fabric is oversized and loose, making it easy for him to find exactly what he's looking for.
"D-Din," you stammer when the pads of his fingers slide through your slit. Your head rolls and your lips part when you lift your hips off his lap, chasing his gentle touch.
You must hear how fast he's breathing. Even though the modulator muffles it, it's so loud it's impossible you don't notice.
"Maker, you're soft. So soft and wet," he murmurs. You preen a little in his lap, hips rolling so his two thick fingers slip through your cunt, spreading your folds and slick with each pass.
When he sinks both fingers past your entrance, your hand flies back, slapping loudly against the side of his helmet.
"Oh!" you cry out, fingers clutching uselessly at the metal. Your back arches off his chest with a wet gasp when he pushes in all the way to the knuckle, then he's shushing you. His distorted voice is trying to quiet you down but, as it turns out, you both want each other so badly that it's an impossible task, even for a Mandalorian.
"Do you know how long I've thought about this?" he asks, watching the way your eyes pinch shut and your jaw trembles each time his fingers drag in and out of you. Your backside writhes in his lap and he has to use his other hand to keep you still, wrapping it around your waist from behind and pressing his palm flat against your stomach.
"No," you shudder. You're coming apart so easily for him, heat blooming in your chest and cheeks the faster his hand moves down your pants — his pants. He's so hard, his stomach hurts.
"Years," he grits. "Each time I left, I dreamt of taking you with me. Dreamt of your perfect mouth, your beautiful eyes, your smile, your laugh—" He curses under his breath when you clench tightly around his fingers. He can't wait to feel you wrapped around his cock, squeezing him so tight and milking him for every last drop of his release.
"You came b-back for m-me," you stammer breathlessly. "Y-you — oh, f-fuck, Din—"
A thin sheen of sweat covers your forehead. You're grinding down on his hand, back bowed and nails digging ruthlessly into his covered arm. You look so sweet, coming apart on his hand, moaning his name, that he wants nothing more than to kiss you, to taste you.
But, he can't.
So, he settles for driving you wild, for curling his fingers deep inside you, grunting in your ear, rubbing his palm against your clit until your lungs are empty and your entire body is pulled tight.
"Pl-please," you beg, "oh, please. Pleaseplea— I'm g-gonna come," you whine. You gasp hotly against his helmet, holding him so close with a hand still clutching at the back of his head that his visor fogs up.
"Come for me," he tells you shakily, even through the modulator. "Come for me and then I'll fuck this sweet little pussy, just the way I've always wanted."
That tips you over the edge. You moan his name so loudly that it echoes in the small room. You thrash your head around on his shoulder, body convulsing in his lap as he pulls every ounce of pleasure he can, and then your teeth find a small patch of exposed skin just above the collar of his shirt, below his ear. He swears when your teeth pinch him and his grip on you tightens, holding you steady until your orgasm slows and you relax in his arms.
He doesn't give you much time to recover. He can't. He's so pent up, it's making him dizzy. Sliding you off his lap, Din reaches down and pulls on his pants, lifting his hips and tugging the fabric down just enough to free his cock. You're still in a daze, slumped against his shoulder, chest heaving. When he tugs you back in place, leaning against his chest and sitting in his lap, he loosens your slacks, letting them pool to the floor.
In his crazed, lust-filled stupor, he manages to realize something through the fog. The position you're in — with your back pressed against his front — maybe...
His hand fumbles around until he finds the button he's looking for and he smacks it, probably louder than is necessary. You jump in his arms when the cabin goes black, the only lights filling the space are from some switches on the console, too dim to create a reflection. But, if you turn your head—
"Keep your eyes closed."
You open your mouth to ask the question, then clamp it shut and quickly obey. He regards you for a moment, just a moment. He trusts you. You wouldn't look.
A hand comes up to unclasp his helmet and it falls to the floor with a loud thud. You jump again but keep your eyes closed.
He says your name, voice clear to your ears for the very first time. You shudder in his arms and your brows pull together, like a blanket of warmth just passed over you. He smiles to himself, then his hand drops to grip his leaking cock. He presses the thick tip between your thighs and you twitch before spreading your legs as far as you can manage.
He can't wait any longer — his hips flex and you moan in unison as he slides inside your warm, perfect cunt. The way you clench around him, the noises you murmur in his ear — it all adds to the heat building at the base of his spine since you stepped foot in the cockpit.
"M-Maker—" he groans, "you feel so good."
Then you start to roll your hips, tight pussy gripping and fluttering around his length as you try to fuck yourself in his lap. Your legs drape over his thighs, feet dangling near his ankles, unable to graze the hard metal floor for support, yet you still try to work faster, just so desperate for him.
His hands grip your hips, helping you move. Your eyes are still squeezed shut but your mouth is open, gasping for air every time he pushes back inside to grind against a spot that makes you whine through your teeth.
"I've wanted you so badly, it hurts," you confess shamelessly. Something about not being able to see him makes you feel bold. "I would follow you anywhere, Din Djarin."
He groans and nips at your earlobe. You feel his chest rumble against your back and you smile. Your hand falls to where you're connected and your fingers spread, gasping when you touch him. He's thick and hard and soaked with your arousal.
"I always knew you must have had a nice cock," you whisper, still feeling emboldened with your eyes closed. "No one carries themselves the way you do without having the goods to back it up."
You cry out when his hips snap roughly against your ass, and your entire body is practically bouncing in his lap. If it weren't for his ironclad grip around your middle, you're sure you'd have fallen out of the chair.
"Keep — talking," he grunts. His wet tongue slides slowly up your neck before his lips pucker and he begins to suck a mark that will take days to disappear.
"I— I —" you stammer. He's fucking you so fast now, it's hard to think, let alone form a sentence. "I used to — to think about you — oh, f-fuck, right there—"
"Think about me?" he repeats, ignoring everything else.
"Yes," you hiss, then your hand reaches back to slide through his hair — it's thick and a little curly and you commit the feeling to memory before it's taken from you.
"I would think about you — wh-when I... when I would touch myself."
Your stomach muscles begin to bear down and your thighs go rigid. You're so fucking close, you can taste it.
"Yeah? You thought about me when you made yourself come? Thought about my cock in this tight pussy, just like this?"
His deep voice in your ear makes you shudder.
You nod with your mouth hanging wide open.
"Oh fuck," you whimper when the tip of his cock finds a sensitive spot deep inside. You writhe and roll your hips, eager to find the angle again, but Din knows. He knows what you need and he wants to be the one to give it to you, so his hands still your movements and he rocks upward. You're both breathless and sweaty, but it doesn't matter because he's there — he's right fucking there, right at the spot where you need him the most.
Your mouth creates a combination of noises and melted words. There's no sense to be made when he's fucking you like this. You push back, deepening the angle. You both moan so loudly, it echos, but you barely register it.
His fingers fall to your clit and he starts to swirl messy circles over the throbbing bud. Three, maybe four passes. That's all it takes.
You throw your head back violently, his name ripping from your throat as you cunt clenches around him, pulsing and squeezing. Your stomach flutters, the released tension rippling across your muscles.
He doesn't stop. His fingers move frantically and he fucks you through it until your body sags and you whimper when swatting weakly at his hand.
"That's it, that's my g-girl," he groans, abandoning your clit. He wraps his arm around you instead, keeping you upright so he can thrust into you as hard as he can. You moan and bite at his neck, his ear, his cheek... any part of him that's normally hidden by his helmet. You feel the stubble under your lips and you lick his skin, reveling in the sharp prickle across your tongue.
"Come inside me," you whisper. He makes a choked sound and shakes his head.
"Can't."
"Please?"
His movements grow erratic. He's losing rhythm.
"No, it's — too risky."
"Would that be so bad? Don't y— don't you wonder what it would — be like?"
You're babbling. You sound insane. You don't care.
"Please stop," he begs, then his teeth sink into your shoulder and he pulls out of you roughly, just in time to shoot hot cum all over your inner thighs. He's groaning your name into your skin and he's panting so heavily, you fear he may pass out.
"I'm not —"
Din swallows and then he drags in a deep breath. With your eyes still closed, you start blindly peppering kisses across his cheek.
"I know," you mumble, "I'm sorry."
Suddenly, his fingers pinch your chin and he tilts your head so his lips press firmly against your own. Your heart stops when you first feel what it's like to kiss him — never in your wildest fantasies did you think you would know what his lips felt like. The trust he must have for you makes you weak and you melt, getting lost in the taste of him when his tongue slides into your mouth.
"I wasn't going to give you my child without kissing you first," he murmurs when he pulls back, but he doesn't go far. His forehead rests against yours and he sighs when your hand lifts to get lost in his messy hair.
"Really?" you whisper in disbelief, but you're smiling like a fool.
"Is that something you really want? With me?" he asks. You don't need to see his face, you can hear the doubt — the shock — that you would pick him out of anyone in the galaxy.
You nod and peck a kiss to his lips. "I'm tired of waiting," you tell him. "We almost lost our chance... I don't want to waste another second with you."
He laughs and you grin when his soft exhale fans across your face.
"I will gladly devote my life to you, if you'll have me," he says.
And yes, it feels fast. But what's the point in waiting when everything you want is right in front of you? You very easily could have died, but you were given a second chance.
Summary: Din Djarin accepts a bounty from Captain Teva to track down a mysterious fugitive hiding in the lower levels of Coruscant. Things took a left turn when his son took a liking to her.
Part 2 / Part 3
Tags: Enemies to Lovers-ish?, smut (18+) in later part, Grogu plays matchmaker, set after season 3, slow burn, pre-relationship, star wars content that may or may not be canon. I think both are equally emotionally unavailable. No mentions of Y/N.
A/N: Din Djarin have been plaguing my mind, and this turns out to be a longer fic than I anticipated, sooo...yeah.... If you have any requests, suggestions, or thoughts, feel free to send me a message. Reblogs are appreciated. Please do not steal or cross-post it on another platform without asking. Thank you.
Word Count: 4k
masterlist
You kept your head down. Not just metaphorically, either — the hood stays up, shadowing your face like a curtain drawn on a stage you no longer wish to perform on.
Down here, in the belly of Coruscant, the sky was a myth. The higher levels sparkled with hover traffic and clean storefronts, but the lower levels — Level 1313 and below — were where light came in flickers. Neon buzzed overhead, casting pale blue veins down crumbling walls. You slipped through the crowd like a whisper, unnoticed, which was how you like it.
Your boots splashed through puddles that hadn’t seen sunlight in years. A vendor hollered about fried mynock skewers behind you; someone screamed further down the street — no one turned their head. It was just another day.
You reached the alley behind the scrapyard, the one that still had an access panel no one’s noticed. A sharp knock in a three-beat rhythm, and the door opens — you’ve greased enough palms to keep that privilege. Inside, your makeshift workspace waits: scraps of old droids, power cells half-drained, a busted protocol unit whose vocabulator you’ve been repurposing as a signal jammer.
It's not pretty, but it works. And that's what matters.
You slid off your outer cloak, revealing the belt of tools at your hip. Plasma cutter, sonic wrench, home-built pulse bomb. You always carry more tricks than anyone expects. That’s probably the only reason you’re not in a cell. Yet.
You were just about to reroute a power coupling when you felt it — not a sound, not a shadow, just presence. A change in the air behind you.
You turned, fast—
—and he was already there.
Silver beskar, unmoving. The T-shaped visor locked onto you. He hadn't made a sound, not a single footstep. You stumbled back a half-step.
"You're a hard one to find," the modulated voice said.
Your hand moved before your brain did. A flashbang slipped from your belt — you hurl it down, shielding your eyes as light erupts.
You didn't wait to see if it worked.
Your legs were burning, breath tight in your chest, but the alleys blur past in streaks of shadow and neon. You darted through steam vents, leapt a fallen droid chassis, and ducked into the narrow crawlspace between two shuttered stalls.
For a second, all you heard was your own heartbeat.
Then — the low, mechanical thud of boots on metal.
He was still coming.
You pivoted out the other end, slammed a panel shut behind you, and vaulted up onto a maintenance ladder. The climb was fast, practiced. You’ve done this route before — knew you’d need it someday.
Tonight was that day.
You reached the catwalk above, drew your sonic wrench, and twisted it until it whines with unstable energy. Footsteps hit the ladder behind you.
You didn’t hesitate. You turned and launched yourself off the catwalk — straight at him.
Mid-air, you jab the wrench forward. It connected with his pauldron and lets out a crackling burst that should’ve dropped anyone else.
But he wasn’t just anyone.
The impact staggered him, barely. He gripped your wrist mid-strike, wrenched your arm sideways, and you cried out — but you twisted with it, slammed your knee into his ribs, planted a boot against his chest, and shoved off hard.
You both hit the ground — you rolled, he lands heavy.
You sprung to your feet first, palm a smoke charge from your belt, and slammed it into the floor. White haze erupts.
You vanished into it.
You could hear him coughing behind his helmet — the charge is laced with an irritant, non-toxic but disorienting. It bought you seconds.
You moved fast, ducking under hanging cables, burst through a flickering doorway—
—and hit a solid wall of beskar.
He must’ve flanked you.
You striked first — a knife from your boot into your hand in a blink. You slashed low, aiming for the thigh joint.
He blocked it with his vambrace, grabbed your forearm, and swung you around. Your back crashed into a pillar. The knife clattered away.
You were gasping, arm pinned, struggling — and then you felt it. The snap of a cold metal cuff around your wrist.
You froze.
His grip tightens for half a second, then loosens — not out of mercy. Just efficiency.
“You done?” he asked.
You didn’t answer.
But your glare could burn through beskar.
──⭒─⭑─⭒────⭒─⭑─⭒──
The walk back to the Razor Crest was silent, save for the shifting of your boots against the metal of the landing pad. You were still cuffed, and you’ve stopped struggling — but The Mandalorian doesn’t relax. Not yet.
He had enough runs to know that quiet didn’t mean safe.
You didn't say a word, just kept your hood low and your jaw set like you were chewing on the galaxy’s worst secret. He didn’t ask what it was. That wasn’t his job.
He got the puck from Captain Teva three rotations ago. No chain code, just a vague directive — female, human, operating out of the lower levels of Coruscant. Wanted alive. High payout.
“New Republic’s nervous,” Teva had said, crackling through the holocomm. “No official charges I can find. No open case file. Just… pressure from the top. Someone wants her quiet.”
The Mandalorian had asked the usual questions. What’d you do? Who are you?
Teva had shrugged. “I don’t know. Hell, they didn’t even give me a name.”
That was the part that stuck with him. No name, no record, no crime listed — but a full-system alert and credits on the table.
Which meant whoever you were, someone high up wanted you gone without questions.
He’d taken the job anyway. Credits were credits. And he had mouths to feed.
──⭒─⭑─⭒────⭒─⭑─⭒──
The Razor Crest creaked as the ramp closes behind him. He tossed your gear onto a bench — gadgets, explosives, tools that look cobbled together out of junk and genius. Then he guided you toward the carbonite chamber.
You froze when you saw it. “Seriously?” you muttered, voice raw from running, but steady. “You’re freezing me?”
“It’s the safest way,” he said flatly.
“For who?” you snapped. “I won’t run.”
He hesitated. Not because he believed you — but because you looked him in the visor, and there was something behind your eyes that didn't match the bounty he was told to expect.
You look tired. Sharp, but worn down. And more than anything, angry. Not reckless — cornered.
“I’m not stupid,” you added, quieter now. “You’d catch me again. Just… don’t freeze me.”
The Mandalorian glanced toward the carbonite controls. It would be easier. Safer. Less complicated.
But he had already seen how resourceful you are. If you wanted to escape, you would’ve tried already. You could have blown yourself and half the alley apart with that last trick you never used.
“I’ll cuff you to the bunk,” he said.
You nodded once. No snark. No protest.
He almost preferred it when people are mouthy. It’s easier than silence like this — silence that carries weight.
He cuffed you to the narrow bed in the small bunk area and shuts the panel behind him. Then he climbed up to the cockpit and sets a course for Adelphi.
Grogu coos softly from his seat, eyes wide.
“I don’t know either, kid,” The Mandalorian mutters, sinking into the pilot’s chair. “Something’s off.”
He didn’t say it, but he knew: this is the kind of job that never stays simple.
The hum of the engines has settled into a steady rhythm — low, comforting, like a lullaby wrapped in metal. You sat cuffed to the bunk, legs stretched out, back against the wall, eyes on the ceiling.
The Razor Crest was old, rugged. Not like the sleek, polished ships you used to know. It’s held together by care and stubbornness, and judging by the wear on the walls, it’s seen more battles than peace.
You breathed in slowly, finally letting your shoulders drop. You were not in a cell. Not frozen. That’s something.
Then you heard it — a soft patter, like tiny feet on metal.
You looked toward the corner, squinting.
A small green creature with wide eyes and bigger ears stands halfway down the ladder, blinking up at you like you’re the strange thing in the room.
“…What the kriff?”
He tilted his head.
You sat up straighter, unsure whether to laugh or be concerned. He toddles down the last few steps, round eyes locked on yours. No fear. Just curiosity. And maybe… sympathy?
“I didn’t know he brought pets,” you muttered, watching him wobbled closer. “Or... children?”
He stopped just out of your reach, still staring. Then, slowly, carefully, he lifted a hand and wiggled his fingers.
You raised an eyebrow. “That a hello, or a warning?”
He cooed.
You blinked, a short laugh escaping your throat before you could help it. “Alright, you’re cute. That’s illegal.”
Before he could get any closer, the sound of metal boots clanking on the ladder echoed down from above. You glanced toward it just in time to see silver beskar descend — slow, heavy, with purpose.
The Mandalorian stepped into view just as the kid reached your side. He stopped dead in his tracks.
“Grogu,” he said sharply, voice low with warning.
The little one startled but doesn’t move.
“I told you to stay in your seat.”
Grogu looked back at him with the most innocent eyes you’ve ever seen on a living thing. You watched the standoff, entirely entertained.
“Kid has taste,” you quipped. “And a better sense of company.”
The Mandalorian didn’t answer you — he walks over and scooped Grogu up gently but firmly, holding him under one arm like a wayward satchel.
“You shouldn’t be near her,” he muttered to the kid, glancing at you.
“Her is right here,” you said, raising both brows. “And I’m not gonna hurt him. Honestly, didn’t expect you to have a soft side.”
His helmet turned toward you.
“He’s not part of the job,” he said simply, climbing the ladder with Grogu in hand.
You smirked after them. “Didn’t say he was.”
The panel slid shut behind him, sealing you in again. You let your head fall back against the wall and smile to yourself.
So the bounty hunter has a kid.
This just got more interesting.
──⭒─⭑─⭒────⭒─⭑─⭒──
You weren’t sure how long you’ve been in hyperspace. Time feels like sludge in a durasteel box, but the constant thrum of the engines and the gentle sway of the ship made it bearable.
What makes it better was the small, green creature who kept sneaking down the ladder like he owns the place.
The first time after the initial scolding, he was sneakier. You heard the soft squeak of feet before you saw the ears poke around the corner. This time, you didn't say a word — just gave him a little nod and a smirk. An unspoken truce.
Then came the second visit. And the third.
By the fourth, you were sitting cross-legged on the bunk, cuffs clinking quietly as Grogu sat on the floor in front of you, trying to mimic the motion of one of your tools using only the Force and a very determined face.
You glance toward the closed panel overhead. “He’s gonna come down again and scoop you up like a misbehaving tooka, you know.”
Grogu just gurgles.
“Right,” you sighed. “Rebel spirit. Should’ve known.”
The panel opened. Speak of the devil.
The Mandalorian climbed down the ladder, visor landing on the pair of you instantly.
“Grogu.”
It was the same tone as before — firm, quiet, expectant. Grogu’s ears twitch like he’d been caught drawing on walls again.
“He’s not doing anything,” you said, raising your cuffed hands. “Just hanging out.”
“He shouldn’t be near you.”
“Why? You think I’m dangerous?”
He didn’t answer. He just crossed the room and gently scooped Grogu up again. Grogu let out a protesting whine, tiny arms reaching toward you as he's lifted away.
“Maker forbid someone wants to be my friend,” you muttered, mostly to yourself — but you didn't miss the way the Mandalorian paused at that.
The visits didn’t stop.
Over time, Grogu got bolder. He sat on your lap. Tugs at your sleeves. Tried to mimic your expressions. You started talking to him in low tones — nothing personal, just stories. Jokes. The occasional grumble about hyperspace.
You learned quickly that he likes to coo when amused and tilt his head to manipulate you into silence. He was an expert.
At one point, you held up your cuffs and shook them lightly. “These really ruin the vibe, don’t they?”
He looked up at you with wide eyes, then turned to the ladder.
“Don’t even think about it—” you started.
A few moments later, you heard the Mandalorian climbing down again. He stepped off the ladder, helmet tilting in that what now way.
Grogu was standing beside you, one hand lightly on the chain of your cuffs. He looked up at the Mandalorian and lets out a pleading whine, eyes huge, gesturing with tiny fingers like he was explaining something very serious.
You shrugged one shoulder, as much as the chain allows. “I told you. He just wants a friend.”
A long beat.
You couldn't see his face, but something shifts in the air — maybe in the set of his shoulders, maybe in the way his helmet lingered on Grogu.
Finally, he sighed — that kind of sigh that sounds heavier than it should.
Then he moved. Keys in a code. The cuffs popped open with a metallic click.
You stared at him, rubbing your wrists. “Didn’t think you’d actually—”
“Don’t make me regret it,” he muttered, already turning back toward the ladder.
Grogu gave a pleased coo and nestled back into your lap like he’d just won a game only he was playing.
You glanced at the little guy. “You’ve got him wrapped around your tiny fingers, don’t you?”
He just blinked up at you, innocent as ever.
You leaned back against the wall, cuff-free, your first real breath in hours escaping you.
──⭒─⭑─⭒────⭒─⭑─⭒──
It was a rocky descent.
You were strapped into the jump seat in the hold, with Grogu curled beside you in his floating pod, blinking sleepily as the Razor Crest cuts through the atmosphere. The landing thrusters groan in protest — this planet wasn’t exactly known for friendly ports.
The Mandalorian appeared at the top of the ladder, helmet reflecting the blue-green light of the planet below.
“Stay on the ship.” he added.
Grogu lets out a soft coo, like he disagreed.
You shrugged. “Fine. I like it here. Cozy.”
He paused at the top of the ladder. You couldn’t see his eyes, but you felt his stare. Measuring.
Then—
“You’re coming with me.”
You blinked. “What?”
“There’s a bounty. Quick grab. I don’t want to leave Grogu alone.”
You glanced down at the kid, who seems entirely unbothered and was now nibbling on a snack he absolutely did not ask permission to eat.
“And I’m your trusted babysitter now?”
“If you run, I shoot you,” he replied evenly.
You sighed and got to your feet. “That’s fair.”
You were walking slightly behind Mando, hood up, hands tucked in your coat. Grogu floated between you, his pod humming softly. The outpost reeks of oil and sun-baked metal. A couple of locals eye you warily, but the gleam of beskar kept them at a distance.
“Who’s the target?” you asked under your breath.
Mando taps a puck. “Rolk Tenek. Rodian. Wanted for arms smuggling and ditching New Republic probation.”
“Aw. A real gentleman.”
The bounty’s signal led to a rust-stained scrapyard on the edge of the city. You spotted movement near one of the larger hulks — a Rodian hauling crates into the back of a shuttle. No guards. Sloppy.
“I’ll circle around,” Mando said.
You nodded but hesitated. “Wait. He’s powering up the shuttle. You sneak in, and he’s gone the second you step out.”
“I’m not asking for advice.”
You rolled your eyes. “Fine. Just don’t get mad when I save your ass.”
He vanished around the right side of the yard.
Predictably, all hell broke loose.
You hear a crash, followed by blaster fire. You dart behind a stack of old droid plating just as a second Rodian — a lookout — emerged from the scrap with a blaster raised.
He spotted Mando and fires.
You were already moving.
Your hand dipped into your coat and pulls out a small, disk-shaped gadget. You twisted the edge — click — and rolled it across the ground toward the attacker. It hummed once, then popped with a bright burst of light and a short-range EMP pulse.
The Rodian’s blaster fizzled.
By the time he looked down, you were on him. A kick to the knee, elbow to the gut, and he went down hard.
You looked up just in time to see Mando haul the main bounty — stunned and grumbling — out of the shuttle. He freezed when he saw you standing over the unconscious lookout.
You lifted both hands, mock-innocent. “Didn’t run.”
The bounty was in carbonite. You were back in the hold, wiping dirt from your sleeves. Grogu was curled beside you, clearly impressed.
Mando descends from the cockpit.
“You had a clean shot at the door,” he said.
“I know.”
“You could’ve taken the shuttle.”
“I know that too.”
A pause.
“Why didn’t you?”
You shrugged. “Because that idiot had a blaster pointed at your head. And because I didn’t feel like stealing a junk pile with bad shielding.”
Another beat of silence.
You glanced up at him. “You’re welcome, by the way.”
He didn’t say it. Of course he doesn’t. But after a moment, he crosses the hold and tosses something your way.
A ration pack.
You caught it one-handed, raising your brows.
“A meal and no chains? You’re really starting to spoil me, Mando.”
He said nothing as he walks back to the ladder — but you swear you hear the faintest huff of breath through the modulator. Maybe a laugh. Maybe not.
But it was a start.
──⭒─⭑─⭒────⭒─⭑─⭒──
The bounty was delivered. Fuel was loaded. Grogu was fed, and now he was curled up beside you on the floor of the Razor Crest’s hold, content and snoring softly.
You leaned against the wall, rolling a hydrospanner between your fingers. Mando sat across from you, still in full armor, arms resting on his knees, helmet tilted slightly downward like he’d been staring at you too long and didn’t want you to notice.
“Alright,” he said finally. “Who are you?”
You looked up. “That’s not a very nice way to start a conversation.”
He didn’t respond. Just waited.
You sighed, twirling the spanner. “If you ask me questions, can I ask you questions too?”
“No.”
You smirked. “Then I won’t answer yours.”
“Fine.”
Silence.
Then, after a long moment, he shifted. “This isn’t a game.”
“No,” you said, watching him carefully. “It’s not. But if you want something from me, you better be willing to give a little too.”
His visor stayed locked on you. And then— “One for one.”
You nodded, serious now. “Deal.”
He leaned forward slightly. “Why is the New Republic after you?”
“That’s two questions. You want motive or context?”
“Motive.”
You paused, glancing at Grogu’s sleeping form. “Because I found something I wasn’t supposed to. Something that makes them look very, very bad.”
His silence was all the answer you needed — he wasn’t surprised. Just curious.
“My turn,” you said. “What’s a Mandalorian doing babysitting a green gremlin?”
“He’s not a job.”
That was all he gave you.
You raised a brow. “So he’s what — your son?”
“…Something like that.”
That was more than you expected. You softened a little, eyeing the tiny creature curled up like a seed pod.
“Your turn,” you said.
“How’d you find it? The thing that got you hunted.”
You shrugged slowly. “It was a routine audit. I worked in records verification — nothing flashy. But someone filed a data-wipe request with all the wrong clearance codes. Sloppy.”
“You were a bureaucrat?”
“Please. I was a thinkerer in a sea of paper-pushers. But yeah, I had access to archives most people don’t. I followed the glitch and... found an encrypted list.”
“What kind of list?”
You hesitated. “A roster of old Imperial loyalists… still on New Republic payroll.”
That made him shift. Just slightly.
You leaned forward. “That’s when they came after me. Scrubbed my ID. Flagged my face. Marked me as hostile and told everyone I’d gone rogue. Leaked false charges — weapons theft, sabotage, conspiracy. All fabricated.”
He didn’t say anything.
“My turn again,” you said quietly. “Do you ever take that thing off?”
“No.”
“Not even to eat?”
He didn’t respond.
You stared at him a beat. “How do you brush your teeth?”
Still no answer.
You grinned. “I’m going to assume you just let Grogu do it for you.”
He leaned forward again. “What else did you do, besides ‘records verification’?”
You sighed. “Before the New Republic? I was a slicer. Not for the Empire — I wasn’t that dumb. But I made systems work for the people who needed it. Protected vulnerable data. Fixed supply routes. Rewired droids to stop attacking civvies.”
“So you were a criminal.”
“In the same way you are,” you said coolly.
Another beat of silence.
“…I know how to break things,” you added. “But I know how to fix them, too.”
He didn’t reply. But something in his posture had shifted — a touch more open, less stiff.
You looked at him. “My turn again.”
He didn’t stop you.
“How come you trust him?” You nodded at Grogu. “You don’t seem like the trusting type.”
There was a long silence.
And then — “He saved me. More than once.”
You looked at the sleeping child again. “Yeah. I can believe that.”
He didn’t say anything for a while. And neither did you.
Then, finally, he spoke again. “What’s your plan?”
“Plan?”
“If I let you go.”
You hesitated. “I… I don’t know. I was just trying to stay ahead of the bounty boards. Find someone who’d believe me. But nobody wants to admit the New Republic’s a mess. They just want to pretend it’s better than what came before.”
He was quiet.
You met his gaze — or the visor, at least. “You believe me?”
“I don’t know yet.”
Fair enough.
But something had changed. You could feel it in the air between you. Not quite warmth. But no longer cold suspicion either.
“You’re not what I expected,” he said finally.
“Neither are you.”
Grogu snored loudly, and both of you looked down at him.
You smiled faintly. “He’s not gonna let you keep me cuffed forever, you know.”
“…We’ll see.”
──⭒─⭑─⭒────⭒─⭑─⭒──
The Mandalorian sat motionless in the pilot’s chair, gloved hands resting loosely on the controls. The stars outside streaked by in endless white-blue trails — peaceful, in a way. Deceptively peaceful.
He hadn’t slept.
He told himself he was keeping her around to learn the truth. To weigh what was lies and what was fear talking. That was what a bounty hunter should do — verify the puck. Decide what to believe, who to hand over.
But he’d already made a mistake. He hadn’t put her back in cuffs.
He’d told himself it was temporary. That he’d lock her back up once the next stop came.
And then Grogu had started bringing her things.
He glanced toward the nav screen, though the course hadn’t changed.
She had her reasons. Her story. A believable one, if not convenient. And part of him wanted to write her off as just another fugitive lying through her teeth.
But he knew the type she’d talked about. The ones still walking free in shiny New Republic uniforms. He’d seen it himself — the Empire’s rot hadn’t been cut out. It had just been repainted.
If her story was true… if that list really existed…
He exhaled slowly. This wasn’t what he signed up for. Teva had only said she was a wanted slicer with a long list of tech-based crimes. That she was dangerous. That she’d run. Not a word about internal leaks or conspiracy.
Grogu would be asleep beside her by now. Again.
He should’ve carbon-frozen her. Should’ve done it the moment she stepped aboard. But something had stopped him.
And now?
Now it felt like the line he was supposed to walk — hunter and target — had started to blur.
He leaned back in the chair, the weight of the beskar pressing heavy against his chest.
She was still a bounty.
But he didn’t want to turn her in.
Not yet.
And he hated that he didn’t know why.
Part 2
—comment if you want to be added to this fic taglist
Summary: You were only supposed to help Din Djarin with one bounty. But after the mission, you stuck around — teasing, flirting, testing the waters. He never reacted the way you hoped, always hiding behind practical words and stoic silence.
Or five times you thought Din was dense and one time you realized you were wrong.
Tags: Fluff, 5+1 things, miscommunication, SFW, Din Djarin is oblivious, he's trying his best, one sided, or is it???, idiots in love, protective Din Djarin, Din Djarin being soft (in his own way). No descriptions of reader. No mentions of Y/N.
A/N: I know it's a lot shorter than my other Din fanfic, but I hope you'll enjoy this one as well. If you have any requests, suggestions, or thoughts, feel free to send me a message. Reblogs are appreciated. Please do not steal or cross-post it on another platform without asking. Thank you.
Word Count: 2.7k
masterlist
1.
You stretched your arms above your head, letting out a sharp sigh as the bounty’s unconscious body thudded to the floor of the Razor Crest’s cargo hold.
“That’s one way to say job well done,” you muttered, brushing space dust from your jacket sleeve before slinking into the co-pilot’s chair.
Behind you, Din Djarin closed the ramp and began checking the carbonite chamber, ensuring the target was fully frozen and secure. He hadn’t spoken much since you reached the ship — not that he was ever particularly chatty — but you chalked that up to the Mando brand of "taciturn charm."
“Well, that was fun,” you said brightly, spinning halfway in the chair to face him. “You always do jobs this entertaining, or was this just to impress me?”
His helmet tilted slightly toward you. “It wasn’t supposed to be fun.”
“No? Shame. You looked pretty good out there.” You gave him a teasing grin and leaned back, resting your boots on the edge of the control panel.
He turned fully toward you now, helmet glinting in the light of hyperspace pre-jump. “You almost got shot.”
“Yeah, but you didn’t let that happen.” You pointed a finger at him, lazily. “Knight in shiny beskar and all that.”
“…I hired you for your recon work. That’s all.”
You shrugged. “Sure, Mando. I’m just saying, you throw a girl against a wall to shield her from a blaster bolt, she might start thinking you care.”
He walked past you to the cockpit, flicking switches like nothing had happened. “We leave in ten.”
You laughed under your breath and leaned back further, hands behind your head. “You’re cute when you pretend I don’t fluster you.”
No response. Just the cold silence of a man fully immersed in his pre-flight check.
Not even a head tilt this time.
You pursed your lips, then smirked.
Alright. That one might have been too subtle…for him.
But you weren’t going anywhere just yet.
2.
You leaned against a stack of fuel canisters, watching Din as he crouched next to the hull of the Razor Crest, speaking low and serious with Peli Motto. Something about coolant lines or hyperdrive relays—you weren’t listening. Mostly because he’d taken off his gloves again, and there was something about watching his fingers flex against a piece of machinery that scrambled your thoughts like eggs on a Tatooine skillet.
Grogu was toddling near your feet, cooing up at you. You bent down and gave his ear a little scratch. “He’s lucky he’s got you, kid,” you said. “Shame you’re the only one in this partnership with any emotional intelligence.”
Grogu blinked at you slowly, then burbled in agreement. Or maybe hunger.
“Mando!” you called out, hopping off the crates and sauntering toward the ship. “Since we’re stuck in Mos Eisley for a bit… how about I buy you a drink?”
He didn’t even look up from where he was tightening something under the ship’s belly.
“No.”
You arched an eyebrow. “You sure? Could be a bonding moment.”
“No.”
You sighed, pushing your tongue against your cheek to hide the smile. “Are you afraid I’ll drink you under the table? Or that you’ll have fun?”
“I don’t drink on the job.”
“We’re not on a job,” you replied smoothly. “We’re in between. There’s a difference.”
He finally looked up at you, visor catching the Tatooine twin suns. “We don’t need to bond.”
You opened your mouth, but then shut it.
Instead, you gave a mock salute and walked off muttering, “Alright, Casanova, loud and clear.”
Later, you were helping Peli hook up a new motivator coil when she snorted and said, “You’re wasting your time, sweetheart.”
You turned your head. “Excuse me?”
“With him,” she nodded toward Din, who was now sitting on the ramp with Grogu in his lap, feeding him a little packet of something green and mushy. “You’ve been laying it on thicker than Bantha butter, and he’s just… nothing.”
You groaned, flopping back onto the sand beside her. “Is he dense, or just emotionally stunted?”
“Both,” Peli replied cheerfully. “Don’t take it personally. I’ve seen rancors with better romantic instincts.”
You covered your face with your hands. “Hopeless.”
“Yep.”
You peeked through your fingers, catching sight of Grogu now waddling toward you with food smeared across his mouth.
“Well,” you murmured, sitting up and letting him crawl into your lap, “at least one of them likes me.”
Peli patted your shoulder, greasy handprint and all. “That’s a start.”
3.
The alley was narrow, the kind of cramped, shadowed crevice that smelled like rust and desperation. You ducked in first, tugging Din’s arm behind you just as blaster fire cracked against the duracrete wall.
“I told you that guy looked too twitchy to be a clean drop,” you hissed.
“You waited until we were already inside to tell me that,” Din replied, voice flat but calm as ever. You could practically hear the slight raise of his brow under the helmet.
“Call it a hunch,” you muttered.
Another volley of shots whizzed past, and Din shoved you further into the shadows. He followed in right after, pinning you both against the wall as the enemy patrol ran past. There was barely a breath between you. His arm was braced next to your head, his chest pressed fully against yours, armor cold even through your clothes.
You tilted your head up slowly, voice low. “You know, if you wanted me pressed up against you, Mando, you could’ve just asked.”
His helmet was angled so close you could see your own smirk reflected in the beskar.
“Stay quiet,” he said.
“That’s all you’re gonna say? Really?” You leaned in just a little, voice all honey and trouble. “No comment on the close quarters? The dim lighting? The way your knee is pressed against my—?”
“I said quiet.”
You let out a long, exaggerated sigh, head thudding back against the wall. “I’m just saying, most people would at least acknowledge the tension here.”
Din shifted his weight slightly, and you thought maybe—maybe—that you’d finally gotten through.
Instead, he pulled back just enough to glance outside the alley. “They’re gone. Let’s move.”
And then, just like that, the warmth of his body was gone, his cape brushing your arm as he slipped back into the light.
You stood there for a second longer, staring after him.
“Unbelievable,” you muttered, jogging to catch up. “I was practically breathing pick-up lines in your face, and you gave me nothing. Not even a grunt.”
4.
It had been a long day. The kind that sank into your bones and made even the air feel heavy.
The bounty had fought harder than expected, and Din had taken the brunt of it — bruised ribs, a split lip under the helmet, and a noticeable limp that he stubbornly refused to acknowledge.
Now, inside the dim hull of the Razor Crest, the silence between the two of you felt comfortable. Grogu was already asleep in his hammock, snoring softly like some tiny, ancient gremlin.
Din was sitting on the edge of the cot, working one-handed to undo a section of his chest plate. You noticed the stiffness in his shoulders, the way he winced every time he shifted his weight.
“Here,” you said gently, crossing the space to kneel in front of him. “Let me help.”
He started to protest, of course. “I’ve got it.”
You gave him a look, one you knew he could feel even if he couldn’t see your face. “I didn’t ask if you could. I said let me.”
He hesitated… and then let his hands drop.
Your fingers moved carefully, familiar now with the clasps and locks of his beskar. You worked slowly, undoing the armor piece by piece — chest plate, gauntlets, pauldrons — setting each one down beside you with reverence, like they mattered. Like he mattered.
His undershirt was dark with sweat and streaked with grime. You resisted the urge to reach for a cloth and clean him up. Instead, your hands hovered near the edge of his vambrace.
“You always take care of everyone else,” you said softly. “Let someone take care of you, just this once.”
He was quiet for a long moment. Then: “You don’t have to.”
“I know.” You smiled faintly, not looking up. “Doesn’t mean I don’t want to.”
You unlatched the vambrace slowly. His forearm tensed beneath your fingers, the bare skin warm.
He didn’t say anything to that. But he didn’t stop you, either.
When you finally looked up, you found his visor fixed squarely on you. The silence stretched between you like a held breath.
If he felt anything—warmth, tension, the way your fingers lingered against the edge of his wrist—he didn’t say.
Just a small nod.
And then: “Thank you.”
You nodded back, lips curled in the barest smile. “Anytime.”
You stood and walked past Grogu’s hammock, brushing a hand over his ears as you went.
From behind you, you could feel the weight of Din’s stare following you the whole way.
5.
The Razor Crest creaked under the weight of frost, a low groan echoing through the hull as wind battered the exterior.
You were both grounded — a storm too thick to fly through and a bounty who was likely just as frozen as the damn planet. The heating system, true to its usual charm, had sputtered out three hours ago.
You were curled into yourself on the floor of the ship, back against the wall, arms wrapped tightly around your knees. Your jacket was decent, but nothing short of a portable sun was going to fight the kind of chill creeping into your bones.
Grogu was warm in his little insulated pod, snuggled deep in his blanket nest, occasionally letting out a snore.
Across the room, Din sat on a crate, sharpening one of his vibroblades like it was just any other night. No sign of discomfort. No sign he was feeling the same way your teeth were chattering.
You didn’t say anything. You weren’t sure if it was pride or exhaustion, but the silence stretched.
Until finally, without looking up, he spoke.
“You’re cold.”
“No kidding,” you muttered, breath puffing visibly in front of your face. “What gave it away? The blue lips or the full-body shiver?”
He didn’t rise to the sarcasm. Instead, he reached into the compartment behind him and pulled out a heavy, worn blanket.
“Come here,” he said, scooting to the edge of the crate and patting the space beside him.
You blinked at him. “You’re inviting me to share body heat?”
“Purely practical.”
You snorted as you stood, dragging yourself over. “Right. Not because you enjoy my company or anything ridiculous like that.”
He didn’t answer, just opened the blanket as you sat down beside him.
It was warmer than you expected. His armor had retained some heat, and beneath it, his body was a furnace. The blanket went around both of you, his arm loosely draped behind your shoulders to keep it up.
The silence settled again.
Then, a little softer: “Better?”
You tilted your head toward him. “If I said no, would you let me shove my hands under your shirt?”
He didn’t so much as flinch. “No.”
You laughed, but it was quiet. Tired. The kind of laugh that cracked into something tender. You leaned your head against his shoulder, your voice dropping low.
“...Thanks, Din.”
He didn’t say anything. But you felt it — the shift. A subtle lean into you. The way his fingers adjusted the blanket more tightly around you both.
And then Grogu stirred in his pod, peeking out, blinking at the sight of you nestled together. He blinked once. Twice. And let out a soft, amused coo.
You met his gaze with a smirk.
+1
You stopped calling him Din.
Not on purpose. It just… slipped away.
It had started subtly: the teasing softened, the smiles dimmed. You kept your hands to yourself more, kept your jokes to Grogu instead. You still worked with Din, still followed him into the fire and out again, but the space between you felt wider than it ever had.
And maybe it was for the best.
Maybe you'd crossed a line, misread something. Maybe your flirting had made him uncomfortable, and he was too kind—or too stoic—to say it outright.
You hadn’t realized how much it hurt to pull away until you were halfway across a frozen plain, following behind him in silence, and he didn’t say a word about the wind biting at your skin.
He always offered the blanket before. Always stood just a little closer.
Now?
Nothing.
You tried to tell yourself it was fine. You were fine. You weren’t here to fall in love with a man who never showed his face. You were here because you wanted to be.
You didn’t expect him to care.
Then one night, as the ship drifted through hyperspace and Grogu was snoring softly in his hammock, Din stood in the middle of the hull, hands loose at his sides. Watching you.
“Why are you avoiding me?” he asked.
You blinked from where you sat on your bunk, caught mid-polishing your blaster. “I’m not.”
“You are.”
You looked down. “I just figured maybe I was… pushing too much. Saying things I shouldn’t have. Being… flirty.” The word stung coming out of your mouth. “Didn’t want to make you uncomfortable.”
There was a long pause. You expected silence. Maybe a brush-off. But instead:
“You weren’t.”
You glanced up. He stepped closer, the quiet clink of his armor unusually loud in the quiet. “I thought you knew.”
“Knew what?”
He hesitated, then said carefully, “I was flirting back.”
You blinked. “You what?”
He tilted his head. “You remember the first job? When we caught that bounty together, and I told you to leave right after?”
You nodded slowly.
“I made sure you got a full share. Paid for your passage off-world. Protected you during the shootout. I don’t do that for strangers.”
You swallowed. “That’s not—”
“And on Tatooine,” he cut in, voice quiet but firm. “You asked me to bond over a drink. I told you we didn’t need to bond.”
You furrowed your brow. “Exactly. You turned me down.”
“No,” he said. “I said, ‘We don’t need to bond.’ What I meant was—we already do. I didn’t think I needed more than what we had.”
Your mouth opened, then closed.
“In the alley,” he continued, stepping even closer, “when I had you pinned against the wall… You think I didn’t want that? That I wasn’t aware of how close we were?”
You felt your pulse jump.
“I wanted it,” he said simply. “I just couldn’t say it then. Couldn’t risk you thinking it was anything less than mutual.”
You sat up straighter, the air tight in your lungs.
He took another step, now close enough that you could feel the shift of his weight. “When you helped me take off my armor… I don’t let anyone do that. No one touches it. No one touches me.”
“Din—”
“And the blanket? On the ice planet?” His voice gentled. “That wasn’t practical. That was me finding the only excuse I had to hold you. To make sure you were okay.”
Your heart thundered in your chest.
“I thought I was being clear,” he said, finally. “But I guess I’m not great at… this.”
You blinked rapidly, trying to catch up. “You… you’ve been flirting this whole time?”
“As much as I know how to.”
There was a beat of silence.
And then, softly—warmly—he added, “So. You gonna keep pulling away? Or are we finally gonna admit we’ve been on the same page since the beginning?”
You stood, moving toward him until you were close enough to touch his chestplate.
“You could’ve said something.”
“I just did.”
You smiled, helpless and stunned. “Guess we’re both kind of hopeless.”
His hand brushed your arm, hesitant but deliberate. “Maybe. But not anymore.”
And just like that, all the quiet tension between you—weeks of half-meant jokes and unspoken affection—finally settled into something real. Something shared.
And just like that, all the quiet tension between you—weeks of half-meant jokes and unspoken affection—finally settled into something real. Something shared.
word count: 4k ish
pairing: din djarin x reader
a/n: [old timey radio voice] interrupting your regular schedule of bat boy to bring you [does jazz hands] yet another man that could kill u! i will apologise for not updating wtssf and instead giving this but i do not control the brain worms <3 hopefully this is still tasty for sum of y'all ! title from NFWMB by hozier
synopsis: Din gives you an unexpected gift. A dagger crafted with beskar, a fine weapon, a courting gift. You misunderstand. It doesn't take long for you to catch back on. inspired by a convo with my beloved @djarinova
By now, the constant hum and rattle of the Razor Crest around you was nearly unnoticeable.
You travel enough light-years with one stubborn screw in your cot, almost always returning to the spacecraft with one injury or another, and eventually the low lull becomes something more familiar.
Almost, if you'd let yourself admit it, a comfort.
Sleep is funny on the Crest. You'd been a light sleeper for most your life and it had saved your skin more time than you cared to count. Yet, it was the simple knowledge that a Mandalorian roamed in the cockpit above that allowed sleep to drag you deeper than usual.
It had taken months to let your guard down, to realise there wasn't going to be blade buried in your gut as you slumbered defencelessly. In the safety of his company, for the first time in decades, you dream when you sleep.
He hates having to wake you, only doing so if it's absolutely necessary. It's always with the lightest of touches, the leather of his gloves pressing softly against your shoulder, your name murmured and diluted through the modulator of his helmet.
Despite his gentleness, it never stops you from jarring awake.
You shudder awake with a violent twitch, pressing up on your elbow in a split second, prepared to move. You're stopped from moving further by Din's hand on your shoulder. He's knelt beside your cot, visor fixed on you.
You're on a new planet. The foreign atmosphere gives that away in an instant, the chalky taste in your mouth and the swarming heat on your skin. Your jack-rabbiting heart calms a bit.
"Din?"
You know he's only waking you because he must. The momentary calm banishes again as you push yourself up again. Din lets you this time, his gloved hand retreating to his side.
"It's not an emergency." He says, knowing your train of thought already. He tilts his head slightly, gesturing towards the ramp door. "I need to leave the ship. I didn't want you to wake and..."
Your trailing gaze darts back to his visor quickly, swallowing as you fill in the end of his sentence. Din doesn't finish it, but his shoulders readjust in a minuscule motion.
"I'm getting supplies. Watch the kid. Please."
You're nodding before he's finished his sentence. The sleep in your system is already dissipated and you push up, shifting onto your feet and trapping your pained hiss behind gritted teeth as Din rises to his full height.
There's a beep from his valance as he punches a button then a soft hiss as the pressure changes, the ramp door beginning to lower.
It's habit to watch the sliver of the outside grow, the new terrain stretching out before you as the mouth of the ship opens. As expected, a seemingly endless spread of sand greets you. You wrinkle your nose.
Din hadn't indulged the reason or destination of this particular trip. You hadn't asked. A deep slice in your thigh courtesy of a vibroblade and a mouthy Twi'lek had kept you off your feet and eager to rest.
The slice had been by pure luck—or so you thought.
But Din's silence following the patch up in the ship, his quietness suddenly uncanny, left you beginning to wonder if he was questioning your ability to fight. Weighing up your ability to defend.
And if those things were up for debate, certainly so was your position on his ship.
It had just been passed 3 years, almost six cycles if you counted how time passed on your home planet, since you had joined his crusade. Your job had one very simple, very crucial objective.
An objective that was now babbling at your feet, tiny claws reaching out for you.
"Hey, you," You say, reaching down to scoop Grogu up into your arms. He reaches his arms up as he does, making a happy gurgle as you tuck him against your hip.
His round, dark eyes peer up at you, his big ears twitching mischievously and you couldn't help but smile. You turn so he could see the stretch of desert and are surprised to find Din still in the mouth of the ship. He's turned back, his dark visor giving away nothing of his expression.
It's then you get the feeling once more; you're being evaluated. Your usefulness being weighed up. You shift beneath the weight of his gaze, unmoving but still not speaking.
"Did you forget something?" You ask, just to break the silence.
Din finally shifts, his helmet giving a small shake in answer. He doesn't speak, just stares another moment, before he's turning, his cape catching the wind as he strolls down the ramp.
You watch him go, heart in your throat, pondering with an ache of melancholy if your time on the Crest was coming to a close.
Another burbling noise from the little green monster in your arm tugs your attention away. You look down, smile already pulling at your mouth at his clawed hand reaching for you.
"At least I know you still like me," You murmur, letting his cling to one of your fingers. "You wouldn't fire me, would you?"
Grogu makes a noise of agreement, gripping your finger tight. Then he opens his little mouth and tries to direct your finger into it, the clearest declaration of his hunger he can give.
You huff a quiet laugh, turning back to the ship, mentally tallying up your list of things to do.
—
By the time of Din's return, the sun has dipped low in the sky and the dunes glow a scorching orange in its rays.
You see him coming in the horizon, the only figure out on the desolate landscape. You wonder, for not the first time, if he's burning up beneath all his armour. He never seems to use the fresher to cool off like you do.
It's as he reaches the ship, his footsteps heavier than usual and betraying his tiredness, do you realise he's returned with a bag. Your eyes glue to in instinctively but you bite your tongue and swallow the burning question of what the contents of the bag is.
"Get what you need?" You ask instead, hands laying flat on your knees, avoiding the bandage on your thigh.
You're knelt besides the ship wall, sitting on your feet, one of the panels hanging haphazardly by a single screw and a box of tools beside you.
There's a function for cooler air on the Crest but it's been busted since a gnarly shoot up leaving the atmosphere of Coruscant months ago. You've been trying to fix it for weeks, each time with no avail.
Today is no different.
“You haven’t fixed it.” Din says candidly, instead of answering your question.
That suddenly familiar worry of your usefulness shirks up within you.
“Yet.” you counter, aiming for optimistic. It’s impossible to tell what the immovable expression of Din’s helmet means. “It’s not the same problem as I started with, at least.”
After a moment, he gives a short nod as if he understands — which is mean because there isn’t a single thing you can think of that Din Djarin is bad at. Besides talking to Jawas, of course.
He passes you and you force yourself to keep facing forward, even as you long to trail his broad figure. You squint at the tangle of wires within the panel and sigh. It’s feeling pretty fruitless. You were hardly a mechanic to begin with and—
A loud clatter beside you makes you startle, something heavy dropping into your toolbox.
You jump back and after a quick second, realise that it’s Din who had dropped something purposefully. Trying to calm your racing pulse, you lean forward and peer in.
“This might help.” He says.
You blink down at the new tool he’s given you. It’s the one spanner size that’s missing from your toolbox.
The last one had been lost when you lobbed it at an intruder’s head in a blind panic. Not your proudest moment— even if it did distract the guy enough for Din to put him down.
You swallow your heart in your throat. “Thank you.”
You don’t hear him retreat but the part of you that fizzles like a freshly born star when he’s near dims, a giveaway to his movements. You curl your fingers the new tool and try to tell if this a good sign or not.
Behind you, Din clears his throat.
You peer over your shoulder, your brows knitting together — it’s not often he calls your attention so forwardly, much preferring to stand and wait, staring long enough til you notice and flush.
He’s still standing in the hull, one hand curled around and holding the bag he returned with. You twist fully, letting him know he’s got your attention.
For a long moment, he doesn’t move. You stare, waiting patiently and try not to let your eyes roam—especially after the last comment he made when he absolutely caught you staring at the broadness of his shoulders, eyes drinking in the cut of his figure.
You’d be a terrible criminal, cyra’rika.
What’s that supposed to mean? You had retorted, flustering just a bit.
He had turned and fixed you with a tilt of his helmet that meant he was likely smirking underneath it.
You have shifty eyes.
Your face had glowed fiercely at the reminder that just because you couldn’t see his eyes, that didn’t mean he couldn’t see yours.
Across from you in the Crest now, Din coughs awkwardly.
“I,” He starts. One of his hands clenches, the leather crinkling as he does. “I have something. For you.”
Surprise piques up inside you, fiery and delighted. It warms your stomach and there’s no fighting the smile that pulls at your mouth even if you wanted to.
Gifts from a bounty hunter are few and far between and he’d already replaced the spanner. Your bounty hunter in particular doesn't like to spend his credits unwisely.
Even less commonly does he acknowledge that something is a gift—but you've learned to love the quiet hum he gives you when you thank him for something.
"Oh?"
He shifts his weight ever so slightly, the most obvious indication that he's nervous.
You sit up a little straighter. The anxiety from earlier pools in quickly.
He gives a tiny, almost inaudible huff and then, instead of reaching into the bag, he pushes back his cape and reaches back. His skilled hand unclips something sheathed at his waist. He drops the bag and steps forward, his hand outstretched.
You hold your breath without realising.
It's... a dagger, you realise.
A very beautiful blade by all standards. As you press up to your knees, rising to get a closer look, the details of its intricacy begin to call out to you.
The hilt is twined in a delicate, leathery fabric, not yet moulded to any hand. The pommel holds a promise of a shimmer as though it's embedded with a mineral. And the blade itself... A darker metal curls through the lighter one that encases it, like smoke on a sunlit sky.
It's expert craftsmanship, with a precise balance of two metals — and if you stare a moment too long, you swear the darker one matches the hue of Din's armour. His beskar armour.
"Will you accept it?"
It's with the gravel of Din's voice do you realise you haven't moved. You haven't reached out for it, haven't even blinked since he offered it out to you. You exhale, suddenly feeling a little lightheaded.
It's elegant beyond words. It's too much.
Too much for you, too much as a... a... What was it?
A gift? A reminder of your sole duty on the Crest? Of what you nearly failed at during your last mission together? The wound on your thigh seems to throb painfully as if in response.
He's never got you a gift that's anything less than helpful.
"I," You breath, finally tearing your eyes off the dagger and looking up at the visor fixed on you. "Din, I—"
Your gaze drops back to the blade in his hands. This time, you're certain it's beskar twined within the steel.
"It's very beautiful but..." I'm not worthy of beskar. "I couldn't, it's— it's too much. I can't accept it, Din."
The words come out clumsily and you wonder if in your attempt at being polite, you've gone too far in the other direction and offended him. You wring your hand against your thigh, pressing your knuckles into your wound. The pain dances along your nerves, a welcome distraction as you force yourself to meet his gaze.
The hum of the ship fills the space between you and like almost always, you have no idea how to read his silence.
"I understand."
And then he's stepping back, resheathing the blade into its holster in one fluid motion. He does it so quickly you don't see the tremble in his wrist, his hand just a touch unsteady. Above you both, there's a beep in the cockpit.
This time, you do manage to clock his body language, well aware of the way his guard has suddenly been wrenched up and the anxiety in your veins quickens with a sinister twist. Oh stars. You've definitely made it worse. You should've just accepted the dagger.
He turns and wordlessly heads towards the ladder to the cockpit and you watch him desperately, a dozen words caught in your mouth and none of them the right ones to say aloud.
"I—"
Din pauses, one gloved hand on the rung of the ladder, facing forward. He gives you a moment to speak. Your mouth dries.
When it's clear you aren't going to, you catch the slight sigh he gives, his shoulders dropping an inch.
"Grogu will miss you."
What?
You don't even get a moment to consider what he’s said or to digest the implications before he’s climbing the ladder, deft and quick. By the time you’re on your feet, the swish of his cape is disappearing into the hatch on the ceiling.
You stare at it a moment, all your unsaid words suddenly transforming into confusion. Your mouth opens then closes, your hands held out in front of you in evident bewilderment.
“What—” You begin as you take the rungs twice as fast, following Din’s path up to the cockpit. “—is that supposed to mean?”
You’re halfway up when The Crest suddenly lurches to the side with a rumble, the powering of engines thrumming beneath your feet and you stumble to catch your balance. Below you, you hear the familiar hiss of the ramp closing.
Stars, what is he doing? He hasn’t been this eager to leave a planet since a bounty back on Hoth.
“Where are we going?” You ask, forgoing your unanswered question. You shift forward as the Crest continues to rise with a powerful whirling sound.
Casting an eye at the passenger seat, you’re relieved to find it already occupied by your favourite green friend. Grogu coos in your direction at the sight of you and despite the situation, you can’t help but smile.
“I can take you wherever you wish to go.” Din’s flat response has your smile fading, your head whipping around to face him.
But he doesn’t take his focus off the control in front of him for a moment, stoic and silent as he continues to initiate takeoff. The Crest rises higher, the sandy ground of the planet out the window growing smaller and smaller.
Wherever you wish to go?
Does he— does he think you want to leave?
Your head spins in a tizzy as you try to clue together how the hell he had come to that conclusion. The Crest rocks as it breaks through the atmosphere and you stumble again, struggling to keep your balance.
For whatever reason he’s thinking it, he’s wrong.
Action finally possesses you. You surge forward and slam your hand onto the console, killing the power to the thrusters.
The ship stalls with a loud droning noise, coming to a shuddering stop before it begins to float in the darkness of space. The only light is the glowing orange of the planet and stars beyond the glass.
“Why do you think I want to leave all of a sudden?” You demand hotly.
For a moment, you think Din will continue the silent treatment that he’s all but mastered. His helmet, visor gazing out through the windshield, doesn’t move — until he tilts his head toward you slightly. He sighs quietly.
“I don’t imagine after…” He waves a hand idly and you scan his figure intensely, searching for what he could possibly be referring to.
After…?
It suddenly seems quite obvious.
Even if you had no idea what it had meant to Din, clearly this has to do to you turning down his gift.
“Din,” you say very quietly.
His helmet turns another inch, his chin tilted up to show he’s listening.
You swallow and it feels like your heart in is your throat, burning and bursting all at once. But you have to ask.
“What did the dagger mean?”
Now he averts his gaze, his helmet dipping as he mumbles something, nothing, his voice almost too low for his modulator pick up, a gift, but in the gravel of his murmuring, you hear one unmissable word: courting.
Oh.
Oh.
It was a… courting gift.
A dagger blended with beskar, given as a courting gift from a Mandalorian. It meant you- and him — the hope you had been harvesting, the hope of something more blooming between you two, it had not been unrequited.
Your mind casts back to the exact phrasing as you turned what you believed to simply be a gift too prized for you— it’s too much, I can’t accept.
Maker. No wonder he thought you wanted to leave.
Whatever is crossing your face must be the opposite of subtle because as you grapple to find a response to that, Din’s head tilts back up.
“You didn’t know.”
There's a tiny wobble of relief in his voice.
“No,” You breathe. Blinking hard, suddenly you feel a bit wild because Din all but proposes to you but doesn’t even think to check if you knew the depth of what he was offering? Of the real question behind his gift?
You shake your head. “No, I didn’t know, Din.”
Silence lulls between you, charged and heavy. Even without seeing his face, you know Din must be squirming beneath his helmet — his intentions, his feelings, out in the open and you still staring at him speechless.
You manage to find your voice.
“May I see it once more?”
The request comes out softer than you intend, your courage suddenly quivering in your chest. You will it to rise, to embolden you. Din had been brave — now it's your turn.
Without a word, he shifts and reaches back to release it from its sheathe on his waist. For a split second you see it, the hesitation in his hand.
Then he's holding it out, balancing in his open and trusting palm, held out for you. The thickness in your throat grows.
You swallow tightly and grip your courage, searching within you for that warm, safe feeling that beats like a drum, Din, Din, Din. You seize it tightly.
Eyes fixed on the blade, you ask quietly, "Would you... offer it to me again?"
It's impossible to draw your eyes up, too nervous to see yourself reflected in the darkness of his visor.
"Yes."
Your heart becomes a supernova.
"Will you?" You whisper, finally daring to look up at him.
Your protector, your partner, the man who showed you the softness of his heart and asked for nothing in return. "Will you offer it to me again?"
The subtle motions of Din are something you've come to learn with the years you've spent at his side. Now, staring up at you, the inclination of his armour gives away his surprise.
Then he's rising to his feet only to step before you and sink down, brought to his knees before you. His hand remains steady, the offering held out, and this time the meaning of it cannot be misconstrued in any way.
"Cyare," He murmurs — and it's beloved, it's please, it's don't part from my side for as long as you'll have me.
Something within you trembles and your bottom lip quivers in emotion and then you're moving without thinking, sagging until you're on your knees too.
Equal heights, each of you in a position of devotion, facing toward each other.
Hand reaching out, you clasp your fingers around the hilt of the dagger and say thickly, "I accept."
There's a ragged exhale through the modulator of Din's helmet. He shifts, moving to strip the gloves from his hands and the sight of so much skin from him is enough to make you falter. But there's barely time to recover your stolen breath before his bare hand curls around yours, far larger, the dagger gripped in both of your hands.
His skin pressed against yours burns like starlight. You stutter out a breath, your smile coming so easily at the sight of your joined hands.
Din's other hand raises up and pauses momentarily, halting as if he's unsure if he's allowed before it settles gently on your cheek. You lean into the warmth of his skin and hear another sharp inhale through the modulator.
"I—" He begins, quickly cutting himself off. His thumb on your cheeks begins to wander, soothing over your skin lightly. He urges you forward and you bow your head, forehead pressing to the cool beskar of his armour.
"Thank you."
"You're thanking me?" You chuckle wetly, emotion clinging to your words. His thumb on your face traces another soft circle and you shudder beneath the loving touch, eyes fluttering closed.
“You could have been clearer." You chastise lightly, though your evident joy means your words don't have any real bite.
“I offered you beskar, cyra’ika,” He murmurs, voice warm and full of love. His thumbs draws another delicate circle. “How much clearer could I be?”
His point makes you laugh, eyes opening and seeing your own reflection in his visor. "I don't know," You say, averting your eyes down to your still intertwined hands. You squeeze your hand and feel him echo the motion. Your heart sings.
"Use your words?" You suggest with a cheeky smile, well aware that words were not a strong suit of your Mandalorian.
Din sighs, a faux long suffering one, and the mere familiarity of it makes your heart ache in the best way.
The worries of earlier bubble up within you, the reminder of why you had been so sure the dagger had some other meaning.
“I,” You begin, pulling back lightly and casting your gaze towards Grogu, who had been suspiciously silent as if knowing the significance of the moment before him. “I wasn’t thinking about the beskar, I was being stupid.”
With your free hand, you cover Din’s hand with yours, hiding your face away, which suddenly feels a little warmer. The nudge of your hand against his does nothing to alleviate the glow.
“I thought it was, like,” You mutter quietly, embarrassed. “You were saying I wasn’t doing my job well enough or— or something and I started worrying you were gonna…”
You can’t even finish the sentence with how foolish you feel.
“You thought I wanted you to leave?” Din asks, his voice dubious and warm. Like the mere thought of that is so far from believable that it’s amusing to him.
“Shut up,” you groan, eyes closing as if it can save your from your further flustering.
“Didn’t say anything.”
“You didn’t need to.” You murmur.
His hand in yours tightens, the other on your face coaxing you out of hiding with the gentlest of nudges.
"Never. As long as you want it, I want you with me." He says and in his voice you hear nothing but utter devotion. "Close your eyes."
You follow his command without hesitation, darkness cloaking your vision and you feel his hands retract from yours. The dagger remains in your palm, still cradled in your fingers. Then, there's the tell-tale hiss of his helmet and you inhale sharply.
"Cyare," He says and this time, it's with all the richness and roughness of his natural voice.
The timbre of his voice is like gunpowder sprinkled across your soul and when his hand finds the curve of your cheek once more, it's set alight.
"May I?" He asks. You can feel the soft heat of his breath fan across your lips and feel your heart quiver in response, bursting forward, as if trying to reach him. His thumb soothes across your cheek, full of wanting.
Your nod would be imperceptible if it was anyone other than Din — if his gaze wasn't trained on your face, drinking the details like a starved man, finally with uncloaked eyes.
He moves forward, presses his mouth against yours, and finds home.
Summary : Benjamin Poindexter was hired to eliminate you, a former Red Room Widow. Unfortunately, he keeps putting it off because he likes going on dates with you a little too much.
Pairing : DDBA! Benjamin Poindexter x Black Widow! reader (she/her)
Warnings/tags : freak 4 freak (?), Violence, Explicit Content (Dex is a munch and kinda has an oral fixation), Hurt/Comfort, Mutual Manipulation, lowkey gunplay, crying during sex, The Red Room is mentioned to use food as a form of control, alcohol consumption. (Let me know if I miss anything.) set between DDBA s1&s2 (let me know if I missed anything!)
Word Count : 17.7k
Requested by : anon
Notes : This was written before I watched the season finale, and also inspired by a song of the same title by Gang of Youths. Enjoy!
Dex was trying to be good.
It sounded ridiculous, even in his own head. It was as if he had borrowed this part of his conscience from someone else’s life, someone who hadn’t been made into a weapon, manipulated and exploited over and over again. But still, he tried.
Being good, as it turned out, wasn’t something you could just decide. There was no moment where goodness just clicked into place, there was no sudden clarity where he understood how to live without the violence that had always defined him. He didn’t have the tools for that, so he simplified it.
He only knew how to aim, how to follow through, how to kill. So he told himself that if he pointed all of that in the right direction, it would count. It had to count.
Bad people existed. That much was obvious. And if bad people were gone, then… that had to count for something, right?
The Anti-Vigilante Task Force were easy enough to categorize as bad. They hunted vigilantes, tried to shut down the kind of people Dex had convinced himself were doing something close to good. And vigilantes were good. They had to be.
So if he removed the ones hunting them, if he cut those threads before they tightened around someone else’s throat, then that meant he was helping. It meant he was balancing something, somewhere, even if no one was there to see it. Even if no one thanked him. Even if the city didn’t change at all.
That was how he justified it. The only problem was that no one paid him for being good.
His rent didn’t care about intention. His bills didn’t pause because he was trying. The notice on his counter sat there, the very proof that the world moved even as he was laying down the foundations of whatever moral framework he was trying to build. Dex had been ignoring it for days, like it might disappear if he didn’t acknowledge it.
He was staring at it when his phone buzzed.
The sound was unsettling, mostly because Dex knew that people only messaged him for one of two reasons nowadays: to threaten him (best possible outcome, he could handle it) or to give him a job. When he looked at the notification, he knew it was going to be the latter.
The text came from an unknown sender. It was encrypted, of course. Dex picked it up slowly, thumb hovering for just a second. He frowned. He really shouldn’t. This was the part of his life he was supposed to be moving away from. He opened it anyway.
The file loaded quickly. As he suspected, it was an anonymous contract labeled high priority, with a bounty of… oh.
2.5 million dollars.
Dex leaned back slightly, exhaling through his nose as that figure settled into place. It was much more than rent or bills. This kind of money would give him… breathing room. It would fund his good deeds for years. It would help his progress, right?
His eyes moved down to the target profile: a Former Red Room Widow.
Objective: extract intel regarding active Red Room operatives.
Secondary objective: termination upon completion.
Dex’s knuckles shifted slightly as he kept reading, attention narrowing the deeper he went. This wasn't a surface-level hit, like the usual contracts pushed into his number. He usually got the odd job of eliminating a business man’s biggest competitor (he never took those anymore) or a mother giving most of her life savings to him to kill her abusive husband (he did those ones more often than not), but this wasn’t it. Whoever had put this together knew what they were doing. They layered intel, cross-referenced sightings, stitched fragments of reports into something coherent enough to act on.
And then there was the ledger. Not labeled that way, but Dex knew what he was looking at.
Target Activity Log (Condensed):
Kiev — 12 confirmed targets, political dissidents turned assets. Execution, no witnesses.
Istanbul — Arms broker extraction turned termination. 7 additional casualties during exfiltration.
Lagos — Undercover infiltration of rival weapons trafficking ring. Operation successful. Entire network eliminated. Collateral: high.
Madripoor — Unverified mission overlap with Yelena Belova. Outcome classified.
Buenos Aires — Diplomatic attaché poisoning. Death delayed 48 hours to avoid suspicion.
Moscow — Internal Red Room purge survivor. Multiple handlers eliminated.
Dex’s thumb paused against the screen as he read through it again. The pattern was obvious to him in a way it wouldn’t be to anyone else. This wasn’t chaos. This wasn’t someone losing control. On the contrary, this was someone who was terrifyingly in control.
This target was a dangerous killer, and Dex didn't arrive at the conclusion lightly.
He liked patterns, needed them. They made the world more predictable to the point where he could sort through without it splintering into noise. And this file was full of patterns.
He scrolled back up, then down again, slower this time, eyes catching on the details most people would skip over: the timings, the methods.
The target made clean exits where possible and didn’t care much about collateral. Every action fed into the next like it had been mapped out long before the target ever stepped into the room.
Dex’s jaw tightened slightly as he read through the Kiev entry again. Twelve victims. It was not a firefight. It was twelve decisions. Twelve moments where the target could have stopped and didn’t. Istanbul, seven more added during exfiltration. They were not part of the objective, but handled anyway.
He understood that, and that meant he also understood what it took to do it.
You didn’t rack up a body count like that by accident. You didn’t walk away from operations like Madripoor, with entire networks wiped out and “high collateral” written off like a footnote, unless something in you had already accepted the outcome before it happened.
Dex leaned back slightly, phone still in his hand, thumb hovering but unmoving now.
People liked to pretend there was a line. A moment where someone chose to be good or bad and stuck to it. But that wasn’t how it worked. It was smaller than that. It was in the repetition. And this file read like repetition, over and over. It might happen in different cities and to different victims, but it always had the same result.
Dex couldn’t find signs of deviation or hesitation. There was no indication that the target ever stopped to question it.
His eyes flicked back to the ledger, this time reading the latest additions, entries that hadn’t had time to settle into history yet.
Recent Activity:
Prague — Corporate intermediary tied to OXE shell accounts. Interrogation lasted 18 minutes. Target terminated. Two security casualties. No witnesses.
DODC Supermax Prison — Perimeter sweep. Three armed contacts neutralized before engagement escalated. Surveillance equipment disabled. Exit undetected.
New York — Intelligence courier intercepted en route to New Avengers safehouse. Package recovered. Courier terminated. Civilian exposure: none.
Right.
The target was still active.
“Yeah,” Dex muttered, more to himself than anything else.
That was what tipped it for him.
Because even now, even with everything he’d done, Dex felt the resistance. The part of him that tried, however poorly, to redirect what he was into a force for good. The file didn’t show that.
It showed someone who had been made into a weapon and never really tried to put it down. That meant the target wasn’t in the same place he was. This target wasn’t trying to balance the scales like he was.
And that made this person not a good person in a way he could act on.
His eyes looked to the image of the target, like he was trying to reconcile the almost fragile and delicate-looking features with everything he’d just read. It didn’t match. It never did. Faces rarely carried the weight of what they’d done. But the file didn’t lie. The patterns didn’t lie.
Dex exhaled slowly, and decided this person was bad.
Not because of one mission. Not because of one mistake. But because of all of it stacked together.
And at this point, in order to preserve what precious progress he had made, he’d rather kill a killer for rent than his landlord. That would be inconvenient.
His thumb moved, tapping the file open fully, letting the image expand across the screen.
And for the first time, Dex really looked at you.
—
Dex expected you to be harder to find.
Most people with a body count like yours didn’t settle. They didn’t usually stay anywhere long enough to be known, didn’t leave behind anything that could be traced twice in the same way. He expected burner phones, rotating safehouses, and multiple fake ids that dissolved the second they were used.
But you hadn’t done that.
You were… easy. He found your address almost immediately. He found your number, your card details, and your passport quite quickly.
It took him a couple of hours to accept that it wasn’t an error in the data. Financial records were always messy, layered under shells and proxies, but not impossible. He followed the money the same way he followed anything else— patiently, methodically, letting the inconsistencies stand out instead of forcing them to make sense too quickly. One payment turned into a trail, then into repetition.
But still, he found nothing out of the ordinary. You were just a regular person living in New York, paying rent on time. Unlike him this month.
He stared at the screen longer than he needed today. The more he followed it, the clearer it became that this wasn’t temporary, wasn’t a waypoint or a cover that would disappear in a week. You weren’t passing through. You weren’t hiding. You were living here.
The rest of the records only reinforced it. He found your utility bills, with groceries spaced out in a way that suggested routine. He found nothing excessive, nothing careless. It was almost jarring, how normal it looked on paper, for someone with a history soaked in blood.
Next, Dex visited your building and expected that to be where the illusion broke, maybe an indication that this was all a front.
There wasn’t anything.
It was just a building. Unremarkable, forgettable in the way most of the city was. There were no visible security upgrades, no controlled access beyond the standard high rise. There was nothing that suggested someone with your file should be walking in and out of it every day.
He watched long enough to be sure. You came and went at predictable times, no visible countersurveillance, no adjustments to your movements that suggested you thought you were being watched. You carried your own groceries up the steps. You held the door open for someone once, an older man who thanked you without hesitation, like you were just another tenant, just another face he recognized in passing.
Dex didn’t like that it didn’t fit the rest of you. So he kept digging, because if there was going to be a crack, it would be in the routine and… you had one.
It took him three days to map it out in full, not because it was complicated, but because it wasn’t. You woke early. You jogged through Central Park along the same route almost every morning at the same pace, like it was muscle memory. You didn’t scan constantly, didn’t treat every passerby like a potential threat. You just ran.
After that, you hadcoffee at the same place every time, the same order.
Dex watched all of it from a distance, writing it down in his little notebook. He told himself it was for this job, that he needed to remember things accurately if he was going to finish the job.
By the fourth day, he knew watching wasn’t enough. It never had been. Patterns only got you so far before they started turning into assumptions, and assumptions got people wrong.
The problem was, he didn’t have a plan for that. He wasn’t a spy. He didn’t build relationships, didn’t ease his way into proximity.
But standing across the street, watching you disappear into the crown like you’d done every morning that week, he understood one thing clearly enough: He didn’t know how he was going to do this. He just knew he had to get closer.
—
The next day, he “accidentally” ran into you on that jogging trail in Central Park.
He already knew the exact time your foot would hit the gravel. All he had to do was figure which way you were going: was it the route you’d take when you wanted to clear your head, or the one you’d take when you wanted a challenge?
He waited outside your apartment today and…. You were taking the hard route.
He followed, and his plan of taking you until you got to the cafè, where he would sit next to you, would’ve been perfect until… Dex timed it wrong.
He knew he did the second he adjusted his pace to match yours and felt the rhythm slip. He was too fast for a clean pass, too close for it to look incidental.
This wasn’t what he was good at. There was no distance. Only proximity and the vague, uncomfortable awareness that if you were anything like the file said you were, you’d clock him immediately.
You didn’t. You just kept running.
He tried to correct it, cutting slightly across your path like he meant to pass you, like he belonged in your space. The movement was off by half a second, just enough to turn clumsy. His shoulder clipped yours, momentum carrying him forward a step too far. You caught before you could trip and looked at him like, what the hell, man?
“—shit, sorry,” Dex said quickly, breathing unevenly. He turned back, forcing himself to meet your eyes. “I didn’t… are you okay?”
Up close, everything went a little sideways.
He’d seen your photo. But a still image didn’t account for the way you actually were when you looked at him. You were focused, yes, but there was no immediate suspicion or recalculation behind your eyes. He could tell you were doing a quick assessment and—
“You’re fine,” you huffed, brushing it off like it really had been nothing.
Dex blinked once, recalibrating, trying to drag himself back to the whole point of this endeavour: Intel.
Simple, right?
Except now you were standing there, waiting just long enough that it demanded a response.
Right. Say something. Anything.
“Uh… there’s a coffee place just up ahead,” he heard himself say, the words coming out before he could fully filter them. “I can make it up to you. Buy you one or something.”
There was a lull of silence where even he registered what he’d just done.
That wasn’t part of any plan. That was stupid.
Dex forced himself not to react to it outwardly, even as his chest tightened in irritation. This wasn’t how he should’ve handled a target like you. He shouldn’t’ve improvised like this. What was he thinking, basically asking you out like some idiot who didn’t know what he was doing?
But you were still just looking at him.
And up close, all he could think about was how… disarming you were.
That was the word his brain landed on, unhelpfully. You made him lower their guard without realizing he was doing it.
Dex swallowed, keeping his expression neutral, like this was intentional, like this was just another step in a plan he actually had control over.
This is for intel, he told himself, firmly. Just intel via proximity. That’s all this is.
You tilted your head slightly, considering him in a way that made him feel, for a split second, like he was the one being assessed.
“Coffee?” you repeated.
“Yeah,” he said, a little more steady now. “Least I can do.”
“For what?” you managed an amused chuckle, and Dex could’ve sworn that hearing you make that noise lit up the world around him. “bumping into me? Is this a line?”
“I just…” he stammered, and bit the inside of his cheek. “I’ve seen you around.”
I’ve seen you around??? He mentally slapped himself. What kind of fucking stupid explanation is that? What does that have to do with anything?
Surprisingly, though, all you did was tilt your head and said, “Okay.”
Oh?
Dex forced himself to nod once, like he’d expected it, like this hadn’t just gone completely off-script.
“Okay,” he echoed, turning slightly to fall into step beside you as you started moving again.
He kept his focus forward, matching your pace, already running through what he needed to ask, what he could realistically get without pushing too hard, how to steer the conversation where he needed it to go.
And still, somewhere in the back of his mind, something felt off. Dex ignored it, because this was a job. You were a target.
And this was just the easiest way to get what he needed. Nothing more.
—
The café was small, tucked between a bookstore and a laundromat.
On the way there, you exchanged your names— he said he was “Tony,” and you, surprisingly, had given him your real name. You were easy to talk to, and you talked about the weather, the park, the surprisingly little snow last winter.
When you got to the café, Dex was relieved to see that it wasn’t too crowded, just a couple of people on laptops, a murmur of conversation, the hiss of the espresso machine every so often. Fewer variables, Fewer eyes.
You ordered first: iced latte, like you’d done it a hundred times. He followed with an Americano, mostly because he panicked and it sounded normal enough.
Now he sat across from you, fingers loosely wrapped around the glass cup, watching the condensation bead along the outside of your glass as you stirred your drink with your straw. You looked… relaxed.
You took a sip, then glanced at him over the rim, and there was mischief in your expression. A second later, you let out a giggle, tapping the straw lightly against the lid.
“So,” you said, dragging the word out just a little. “Why does Bullseye want to take me out to coffee?”
Dex choked.
It wasn’t subtle. The coffee went down the wrong way, and he had to turn his head slightly, coughing into his fist. For a split second, he thought he might actually spit it out all over you, which—thank fuck—the café being mostly empty made slightly less of a disaster.
His eyes snapped back to you.
“…You knew?” he asked.
You blinked at him like that was the stupidest question you’d heard all day, then shrugged, taking another sip like this was a casual conversation. “Of course,” you said. “Don’t pretend like you don’t know me.”
There was no accusation in it. You said it as if it was a fact.
Dex just stared at you. His brain tried to catch up, running through possibilities, angles, trying to figure out where this had gone wrong. Had you clocked him earlier? On the run? Before that? Had he missed an obvious tell?
You didn’t look alarmed. You didn’t look like you were about to bolt or reach for a weapon. If anything, you looked… curious.
“Oh,” he said, because that was all that came out at first.
Great. Perfect. Real smooth.
He forced himself to take another sip of his coffee, buying a second to gather his thoughts, to shove everything back into place where it belonged.
She’s a target. This is a job.
“Yeah,” he added, steadier now, nodding once like this hadn’t just blindsided him. “I mean—yeah. I just…” His teeth tightened for half a second before he settled on the first thing that felt even remotely usable. “I’m a fan of your work.”
You didn’t react immediately. You watched him over your drink, eyes narrowing slightly.
Dex held your eyes, forcing himself not to overcorrect, to let it breathe. Let it land.
“Right,” you said finally. You didn’t sound entirely convinced, but you let it go.
The silence stretched, but not too uncomfortably. It was just charged. You knew there was no chance of going back to a civilian conversation as you leaned back slightly, exhaling.
“Alright. No, we’re not doing this version,” you decided, more to yourself than him. Then you straightened again, meeting his eyes properly. “Can we start over?”
Dex blinked, thrown just enough to answer honestly. “I… yeah.”
You nodded once, resetting playfully.
“Hi. You already know my name, so I’m skipping that part,” you said, gesturing vaguely with your cup. “I’m a former Red Room Widow. I live in New York now.”
You said it like a random woman introducing themself as an accountant.
Dex opened his mouth, then closed it to filter through the responses. “Hi,” he tried again, because apparently that was all he had today.
You waited.
“Hi,” he repeated, then dragged a hand down his face, exhaling through his nose. “I’m Dex. Not—” he made a vague, frustrated gesture, “not Tony, I don’t…”
Your lips twitched. “I got that.”
“Right. Yeah.” He nodded once, a bit too quickly. Then, as if he was forcing the words out his throat. “I’m… a good guy.”
The second it left his mouth, he knew how weird it sounded. You blinked at him. Then, to his surprise, you chuckled, and it was not unkind.
“Hi, Dex Not Tony,” you said, teasing him. “That’s a strong introduction.”
His mouth pressed into a thin line, but his shoulder reluctantly eased a fraction. “It’s… yeah,” he muttered. “Workshopping it.”
That earned him a small huff of laughter, and just like that, the tension changed. It was not gone completely, but it loosened enough to breathe around.
“Mm,” you hummed, tapping your straw against the rim of the glass. “Maybe workshop faster.”
That earned you the smallest exhale that might’ve been a laugh.
“So,” you went on, glancing at his drink. “Americano?”
He looked down at it like he’d forgotten it existed. “Mmm.”
“Do you actually like that,” you took a sip of your own drink, “or did you panic-order?”
Dex hesitated, but decided against lying. “Panic-order.”
You grinned. “Thought so.”
“Yours?” he asked, nodding toward your cup.
“Iced latte. Always.”
He nodded once, filing it away without thinking. “Predictable,” he said.
“Consistent,” you corrected.
“Same thing.”
“Not even a little.” Your smile tugged a little wider, and for a second, it made your whole face look gentle in a way that didn’t match anything he’d read.
The conversation after that was not awkward, even as it came in uneven starts. You both drifted out half-finished sentences, small corrections, circling around what you weren’t saying more than what you were. But eventually, it found a rhythm.
You talked about nothing, mostly. The weather again, somehow. The park. The café. You made an offhand comment about the coffee being great here but the pastries were better two blocks over, and Dex filed that away without meaning to. He asked a question that sounded almost normal, and you answered it like it was.
For some reason, he could not bring himself to ask about intel. Still, neither of you got up as time stretched right before your eyes.
“Okay,” you said after a moment, glancing at your drink, then back at him. “For the record, this is the weirdest coffee I’ve had in a while.”
“Same,” he said.
“And I’ve had coffee in worse places.”
“Same.”
You narrowed your eyes slightly, amused. “You’re just copying me now.”
There was that pause again. This time, neither of you rushed to fill it.
You checked your phone briefly, then sighed, like you didn’t actually want to say what came next. “I should probably…” you started, gesturing vaguely toward the door. “…go.”
Dex nodded immediately. “Yeah. Yeah, sure.”
You stood, grabbing your jacket, then hesitated just slightly. You looked at him, like you were weighing your options, then reached into your pocket and pulled out your phone. “Give me your number.”
Dex tilted his head. “…What?”
You held it out, unfazed. “In case you decide to bump into me again,” you said. “Might as well schedule it next time.”
He stared at you for a second, like he was trying to find an explanation, a reason not to…
Then he took the phone.
“Right,” he nodded. “Yeah.”
He put it in and handed it back. After all, he had convinced himself that it was just so he could get the intel he was supposed to do today.
“See you around, Dex Not Tony.”
“Yeah,” he said, quieter now. “See you.”
You turned, heading for the door. The bell chimed again as you left.
Dex stayed where he was for a moment longer than necessary, staring at the space you’d just occupied, the echo of your laugh still sitting somewhere in the back of his mind.
Something about that had gone very, very wrong. Or very right
—
That night, Dex had trouble sleeping.
The apartment was too quiet, the city noise bleeding faintly through the windows, the weight of the day sitting wrong in his chest. He laid there for a while, staring at the ceiling, replaying the conversation in fragments: your voice, your eyes, the way none of it lined up with the file. Eventually, he gave up trying to sleep at all.
He sat up, reached for the notebook on his nightstand, and flipped it open. The logs he had on you were already there: Times, routes, and observations.
He stared at it for a moment, pen hovering. Then he added a new line, pressing just slightly harder than necessary:
Likes iced lattes
—
Two days later, Dex’s phone buzzed.
He didn’t get messages he wanted to open. He didn’t need another contract— he got his hands full as is. So for a second, he just stared at it from across the room, letting it vibrate once. Unknown number.
His jaw tightened before he picked it up and unlocked it.
There was a photo of a newspaper, slightly crumpled, held down by what looked like your hand. The headline was clear enough:
THREE ANTI-VIGANTE TASK FORCE AGENTS FOUND DEAD IN ALLEY
Below it, you had texted:
is this you?
Dex stared at the screen, figuring out exactly who it was. He read it again, trying to wrap his mind around this. His thumb hovered over the keyboard.
You knew. Or you suspected. Or you were testing him. All three were problems.
Dex exhaled slowly through his nose and typed.
Dex: no. Why would you think that?
He was lying, but then again, he was the one who’s supposed to do the interrogation here. It would be stupid to give anything away.
He hit send before he could overthink it. Three dots appeared almost immediately.
You: just thought I’d ask
Dex frowned. That was it? No pushback? No follow-up? Did you not think he was interesting enough?
Dex: You just ask people that? “hey did you kill three people”?
There was a pause this time. Dex found himself watching the screen, shoulders slightly tense without realizing it.
You: not usually, but you don’t usually “accidentally” run into me either so
Dex’s grip on the phone tightened just a fraction.
Right. You weren’t letting that go.
Dex: I said I’ve seen you around.
He only had to wait a few seconds
You: sure
He could hear the tone in it. That same almost-amused voice from the café. Not hostile, but curious. Dex leaned back against the wall, phone still in his hand, mind already thinking about what you knew, what you were pretending not to know.
You sent another message before he could respond.
You: also for the record, if it was you, I know you’d say no anyway
Dex managed a smile.
Dex: Probably.
You texted back just as quickly
You: so I’m choosing to believe you 🙂
You: congrats
He huffed, a dry laugh catching in his throat. This was… strange.
You weren’t pushing. You weren’t backing off either. You were just… there, talking to him like this was normal.
Dex stared at the screen for a moment longer, then typed again.
Dex: Why’d you actually text me?
The typing bubble came and went once. Then, it stayed.
You: because I wanted to
You: ???
You: do I need a better reason than that
Dex frowned slightly. That answer didn’t fit neatly anywhere that his brain could categorize,
Dex: People usually have reasons.
This time your reply took longer. Long enough that Dex caught himself rereading the earlier messages, analyzing tone, punctuation, timing, looking for something he might’ve missed.
You: okay, fine
You: I was bored
You: and you’re interesting
You: better?
Dex froze.
Interesting. Was that what you thought of him?
Dex: You don’t seem like you get bored.
He could almost picture you rolling your eyes
You: wow. you are a fan
He stared at the screen for a second, then forced himself to snap back into place.
You were a target, he had to remind himself. Nothing more. He needed intel to pay rent, and he could only get that after he eliminated you, so…
Dex: if you’re bored, we could go on another date
He hit send and immediately had what did you just do moment. This wasn’t part of the job. This wasn’t… date wasn’t the word he should’ve used.
The typing bubble popped up, disappeared, and came back within three seconds.
You: is that what that was the first time? a date??
Dex blinked.
“…No,” he muttered under his breath, already typing.
No. It was—
He stopped. What was it?
Dex: maybe?
That was all he could send. Oh, he was never playing spy after this job was done. Not ever again.
You: right
You: with a guy who “sees me around”
You: very normal
Dex pressed his lips together.
Dex: Do you want to go or not?
During the wait, Dex felt something unfamiliar settle in his stomach. It was something he could only describe as butterflies.
You: yeah sure
His grip on the phone loosened slightly.
You: same place? or are you gonna “accidentally” run into me again?
Dex huffed.
Dex: how about the pastry place you were talking about?
Oh so now he was paying attention to your recommendations?
You: okay. Friday?
The only thing he had on his calendar was killing task force, and that could wait, so…
Dex: Friday works.
He tapped on his phone screen, anxiously waiting for confirmation.
You: cool
You: try not to kill anyone before then. It ruins the vibe
Dex stared at that one for a second.
Dex: No promises.
There was no reply after that.
That night, in his notebook, he wrote another thing about you:
Initiates contact.
—
The second date felt different before it even started.
You were standing at the counter of the bakery when he saw you, pointing at something in the display case, smiling at the cashier like this was the easiest thing in the world. “Hey, Dex.”
You ended up at a small table by the window, a couple of plates between you. A flaky and golden croissant, a banana-flavoured donut-like dessert dusted in powdered sugar (his choice), a molten-in-the-middle pain au chocolate, and one with custard that looked like it might fall apart if you breathed too hard near it.
Adorably, he knew you had picked too many things. Dex didn’t comment on it, but he noticed then, how you pointed without overthinking, how you changed your mind halfway through, how you added one more at the last second “just in case.”
It felt indulgent in a small, contained way. Like this was the only thing you let yourself have.
The plate between you looked excessive now, but you nudged it toward him anyway.
“Try that one,” you said, already reaching for another.
Dex picked it up without arguing. It was… good, but he didn’t say that out loud.
You watched his face anyway, like you were waiting for the reaction.
“It’s fine,” he said.
You snorted. “Liar.”
“I’m not—”
“Don’t pretend it’s just fine,” you rolled your eyes, though you had said it with your mouth full, so it sounded more like downt pwetend it's jusft fwine.
“I’m not pretending.”
“You are.”
He hesitated, then let you win this one. “It is good,” he admitted begrudgingly.
“There it is.”
The conversation slipped into place easily after that. It was not smooth, but it didn’t catch as often. You didn’t circle each other as much. You just… talked.
You even went on for a good fifteen minutes about watching a squirrel in the park yesterday. You said something about how it would grab something, run halfway up the tree, stop, look around like it forgot what it was doing, then go back down and start over. You went on saying, it did this, like, five times, I think it lost the nut at some point but just committed to the bit.
Dex was surprised a former Red Room operative would even concern herself with things as trivial as a little rodent. He was even more surprised that he let you go on and on about it. It was as if he liked listening to you, no matter what you said.
You reached for the sweeter pastry next, taking a bite, and Dex’s eyes automatically tracking the movement. A small smear of custard caught at the corner of your lip.
You didn’t notice. You kept talking, mid-sentence about the squirrel again, something about it being “committed to chaos, like hoarding random park objects were its hobby,” and—
Dex raised his hand before he could stop it. “Hold on,” he said, almost a whisper.
You paused. “what…”
His thumb brushied lightly at the corner of your mouth, wiping the custard away, before licking the liquid off on his own tongue. The contact was brief and altogether too gentle for a man like him. For a second, neither of you moved.
His hand dropped back to the table. “You had…” he gestured vaguely. “Custard.”
“Oh.” You blinked once, then let out a small, surprised laugh. “Thanks.”
“Yeah.” Dex looked down at his hands. That felt… Unfamiliar.
He didn’t know when the last time he’d done something like that was. He didn’t know when the last time he’d wanted to.
There was this strange warmth sitting in his chest now, almost weightless. He didn’t even have a name for it.
And while he wasn’t sure he liked that, he definitely didn’t hate it.
You were the one to break the silence, coughing awkwardly like you couldn’t stand another second of silence.
“Ummm speaking of hobbies?” you echoed, wiping your mouth just in case. “You… don’t strike me as a hobbies person.”
“I had some,” he said, easing back into the chair. Thank fuck you could carry the conversation for the both of them, because his brain had just fully stalled.
“Past tense is concerning.” You leaned forward just a little. “What, like, knitting?”
“No.”
“Scrapbooking?”
“No.”
“Be honest,” you taunted, “I can see it.”
He almost smiled, and looked down when he said it. “Baseball.”
You paused, then nodded, like that made perfect sense.
“Yeah, I can see that,” you said, then added casually, “I used to do ballet.”
Dex blinked. He looked at you differently now. like he was trying to fit that into everything else he knew. “Oh,” he managed to say.
Oh, this was it. This was what he came for. This was the thread he needed. This was the confirmation that you had been trained in HQ, right? If you had survived it, then there were doors inside you that led back to places he couldn’t access any other way.
These were not guesses, not patterns he had to infer from distance, but direct proximity to the Red Room itself, to its methods, its remnants, its current reach. He just needed to keep you talking, keep you close, long enough to pull it apart piece by piece. So he asked, “What does that mean?”
You froze, as if a flash of memories ran through the back of your eyes. Then shook your head once. “Mm—nope.”
“What?”
“Not here,” you said lightly, but there was an immovable conviction underneath it now. “I’m not getting into that here.”
Dex watched you as held his hazel eyes. Then, just as quickly, you leaned forward, resting your chin lightly against your hand, expression shifting back from dark to a lighter tone. “Come by my place on Saturday,” you said, like it had just occurred to you. “We’ll call it our third date.”
Dex blinked. “What?”
You shrugged, completely unfazed. “If you’re really curious,” you added, a small tilt to your head. “There’s… fewer people.”
He stared at you, his eyes empty and calculating at the saw time, fingers anxiously tapping the underside of the table. This was… this was not in the plan. This was not one of his controlled outcomes. This was not…
“Okay,” he said anyway. The answer seemed to have left his mouth before he fully processed it.
“Okay,” you echoed.
And somewhere between the pastries, coffee, and conversation, he realized, a little too late…
This doesn’t feel like a job.
—
Dex had expected a decoy. A secondary location, maybe a shell apartment. He was expecting something stripped down and impersonal, designed to be burned the second it was compromised.
Not this. Not the exact place he had already mapped out in his notebook.
So yeah, you had given him your real address.
For just a second, he wondered if this was the play. If you knew how much he knew. If this was some test he hadn’t caught onto yet.
The building was exactly what he expected. It was a high-end high rise. The doorman glanced at him once, then nodded like he’d already been cleared.
“You’re expected,” he said simply.
Dex didn’t respond, already moving past him. The elevator took him straight up.
By the time he reached your door, he had an uneasy feeling in his chest. Was this… a trap?
He knocked, and the door opened almost immediately.
“Hi,” you said.
Dex opened his mouth to respond, but you interrupted his train of thoughts by pressing a quick kiss to his cheek, right at the scar.
Dex froze. By the time you pulled back, his brain still hadn’t caught up.
You smiled like nothing had happened, stepping aside to let him in. “Come in.”
He couldn’t find words to say, because apparently, his brain was on pause now.
Still, Dex stayed half a step behind you as you pushed the door open, his eyes already scanning past your shoulder and realised…
The place was… expensive.
Not in a loud, gaudy way. You had no gold fixtures or ridiculous statement pieces. It was intentional. It had floor-to-ceiling windows stretching across the far wall with a view that swallowed half the city. It had two bedrooms, if he researched it right.
“How…” he started, then cut himself off. What he meant to say was, how can you afford this? But decided against it.
You didn’t seem to notice. “Make yourself comfortable,” you said, already shrugging off your jacket and tossing it onto a chair like it wasn’t worth more than half the furniture in his apartment. “I just need the bathroom. I’ll be quick.”
And just like that, you disappeared.
Dex stood there for a second longer than necessary, processing everything.
You lived here. And not as a cover, not temporarily. There were no signs of rotation, no packed bags, no readiness to leave at a moment’s notice.
“That’s stupid,” he muttered under his breath. Or reckless. Or you were just arrogant to a fault. Maybe you just didn’t think anyone could touch you.
Dex stood still for a second, listening to the water running. He heard the slightly delayed pipes and realised you weren’t rushing. Good.
His eyes tracked the room the way they always did, scanning for inconsistencies. He didn’t try to look for what was there, but what didn’t belong. Because people like you didn’t leave things out.
Which meant if anything existed, it would be hidden. His gaze slowed down and shifted… There. A section of the wall paneling near the shelving was barely misaligned. It was not enough for anyone else to clock, but Dex didn’t miss patterns like that.
He stepped closer, fingers brushing lightly over the seam. There must be a pressure point. Eventually the panel gave just enough of a click to confirm it. Dex didn’t hesitate before easing it open.
Inside was a compact hidden compartment.
The first thing he saw was a keycard, worn at the edges. The insignia was barely visible, but he didn’t need it to be clear. He knew what it was the second he saw it: Hydra.
“Of course,” he muttered under his breath.
Red Room had a historical overlap with Hydra. Old, but not irrelevant.
It surely was a small enough thing that you wouldn’t miss it, right?
He pocketed it and moved on to the only other thing hidden in the panel: Documents. It wasn’t exactly a full archive, but it was enough.
He flipped through them, scanning fast. Inside were names of Red Room operatives. The dead ones were labeled. He assumed the ones who didn’t have a red Xs on their files were still active.
You had annotated them too, with locations, partial intel, and movement patterns.
This was the kind of access people killed for.
His thumb moved, grabbing his phone. He flipped through quickly, taking a picture of each page, each note, each annotation. He made sure, of course, that it was legible.
This was high-level access, closer than anything he’d gotten from a distance. This… This was the job.
Then he heard the sound of water shutting off.
Shit. Dex froze. Then, he moved. He closed the folder immediately, sliding it back in.
Everything went back exactly as it was, the panel sealed until the seam disappeared into the wall again like it had never existed. By the time you stepped back into the room, he was already on the couch.
“Sorry,” you said, drying your hands casually, completely unbothered. “That took longer than I thought.”
Dex looked up at you. There was a split second, where something in his expression didn’t line up. The. it was gone.
“You’re fine,” he said evenly.
You nodded, like that settled it, and stepped closer. You dropped down onto the couch beside him, close enough that your shoulder brushed his, as if this was normal. As if he wasn’t here to dismantle you piece by piece. He didn’t even realise that you had a bottle of wine and two glasses on your hand.
You leaned back slightly, turning your head toward him, “…So,” you said, more direct. “What do you want to know?”
—
It can’t be this easy right? Dex thought.
Turns out, it was.
Which was weird, because people like you didn’t just… hand things over. So either this was the cleanest setup he’d ever walked into, or you really didn’t think he was a threat. Neither option sat right with him.
His fingers flexed slightly against his knee as he watched you pour two glasses of red. You handed one to him, and Dex took it quickly. “Thanks,” he said, smaller than usual.
He didn’t even usually drink anymore. He turned the stem slightly between his fingers, watching the liquid catch the light. For a brief second, his mind did what it always did: it ran through possibilities.
It might be a sedative. It could be poison. He could handle most of that, maybe. And if he couldn’t… Well.
He huffed quietly to himself. What the hell.
Dex took a sip. It burned a little on the way down. Not unusual, just normal wine.
The first sign that it wasn’t poison was that you were drinking it, too. The second sign was that you didn’t react; you didn’t watch him like you were waiting for something to happen. You just leaned back into the couch and tucked your leg under yourself.
It was cute, Dex thought. You looked like a bird, nesting. He liked it.
Then, he took a deep breath and started asking questions. At first, it was light, like where did you grow up? Where were you trained?
You answered, and you sounded detached for the first couple of sentences. It was as if you were testing the limits and throwing pieces out to see what stuck.
But when the alcohol kicked in and your cheeks turned rosy pink, you spoke more candidly. About the Red Room. About being taken. About being trained.
Even Dex, who was starting to feel more bubbly, didn’t interrupt.
At first, he listened like he always did. He filtered, sorted, and pulled out what mattered. But somewhere along the way, that changed. Because you started giving less intel and more… context.
“You don’t really realize it when you’re in it,” you said, staring into your glass like the answer might be somewhere at the bottom. “It just feels normal. Like this is what life is supposed to be. You don’t question it because there’s nothing else to compare it to.”
Dex’s grip tightened slightly, and you kept going.
“They don’t just train you. They… build you. Strip everything out first. Then put back only what they need.” You gave him a small laugh.“Honestly? It’s basically a cult. You have no idea what it’s like to be manipulated like that.”
Dex looked down, and exhaled slowly through his nose. “Yeah,” he said. “I do.”
You glanced at him then, and your eyes shifted. You were not shocked at all, but you recognised it as well as you would recognise kin. “Oh,” you looked down. “Right.”
Dex poured himself another glass without thinking. You kept talking, but slower now. It was less like you were explaining, more like you were… unloading. Like you didn’t have anywhere else to put it.
That’s when it clicked: This must not be a trap or a strategy, he concluded, because the reason you were telling him all of this on a third date was… because, like him, you had no one else.
You might have neighbors, maybe even actual friends. But surely, you had no one else who could possibly understand you the way he did, because who else could you possibly know in this line of work?
That was why you decided that he was the safest place to put it.
Dex stared at the rim of his glass for a second too long. That was stupid of you. And dangerous. And—
“…And you?” you said suddenly, nudging his knee lightly with yours. “C’mon.”
He blinked, pulled back into the moment.
“If we’re trauma dumping,” you added, a crooked smile pulling at your mouth, “we might as well commit. This is probably our only chance to say it out like.” You took another sip, then shrugged. “Doesn’t exactly look like either of us go to therapy.”
Dex huffed. “Yeah,” he muttered. His brain caught up half a second later.
He shouldn’t, though, right? He shouldn’t tell you anything about him that could possibly be compromising but… The booze was getting to him.
And, besides, what harm could trauma dumping to you be? The job ends one way: with you dead after he got all the intel. So did it really matter what you knew about him?
Dex leaned back slightly, exhaling a little.
And then, before he could stop himself, the extra bit of liquid courage bypassed his brain, and he told you everything.
The words came out flat at first. But the more he drank, the less he cared about what he gave away and what he did not.
You didn’t interrupt him. You just listened. And that, more than anything, kept him talking.
At some point, the wine started to blur the edges for you, too. Your shoulders leaned closer. Your knee stayed pressed against his. Your laughter came easier as he cynically explained being in prison, and because you felt bad when you did, you gasped and covered your mouth.
Dex didn’t seem to mind. He even smiled, the corner of his mouth warping the pronounced scar on his cheek. At one point, you tilted your head slightly, watching him with an understanding that hadn’t been there before.
“God,” you said, almost to yourself. “We’re so fucked up.”
Then, unexpectedly, you giggled. Dex, for once, cannot help but chuckle himself.
“Yeah.” He took another sip, “You more than me,” he added, almost immediately.
Your head snapped toward him immediately. “Excuse me?”
A faint smirk pulled at his mouth. “Y’know,” he said, “Child soldier and all.”
You stared at him for a second, before letting out a disbelieving laugh. “Really?” you shot back, leaning closer, eyes narrowing in mock offense. “I’m more fucked up?”
He lifted a shoulder slightly in a shrug.
You pointed at him with your glass. “Your boss broke your spine and you lived.”
Dex managed to roll his eyes.
“You got thrown off a roof and you lived,” you continued, leaning in further now, your voice picking up energy. “Sounds like you’re pretty far from normal.”
Dex huffed again. “Didn’t say I was normal.”
“Mm,” you hummed, satisfied. You sipped again.
The space between you closed without either of you noticing when it happened. Your knee pressed against his. Your shoulder brushed his arm. Neither of you moved away.
The wine kept going. Half a glass. Then another.Words came easier after that, less filtered, less controlled.
You interrupted each other more. You laughed more. You even talked over the ends of sentences like it didn’t matter who finished them. At some point, you were both smiling for no reason.
Dex didn’t realize when the room started to feel warmer. He didn’t realize when your voice started to blur slightly at the edges. He didn’t even realize when he stopped thinking about the job entirely. He just knew, at this point, that you were close. Really close.
And you looked… Pretty.
That was a stupid word. It was too simple. It didn’t cover the gnawing claws that were starting to take over his heart.
But it was the only word his brain gave him. You were smiling at something (he didn’t even remember what) and it made you look… harmless.
Dex felt a warmth shift in his chest. As unfamiliar as it was, he didn’t pull away from it. For a second, you looked at him, too.
Dex swallowed the last of the wine, mostly because it was the only distraction that could possibly take up all the space you had started to occupy in his mind.
The room had dimmed at the edges in that deceptive way alcohol always did. The lights seemed warmer.
Dex didn’t usually get to this point. He knew that with uncomfortable clarity. He also knew he should stop.
You were sitting too close, closer than before, closer than necessary, your shoulder pressed lightly into his as if neither of you had noticed the distance shrinking over time.
Your voice had gone gentler, words starting to come in slower waves instead of quick exchanges. There was less explanation, more confession disguised as conversation. And he was doing the same, even if he wouldn’t have admitted it out loud.
Parts of him he usually kept locked down were just… loosening, one by one, without permission.
You laughed at something he said, he didn’t even remember what it was, and the sound stuck in his head longer than it should have.
“You’re smiling,” you observed suddenly, tilting your head slightly like it was a fossil discovery.
“I’m not,” he said automatically.
You hummed, unconvinced. “You are.”
He should’ve corrected you. Instead, his eyes drifted without meaning to, down to your mouth when you spoke again. The way your words drooped at the edges when you were tired, or tipsy, or both. For the love of god, he could not get over you the way you kept licking your lip absentmindedly, like you weren’t even aware of it.
It made something in his brain go pop.
You noticed. “…What?” you asked, pouting adorably.
Dex didn’t answer right away. Because, really, there was no tactical reason for him to be looking at you like this. There was no intel angle. No extraction logic. No job framework he could hide behind.
It was just you. And him. And the space between you that didn’t feel like space anymore.
He leaned in before he could reassemble himself. He hadn’t planned on doing it. It wasn’t even a decision he consciously made, really.
It was, for lack of better word, gravity. As if he was a meteor falling into your orbit.
For a while, you didn’t move away.
Your breath caught in your throat, but you stayed there, watching him come closer instead of stopping it. Your eyes flicked down once, like you were considering it too.
Dex stopped just short of you. He wanted, no needed— to know you wanted it, too.
Still, he was close enough that he could feel your breath now. Close enough that if either of you moved even a fraction—
That would be it. The line would be crossed.
You lifted your hand slowly, but you were not pushing him away. You weren’t pulling him closer, either. Your palm was hovering for a moment against his chest like you were testing whether this was real.
Dex didn’t move. Neither did you.
You exhaled. It was a small, almost reluctant sound. “…Dex,” you murmured, and his name sounded different like that. His eyes flicked to yours again.
Too close. This was way too close.
Your eyes dropped again to his mouth again, and stayed there. For a second, he could clearly see that fraction of hesitation where neither of you could pretend anymore that you weren’t thinking the same thing.
Dex leaned in that final inch… but you didn’t meet him halfway. Gently, your hand pressed into his chest.
“Mm,” you murmured softly, almost like you were trying to convince yourself this was wrong. Then you pushed him back.
“No,” you said, breath hitching slightly, but your smile was still there, playful, light. “It’s only our third date.”
Dex blinked, still a little too close, like he hadn’t fully processed the words.
You laughed under your breath, giving him a small shove to create space.
“Besides,” you added, eyes flicking down to his mouth for just a second before meeting his again, “I want you to kiss me when you’re sober.”
Oh.
He leaned back this time, letting out a deep breath. There was only one way he could describe how he felt, and that was disappointment.
Oh, well. What else can he do?
“Yeah,” he managed to say. “Okay.”
Still, he didn’t move far, and neither did you.
And of course, his thoughts, intrusive as they always are, decided to ruin the only tender moment he had in years.
You have enough. Kill her.
Honestly, he had more than enough intel on the Red Room. Even the old Hydra keycard was a welcome addition to his anonymous employer’s request. It would most definitely make up for anything else they could have possibly wanted.
What are you waiting for? Kill her.
It was definitely more than what that had bargained for. So yeah, he could do it now.
He had clocked many sharp objects he could throw at you— from your vase to a cheese knife you left out on the island kitchen. He didn’t even need a gun.
Kill her.
And no, you wouldn’t even see it coming. His fingers flexed slightly against his leg.
Kill her.
But then he made the mistake of looking at you. And from there on out, all he could think was…
I want another date.
No. He shouldn’t want that, right?
Kill her.
He didn’t want that either.
But… he needed the money, and you had a body count higher than the Empire State Building. Killing you would make sense right? It would help balance the scales, right?
Right?
Would it still make sense, even after you laid your heart and soul to him? Would it still make sense, even after he realised you were brought up as an enslaved child soldier?
Kill her.
No, he told himself, Not yet.
I want just one more date.
And to Dex, that was reason enough not to kill you. Yet.
—
Dex didn’t go to rest when he got home.
The second the door shut behind him, he frowned, burying his head in his hands before pulling himself together. He had called forth the part of him that knew what to do, what this was, what it had to be.
He pulled the notebook out before he’d even taken his jacket off.
He sat down, pen moving across paper. It started the way it always did: Structured and efficient. Intel, in detail.
He wrote of the interior of your apartment; top floor, two-bedroom, open sightlines, minimal obstruction points. Entry points limited. Windows large but not easily accessible from exterior. Security: building-controlled, doorman compliant, prior clearance confirmed.
He flipped the page. He wrote about the hidden compartment: wall panel, right side of shelving unit. Pressure point activation. Contents: Hydra-era keycard, confirmed overlap with Red Room operations. Documents: active survivor list, partial intel, movement logs. Photographic evidence captured.
Another page. This was where he started writing about your routine vulnerabilities, your Behavioral patterns. Trust threshold: high. Counter-surveillance: minimal to non-existent. Open, disarming, prone to disclosure under informal conditions.
His handwriting stayed tight.
2.5 million dollars would only come after you were dead. That would fund his makeshift crusade for years to come. It was important work he was doing, balancing the scales.
Dex paused, just for a second. Then he kept going.
Timeline: Saturday meeting. Entry granted without resistance. Physical proximity established quickly. Target displays—
His pen slowed to a stop. It hovered there, a warmth blooming in his chest. Dex frowned slightly, staring at the page like it had changed on him.
Then, almost absentmindedly, he wrote… she kissed me on the cheek, right on the scar.
The pen froze again.
That wasn’t— He exhaled, teeth clenching. —this wasn’t important.
But still, he crossed nothing out. He just moved on.
Target displays lowered threat perception in close proximity. Conversational drift toward—
His handwriting had changed. Not messy, just less rigid.
… her past. She smells like vanilla. not perfume. Most likely clean laundry and sugar from baking.
Dex blinked. He looked at the lines then at the rest of the page.
What the fuck.
He flipped to the next page like that would fix it.
Red wine is her favourite.
His grip on the pen tightened slightly.
He should stop. This wasn’t relevant. None of the last couple sentences was relevant. Dex leaned back slightly in his chair, staring at the notebook in his lap.
He had everything he needed. He didn’t need to write anything else.
Dex scoffed quietly under his breath. Had he gone soft?
Then, without really deciding to, he added one more line underneath it…
She laughed when she said “we’re so fucked up.”
He stared at it for a second longer than necessary. Then he snapped the notebook shut.
—
The restaurant for the fourth date was nicer than most places he even bothered to go to nowadays. But if this was going to be your last meal, he might as well make it memorable.
It had soft blue lights, a low hum of voices, the whoosh of knives behind the counter. Dex noticed all of it the second he stepped in, cataloguing angles and exits, the reflective panel behind the chef that gave him a partial view of the room without turning his head.
You need to kill her today.
He exhaled slowly through his nose and followed the host to the table.
When you sat down across from him, smiling like you hadn’t just walked straight into the middle of your own funeral, the room blurred at the edges for Dex.
“Hi,” you said with a smile
Kiss her.
He blinked once, forcing his brain back into place. “Hi.”
You tilted your head slightly, studying him like you always did, like you were trying to solve a puzzle with a missing piece. “You look like you’ve been here for a while.”
“I haven’t.”
“You definitely have.”
“Maybe five minutes.” That was a lie. He had been there for more than ten, cataloging what he could possibly use to finish the job.
You smiled, pleased. “Knew it.”
She’s faking it. She actually likes me. Kill her.
Dex picked up the menu just to give his hands something to do. “You’re late.”
“I’m two minutes late,” you corrected, leaning forward slightly to peek at what he was looking at instead of opening your own. “And I brought personality, so it cancels out.”
He huffed, hiding a smile. “That’s not how that works.”
“It is.” You insisted, tapping the menu. “Also, you picked sushi? I didn’t think you were a sushi person.”
“I’m not.” He immediately said.
You blinked. “Then why…”
“Seemed efficient.” What he meant was; it’s a nice meal. You deserve a nice meal for the last day of your life. It’s efficient for him, who had an array of ceramic and silverware to kill you with.
You stared at him for a second, then broke into a grin. “You picked it based on efficiency.”
“Yes.”
“That is the least romantic thing I’ve ever heard.”
Kiss her. Tell her she’s pretty.
He didn’t do either.
“You’re still here,” he pointed out instead.
“Yeah,” you said easily, settling back in your seat. “Because I actually like you.”
Liar. Kill her.
Somewhere between you stealing sushi off his plate and laughing at how aggressively he held chopsticks, you asked, almost casually, “You know anything about the ports here?” Dex paused slightly at that, eyes flicking up to yours over his glass.
The question should’ve put him more on edge than it did, but you just looked curious, relaxed, like this was normal conversation. “Not much,” he admitted after a second. “Fisk uses them to move things through there sometimes.”
You hummed thoughtfully, listening closely, and Dex found himself talking a little more than he probably should’ve just because you kept looking at him like that.
After a while, though, he managed to change the topic. Work was getting a little old. He found himself wanting to talk about you. “You always order too much.”
You lit up like he’d just handed you a piece of chocolate. “Oh, we’re judging now?”
“I’m observing.”
“Rude,” you said, already scanning the menu. “Also, it’s not too much, it’s strategic.”
“Strategic how?” He tilted his head, genuinely curious.
You shrugged, but there was a stillness underneath it. “You ever go hungry enough that your brain just… rewires? Like you don’t trust ‘enough’ anymore?”
Dex had never felt that way before. He wondered if you were indulgent because you had gone through missions with little food. Would you have gotten days without it, a week maybe? Your Buenos Aires mission was six days, your Lagos mission was seven days. Was it those missions?
How did you even survive?
She’s a widow. She’s a weapon. She’s a person.
“…Yeah,” he said anyway.
Your eyes flicked up to his, and recognition passed between you. “Yeah,” you echoed. Then you nudged the menu toward him. “So I’ll over-order. It’s fine. We deserve it.”
We’re so fucked up. Kill her. Kiss her.
He nodded once. “Okay.”
You spent the next ten minutes ordering together, leaning over the table, arguing quietly over rolls like it mattered.
“Okay, this one,” you said, pointing. “We’re getting this.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“It has too much…. whatever that is.”
“That is eel,” you squinted.
“Exactly,” he shrugged.
“It’s just eel,” you pointed out. “You’ve eaten weirder things.”
He paused. “That’s not the point.”
You grinned. “I have enough of an appetite for the both of us.”
Kill her. Kiss her.
“…Fine,” he said, pushing his intrusive thoughts away.
You beamed.
By the time the food arrived, the conversation had settled. You didn’t hold back when you ate, and you never did. You leaned forward, talking between bites, pointed things out like it mattered that he experienced them properly.
“Try this,” you said, holding your chopsticks out toward him without thinking.
Dex looked at it, then at you. You didn’t even realize what he was going to do to you.
Kiss her. Kill her.
He leaned forward and took the bite. Your eyes stayed on his face, waiting.
“It’s good,” he admitted.
“I know,” you said immediately, all too pleased with yourself.
He shook his head slightly.
She’s dangerous. She could kill you. Kill her first.
You wiped a bit of sauce off your thumb absentmindedly and kept talking. “We used to have this thing—training-wise—where they’d reward you with food if you hit certain targets.”
Dex’s attention shifted immediately.
There it is. Focus.
“Targets?” he repeated.
You winced slightly. “Okay, that sounded worse out loud.”
He didn’t respond.
You laughed, a little self-aware. “I mean—it was worse. But at the time it felt like a game, you know? Like ‘hit this, get that.’ Pavlov, but with putting bullets between your classmates' eyes.”
You popped another piece into your mouth like you hadn’t just said that.
She’s a monster. She’s a victim. She’s both. Kill her.
“Do you ever miss that?” he asked before he could stop himself.
You tilted your head, chuckling at the absurdity of the question. “The food or the brainwashing?”
“Either.”
You smiled faintly. “Sometimes I miss knowing exactly what I was supposed to be.”
That…. He understood.
Kill her. Ask her about OXE. Ask her about the DODC. Kiss her.
“Yeah,” he said quietly. “Me too.”
You didn’t make a big deal out of it. Instead, you just nudged his foot under the table. “Hey,” you said, lighter now. “At least now we get sushi instead of, like… boiled cabbage or whatever.”
His lips formed the ghost of a smile. “I didn’t get cabbage.”
“Oh, sorry,” you deadpanned. “Did your government program have better catering?”
“No.”
You grinned. “Then you get it.”
He did. He really, really did.
You started talking about stupid things again—bad takeout, a guy you saw trying to fight a pigeon, the way you animated everything just enough to make it feel real.
Dex found himself watching your mouth when you talked.
Kiss her. Kill her. She’s faking it. She actually likes me.
He picked up his chopsticks again, turning them slightly between his fingers. These would be a good weapon to finish you off. He had calculated the angle, trajectory, and distance. He could do it from across the table. It would be clean, straight through the throat.
You wouldn’t even—
You laughed suddenly, bright and unguarded, and it snapped the thought clean in half.
“Earth to Dex?”
He blinked, refocusing on the world around him.
You were looking at him like you’d caught his mind somewhere far away.
“What?” he said.
“You spaced out,” you said, narrowing your eyes slightly. “That was intense. Should I be concerned?”
Kill her. Kiss her. Tell her she’s pretty.
“No,” he said, coughing a little
You leaned forward slightly, studying him. “You do that a lot. Go somewhere else.”
He held your stare, feeling like an utter fucking coward. “I’m here,” he said. It came out quieter than he meant it to.
Your eyes softened. After that, you kept talking, and he kept listening, but the thoughts didn’t stop.
Kill her. She’s dangerous. She’s a Black Widow. She’s killed for corrupt governments. She’s taken down entire networks. She could kill you. Kill her. Kiss her.
He watched the way your fingers curled around your glass, the way you leaned closer when you got excited about a topic, the way your voice softened when you cared.
He imagined reaching across the table, but this time not to put a piece of cutlery through your windpipe.
Instead, he imagined reaching out with his hand, touching your wrist. He imagined pulling you closer, kissing you.
—
When the bill landed between you, Dex felt his chest pulled tight, like a thread being yanked too hard.
His hand moved first, grabbing it before you could even look properly. “I’ve got it,” he said, but it came out quieter than he meant, like the words had to push past thorns lodged in his throat. You started to protest, but he cut in, “I want to.”
That part slipped out, honest in a way he didn’t like. His fingers fumbled just slightly as he pulled his card out, a barely-there tremor that shouldn’t exist in a man like him, and he focused hard on the motion—insert, wait, sign—because that was simple, and that was something he understood.
Kill her.
He could do it after this. He would. After all, that was the plan. But when he glanced up, you were watching him. and it threw everything off balance in a way that made his chest feel too full.
His thoughts only sped up after that.
Kill her. She needs to go. She’s a monster. She’s a widow. She’s a fucking Black Widow. She could kill you. Kill her. She’s faking it. She’s dangerous.
He signed the receipt, but his grip was wrong. It was too tight, the paper crinkling under his thumb. When he set the pen down, his eyes betrayed him. They dropped to your mouth without permission.
It wasn't strategic. It wasn’t calculated. It was instinct, human and stupid all the same.
He imagined leaning forward instead of walking away, closing the distance instead of planning your doom, your lips against his instead of blood on his hands.
Focus.
His breath caught, and he looked away like that would fix it, like he could force himself back into the job he was supposed to do.
He needed to do it. Now. Outside.
He slipped a metal chopstick into his pocket.
But the idea of ending it before he knew what your lips taste like made him recoil.
Kiss her. Tell her she’s pretty. Kiss her. Kill her. She’s a bad person. She’s dangerous. She’s so fucking pretty. She actually likes you. Kiss her. Kill her. Focus.
He stood too quickly, the chair scraping harshly against the floor, and reached for his jacket like movement might help ground him. It didn’t. You stood too, close enough that your arm brushed his.
He could still do it but his eyes betrayed him again, flicking to your lips like he was starving for something he didn’t deserve.
The realization hit all at once: he didn’t want to kill you before he kissed you.
He needed that first. Just once.
“I’ll walk you home,” he said, and the words came out before he could stop them. You looked up at him, surprised. When you said “Okay,” it didn’t make anything easier. It just gave him more time to ruin himself, one step at a time, chasing something he shouldn’t want before he did what he came here to do.
Kiss her. Then kill her.
—
The street outside your building felt eerily quiet, like the world had thinned down to just the two of you and the glow of the lobby lights behind glass. The doorman had the day off, you mentioned. There were no footsteps. No interruptions.
Good. No witnesses.
Dex barely registered the thought this time. It flickered and passed, swallowed immediately by the thundering anxiety brewing in his mind.
Kill her.
“Hey,” you said. It was absurd, really, how shy you sounded.
He gulped. “Hey.”
His heart melted when a smile tugged at your mouth.
“I think,” you started, stepping just a little closer, your voice lowering like it was meant only for him, “you earned it.”
Dex didn’t get to ask what that meant, because you stepped in, closing that last inch of space like it meant nothing, and your lips met his…and everything in him just gave way.
His hand dropped from his pocket instantly, the weapon forgotten as his fingers caught your waist instead, pulling you closer like he was afraid you’d disappear. The kiss wasn’t gentle. It was only warm for half a second before it deepened, before he leaned into it with a careful urgency that didn’t belong to him.
Kiss her like you mean it.
When you pulled back slightly, just to breathe, just to smile that pleased smile that made your whole face light up, he followed. He actually chased your lips, closing the distance again before you could get far, like he couldn’t stand the idea of it ending already. His hand slid higher, thumb brushing your jaw, tilting your face just enough to kiss you again. It was slower this time but no less hungry, like he was trying to memorize it.
You tasted… fuck! Sweet.
His brain latched onto it immediately, irrational and completely useless: Strawberries and cream. Probably lip gloss, but it didn’t matter to Dex.
Kiss her like you fucking mean it.
He smiled into it. It felt wrong on him, but he couldn’t stop it, not when you leaned into him like that, not when your fingers curled into his jacket like you wanted him just as much.
Kill her.
The thought slammed back in hard enough to almost make him flinch. His hand paused at your side. He knew the metal chopstick was still in his pocket.
Do it now.
He could, theoretically. You were right there. You were more than close enough. More importantly, you were trusting enough.
One movement, and you would be dead. He would cradle your lifeless body in your arms and the last thing you would ever do was… kiss him.
“I’ll see you soon?” you asked hazily when you finally pulled back, your voice carrying the echo of the kiss.
Dex froze.
You were smiling at him. You were not suspicious or guarded. You were just… hopeful. And all he could think about was the way you’d kissed him. The way you’d let him.
Kill her.
His fingers curled in his pocket, brushing the metal again. He imagined it: a quick thrust, handled efficiently…
No. Not like that. I can’t kill her like that.
It was too slow, too messy. You’d bleed. You’d feel it. You’d die a slow, painful death…
She didn’t deserve that.
That was it. That was his excuse this time.
You deserved to die a quick, painless death. Maybe a shot in the back of the head when you weren’t looking. Just… bang!
His chest ached at the thought. He was still leaning toward you, like part of him hadn’t caught up yet, like he might kiss you again if you gave him half a second more.
“I—yeah,” he said, voice, rougher around the edges. “You will.”
You smiled like that was enough. Like he hadn’t just made a decision that should’ve gone the other way.
Dex stood there for a second longer than necessary, like he was trying to memorize you again. He thought about your mouth, your eyes. the way you were still a little flushed… Then he stepped back, because if he didn’t—
Kiss her.
He almost did.
Instead, he let you go. And when he got home, all he wrote in the notebook was:
She tastes like strawberries and cream.
—
The park on a Sunday felt too bright for what Dex had come to do.
Sunlight filtered through the trees in shifting patterns, the grass warm and uneven beneath the blanket he had brought.
It was your idea, “a picnic!” said so casually over the phone, like it was something people like you did, like it didn’t involve him sitting across from you with a gun tucked under his shirt, pressed against his side like a second heartbeat.
He’d decided before he even got there, that today, he was going to kill you.
It ends today. Kill her.
Then you showed up. And the world tilted for him.
You were wearing a sundress that moved with you when you walked. It wasn’t tactical, it wasn’t anything like the person he’d read about in that file. You looked… beautiful.
Kill her.
He swallowed it down. “You look…” he started, then stopped, like the word wouldn’t come out right.
You tilted your head, smiling. “What?”
His eyes dragged over you again before he could stop himself. “Nice,” he settled on.
It was insufficient. He knew it.
You laughed anyway, pleased, like you hadn’t just undone him.
Kill her. She’s dangerous. She’s a weapon.
He swallowed, hard, forcing himself to look away, to move, to do something before he stood there staring like an idiot. He dropped down onto the blanket he’d set up, hands already busy unpacking what he’d brought.
You noticed immediately. “You brought strawberries and cream?” You asked in disbelief.
Dex shrugged, like it wasn’t a big deal, like he hadn’t thought about it too much. “You like sweet things.”
You went quiet for a second. “I…” you started, “I do.”
He didn’t look at you. If he did, he’d…
Kiss her. Kill her. Focus.
You sat across from him, smoothing your dress under your legs, and that was so normal it made his chest ache.
For a while it was just conversation, the kind that didn’t feel like work. You started with small things, normal things. Then, maybe out of morbid curiosity, you asked him about Fisk, almost casually, like it was something you were only half-remembering. Dex hesitated before answering, more out of instinct than suspicion.
Red Hook came up next, and that made him pause longer, because it wasn’t the kind of thing people usually asked about in passing. Still, he gave you what he had, watching you the whole time for a reaction that never really came. You just nodded along like it made sense to be talking about it like this, and that made him talk more than he should have.
But how could he focus on any of that when his mind…
Shoot her in the head.
“I’ve never done this before,” you said after a moment, glancing around. “A picnic, I mean.”
That caught Dex off guard. “What?”
You huffed a small laugh, a little embarrassed. “Yeah. Not like this, anyway.” You picked at the edge of the blanket. “We used to pretend, though. In the Red Room.”
You said it so lightly. Like it wasn’t something that should gut him. “In the basement of the facility I was raised in,” you went on. “Some of the girls would lay out scraps of cloth, call it grass.” You smiled, but it was fragile. “We’d share whatever we could steal from the kitchen and pretend it was… nice.”
Dex stared at you.
Kill her. She’s a Black Widow. She’s killed people. She’s—
“You deserved better,” he said.
You looked up at him, surprised. Then you smiled. “Yeah,” you said, after a second of consideration. “I think so too.”
Make it quick, coward.
He grabbed a strawberry just to have something to do with his hands, dipped it into the cream, and held it out toward you. It was an imitation of what you had done with sushi the other night.
You chuckled, then leaned forward, taking it gently, your lips brushing his fingers just slightly.
Kiss her.
He watched you bite into it, watched the way your mouth curved, the way your eyes closed like you were enjoying it. Cream caught at the edge of your lips, but you didn’t notice. And that was it.
Kiss her. Indulge.
He leaned in because he couldn’t help it. He did it slowly, like he was giving you time to stop him.
You didn’t.
Your lips met his, and it was not rushed, not desperate like before. His hand came up to your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek as he tilted your face slightly, deepening it just enough to feel you respond, just enough to feel you lean into him.
You don’t deserve her. Kill her. Get it over with.
His chest tightened painfully as he pulled back, breathing uneven, forehead almost brushing yours.
You smiled at him, a little dazed, and he knew. He couldn’t do it here. Not like this.
He leaned back fully, dragging a hand through his hair, trying to put himself back together. “I don’t…” he started, then stopped.
You tilted your head. “What?”
He looked at you again, and felt his heart break in real time. “I don’t want to stay here,” he said.
You were now confused and a little unsure. “Did I do something wrong?”
“No,” he said immediately, more panicked than he meant to. “No. It’s not that.”
Kill her. Do it right.
He let out a deep breath. “Come back to mine,” he said.
Fucking coward. What are you waiting for? She’s a terrible person. She’s killed more people than you.
Your brows lifted slightly. “Your place?”
He nodded once.
If he did it there, it would be quiet. He would still make it quick and painless. And afterwards… he could mourn you in peace. He could hold your body as he cried into your neck. And maybe, some part of you would stay with him forever.
“Yeah,” he said, voice smaller now. “I just… want more time with you.”
That part wasn’t a lie.
You studied him for a second, then you smiled the same trusting smile. “Okay,” you said.
And just like that, you followed him home.
—
The walk should have been simple. It was a straight line, a familiar route, nothing Dex hadn’t done a hundred times before without thinking.
But inside his head, his thoughts were deafening.
Kill her.
It wasn’t a thought anymore. It was a command, pressing in from all sides until it felt like it might split him open from the inside.
Kill her. She’s dangerous. She’s lying. She’s done this before. You know what she is.
His jaw tightened, teeth grinding together as he kept walking, forcing his steps to stay even. You were beside him, close enough that your shoulder brushed his every few strides, like you hadn’t noticed the tension winding tighter and tighter in him.
Kill her. Do it before she does it first.
The words didn’t fade after they came anymore. They repeated, layered and stacked on top of each other until they stopped sounding like language and started sounding like pressure.
Kill her. Kill her. Kill her.
But then, another voice cut through.
Kiss her.
It didn’t argue. It pulled.
Kiss her again. Don’t let this end. She chose you. She’s still here.
His breath hitched slightly, chest tightening as the two sides collided, over and over, faster now, louder now, until there was no space between them.
Kill her. Kiss her. KILL HER. KISS HER.
It built and built, escalating into unbearable noise. They clawed and scraped and demanded all at once. His fingers twitched at his side, curling slightly like they were reaching for an answer, like his body was trying to decide for him.
One pull of the trigger. That’s all it would take, that’s—
Then, he felt your hand slip into his.
And for the first time in a long time, his brain was… quiet.
It wasn’t sudden. It wasn’t forceful. It was almost tentative at first, how your fingers trace his thumb lightly before settling into his palm like you’d done it a thousand times before. Like you hadn’t even considered that you shouldn’t.
Dex stopped breathing. His step faltered, just slightly, like his body didn’t quite know how to move without the noise driving it forward.
The commands that had been screaming seconds ago, the overlapping voices, the relentless pressure…they just ceased. As if you had reached inside his head and flipped a switch.
Dex stood there for half a second too long. His mind, which had been a constant storm of instruction and contradiction, felt… clear.
His fingers closed around yours slowly, almost cautiously, like he was afraid the moment would shatter.
You didn’t pull away. You didn’t even hesitate. You just… walked with him.
And the quiet stayed. Step after step, it stayed.
By the time you reached his building, a fact had already settled into place inside his chest. He didn’t have to argue with himself about it. There was no internal debate, no weighing of outcomes or consequences.
He just knew he wasn’t going to kill you anymore.
Not tonight. Not later. Not at all.
Good person be damned. Bad person be damned. Rent be fucking damned. Whatever fragile system he’d built to justify what he did, none of it held any weight here, not anymore.
He wasn’t looking for redemption, and he wasn’t chasing some shallow kind of bliss that killing you might give him. That had never really been the point, no matter how many times he told himself it was. He just wanted you.
And it was a primal, wild want.
He wanted your mouth on his again. He just wanted you to kiss him deeply and show him everything he’d missed, everything he’d never been given.
Dex slowed as he reached his door, keys already in his hand, but he didn’t unlock it right away. Instead, his eyes dropped briefly to where your fingers were still threaded with his. Then he looked at you. And there was nothing in his head telling him what to do anymore.
His thumb brushed lightly over your knuckles, a small, almost absent motion, before he finally unlocked the door. “Come in.”
—
His apartment was nothing like yours. In was just one open space, a bed pushed too close to the wall, a kitchen that barely separated itself from the rest of the room. No personality, no indulgence other than you.
You didn’t say anything, though. No teasing comment, no subtle comparison, just that same acceptance you always gave him, like this was enough. Like he was enough.
Dex barely gave you time to take it in. The second the door shut behind you, he lost any semblance of restraint.
His hand caught your waist and pulled you into him, his mouth crashing against yours with a kind of hunger that didn’t belong to a man who was ever in control. The kiss was messy, as if he was trying to take something he didn’t know how to ask for.
You gasped against him, your hands coming up to his chest, then his shoulders, leveling him and undoing him all at once.
He walked you backward without breaking contact. One step, then another, until the back of your knees hit the bed and you fell onto it with. He followed instantly, like space between you was unbearable.
His hands were everywhere, your neck, your sides, your thigh, like he needed to confirm you were real, that you were still here, that you hadn’t disappeared the second he let himself want you this much. And then you felt him shudder just a bit, shoulder shaking.
You pulled back just enough to look at him, your breath uneven, your hands coming up to his face, thumbs brushing his cheekbones.
“Dex?” you whispered, concern threading through everything. “What’s wrong? ”
“Nothing,” he insisted, almost defensive. “Nothing.”
But his eyes were glassy. He swallowed hard, like he was trying to force it down, trying to push it away before you could see it. After all, he didn’t know how to explain it.
How would he even begin to explain that you made his head quiet? That just being near you feels like something he’s never had before? That he doesn’t know what this is, but it’s too much and not enough at the same time?
“I’m fine,” he added, but it didn’t sound convincing. Not even to himself.
You said his name again, gentler this time.
And that was it. That was the last thing holding him together.
“I wanna taste you,” he said honestly, almost reverently.
You were caught slightly off guard. A small, breathy laugh escaped you. “You’ve kissed me before.”
But he shook his head, his big hands already frantically bunching the fabric of your sundress with an urgency that didn’t feel casual anymore. It felt like a need. Like an instinct he couldn’t hold back even if he tried. One hand gripped on your ass as the other hooked on the waistband of your panties, tugging it down desperately.
“No,” he said, voice deeper now. “I want to taste you.”
Oh.
Your breath hitched, but you didn’t stop him. You didn’t pull away. You let him move closer, let him guide you, let him fall on his knees like he was praying to a goddess in the altar of an ancient temple. You let him take that space between your legs as he wondered how much sweeter you could get.
Here, he could at least pretend that he hadn’t been thinking about killing you not that long ago.
Dex sank lower, slower now, like he was trying to learn you, not take from you. His hands steadied himself against your thighs, his forehead dipping for just a second like he needed to breathe you in. He felt… wrecked.
His breath hitched softly as he leaned closer, the space between your heat and him shrinking until there was almost nothing left and then—
click.
It was quiet, but unmistakably the sound of safety coming off.
Every instinct he had lit up at once, snapping back into place so violently it almost hurt. His body froze, breath catching.
He lifted his head slowly. And there you were, with a gun pointed at his head.
It was small, and easy to hide, the red room insignia etched to the side. You probably pulled from that little purse you always carried like it was just an accessory.
Of course.
Dex didn’t reach for anything. He didn’t flinch. He didn’t even try to put space between you. He just… looked at you.
And instead of anger, his chest folded in on itself. What he felt was closer to heartbreak than it was rage. Because for one stupid, moment he had naively believed you felt safe with him.
“…Oh,” he said softly.
The gun wasn’t the most horrifying part. It was the fact that even now, even with the metallic click of the safety still ringing in his ears, even with death staring him directly in the face, Dex could not stop looking at you.
You were sprawled beneath him on his bed, dress dragged up your thighs by his own hands, your breathing still uneven from the way he had kissed you seconds earlier. Your lips were swollen and puffy. Your chest rose and fell too quickly. One of your sandal straps hung loose around your ankle where he’d nearly pulled you apart getting you onto the mattress. And somehow… he still wanted you so badly it physically hurt.
How could he be this fucking stupid?
He should’ve known. Especially with questions about Red Hook. The ports. Fisk. That was why you kept asking.
Every little question over food and coffee and pastries. Every casual mention between laughter. Every moment he thought you were trying to know him better—
No. You were working. Just like him.
Your employer wanted information, and you had been sent to pull it out of him piece by piece while he sat there completely fucking mesmerized by you.
And now you had what they needed. Or maybe they realised he didn’t know enough to be valuable. That was worse, because it meant that he was just another loose end.
His stomach twisted hard enough to hurt. Not because you’d played him, because some pathetic, starving part of him had genuinely believed this had stopped being a job somewhere along the way. That maybe the way you kissed him outside your building had been real. That maybe when you held his hand and silenced every screaming voice in his head, it had meant something to you too.
Humiliating. Absolutely humiliating.
“I’m sorry,” you whispered.
It you had looked cold, detached, amused, even cruel, this would have been easier. He would have known where to put it. Would have known how to hate you properly. But you looked devastated.
Your hand trembled slightly around the weapon pointed at him, and your eyes kept betraying you, flicking down to his mouth before snapping back up again. You looked like you hated this.
“I…” You swallowed. “You’re not useful to OXE anymore.”
He had known something felt off. He just hadn’t cared enough to stop. He just wanted you more than he wanted to survive.
Dex let out a shaky breath that almost sounded like laughter. “Fuck,” he murmured softly, and you twitched, feeling his breath on your naked core.
You flinched immediately. “No. Don’t do that.”
His eyes flicked back to yours.
“Don’t act like this was just me manipulating you,” you said, and your voice cracked slightly now. “I know there was a contract on me. I know you got sent it. I know about the gun under your shirt. Don’t you dare pretend like you weren’t planning to kill me too.”
He opened his mouth, then closed it. Because what could he even say? You were right.
The notebook was sitting in his apartment right now, pages and pages documenting your routines, your apartment, your vulnerabilities.
He had memorized the ways to kill you before he ever memorized the sound of your laugh.
And all this time, you had let him follow you, let him think he was in control in that “accidental run in” in Central Park, when you were planning to eliminate him, too.
And somehow, the two of you still ended up tangled together on his bed, half-dressed and breathing hard from kissing each other like starving people.
Dex’s gaze dropped involuntarily to your thighs, to the skin exposed beneath the ruined hem of your dress. To the way your body was still open for him despite the gun in your hand.
Fuck.
His fingers tightened unconsciously where they still gripped the fabric pooled around your hips.
You looked vulnerable.
And the absolute worst fucking part was that he still wanted to bury himself between your legs so badly he could barely think straight. Even now. Even knowing this was the end.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
“You know what’s pathetic?” he asked quietly.
Your brows pulled together slightly.
Dex looked up at you from between your thighs, eyes dark and wet and unbearably earnest. “I still want to taste you.”
Your breath caught audibly.
“There’s a gun pointed at my head,” he whispered in disbelief. “and all I can think about is that I never got to know what you taste like.”
“Dex…” you breathed shakily.
But he shook his head immediately. “No, listen,” he said quickly. “I know what this is. I know what happens next.”
You looked away for half a second. That almost destroyed him, because he realized then that you didn’t actually want to kill him either. And that made him want you even more.
God, I’m so sick.
“I know you’re gonna kill me because it’s the job,” he continued. “Fine. I get it.” His eyes dropped again helplessly to the way your thighs trembled around him, then back up. “But Christ…” His voice cracked. “Just let me have this first.”
Dex looked humiliated and ruined all the same. And still completely sincere.
“I could die happy,” he admitted. “Just… let me taste you first, sweetheart.”
Your hand trembled. Not enough to miss, but just enough that Dex noticed.
The barrel of the gun was pressed against the center of his forehead now, cool metal against flushed skin, and still he didn’t move away from you.
“Do it, then,” you whispered.
You swallowed hard, trying to steady yourself, trying to force your hand not to shake while he knelt there between your thighs looking at you like this was the closest thing to worship he had ever known. Amazed that even like this, you were soaked for him.
“Fucking do it,” you said again, almost pleading now. “Before I…”
Before you what? Changed your mind? Cried? Dropped the gun?
Dex could see every possibility running through your brain all at once.
His hands slid down your thighs reverently. “You’re shaking,” he murmured quietly.
“So are you.”
That almost made him smile.
The apartment felt impossibly small around the two of you. The warm yellow light above the kitchen sink made you look divine, coupled by the sound of your uneven breathing. The mattress dipped beneath your weight every time you shifted. Dex tilted his head slightly against the gun like he was accepting his fate. Accepting you.
That should have terrified him. Instead, all he could think about was how beautiful you looked above him— dress ruined, eyes glossy with tears you clearly didn’t want him seeing.
He had wanted you from the beginning, even if he hadn’t admitted it. But this was something else entirely. This hurt.
Dex tilted his head just enough to press a slow kiss against the inside of your thigh, and the sound you made nearly destroyed him.
His eyes flicked up immediately, watching your reaction with awe. He couldn’t believe he was allowed to touch you like this. Like he couldn’t believe you were reacting to him this way.
Dex kissed higher, and your hand flew to his hair immediately, fingers tangling there hard enough to pull a rough sound from his throat in return. He moaned against you.
The vibration of it shot through you so suddenly your back arched off the mattress, breath breaking apart, embarrassingly needy.
Dex's eyes kept fluttering shut every time you touched his hair, every time your thighs trembled around him, every time another helpless sound escaped you. He looked less like a man in control and more like a vampire feeding on his first prey. It was overwhelming.
Every time you twitched or gasped or tried to pull away from how intense it felt, he noticed immediately. He adjusted immediately, making you feel good mattered more than breathing. Like your pleasure mattered more to him than the gun pressed to his skull.
And fuck, did his tongue feel so fucking good. You could barely think straight. The room blurred at the edges, your thoughts dissolving one by one. Every nerve in your body felt lit raw, burning hotter and hotter every time he moaned pathetically against you again like he couldn’t help himself.
Dex sounded addicted to you already. He was too consumed by you and the sounds you were making now. They were small broken noises you clearly hated letting out but couldn’t stop anymore. Too consumed by the way your body kept reacting stronger and stronger beneath him despite your obvious attempts to stay composed.
Your hands tightened helplessly in his hair as another wave hit you, harder this time, your thighs trembling violently around his shoulders. “Dex—” you gasped brokenly.
He looked up instantly at the sound of his name. His eyes were blown wide. His lips swollen from kissing your skin. Hair ruined beneath your fingers.
Then he sank back down, a man eating his last meal. He needed it to be a feast.
Too much. It was too much.
Your body tightened all at once, every nerve pulling taut as pleasure crashed through you so hard it hurt. A sob tore from your throat before you could stop it, your entire body shaking as you finally came apart beneath him. Dex held onto you through all of it.
Your fingers slipped from his hair eventually, weak now, trembling as you tried desperately to catch your breath. Tears blurred your vision completely by the time the waves finally started easing enough for you to think again.
Dex pulled back immediately the second he realized you were crying harder.
“Hey,” he whispered instantly, breathing unevenly as he came back up toward you. His hands slid shakily to your waist, then higher, like he didn’t know where to touch to make sure you were okay. “Hey— look at me.”
You were still trembling beneath him, chest heaving as you struggled to come down from the drug-like high of the orgasm he gave you, the barrel of your gun on his temple now.
His thumb brushed shakily beneath your eye, catching tears against the pad of his finger. “Did I hurt you?” he asked, like the idea genuinely horrified him.
“Fuck—no,” you sputtered immediately, breath still wrecked as you stared at him through blurred vision. “Dex, fuck! How could you even say that?”
The concern on his face was so raw it physically ached to look at.
You were still shaking, your body trembling, your thighs dripping with spit and arousal like neither of you knew how to stop this anymore.
You could trace every conversation backward now, see all the moments you carefully guided him toward the information you needed while he sat across from you like some fucking idiot who came to the conclusion you actually liked him. Except…
You had fallen utterly in love with him.
Somewhere between the pastries and the wine and him writing down your coffee order in that stupid little notebook of his, the job had become real. Somewhere between him kissing you and him looking at you like your body wasn’t shameful or weaponized or ruined… you had stopped wanting this to end.
And now here he was. Kneeling between your thighs with your gun to his head and your taste still on his mouth, looking at you like he’d die grateful if you asked him to.
It was as if, somewhere deep down, Benjamin Poindexter truly believed that if loving you ended in death, then maybe that was simply the closest thing he would ever get to being loved at all. That thought almost made you vomit from grief.
Your breathing broke unevenly as you stared down at him.
He still had one hand on your thigh, so fucking gentle.
“I don’t understand you,” you admitted shakily.
A sad smile ghosted across his mouth at that. He was exhausted. “I don’t either.”
You let out this awful sound halfway between a laugh and a sob as tears spilled harder down your face. “Fuck, Dex,” you choked out, “you were supposed to be a job.”
“So were you.”
You swallowed hard enough it hurt. “I should kill you,” you whispered suddenly. The sentence sounded wrong coming out now, like it was collapsing under its own weight before it even reached his ears.
Dex lowered his forehead slightly more firmly against the barrel of the gun, offering himself to you. He readjusted it, making sure that if you shot him now, it would be painless, like he was going to do to you.
“Do it,” he whispered. “It’s what you were sent to do.” He sounded like he genuinely believed his life was worth less than your mission.
Your vision blurred hard. “I can’t,” you whispered.
He exhaled through his nose. “Yes, you can.”
“No!” You shouted out, panicked. “Don’t fucking… don’t even try to make this easier!”
When your finger jerked against the trigger, Dex still wouldn’t move. Fuck, he really trusted you to end it quick, did he? Even with doom pressed cold against his skin.
Your eyes squeezed shut hard enough to ache. You tried to force yourself back into training, back into discipline, back into the little girl who would get extra pieces of scrap food if she finished her mission well enough.
But all you could feel was him. His mouth on your skin. The way he’d looked at you while you fell apart beneath him. The way he kept loving you despite knowing exactly what you were. “I’m gonna…” you whispered shakily, but you couldn’t finish the sentence.
You didn’t want to kill him. And that was the first truly selfish thing you had ever wanted.
You pulled the trigger anyway, and the gun went off.
The sound exploded through the apartment violently enough to shake the walls, but the bullet slammed into the floor behind him instead. You had missed a point blank shot intentionally.
Your hand dropped. You stared at the damage of the splintering wood, breathing hard, horror rushing through your body all at once like ice water. “Oh my god,” you choked.
Dex thought he was dead.
For one longs excruciating second. He truly thought you had killed him. When he realised he wasn’t, he said your name immediately, climbing up the bed toward you “Hey, look at me.”
You genuinely couldn’t. Your entire body started shaking harder now, all the adrenaline and terror and grief finally catching up at once. “I can’t fucking do this,” you sobbed. “I can’t… I can’t—”
Dex cradled your face in both hands immediately.
“I’m a monster,” you whispered brokenly. “Dex, I’m a fucking monster.”
Dex said nothing. He only leaned forward slowly and kissed the tears from your cheeks one by one, like guilt itself had become holy.
And suddenly you understood something terrible about him: He does not love cautiously, nor rationally.
Every ounce of affection he gave came directly from the part of him that had been hurt the most. His soul had been beaten bloody and kept reaching anyway. The heart is a muscle, and his had torn itself apart trying to hold both of you afloat.
“You don’t get to say that like you’re different from me,” he whimpered against your skin.
Your breath hitched and that was when he kissed you like he was trying to pour every shattered piece of himself into your mouth before the world took it away again.
When his mouth parted against yours, you could still taste yourself on him. That made it more devastating. This ruined, trembling man was still carrying evidence of your pleasure on his tongue while he kissed you like you were worth saving.
Dex made a small sound against your mouth when you started crying harder, and suddenly his hands were everywhere, trying to hold you together physically because he didn’t know how else to do it.
His forehead dropped against yours when he pulled away. “We’re both monsters,” he whispered.
But it didn’t sound cruel. It sounded heartbreakingly close to love.
pairing: brother's best friend!bucky barnes x f!reader, AU setting
summary: It doesn't matter that you're obsessed with your brother's best friend - the one you have had a very complicated relationship with since childhood. It doesn't matter that you fantasise about him, nor does it matter that you keep a diary of all your dirty thoughts because he will never, ever know.
warnings: 18+ mdni!!, smut with minor plot, childhood frenemies to lovers, fingering, unprotected p in v, dumbification, creampie, dacryphilia, mean bucky, size kink, brat taming, bigdick!bucky, tummy bulge, general filth and debauchery, jealousy, use of petnames (sweetheart, baby, angel etc.), reader described having hair bucky can twirl and as being smaller than bucky, no use of y/n, lots of cursing, bucky convinces reader to let him hit it raw (idk if that's a warning lol), moodboard pics do not depict reader
word count: 11.1k
a/n: idk if this is deranged in a hot way or just deranged but i hope you enjoy lmao. bucky is very mean in this and invades reader's privacy so stay away if that's not your thing!!
The abrasive, thrumming buzz of the lawnmower lets you know he’s back. You stop tapping on your phone, pausing for just a moment while you try to resist the urge. You fail. You pull up to your knees and peer out the window beside your bed.
Bucky is in your back garden, driving forward the shabby rusted lawnmower that lives in your shed. The one that has likely never been used by anyone but him. He’s not shirtless like he sometimes is - he’s in a black t-shirt - but you swear you can make out the muscles of his strong back even from this distance. The way they clench and tense with mild exertion. A heat settles low and deep in your stomach.
He’s waving before you realise you’ve been caught. You roll your eyes - exaggerate it a bit so you know he can see - and slump down on your bed again when he gives you a slanted smile.
The air around you feels damp and raw now in a way that has very little to do with the early summer heat. You force yourself onto your stomach and stuff your face into your pillow.
You can’t keep doing this to yourself.
Or, rather, he can’t keep doing this to you. However excruciating his presence is when your family is around, it’s so much worse when they’re not.
Most of the time you want to throttle him. It had been that way since you were kids. You can still feel the grovelling embarrassment of being somewhere close to ten years old and begging him and your brother to let you tag along with them to do something stupid like peeking through the dirt-grimed windows of a neighbour’s house or sneaking into a derelict, moss-eaten hotel until someone called the cops. In defiance of all stereotypes, your brother never had a problem with it. He has doted on you since you were in the cradle.
Bucky, though. He was never receptive to it. He would let you make your case, watching you humble yourself with calculating, amused eyes that looked slightly wrong on a boy of only twelve years. You can still remember how he would make a big show of deliberating, before simply handing out a ‘no’, and moving away. Your brother would shoot you a remorseful grin but always followed after him without hesitation.
On the rare occasions he did let you trail after them, he made you regret it. He would poke and prod at you, pulling lightly at your hair or making fun of you until big, fat, brutally-resisted tears would well up in your eyes. Oh, you remember how much he used to enjoy that - the mean smile he wore while he called you a crybaby. It always ended with your brother sternly telling him to lay off, before walking you home.
Your parents refused to hear a bad word about him. They still won’t.
You’re not really sure what is up with Bucky’s family and his home life. You just know that he had always spent more time at your house than his own. Once summer rolled around, it was like he forgot he even had a house of his own to begin with.
Your parents treat him less like a guest and more like a favourite son. The guest bedroom became Bucky’s room when you were eleven. When he tinkers around and puts together your mom’s overly-complicated coffee machine or fixes the hot water or - the very worst - mows the lawn, your parents treat him like a king. They rave in public and private about how they don’t know what they would do without him. When you had tried to tattle as a kid, the most you would get was a patient rub on the back.
It was a push and pull between the two of you. Always had been. Bucky was either acting bothered at your presence, poking and prodding at you cruelly - or irritating you with his own presence and annoying taunts.
And all of that was annoying. Is annoying. But nothing compares to that feeling. The one you’re experiencing right now.
It started when you were pushing sixteen. You had stopped asking to tag along a few years ago but that summer was different. Bucky was told by your brother, firmly and categorically, that you would be hanging out with them whether he liked it or not. He stared at you with odd fixity but made no protests and suddenly you were part of the friend group. Your brother had a crush on your best friend Wanda, who was also hanging around a lot that summer. That played into it. But you took it as a win regardless.
You spent most of your time that summer hanging out in a clearing in the woods by your house. There was nothing else to do and even if there was, you had no money to do it. Most of the details of the day itself now evade you - they’re blurry around the edges. There was a new addition to the group whose name you cannot now remember. A persistent, uncomfortable pass made for you. Your brother distracted by Wanda. A few coarse comments made, before the new guy began to touch.
What you do remember - what you well and truly cannot forget - is what happened after that touch. The way Bucky propelled up from where he sat on tree branches and lichen. How he grabbed the collar of What’s-his-name and flung him to the ground with one heavy, solid punch. The silence afterwards. The crawling shameful pang of excitement in your gut.
You never looked at him the same.
It’s not for lack of trying.
God - you try. You try so hard. You have tried for so many years. But every fling you had in college ended up wearing his face when you closed your eyes.
Thoughts of him run through your mind while you fill your pillow up with gasps. You’re sure that if you wrung out the fabric or pressed down hard, those sighs would have to spill back out, surround the room with breathless cries of his name.
But you have graduated now. You’re back home until you find a full-time job and this childhood crush will no longer do. It’s remarkably inconvenient, the way your knees go weak and wobbly when he walks in the room, even while you paint a snarl on. The way a hot, sticky warmth begins to flood the space between your thighs when you watch him work like he is today.
And you’ve tried everything there is to try. You’ve tried dating other people - it usually ends sour. You made a trip or two to the counsellor on campus. You had even left stop-sign stickers around your dorm room as a reminder to snap out of it when you are thinking about him.
At Wanda’s recommendation, you have started a diary. Every time you think about him or let yourself get stupidly, fantastically turned on by him, you create a new entry. Not all of the entries are about him - some are flimsy little notes to distract yourself - but they all lead back to him one way or another. Once the book is full, you will burn it. You started it just before you left campus three weeks ago and the book is almost half-way full.
You know it’s a stupid idea. It won’t work, which is why you have already sought out a witch on Etsy for when this fails.
The deep, low tingle at the bottom of your stomach hasn’t ceased, because even while deep in thought, the image of Bucky’s strong back and his bold, lopsided smile are still running behind your eyes. You become suddenly aware that you’re lightly sweating. Your underwear is warm and damp.
You glance over at your diary on your bedside table - most recent entry late last night, courtesy of your traitorous imagination. You sigh and pick it up.
Bucky sees you in the window to your bedroom. You’re just a little floating head above the window sill. He can’t make out an expression very clearly. He waves and forces back a laugh when he sees your bratty eye-roll, the way you flop away dramatically.
You’re back home. For the summer, at least. Until all those fancy graduate jobs in New York or Boston or Philly start opening up.
He doesn’t need to be here, if he’s being honest. Has no reason to be. The lawn has no need for mowing and there’s not a damned thing left in the house to be fixed. His own apartment isn’t exactly a paradise, but it’s not bad either.
You won’t be here forever, though. He’ll take what he can get in the meantime.
He likes how it feels to annoy you without a buffer. With no parents to be on his best behaviour in front of, no brother to shoot him warning glances when he pokes too hard.
He regresses slightly every time he floats back into your orbit. Falls out of adulthood and back into the familiar rhythm. The push and pull.
His childhood crush has matured into something deeper, but his actions haven’t. He still tugs your pigtails in a metaphorical sense. It’s much too late to get you to see him as anything but an annoying, big brother-type figure now, but he can deal with that. He likes watching you get riled up, anyway.
You regress around him too. He takes great satisfaction in that. You walk into the house after months of being away, haughty and put-together, like you had finally done all your growing up in college. A few grating words from him can make you twitch a little bit while you fight the urge to snap, irritation spilling through the cracks. And you eventually do crack. All the way. Every single time.
He mows until the short tufts of grass turn to clippings. He spares no blade, weed or flower and thinks about you, lying up on your bed. Probably doing something dumb. Probably scrolling on your phone or flipping through some magazine. He remembers when you were thirteen and he found that stash of teen-pop magazines in your room, the pages with boyband members dog-eared, hearts circled around their pictures. He smiles, thinking about the way you screamed when you caught him red-handed. How you told him to “stop being such a pain in my ass”, pushing him out your bedroom door and slamming it shut behind him while he laughed. You were sulky at dinner afterwards.
He rolls the mower back into the shed, ties the padlock and tugs at it twice before walking into the house through the sliding glass doors.
He’s sweating lightly. He takes a quick swallow of water from the glass on the counter - whether it’s yours or his, he can’t remember - and licks a few beads of moisture from his upper lip. He feels good.
He flops down on the couch, puts on some show indiscriminately and wonders what you’re doing right now. He wonders if you’re on the phone with your college friends. Or with that Matt guy he had heard about through the grapevine. He wonders if you’re wearing the same tight shorts you had on yesterday.
He considers going upstairs to annoy you but thinks better of it. He will wait a while to see if you come downstairs on your own.
He imagines Matt as some football player. He can’t picture a face - just some obscure blur - but he’s probably handsome. Definitely blonde. Social butterfly. Good grades. He can’t see you going for someone without good grades.
Bucky’s grades were never great, but you were such a little swot. He used to sit alongside you while you did your homework. When you would tell him to get lost, he would shoot back that he had homework to do too. It’s probably the only reason he graduated high school.
Matt is probably biding his time right now until you both have steady jobs so he can propose. He’s probably boring as shit. Fucks you missionary for thirty seconds before rolling over onto his back. He probably asks you whether you came afterwards, and you probably talk to your stupid college friends about how much he cares and how respected you feel.
But that’s a dangerous avenue to walk down. Because now he’s thinking about how you would look afterwards, naked and unsatisfied. Would you ever think about shooting him a text when Matt drifts off to sleep after getting his rocks off? See if he could sort you out any better than your boring fuck of a boyfriend?
Obviously not. But it’s a nice thought.
You probably don’t do any of the things that Bucky would want to do with you - and definitely not with Missionary Matt. You’re too fucking prissy. No way in hell are you letting anyone take you the way Bucky wants to.
He doesn’t even understand why his brain has chosen you of all people to be the star of every daydream he has had since he was old enough to know what a crush was. You’re arrogant and spoiled and you think that just because you attract men like flies to shit that you can bat your eyes and get whatever you want. (You absolutely can. Bucky has tried to be the one exception to that rule, but he’s also just a man.)
Unfortunately, he knows all of this and still desires you desperately. And the want that pours out of him in waves isn’t strictly sexual - in fact, it’s mostly something else - but he’s not sure how to define it. He likes you, except ’like’ doesn’t seem strong enough to cover all he feels. So it’s easier to focus on the sex. Maybe that way he can convince himself it’s all he wants.
He has run out of patience. You still haven’t come downstairs and he can only deny himself for so long.
He takes the stairs two-at-a-time, but paces himself so you don’t hear his footsteps and think he’s eager. Your bedroom is at the very end of the hall. When he approaches your white door - still adorned with stickers and tags from every phase you ever went through - he thinks about knocking. He doesn’t.
He can’t remember the last time that he was in your room, but it is exactly as it always was. Pink wallpaper. A white desk in the corner armed with perfectly positioned sticky notes and neat, alphabetised folders. Stuffed animals perched in a line atop your bed like marching soldiers. Posters on the walls from films you thought made you seem edgy when you were fifteen, in direct opposition to the frilly pink decor of the room.
The only thing missing is you, but he can hear the shower going in your ensuite.
He goes to sit down on your bed and focuses deeply on not getting a hard-on while he watches the bathroom door. But he lands on something solid.
Reaching underneath his thigh, he picks up a little pink notebook, turns it over in his hands. More little stickers plastered to the front, hearts scribbled onto it with a pink gel pen. He knows instantaneously that he has gold dust in his goddamn hands. He expects to feel at least a little guilt or shame for what he is about to do and is mildly surprised to find he doesn’t.
This is your diary.
The first entry is from three weeks ago.
22 May
I just broke up with Matt. It was awful. He kept asking me why. I had to say that I didn’t want to live in Boston like him. He said he would find a different internship and we could go to New York instead, and then I really had no idea what to say. It’s not like I could tell him the real reason. He cried. I’m just glad it’s over.
I think I should feel at least a little bit sad about it, but I don’t. I’m just relieved and feeling awkward. I don’t think I could let him fuck me one more time without going out of my mind. This really is a curse. I hope he moves on quickly. I think Suzy is into him.
Bucky can’t help the stupid grin that breaks out across his face. Looks like Missionary Matt was too boring, even for prim little you. No engagement on the horizon after all. He shifts around slightly on the bed in the guest bedroom and tries not think about what might have been so lacking in the bedroom with Matt for you.
23 May
My family are ditching me. They’re all heading off to the south of France for three weeks, but I won’t be home from college early enough. They fucking suck. I wonder if Bucky will still be hanging around. Three weeks of torture incoming.
He laughs, loud and long, at that. What a spoiled little brat. Still, it’s kind of cute.
Bucky was asked to join your family on their holiday and declined. Partially because he still, after all this time, doesn’t quite believe them when they say it’s not a bother. But it was mostly because of a selfish hankering to be able to hang out with you alone. To not have to check himself when his gaze lingers a little too long or when he presses you a bit too hard to be able to convincingly feign disinterest. He reads on.
23 May
Now that I have thought about it, I can’t stop. Bucky is going to be hanging around the house. He always hangs around the house, even when nobody else is there. Dad said he’s going to help him with building a new shed outside. I wonder if he will be doing that while they’re gone. I remember that one time he helped Dad with that old vintage car he bought on a whim. I could see him from my window. He was shirtless and working under the car from a skateboard like something out of a goddamn porno. I think I’ll die if I have to see him do something like that again.
Bucky’s grin is frozen on his face, skin heating up around his bones. The shed would be a good excuse to stick around now that he’s done everything else - he had forgotten about that.
He wasn’t aware you had been watching him fix up that car from your window. That must have been, what - two? three? - years ago. Old Pontiac runs like new now. His eyes catch on the word ‘porno’, scribbled in your pink, curly writing. He thinks about you watching him from above.
24 May
I might be going insane. I shouldn’t have let myself think of the visual of Bucky under that stupid car last night. I think it’s a good thing I dumped Matt. I would have let him fuck me and felt so guilty afterwards for imagining someone else. I handled it myself but I woke up feeling just as riled up. My fingers aren’t big enough. Maybe I should buy a dildo or something. Bucky’s fingers are huge. One time he put his hand over my mouth because he said I was whining too much and it covered more than half of my face.
The blood rushes to his cock so fast it leaves him lightheaded. He has to read the entry twice to make sure he didn’t black out and invent something out of wishful thinking.
25 May
This stupid diary isn’t doing shit. It’s making it worse. Every time I write something down, it just makes me think about it more. I spent all of yesterday thinking about Bucky’s stupid fingers. I hate him so much. I want him to bend me over something and fuck me until I’m an inch from passing out. Maybe that’s all I need to get this out of my system.
26 May
Today I thought about that time last summer when we were at the bonfire and I made out with that guy in the Bulls jersey and snapback. I forget his name.
Bucky looked so angry. I think that’s why I did it. I think I wished he was jealous, even though I know he was just pretending he’s my fucking brother or something. It made me think of that time he punched that other guy in the clearing in the woods just for touching me. I forget that guy’s name too.
Bucky hasn’t forgotten either of their names. The bonehead from the bonfire was Jon and the asshole from the woods was Robby. And he was jealous. He was so fucking jealous. His dick is hard as a rock in his jeans, head spinning.
28 May
Yesterday was ok. I kept myself busy. Today has been terrible. Mom sent me a group picture of everyone eating dinner out in the back garden and Bucky was wearing a tight, white t-shirt. He looked so big, even bigger than when I last saw him. I just kept wondering if his cock would be big too. I zoomed in and took a screenshot like some fucking pervert. I got myself off so many times and I still feel like I haven’t gotten it out of my system. I literally fingered myself until my sheets were-
“Fuck,” he grunts, strained even to his own ears. His eyes squeeze shut and his dick throbs violently at the idea of your little fingers pushing themselves into your pussy at the thought of him. He’s not sure how much more of this he can read before jizzing in his pants like some kind of virgin.
Who knew? Who fucking knew? His stuck-up little priss isn’t so prissy after all. He’s a bit dizzy with want and some other unidentifiable sensation. Something warm and gooey in his chest.
He almost likes how ashamed you are of it. It makes it that much more satisfying - like he’s won some game that he didn’t even know he was playing. He’s dimly aware of the fact that he lost the very same game himself, but he ignores it.
You would be so embarrassed to find out he is reading this. You would yell and scream and throw shit around the room in a tantrum like a toddler. You might never speak to him again. Even so, he can’t help himself but flick over the pages to the most recent entry. It feels like a spoiler to a book he hasn’t finished.
14 June
He came around with the lawnmower again. It’s getting harder every day not to get myself off to the thought of him-
He clearly missed that part. He wonders how long ago you made that resolution. He will find out soon enough.
-when he looks that good. I could literally see the fucking muscles in his back through his t-shirt and it was black. I’m so fucking wet. I’m going to have a long, cold shower and tonight I’ll cum to the thought of someone else. Literally anyone else.
Then and there, Bucky decides that won’t be happening.
You feel better after your laborious shower but only for a matter of minutes. You walk into your room wrapped in your bathrobe and notice that you can no longer hear the lawnmower. Bucky must have finished the job. He’s probably in the shower now, washing off the pollen and sweat.
And that does it. You sigh at the stickiness forming between your legs and reach over to your bedside table for your diary.
Except it’s not there.
You open and close the small drawer underneath. Ruffle around in your sheets and pick up your stuffed animals one-by-one to look make sure they’re not sitting on it. Eventually you get up and remove the duvet from the mattress, pull the bed frame away from the wall, crawl to the floor. You even go to the bathroom to make sure you didn’t carry it in with you. It’s not there. It’s not anywhere.
You must have left it lying out somewhere outside. Your stomach lurches into your throat. Except that’s not possible, because your last entry was written right here on this bed just before you went in for your shower. You had left your room to get a towel and steal some of your mother’s hair stuff - maybe you had inadvertently carried it out with you. You had been severely distracted.
You dress as quickly as you can physically manage, ignoring the way your wet hair is soaking through your cotton sweatshirt, but when you leave your room your footsteps are hesitant and careful. The idea of Bucky picking up your diary somewhere and deciding to give it a browse sends a cold sweat of terror up the knobs of your spine. Oh god, don’t let him find it. Please don’t let him find it.
You tear the linen closet apart. You even pick up the piles of towels that you know you didn’t touch and shake them out. Nothing. You fold them in a way that would make your mother wince and put them back.
Your parents’ room wields no results either. You run your fingers over the wooden bannister faintly while you walk down the stairs. Bucky isn’t there - thankfully - but neither is your diary. You hadn’t even come downstairs between writing your last entry and going for your shower. That, you’re absolutely certain of. But you’re running out of options.
You have one room left to check, but you will have to play your cards carefully. One wrong move, a bit too much information, and you could find yourself on the receiving end of questions that you would really prefer not to be asked. Or of a bit too much curiosity for your liking.
Your fingers linger over the wood of Bucky’s bedroom door for a whole minute before you can bring yourself to commit to a small, tentative knock. Bucky grunts on the other side and it’s untranslatable but you take it to be an in invite.
He’s lounging on his bed, one ankle hooked over the other, head reclined back to rest lazily on the headboard. He doesn’t move his bored gaze from the television, where some reality television documentary about the daily lives of zoo veterinarians is playing. You’re distracted by it momentarily. You didn’t think this would be his sort of thing.
“What’s up?” he asks you, still not looking your way. He didn’t shower. He’s still sweaty and tense, the smell of grass sticking to his clothes and skin. You try not to look.
“Just saying hi,” you say, shifting feet. You look at the door for a brief moment before deciding to close it awkwardly behind you.
He looks at you then, one eyebrow and one side of his lip quirking upwards in tandem. “Just saying hi.”
You nod. His smile breaks free then, but it’s not altogether a nice one. “Well, hi,” he says.
“Hi,” you mumble back. You continue to look at each other while you fidget, stepping forward cautiously until your knees hit his bed. You look at him expectantly and he rolls his eyes before moving his own legs so you can sit.
“What’s got you all buggy?” he asks sardonically, giving you a light tap on the side with his foot. He’s not wearing his boots anymore, but some grass still rubs off on you somehow. You rub your side and shoot him a look as if it hurt, even though it didn’t.
“I’m not buggy.”
“Yeah y’are. You got bugs.”
“You got bugs,” you snap. “I’m perfectly fine.”
He laughs. “Alright, you don’t got bugs. I have bugs ‘cause I was out there mowing all day. Now what do you want?”
Your stomach gives an odd jerking motion at the memory of him out there mowing the lawn. You try to keep any guilt from showing on your face. “Maybe I just wanna talk to you.”
“Oh yeah?” He doesn’t seem convinced. You nod.
“Yeah,” you say, picking at a loose thread his bedsheet. “So what have you been up to?”
“Sweetheart, what’s goin’ on?” he chuckles, turning slightly on his side so he can see you. “You know what I’ve been up to. You saw me out there.”
“Duh,” you say. You roll your eyes again and you can feel him laugh more than you can hear it - the minute little vibration through the sheets. His skin is inches away from yours. If you reached out just a little bit, you could touch his hand.
“Duuuhhh,” he mimics you with an exaggerated Valley-girl drawl. “Why’d you ask then, smartass?”
“I meant, like, after that.”
“After I finished the lawn?”
You nod. You are so desperately bad at this.
“Not much. Watched this,” he says, pointing at the TV. He gets distracted by something there and begins to watch it again. “Did a bit of light reading. What about you?”
Your heart is moving up in a slow but steady elevator to the base of your neck. “I’ve been in the shower,” you say casually. “What are you reading?”
“Long shower,” he says.
“Well it was an everything-shower,” you say defensively, forgetting yourself for a moment.
“The hell is an everything shower?”
“Don’t be dense. It’s literally in the name. It’s called an everything shower because you do everything in the shower.”
His gaze flies back to you then, dark and questioning, eyebrows raised slightly. It takes for his lip to twitch into a small smile before you come to your senses.
“A-as in,” you stammer. “You do all your self-care stuff. Like shaving and exfoliating and hair masks. That kind of everything.”
His smile widens and he nods, half sarcastically. “Right. That kind of everything.”
Your face heats up. There’s a brief pause.
“So what are you reading at the mo-”
“Y’know I think you’d like this,” he says, pointing over to the TV again. You glance over distractedly. A giraffe is giving birth standing up. You can’t help the way your nose twitches slightly as you take in all the blood and goo onscreen.
“Why is that?” you ask.
“There’s this one girl who cries every time an animal dies. She’s been working there five years and she still cries every time. She’s like you.”
“I’m not like that.”
“Yes you are,” he laughs and the sound travels through you. “Remember that one time you cried because your dad asked me to catch and kill that mouse?”
You do. He had been strangely nice about the whole thing. He made a makeshift humane trap and brought it to the old railway line a few miles away instead.
“I was sixteen-”
“And if you’re tryna tell me you wouldn't react the same way right now, I say you’re full of shit.”
You look at him resentfully. “Like you’re any tougher. You’re the one who saved him.”
“Well you know I can’t help but give you what you want once the waterworks start. You’re a pretty crier, sweetheart.”
You just look at him, feeling a bit dazed and uncomprehending. Saliva floods your mouth and you’re forced to swallow. He just glances over at you for the smallest of instances. You like the handsome, self-satisfied smile he gives himself before turning back to his programme, even though it’s at your expense. You know instinctively that you’ll be failing at your new resolution tonight.
“Shut up. Don’t be weird,” you say, because you can think of nothing else. He huffs with humour and there’s something in his expression that you don’t like.
“So you said you were reading something?” you say. You’re aiming for a casual tone but you think you might be overselling it.
“Mhm,” he says, nodding once. The programme can’t be that interesting, but he seems absorbed in it.
“I didn’t think you liked reading.”
“I have a newfound appreciation for it.” He smiles at the screen and maybe you’re feeling a little jealous. You snatch the remote out of his hands, careful not to let your fingers brush, and blackness eats the image of a family of monkeys. His eyes snap to you with amused surprise.
“What are you reading?”
Your heart is pumping while Bucky appraises you for a second, eyes sliding their way around your flustered face. He licks his bottom lip slowly before sucking it into his mouth. He speaks low.
“Don’t worry about it. ’S’too dirty for you, sweetheart.”
You really fucking hope that doesn’t mean what you think it does. He has the book. Oh dear god, don’t let him have the book.
Your voice comes out weak and fractured. “Are you… reading smut?”
He laughs again, face lit up. Eyes still on you. “That what you call it? Sure. Something like that, at least.”
“Bucky,” you say, voice no more than a horrified whisper. There’s a brutal heat curling in your gut - embarrassment and something else. “What are you reading? Please.”
He looks at you for just a second longer before reaching under the blanket beside him. His hand reaches out again, fingers curled around a book that looks incredibly small in his large palm.
You blink at it for just a second, as if concentrating hard enough might make it disappear. Please make it disappear. Please make it nothing at all.
But then you’re rolling forward, hardly aware of what you’re doing until your back is bowed, a low, despairing groan escaping you while your limbs slip away from you. Eventually you’re played across the bottom of the bed, face firmly pressed to the soft memory foam. If you stay here long enough, your face might imprint itself there. A garbled, monotonous litany is spilling from your lips. You’re not even sure what you’re saying.
Your stomach is going haywire. Bucky is laughing like you knew he would - you fucking knew he would be an asshole about this - and you would go running from the room if it didn’t mean that you would have to move your face from the bed and look at him.
You suppose it’s better that he’s laughing than looking at you with the raw kind of disgust that you had pictured whenever you imagined him finding out about your feelings towards him. Maybe it means that you two can go back to normal at some point, even if the humiliation raging through your body begs to differ.
“Don’t be such a baby,” Bucky says and you hate him. Your face pops up to look at his. Still amused. Still wicked and gleeful.
“Where did you get that?” you bark.
“Your room,” he says, as if it should be obvious. “Interesting read. You should be a writer with that vivid imagination. What did you call it, smut?”
“Fuck you!” you screech, and Bucky physically recoils at the loud noise, irritation crawling onto his features for the first time in this interaction. “You had no right to go into my room and invade my privacy. What the hell is wrong with you? You are such a piece of shit!”
Bucky rolls his eyes while you make your way up the bed and take a swing for his chest. He catches your wrists in time and your traitorous body pauses at the touch.
“Like I said,” he says sternly. “Don’t be such a baby. You need me to help you get this out of your system? What was it you said again? Bend you over and fuck you until you’re an inch from passing out?”
You give one last valiant jerk to break free, but he has a death grip with seemingly minimal effort. You go still while the fight leaves you. Hot humiliation and more than a little arousal course through you.
“Fuck you,” you say again with considerably less vitriol.
“I will,” he says, eyes locked on yours punishingly. “If that’s what you want.”
Your breath stutters, heat rising up the length of your face. You’re not sure if he’s messing with you, but the words are having the intended effect regardless. Your thighs press together gently to alleviate some of the pressure that his words and his eye-contact are creating. His eyes flicker down quickly, following the movement, before moving back up to meet your own gaze.
“Got nothing to say now? That’s ok, baby. I saw enough in that little book. Let’s look.”
He lets go of your wrists and you immediately lurch forward to grasp the diary, but he gets there first. He opens it at a random page.
“I came home from college today,” he starts to read, voice low. “Everyone else was gone, but Bucky was here. I don’t know how it’s possible but he’s so much hotter since I last saw him. He wears a bit of stubble now and his muscles were almost bursting out of his t-shirt. We bickered a little bit in the evening, but the whole time I was just wondering what he’s like in bed. I don’t think he would be sweet and soft all the time, like Matt. Maybe sometimes but I think he would be so mean and rough most of the time. He seems like he knows how to make a girl cum.”
He looks up at you. You feel tears prickle behind your eyes, shame steamrolling through you. You reach for the book again but he moves it out of your reach effortlessly.
“You’re goddamn right I do,” he says, smiling as if he’s talking about something totally innocent. “You want me to show you, sweetheart?”
Your brain is scrambled and the only thing escaping your lips is a garbled mess of vowels. You’re still suspicious. It wouldn’t be entirely unlike him to get you to admit to this and then pull the rug out from under you a moment later.
He huffs an impatient sigh. “Don’t go dumb on me already, silly girl.”
He flicks to another page in the book, smiles, and finally hands it over to you. You take it uncertainly.
“Why don’t you read that for me? Out loud. Jog your memory a bit.”
You’re not sure what you’re doing, but at this point it’s easier to follow instructions than to figure out what to do yourself. You look down, take another hesitant glance at an encouraging Bucky and begin to read with a sheepish, shameful tone. Your face is burning.
“I want him so bad. I think I’ll die if I don’t have him. The orgasms I’m giving myself aren’t enough. I need him to fuck me, even just one time. I’ll never ask for anything else again in my life if I can get his cock inside me just once. I’m going so deranged, I actually pictured him choking me yesterday with those huge hands and it made me cum so hard.”
Your own words have done a number on you. You are stupidly, ridiculously turned on by his eyes on you and your own words echoing around the room. You raise your eyes slowly and sheepishly to meet his and the look on his face is nothing short of starving.
“Fuck it,” he breathes, pulling you forward and into a kiss.
Your unsuspecting mouth meets his with short, stabbing gasps. His right arm moves to the back of your neck, pulling you against him firmly, while the prosthetic arm pulls you onto his lap. His lips move against yours and the only word to describe it is filthy. His lips are still wet from licking them and his tongue is sliding over yours delicately but expertly.
You’re in a state of euphoria. Part of you always wondered whether you had played this up too much in your head. You wondered - if you were given the chance to finally touch him like this, whether it might be a bit disappointing after all you had imagined.
If possible, it might be the opposite. Your body is shaking with adrenaline. Without thinking too much about it, you grind down on his lap and feel his hard length through his jeans. A bolt shoots up your spine. Has he been hard this whole time?
He grunts at the friction, calloused fingers tightening their hold on you. His hand glides slowly down from your neck, through the valley of your breasts and over your stomach, playing with the waistband of your cotton shorts. You’re already so riled up, it makes you press down on him again, clutching at his shoulders as if you could possibly pull him any closer. You’re high off the feel of him when he pulls away, just a few inches.
“You ready to admit it yet? That you want me?”
“I want you,” you breathe. It’s almost embarrassing how automatic the response is. How little you even have to think about it.
You feel his smile spreading against your own face. “I know, sweetheart. Of course I know. Don’t worry, I’ll take good care of you.”
Bucky is on the warpath, tearing your sweatshirt and his t-shirt off in quick succession. He takes a second to zero in on your breasts and you feel mildly self-conscious about your plain black bra, but he seems adequately distracted by them.
He slows down. Unclips your bra with languor. You shove away the sick, jealous feeling that creeps up when he doesn’t fumble even remotely with the clasp.
Once you’re bared to him, he seems to move slower. His hands go up to fondle them with uncharacteristic gentleness and you suck in a breath. His eyes darken to black, shiny knobs at your reaction and he maintains eye-contact with you while he presses a gentle kiss over your nipple, pulling it into his mouth.
A moan slips out at the sensation. So that’s what that should feel like.
“Wanna know a secret?” he murmurs between kissing and sucking, moving over to your other breast. You nod, uncertain whether or not he can see you.
“Want you too. Wanted you since we were kids.”
You look down at him. He is seemingly avoiding your eyes. Your brain is a little hazy but still operational for the most part.
“Since when?”
“Just fuckin’ told you,” he says, moving a warm hand up your thigh. It’s a distraction tactic.
“No but when? What age?” Your voice is coming out breathy with the way his thumb is creeping underneath your shorts, stroking the sensitive crease between your thigh and the hem of your underwear. You wonder with some apprehension if his fingers can sense the warmth radiation from you. You’re soaked through.
“Doesn’t matter,” he says, moving back up to kiss you. His thumb strokes over your panties now and you gasp into his mouth.
“Yes it does. Tell me,” you say. Because you’re muddled and jittery and incredibly fucking worked up, but more than all of that - you’re stubborn.
He gives you a hard look for a second, likely deciding whether he will be able to get you to let this go. You’re not.
“Was sweet on you when I was ten,” he says, rubbing you over your underwear harder now. Stars are exploding in your eyes, but the heavy, sluggish machinery that is your brain in its current state still chugs along at its steady, slow rhythm.
“Isn’t that when we first-”
“Yes.”
The shock almost overrides the sensation of his thumb slipping under the waistband of your underwear. But not quite. A loud, whining moan makes Bucky smile, but you still haven’t lost your head completely.
“You’ve liked me since we first met as little kids?”
He makes a loud, frustrated noise that vibrates through you and flips you over so you’re on your back. It happens so quick that it makes you dizzy. He folds himself over you and presses a vigorous kiss to your lips.
“Can you shut the hell up for two seconds?” he grunts, yanking your cotton shorts and underwear over your legs until you’re completely bare underneath him. “Tryna do something here.”
You laugh at him, but it doesn’t last long. He palms your breast briefly before trailing his fingers down, down, down. His fingers just barely graze over your clit and you buck up with a moan. All the humour is gone - you’re struggling to remember what you even found funny in the first place.
He brings his fingers up then to show them to you, glistening with your wetness. “You see how fucking desperate you are?” he asks. “Barely touched you and look how you’re reacting. Nobody’s ever touched you right, have they?”
You shake your head unthinkingly and his smile widens. It’s almost predatory.
“Poor thing,” he says with a smirk, lowering his hand once again to stroke over your clit. “I can tell. All jerky and twitchy. Just wait ‘till I get my cock in you.”
The whine you emit at his words slowly turns itself into a moan as he dips a finger into you. Slow, just feeling. He adds another when he sees how easily you accept the first. You had been right in everything you had ever thought about his fingers and how good they would feel inside you, how much they would stretch you out. Except it didn’t quite cover it.
None of the other college boys you had fucked had fingers like this. Calloused and big and rough. You clench around him when he begins to stroke, expertly curling into the perfect angle to hit that spongey spot inside you. Where the fuck did he learn to do this?
He presses you down with his other hand splayed over your stomach, stopping your hips which are moving down, trying to meet the rhythm of his fingers. The pressure it puts on your lower stomach makes you clench around him.
“Y’feel so fucking tight,” he grunts, eyes on your lips. “This what you wanted, huh? This what you touched yourself thinking about?”
You nod, but it’s not enough. He pauses his ministrations and raises his eyebrows for an answer.
“Yes, I- fuck, yes keep going - I thought about this when I got myself off.”
“For how long?” he demands.
“I- what?” you ask, feeling a bit dumb. His lip twitches impatiently.
“How long have you been thinking about me like this? With my fingers stuffing your tight little pussy?”
Your face heats up with shame, but you know if you don’t answer him, he will stop again. And that’s a lousy deal.
“A long time,” you say, hoping he will accept it as an answer. Thankfully, he does.
“Fuck, sweetheart. Should’ve told me. Wouldn’t have let you go unsatisfied like all these other assholes. Would’ve kept this pussy so busy, you wouldn’t have had the time to write in that silly little book. Would’ve put you in your place.”
“Put me in my place?” you spit, dragged out of the floaty headspace you had been in. Unfortunately you can’t concentrate too much on your anger and indignation. The pleasure he’s giving you is too much to hold on to anything else but him. It does nothing to stave off your incoming orgasm - if it wasn’t so fucked up, you might admit that it probably brings you closer to the edge. His fingers push into you smooth and hard. He grinds his palm against your clit.
“Yeah, put you in your place. Such a fucking spoiled brat, always throwing tantrums and bitching. Whole time you just needed a good fuck. Well I’ll give you plenty, baby. Sort you right out. Your family can thank me for your good behaviour when they’re home.”
There’s something fucked up about the way his mean - and undoubtedly problematic - words push you over the edge. You clench down and all but explode over his fingers, bright spots in your eyes. You’re not sure if you’ve ever come so fast before, or so intensely. Your head is still spinning while you come down, twitching around his fingers until he draws them back out.
Your vision is still slightly blurred, but you see Bucky sliding his fingers into his mouth. He doesn’t even make a show of it - he’s not even trying to make you watch him. He’s just tasting you for the pleasure of it. Your pussy jumps.
When he kisses you, you can taste yourself on his tongue. You should be spent by now, or at least somewhat less horny but you’re not. Your brain and body have clearly made a pact to make the most of your time with the man who has been driving you crazy for years. You begin to gush again when he bites your bottom lip. He releases a smoky chuckle against your mouth when your hips twitch against him.
He pulls up, standing over the bed to unbutton his jeans.
You’re still a little mad at him over that boorish ‘putting you in your place’ comment, but it does not stop you from getting dizzy when his cock is bared to you.
He’s the biggest you’ve ever seen and it’s not even close. Part of you knew he would be, but you didn’t think it would be this pretty. You didn’t even know a cock could be pretty.
It’s huge and rock hard where it presses up on his stomach. It’s very slightly curved with veins running up the flushed, heavy length. Your arm raises upwards unconsciously just to see how it would look in your hand, but you think better of it and quickly tuck it away again.
“What’s wrong, sweetheart?” he asks and you realise he has been watching your reaction the whole time. Your face burns. “Feelin’ shy?”
Your mouth opens and closes. “I don’t know how much…” you trail off, uncharacteristically nervous. You’ve never had a problem butting heads with Bucky before. Why is he so intimidating like this?
“Y’don’t know if it’ll fit?” he asks. You nod lightly and watch his cock give a small, light twitch. He takes it in his hand and gives it one slow pump. It makes your mouth hang open.
“Don’t worry, angel, we’ll take it slow. Don’t want to break you. Not this time, anyway.”
Feeling brave, you reach forward and take his warm, heavy cock in your fingers. It looks so much bigger in your hand than it does in his own and the sight makes your gut curl in both dread and excitement. He throws his head back, eyes half-lidded and dazed.
You give him one small pump and he grabs your wrist, shaking his head at you. You glare up at him.
“What the hell, Bucky? Don’t-”
He leans forward, grabbing your jaw in his hand roughly. “I know you wanna play with it so bad, sweetheart, but you can do that later. I’ll let you play with it as much as you want. But I’ve waited long enough and I’m not wasting another second. Gonna fill that tight cunt now. You hear me?”
You’re back in that floaty headspace, body feeling light, head feeling dreamy. You nod.
He smiles, using his leverage on your jaw to bring you in for a kiss while he climbs on top of you. You can feel the head of his hard cock pressing against your stomach.
“Good girl,” he says, moving away to lather kisses over your neck. His hips move to press the tip of his cock against your clit and you gasp. “My good girl You’re so sweet when you’re doing what I tell you to. Wish I’d known I could shut you up like this.”
You’re trying to be pissed off. You really are. But if you can be completely honest with yourself, it’s just turning you on more.
Your brain is almost gone, but you have one last spark of sentience. “Condom,” you gasp. “In my room.”
Bucky laughs against your neck. “You think I’m wearin’ a rubber with you?”
“Wha- yes?”
“Don’t fuck with me, sweetheart, I know you’re on the pill. Seen it in your bathroom.”
“What were you doing in my-”
“I’m clean, just got checked. And I’m willing to bet you’ve never let anyone use this prissy little pussy without a condom before.”
You take a second, trying to assess how you feel about this. He really is such a douchebag, but he’s a douchebag you know incredibly well - he wouldn’t lie to you about this. You’re sure you could talk him into wearing a condom, but it might take a lot of back-and-forth. And his cock is teasing your hole now, and you’re squeezing around nothing, trying to suck him in. His cock is fully lubricated, all from the wetness between your thighs. You don’t say anything, but your body goes a bit limp.
“Yeah?” he says, celebrating his victory with a smile. You feel it against your collarbone. “You gonna let me skip the rubber?”
“Yeah,” you breathe. “Just stop fucking around Bucky. Please.”
He laughs lightly and begins to press in, the tight ring of muscle protesting against his size. You seize up while he stretches you out. It’s leaving a tight and uncomfortable sensation in your abdomen and you let out a quiet yelp.
“Such a good girl,” he says, reaching down to stroke your clit. He’s thrusting in slow, giving you just a little bit more with every press. His voice is low, as if he’s trying to comfort you, but it’s still coming across slightly patronising. “Letting me fuck you raw. Gonna take my cum like the good girl you are.”
You’re loosening up with the help of his dirty words and his fingers on your clit, drawing tight circles. It’s starting to feel good - more than good. But he’s still not in all the way. You have no idea how you’re going to take him.
His cock is insistent inside you, pressing in further and further while he whispers filthy praises and encouragements on your sweat-glistening skin. You brain is becoming jumbled with pleasure and the overwhelming sensation of fullness.
“This what you pictured when those other limp-dick assholes used to fuck you?” he grunts, bottoming out. You yelp at the angle he hits, body squirming around him. You thought you knew what getting fucked deep felt like, but you had never felt this.
He pulls out and presses another punishing thrust into you. You gasp. “Answer.”
“Yes,” you say and you might be on the verge of tears. You can’t wrap your head around what’s happening. Everything feels a little blurry and his finger on your clit is still drawing tight circles. You just know that you need him to move. “Pictured you every time.”
He rewards you by beginning to slowly pull out and in, gently getting you used to his size. You’re filled to the brim with him. “I know. Read all about it in that dirty little book. Made them take you doggy so you could pretend it was me. So fucking desperate.”
Shame and pleasure are amalgamating in your stomach. It’s creating something more powerful than just the feeling of him moving inside you. It’s all becoming a bit too much, but in a way that you can’t help but love.
“It’s okay, angel. I’m no better than you. You turn me into such a fucking creep. Picking up girls who look like you. Leaving the dinner table to jerk it in the bathroom when you get all bratty and whiny.”
Just the thought of that makes you startle, pussy clenching around him. He looks so pretty, blue eyes dark with want, pink lips crushed between his teeth, gaze zeroed in on where you’re taking him, the light imprint in your tummy. The pleasure of it - the culmination of all your want - has you gasping, tears leaking from your eyes and trickling down your cheeks.
He sees it and startles. You can read it all on his face now - the awe and adoration.
“Oh, sweetheart,” he cooes, thumb reaching up to brush a fat tear from the corner of your eye. “Always been such a crybaby. You’re so pretty like this, such a pretty crier.”
It makes the tears puddle faster, the pleasure bordering on too much.
“I know, baby. It’s so much, isn’t it? I know,” he soothes you, while his hips work in direct opposition - fucking into you with brutality. It’s not just the pleasure, but the overwhelming emotion. You can’t work out exactly what you’re feeling, and you know that now isn’t the time to figure it out anyway.
Instead, you just let yourself feel it. The way his hips grind against yours, the feeling of him stretching you out, the crescendo of all that pent-up want finally bursting into song. You can’t stop looking at him, how pretty and fucked-out he is above you, even when he’s still pretending he hasn’t lost an ounce of control.
“Stop with those fuckin’ eyes,” he grunts, catching your gaze. You’re still teary-eyed and pouty. “Gonna make me lose it early.”
The thought of him spilling inside you does nothing to curb the feeling. Your eyes widen and he grunts, pulling out of you and sitting up with his eyes squeezed shut. He takes a deep, dogged breath.
“Turn around,” he bites out.
With the way his face is pinched, eyes squeezed tight, he might be greatly suffering or experiencing a euphoria of pleasure. You don’t disobey a man at either point.
You spin around, face-down on the bed. You can hear him shuffle around, but seconds pass where you don’t feel his skin on yours. The anticipation makes you shiver.
When you finally do feel his touch, it’s his two hands slowly stroking down your hips. You lean backwards into his touch, whimpering just a little.
“What you whining for now?” he asks from behind you. You hear the smile in his voice.
“Put it back in,” you moan, pushing back on him until you feel his cock prod against your ass. You’re no longer feeling any shame at your desperation. You’re too far gone.
He takes your hip firmly with his prosthetic hand, the other moving down to give your ass a loving pat. “You need it that bad?”
“Don’t be a dick.”
He laughs low. “Still so fucking bratty. Think I can fuck it outta you?”
You can do nothing but nod, head rolling forward while the thick tip prods your entrance, sliding in slowly once more.
“That’s it,” he groans. He feels so much deeper like this. You can feel him all the way up your stomach to your throat. “Knew you’d take my cock like this. Knew you’d feel this good, just didn’t think you’d be this fucking dirty.”
“Fuck, Bucky, I need you,” you moan. You’re obscurely aware of the fact that you’ll probably be cringing at the memory of saying those words later, but it matters very little to you in this moment. “Needed you so bad.”
“Yeah?” he grunts. “Why don’t you tell me what you needed so bad?”
Your brain is moving like slow, heavy machinery again - too slow to come up with anything. “I- no, Bucky, I can’t-”
“Let me help you out.”
His arm reaches out in front of you, pulling out the godforsaken book that started this entire mess in the first place. You’re still a bit dumb, watching him pull open the book and flick to a page he has ear-marked - like a significant page in his favourite book. He slams it in front of you palm pressing it open until you take it from him cautiously. You look down at the book uncomprehending, body still jostling with the force of his thrusts.
“Read.”
Your head spins back, even though you can’t see him from this angle. He can’t be serious.
One firm pinch to your ass confirms that he is.
Face burning and stomach clawing with shame and arousal, you clear your throat. Your voice comes out breathy and high.
“Matt always wore a condom but I think Bucky would be such a jerk about it. I wouldn't even mind. The thought of him coming inside me turns me on so- ooh!”-
Bucky’s hand reaches down below you, stroking at your clit.
“- so much. I really want him to fill me up. I wonder if he - fuck, Bucky - cums a lot. Whenever I think about him fucking me, I picture him filling me up to the brim until I’m dripping with his…”
You can’t go on any more. It just gets filthier from then on and you’re already on the verge of coming again. Thankfully, that seems to do enough for him.
“Jesus, you have a thing for this shit? That’s real fucking dirty, sweetheart. I promise I got a big fucking load for you. You’re the only one who is gonna take it from now on.”
You want to snap that he clearly has a thing for it too, judging by how riled up he is. He’s panting behind you, losing his rhythm. But you can’t do any such thing. All you can do is moan unintelligibly. You feel the familiar prickle behind your eyes, tears spilling out while you sniffle.
“Aw angel, you know what those tears do to me. Can’t help but give you what you want. You want my cum?”
You nod enthusiastically, spasming around him. You just wish you could see his face right now, but you can picture it.
“Fuck, yeah you do,” he growls. “Such a good girl for me. My good girl, all mine. Gonna give you my cum now, never gonna let you go empty from now on.”
With a firm hand between your neck and shoulder, he drags you upright against him. Your hands reach out to balance yourself against the headboard and he moves your jaw back until your mouth meets his. The kiss is brutal and sloppy, the angle not-quite-right, but just the feeling of his lips on yours and the movement of your tongues against each other makes you tumble off the edge.
A surge of unbridled want courses through you. You cry into his mouth, tears spilling between your lips until you can taste the salt. It’s either the taste of your tears or the sensation of your walls fluttering around him that causes Bucky to grunt, dick twitching once before spilling deep inside.
You had thought about this almost obsessively since you were old enough to understand the possibility. Somehow, you underestimated what it would do to you.
You might be floating or flying or drifting out of consciousness, but you are very conscious of the fact that you had never really known what it means to experience true pleasure until this moment. The noises he makes are filthy while he pumps you full of him, but you’re sure you’re likely giving as good as you’re getting. Not that you have the faintest awareness of what you’re saying.
Bucky wasn’t lying. You can feel his heavy load dripping out of you you, messing your thighs and the sheets. He continues to bounce you on his cock slowly and gently even after you have both come down from your highs. You’re sensitive and sore, but there’s something comforting about small, shallow thrusts, even if the squelching noises it’s making are obscene.
Eventually, he slides himself out of you and wraps himself around you instead. He envelopes you in a sort of gentle tackle, pulling your exhausted body with him deeper into the sheets.
“You still with me, sweetheart?” he asks, brushing a strand of hair away from your face. You can feel his stubble against your temples, his breath on your skin.
“Uh huh” you try. It comes out as more of a garble. He laughs, light and airy.
You open your eyes, take in his tired, happy grin. His blue eyes have gone bright again.
“Thought you said you weren’t gonna break me,” you say sardonically.
He plays with your hair, twirls it around a finger. “Might have gotten carried away.”
You roll your eyes. He does a poor imitation of you, rolling his eyes all the way back into his skull in mockery. You try to glare but it doesn’t work against your smile. You settle back down against his chest. Feel it vibrate while he laughs.
“You really meant that?” you ask after a moment. You cough away a scratch in your voice. “About wanting me since we were kids?”
“Hell yeah,” he chuckles. Your head bounces against his chest lightly. “I was so crazy about you when we were kids. Can’t believe you didn’t know.”
“How could I know? You were always so mean to me.”
“Don’t tell me you don’t know what that means in kid-language.”
“You still are. Sometimes.”
He raises his head to look down at you, searching your face. “Old habits.”
You nod, but you’re still working through everything in your head. Your post-orgasmic brain is working no faster than it was ten minutes ago.
“I’m sorry for reading your diary,” he says after a few seconds and you swear you might see the raw edge of panic sitting somewhere there on his face. “It was a shitty thing to do. I don’t regret it, because I don’t know that I would have ever had the balls to make a move otherwise, but I am sorry.”
It’s so bizarre, so completely unexpected, you can only stare. He’s looking back at you with an uncharacteristic nervousness that makes you slightly uncomfortable. Truthfully, you had forgotten you were even mad about the privacy violation in the first place. Maybe it’s the two orgasms.
You still don’t want to have a heart-to-heart with Bucky - that might be pushing things a bit too far, a bit too early. Instead you lean forward to give him a small, chaste kiss. He smiles.
“I’ll make it up to you,” he says, pressing small kisses to your lips, moving down your cheek and on to your neck. “Just wait ‘till I get my tongue on you.”
You tense up, resolutely ignoring the heat pooling low in your stomach. There is no way in hell you can endure another round right now. Your limbs are still shaking.
Whatever expression is on your face makes Bucky laugh. “Don’t look at me like that. I’ll give you a couple hours. We got two long weeks in this house by ourselves.”
a/n: the diary entries are basically just my dms with my moots lmao
Summary: While waiting for the extraction team after a successful mission, Bucky leaves you and runs into a greenhouse room in the mission building with strange plants. Accidentally breathing in the gas from the plants he returns to you, but something is off.
Warnings/Tags: 18+, Smut, Cursing, Fingering, Rough Sex, Edging, Enemies to lovers, Hormone inducing plant, Vaginal sex, Multiple orgasms, Aftercare, Super Intense (my god this is so dirty.)
Word Count: 6.4k
The mission had been straightforward at first: infiltrate the abandoned research outpost, gather intel, and get out before anyone noticed.
But when the team’s extraction was delayed, you and Bucky found yourselves trapped inside the building’s dusty corridors, waiting for backup.
After the constant, usual bickering and insults, he left and you heard his footsteps retreat down the hall as he scouted ahead, his metal arm clanking softly with each step. You stayed close to the cracked wall, nervously fingering the strap of your gear. Wishing there were windows to bring in any source of light throughout the creepy dim building.
Suddenly, Bucky’s footsteps stopped. Silence swallowed the hallway. Slight worry grew over you, as you take a look down the hallway, however, no sight or sound of him to be found.
When you finally heard footsteps again, you quickly peaked your head past the doorway down the hallway. Seeing Bucky approach, his movements were slower, heavier. His dark eyes held something unreadable — a flicker of distraction mixed with a strange heat.
You noticed the sweat beading at his temple, the way his breath came a little too fast, a little too shallow.
“Bucky?” Your voice curious, concern knitting your brows.
He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he leaned against the doorway, jaw clenched tight, hand pressing over his mouth as if trying to catch his breath.
Your heart pounded. You couldn’t just stand there.
Carefully, you took a few steps closer, eyes scanning his face for any sign of injury or distress. “Are you hurt? You don’t look well.”
Your fingers hovered uncertainly near his arm before gently laying it on the flushed skin.
The contact made him flinch, a sharp intake of breath escaping his lips, and his whole body tensed under your touch.
He looked at you, confusion clouding his dark eyes before darting his eyes away. “I… I don’t know what’s happening,” he admitted quietly, voice strained. “I can’t… focus.”
You bit your lip, cheeks burning with a mix of worry and something else you couldn’t name.
Despite your hesitation, your fingers lingered, tracing the line of his jaw slowly.
His heavy breathing filled the tight space between you.
He wasn’t the bold, direct, and frankly asshole of a man you’d expected to come back— he was confused, vulnerable in a way that made your heart ache.
And yet, beneath that confusion simmered something primal, waiting to break free.
You swallowed hard, fighting the urge to pull back as Bucky’s gaze locked with yours—dark, confused, and somehow raw in a way you’d never seen before. His chest rose and fell rapidly, breath hitching like he was struggling to steady it.
“Do you need to sit down?” you offered softly, voice barely above a whisper. You hated how your own hands trembled, but you couldn’t just leave him like this.
Bucky shook his head slowly, jaw still tight. “No,” he said, voice rough, “I just… need a moment.”
You edged closer, feeling the warmth radiating off his body, the subtle tremor running through his muscles. Your fingers brushed again against his skin—this time along the softer flesh of the inside of his wrist, inspecting his seemingly pulsing veins.
He flinched again, that sharp intake of breath turning deeper, ragged. His eyes fluttered closed for a second, turning his face away from you as if trying to contain something he didn’t understand.
“Bucky…” Your voice softened, uncertainty threading through every word. “What’s going on?”
He opened his eyes, dark pools swirling with confusion and frustration. “I don’t know,” he said roughly, voice breaking just slightly. “I feel… wrong. Hot. Like I’m… burning up from the inside.”
You bit your lip, heart clenching. The man who is feared, who’s a deadly super soldier, was now trembling under your touch, vulnerable and raw.
Without thinking, your hand moved to rest flat against his chest, feeling the rapid thud of his heartbeat beneath your palm.
His breathing hitched, eyes darkening as if the simple contact overwhelmed him. “Don’t…” he growled out, voice hoarse.
The room seemed to shrink around you both, heavy with unspoken tension. You wanted to pull away, to respect his boundaries, but your body betrayed you—drawn to him like a moth to flame.
“Bucky,” you whispered, “I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”
Your palm pressed against his chest, trying to calm the wild thumping of his heart. Bucky’s breath was ragged, uneven, like he was barely holding himself together. His dark eyes flicked toward you, filled with confusion—and something raw, unfiltered.
He growled softly, a frustrated sound. “I ran into some kind of room in the west wing with a bunch of plants. They were releasing some kind of gas. I don’t know what it’s doing to me, but—” He cut himself off, jaw tightening. “—it’s making me feel things. Things I don’t like.”
You raised an eyebrow, and try to lighten the mood. “Oh great. Just what I needed: Barnes, the grumpy tin man, suddenly turned into a hot mess.” You say softly, rolling your eyes with a slight smile
He scowled but didn’t deny it. “Keep it up, and I might just knock that smug smile off your face.”
“Yeah, yeah. Not like this you won’t” you teased, voice light despite the tension.
Bucky took a deep, shuddering breath. “Don’t tempt me. Besides, this isn’t a joke. I don’t know how to control it, and I don’t want you getting involved.”
You stepped closer, still wary but unable to look away. “Since when did you care what I think?”
His eyes darkened, and he took a half-step towards the other side of the room, like you might be contagious. “Since this gas has me all messed up and I’m not sure I’m still me.” He growls out
You bit your lip, trying not to let your cheeks betray how much the sight of him like this was affecting you.
“Look,” he said, voice low and rough, “I understand that we’re partnered up for this mission, but—” His voice cracked slightly, “right now… I need you to just stay out of it. Or maybe just don’t make it worse.”
You raised your hands in mock surrender. “Fine. But only because I’m curious what’ll happen next.” Not sliding in the tid-bit that you’re still extremely worried for him no matter how aggravating he may be or how many times he’s insulted you back at the avengers tower.
Bucky’s glare was sharp, but something softer flickered beneath it before he turned away, trying to hide the vulnerability that scared him.
Bucky’s back was stiff as a board as he leaned against an abandoned table in the room, jaw clenched tight, but the rapid rise and fall of his chest gave him away. The gas wasn’t just messing with his head—it was twisting something deeper, something primal he clearly didn’t want to admit.
Without a word, he suddenly stepped closer, the heat radiating off him intense and raw. His dark eyes locked onto yours with a sharpness that made your breath catch.
Then, almost abruptly, his hand reached out and grabbed your wrist—his grip firm but not cruel.
His voice came low and rough, like gravel scraping over steel. “You don’t get it. This gas… it’s messing with me. Making me feel things I shouldn’t.”
You blinked, caught off guard, heart pounding.
He swallowed hard, eyes darkening as if fighting to hold himself back. “I don’t want you involved. Hell, I don’t want anyone involved. Especially not you.”
You stepped back slightly, wary but steady. “Just cut deeper why don’t you.” You say dripping with sarcasm.
Bucky’s jaw tightened even more. Standing in silence very clearly thinking something through despite the haze he’s under. “I feel like I’m starting to lose control—and you’re the one thing that’s driving me crazy.”
His breath hitched. “I don’t want this. I don’t want to want you.”
Your cheeks flushed but you didn’t pull away.
He hesitated for a moment, then leaned in just enough for you to feel his breath on your skin.
“Don’t make me lose it,” he warned, voice rough and low.
The closeness of his face, feeling the hotness of his breath fanning over your skin, the tone of his voice. You can’t help but to begin breathing heavily. Despite you and Bucky’s mockery, insults, and arguing, you can’t help but be affected by how he’s acting towards you right now. Your eyes scan over him as you fail to resist the squeezing of your thighs and the feeling of molten heat pool in your stomach.
You notice his nostrils flare and his eyes close, inhaling deeply as he lets out a low groan. His eyes open and burned into yours, fierce and unyielding, but underneath there was a raw vulnerability that made your chest tighten. He walks closer towards you, making you back up until your back hits the cold concrete wall. The tension between you wasn’t just the usual snark or competition anymore—it was something sharper, hotter, dangerous.
Bucky closed the last few inches and pressed his palm flat against the wall beside your head, trapping you gently but firmly. His metal fingers brushed lightly against your temple, and a flicker of something desperate crossed his face.
“You don’t know what this is doing to me,” he muttered, voice thick with frustration and something darker. “I’m not… me right now. And I don’t want to hurt you.”
You swallowed hard, nerves sparking but your gaze steady. “You won’t.”
He swallowed again, chest rising and falling faster now, like every breath was a fight.
Then, almost reluctantly, his hand found yours—fingers curling around yours, cool against your skin but firm, possessive.
“I’m warning you,” he breathed, his voice dropping lower, “if you let me, I might not going to be able stop.”
His gaze flicked down to your lips, then back up, heavy with unspoken promises and desperate need.
You felt your heart hammer in your chest, caught between fear and the undeniable pull drawing you closer to him.
Bucky’s grip tightened around your fingers, a low growl rumbling deep in his throat. His dark eyes searched your face like he was looking for permission—and maybe begging for it too, though his pride wouldn’t let him say so.
“I don’t want this,” he snarled softly, voice rough and raw, “but I’m losing the fight.”
His breath hitched, hot and ragged against your skin. The heat radiating off him was suffocating—an almost tangible force pulling you closer, burning away the space between.
You wanted to pull back, wanted to remind him that you weren’t sure what this was either, that this was the opposite of professional, opposite of what you two were—but something in his expression held you fast, unsteady and trembling.
His metal hand slid from your fingers to your wrist, then higher, tracing the delicate skin of your forearm. Every inch was electric under his touch, like you were both alive on a knife’s edge.
“Tell me to stop,” he whispered hoarsely, voice thick with frustration, “and I will. But if you don’t…”
He closed the distance suddenly, lips brushing a harsh, breathless kiss against yours—rough and demanding, like he was trying to ground himself through the contact.
Your breath caught, shyness warred with a fierce, blooming heat deep inside you.
Bucky’s hands framed your face, thumbs brushing over your cheekbones as if trying to memorize every line, every trembling breath.
“I’m scared,” he admitted, voice low and vulnerable beneath the roughness. “Scared I won’t be able to pull back.” You feel him physically trying to restrain himself from pulling himself closer to you.
You swallowed, heart pounding louder than your thoughts.
“No,” you whispered, voice soft but sure. “Don’t pull back.”
His lips instantly found yours, crashing into your lips, with a wild insatiable hunger. There was no gentleness in it, just raw need and the taste of restraint shattering. He gripped your waist, his hands big and calloused, roughly pulling you flush against his body like he needed you to stay anchored to the ground.
You gasped into him, the sound catching in your throat as you felt the heat of him—every line of muscle, every tremble in his body that betrayed how hard he was fighting to stay in control.
“I shouldn’t want this,” he growled, voice rough against your lips, “not with you… not like this.”
But his hands didn’t stop. One slid up under your shirt, skimming over your ribs, fingertips dragging goosebumps in their wake. His touch was desperate, reverent, like he needed to memorize your body just to keep from coming undone.
“I didn’t even like you,” he muttered hoarsely, forehead resting against yours, breath ragged. “You always ran your mouth, always got under my skin…”
Your hands clutched at the front of his tactical shirt, heart pounding against your ribs. “You didn’t like me?” you managed, breathless.
“I hated how much I noticed you,” he growled. “How I couldn’t stop watching the way you moved… how you looked at me like you saw past the metal and my history.”
You whimpered as his fingers slipped beneath your waistband, teasing the skin just above your underwear. His touch wasn’t tentative—it was firm, claiming. Possessive. But there was a tremble in it, like he wasn’t sure if he was about to worship you or ruin you.
“Tell me to stop,” he whispered again, voice cracking with restraint. “Please.”
But you couldn’t. All you could do was look up at him, seeing him, pieces of hair falling in his face, his dark eyes staring into yours and let out a soft needy whine.
That was all he needed.
His mouth moved to your neck, kissing and biting, the sting softened by the heat of his tongue. His hand slid into your pants, cupping you firmly. The gasp that tore from your throat only made him press closer, lips brushing your ear.
“Fuck, you’re warm,” he groaned. “So soft…”
His fingers dipped lower, teasing over your folds, dragging a moan from you that made his grip falter—like your voice alone was a match to dry gasoline.
“You’re gonna ruin me,” he muttered, pressing his forehead to your shoulder as his fingers slipped inside you, slow but thick and deep. “Don’t even know if this is the gas anymore… or just you.”
You could barely breathe, body melting into his as he thrust his fingers slow and deep, watching your every reaction like he was starving for it. He was so careful despite the desperation coiled in his muscles—his touches growing rougher, but still holding back that last thread of restraint.
His fingers, curling just enough to make your knees shake. You gasped, a tremor running through your thighs as you clutched at the front of his suit, but Bucky didn’t rush—not yet.
He growled under his breath, forehead still pressed to your shoulder, lips ghosting against your skin as his fingers dragged slick and steady inside you.
“Goddamn…” he breathed, voice broken with awe and frustration. “You’re driving me out of my fucking mind.”
You whimpered, your breath shallow. “Bucky…”
His name made him shudder.
He pulled his hand away too soon, and you let out a small sound of protest. Bucky met your eyes then—completely unguarded. His pupils were blown wide, his lips slightly parted, sweat shining along his jaw.
“Don’t look at me like that,” he muttered. “I’m hanging on by a thread.”
You weren’t sure if that was a plead, command or a threat.
Then, you could feel the thick bulge of him straining against his pants, grinding against your soaked core through the fabric of your clothes.
“Feel that?” he rasped into your ear, rutting against you. “That’s what you’re doing to me. And I haven’t even gotten inside you yet.”
Your breath caught. His words lit a fire in your belly, made your thighs clench, made you ache.
His hand slipped down again, running two fingers over your clit.
“Fuck. You’re soaking.”
The curse slipped through his teeth like a prayer as your eyes roll back at the heavenly friction of his hand.
You whine once more as he brought his fingers up and stared at them—coated in your wetness—then met your eyes again as he sucked them slowly into his mouth.
Your legs nearly gave out. “Bucky…” you mutter.
“I’m not gonna fuck you yet,” he said, voice rough and tight like it hurt to say it. “Not until you’re begging for it.”
You whined, hips rolling instinctively toward him, chasing friction.
“Oh, you like that?” he murmured darkly, hand sliding between you again, rubbing slow, heavy circles over your clit. “The mouthy little agent who never shuts up… can’t even form a sentence now.”
You were panting, your body hypersensitive to every stroke, every drag of his rough voice.
“I want to ruin that attitude,” he growled. “Make you forget how to talk. Make you cry.”
His fingers dipped inside you again, thrusting slow and deep, each stroke deliberate and angled just right. You clenched around him, a soft cry leaving your lips, and he chuckled low and sharp in your ear.
“There it is,” he whispered. “That’s what I wanted. So fucking tight around my fingers already.”
His metal hand slid up your shirt, palming your breast through your bra, thumb flicking across your nipple with just enough pressure to make your back arch. “You gonna fall apart just from this?” he taunted, voice husky. “We haven’t even started yet.”
“Bucky—” you gasped.
“No,” he cut in, hot breath against your neck. “Not yet. You don’t get to come until I say.”
Your head hit the wall behind you with a soft thud, pleasure cresting inside you—too much, too slow, not enough.
Bucky’s mouth moved to your jaw, your throat, licking and biting as his fingers fucked you slow, precise, dragging you closer to the edge and pulling you back again and again.
“You think I don’t see the way you look at me?” he whispered. “Like you hate me. But underneath it? You wanted this. You wanted me.”
Your moan betrayed you.
He grinned against your throat, then sank his teeth into the delicate skin there—not enough to hurt, just enough to make you gasp. His hand never stopped moving, never gave you what you needed all the way. He was relentless, teasing, every inch of him vibrating with tension and barely held control.
“I could keep you like this for hours,” he muttered. “Desperate. Soaking wet. Shaking.”
He dragged his fingers out of you and pressed them between your lips.
“Taste how sweet you are,” he said roughly. “And tell me you don’t want me.”
Your mouth opened before you could stop yourself, and the taste of your own need sent heat rushing straight to your core.
Bucky growled. “Fuck, that’s it. That’s what I wanted.”
He pushed his hips into yours again, the thick, throbbing heat of him pressing right against your clit through the fabric.
“You ready?” he asked darkly. “Because once I’m inside you, I’m not stopping.”
You were trembling beneath him, body pinned to the wall, soaked and aching. Every nerve ending buzzed under the weight of his mouth, his hands, his voice—dragging you to the edge, over and over, without mercy.
And still… he hadn’t taken you.
Until now.
Bucky’s jaw flexed like he was still trying to fight it—but the look in his eyes told you he was past the point of no return.
“I told myself I wouldn’t,” he growled, lips ghosting over yours. “Told myself I could ride it out. Wait for backup. Do the right thing.”
He leaned in, pressing his forehead to yours, his hips grinding against you in a slow, punishing circle. You felt him—thick, hard, straining inside the confines of his pants—and your breath hitched.
“But I can’t fucking think straight,” he whispered, almost like it hurt. “Not when you’re this wet. This soft. Looking at me like you’d let me break you open.”
You didn’t say a word. You couldn’t. The air was thick with your shared breath, hot and humid, and your voice had long since abandoned you.
He slid your pants down, low enough for you to shimmy and step out of them. He reached down, undid his belt with shaking hands, and freed himself—thick and heavy and flushed, the head already leaking. The sight of it made your thighs clench instinctively.
Bucky groaned at the sight of you. “Fuck, look at you. So shy all the time, but now…” he leaned towards you, grabbed your thigh and wrapped it around his waist. He pushed your soaked underwear to the side, lined himself up and paused, metal hand gripping your thigh, holding you open, holding you still.
“Last chance,” he rasped. “You want me?”
You look up at him with pleading eyes and a whine, “please, Bucky….”
That was all it took.
He thrust forward in one deep, brutal stroke,
burying himself inside you to the hilt. You cried out, nails digging into his arms as your body stretched to take him.
“Shit,” he gritted through clenched teeth, eyes screwed shut. “So fucking tight. You feel—God—you feel unreal.”
He held still for a beat, shaking from the effort not to lose it too fast. But you clenched around him, and he groaned low in his throat, head falling to your shoulder.
Then he started to move.
Each thrust was deep, rough, and controlled—but just barely. He was shaking with it, like he couldn’t believe how good it felt, like every time he slammed into you it pulled a piece of him loose.
“You like it rough, sweetheart?” he growled against your ear.
But you were already gone—moaning, head back against the wall, gasping as your body met his rhythm instinctively. You give a messy nod.
“Yeah,” Bucky snarled, gripping your ass and lifting you a little higher so he could drive in deeper, your leg not wrapped around his waist barely touching the ground. “You take me so fucking good.”
The sound of skin slapping echoed off the walls, the wet slick of your arousal making each brutal thrust louder, messier.
“You think I don’t see you?” he grunted, voice ragged. “Always biting your lip around me, looking away. Playing innocent. But you’re not.”
His pace picked up, hips slamming into yours harder now, deeper. “You want this. You’ve always wanted this.”
“Bucky—” you whimpered, voice cracking.
“Say it,” he growled. “Say you want me.”
“I want you,” you gasped, clinging to him.
He cursed viciously, his control unraveling at the sound of your voice.
“Fuck—I’m not gonna last—” he bit out, slamming in deeper with each thrust. “You feel too good—too tight—I’ve never—”
He cut himself off with a broken groan, his lips crashing against yours in a searing kiss, swallowing your moans as he fucked you harder, rougher. Your body was shaking, teetering right at the edge, and he could feel it.
“Come for me,” he commanded, voice thick and guttural. “Now.”
And with one last, brutal thrust—he hit the spot that sent you spiraling.
You shattered around him, crying out, trembling as your climax tore through you, soaking him. Bucky followed instantly with a strangled groan, burying himself deep as he came hard, hips jerking, forehead pressed to yours as he gasped your name like a lifeline.
His hips slowed, but only slightly—just enough to ride out his own release as you trembled around him, body slack and twitching in his hold. But he didn’t pull out. He didn’t ease away. He stayed inside you, panting against your neck, every muscle still coiled tight like a predator that hadn’t fed nearly enough.
You whimpered softly as his cock throbbed still-hard inside you, impossibly thick, sensitive—but not softening. Not even a little.
“…You’re still hard,” you breathed, dazed.
Bucky’s shoulders shook with a low, humorless laugh. He dragged his mouth up your throat, tongue catching on the sweat at your collarbone before he murmured, “I know.”
His voice was darker now—gravel scraping over flame—and when he pulled his head back to look at you, his pupils were still blown wide, black swallowing the blue.
“That plant,” he said, panting, “it did something. I don’t feel normal, I—” He gritted his teeth and rolled his hips forward again, slow and grinding.
You moaned, sharp and overstimulated, but it only made him groan. “Still not enough.”
He pulled out just a few inches, dragging his cock against your soaked, sensitive walls—then slammed back in with a low, wrecked sound.
Your body jolted, pleasure colliding with sensitivity, making you gasp. “Bucky—”
“Can’t stop,” he growled. “Can’t. You feel too good. I need more.”
He hooked your other leg up around his waist, spreading you open and lifting you slightly off the ground. The shift in angle drove him deeper, the stretch unbearable, the pressure mounting again despite how recently you'd come. You were already growing slick around him again, your body betraying your mind as it begged for more.
“I should hate you for this,” he whispered against your lips. “You make me insane.”
“Then hate me,” you whispered back, breathless.
He snarled—and then snapped.
His mouth crashed to yours, biting and claiming, tongue dragging over your lips before plunging deep. At the same time, he started to fuck you again—harder than before, frantic and relentless, each thrust punching a moan out of you.
You had no defense anymore. No sharp quips, no witty retorts—just Bucky, inside you, growling your name like a curse and a prayer all at once.
“Gonna keep you like this,” he panted, lips brushing your ear. “Stuffed full of me. Until you can’t walk straight. Until everyone on comms knows what I did to you.”
His words hit you like lightning, heat pooling fast and hard in your gut again.
“You want that?” he murmured, nipping your earlobe. “Want me to ruin you until all you can say is my name?”
You couldn’t speak. You could only cry out, moaning shamelessly as he started slamming into you again—rough, wild, deep. His grip bruised your thighs, his mouth never left your skin, and every thrust sent stars behind your eyes.
“You’re mine right now,” he gritted, pounding into you. “Just mine.”
Your second orgasm hit harder—sharper—your body seizing around him with a cry that echoed through the empty hall. You were pulsing around him, milking him, but this time, Bucky didn’t come.
He just groaned and kept going.
His breath was ragged now, like he was in pain from holding back.
“I’m not done,” he choked out, pressing your back tighter to the wall. “Not until I’ve wrung every fucking sound out of you.”
Then he pulled out, slowly, deliberately—and spun you around.
Your hands hit the wall just in time to catch yourself as he dragged your underwear the rest of the way off. You whimper at the cold concrete pushing against your soft chest. His hands gripped your hips, pulling your ass back toward him—and without pause, he shoved himself back in from behind with a deep, wrecked growl.
You gasped, moaning at the new angle, at how deep he felt this way.
His hand came around to your front again, fingers finding your swollen clit, rubbing in messy circles.
“You’re taking me so fucking well,” he snarled. “Like you were made for me.”
The words made you clench, and he hissed through his teeth, hips stuttering.
“Say it,” he barked. “Tell me you want more.”
“More—” you choked, hands scrambling for purchase against the wall. “Bucky—God—more—”
He slammed into you even harder, punishing now, wrecked with need.
“Good girl,” he growled, voice low.
Your hands braced against the wall, fingers splayed, trying to ground yourself—but Bucky gave you no reprieve.
His thrusts were brutal now, paced with a rhythm that shook through your entire body. Each snap of his hips pushed a cry from your lips, every inch of him stretching you open all over again, slick from your last two orgasms and still somehow burning for more.
You were soaked. Raw. Quivering.
And he was insatiable.
Behind you, Bucky was panting like a man possessed. His forehead dropped to your shoulder for a second, teeth grazing your sweat-slicked skin as his grip on your hips tightened, fingers digging in deep enough to bruise.
“Fucking hell,” he growled, voice wrecked. “I can feel you squeezing me—like you’re trying to pull me deeper.”
You moaned, unable to answer. You weren’t sure there were words anymore—just sensation.
Heat. Pressure. Him.
He slammed into you harder, and your knees buckled, but he caught you—one arm locking around your waist, dragging you up against his chest. Moaning, feeling your body pressed flushed against his. His other hand was still between your legs, fingers working your clit with ruthless precision, flicking and circling until your legs were trembling, your cries coming faster.
“Gonna come again,” he rasped in your ear. “I can feel it. You’re so close, baby. Give it to me.”
His metal hand gripped your throat—slightly tight, just enough to tilt your head, to control you—and he sank his teeth into the curve of your neck as he fucked you harder, faster.
You cried out, your body tipping toward the edge again with dizzying speed, your back arching at the intense pleasure.
“Say it,” he ordered through gritted teeth. “Say you want to come on my cock.”
“Please—Bucky—want it—fuck—I want it, I want it—”
“That’s it,” he hissed. “God, that’s it—gonna make you come so fucking hard—”
You clenched around him, your whole body going taut—and then snapped.
Your climax tore through you like fire, a scream ripping from your throat as your pussy spasmed around him, pulsing, slick, drenching him.
Bucky groaned like it broke him, thrusting deep one last time before he came with a roar—slamming into you to the hilt, cock twitching as he spilled inside, hot and thick, filling you to overflowing.
He held you tight, shuddering, mouth pressed to your shoulder as he rode it out—still pulsing, still deep inside you.
For a moment, everything was quiet—just your panting, the wet sounds of your bodies, and his heart hammering against your back.
Then he finally spoke—voice low, hoarse, almost reverent.
“…Still hate me, sweetheart?”
You let out a breathless, broken laugh against the wall.
“Only when you’re not fucking me like that.”
Bucky chuckled darkly, nuzzling your neck, still buried inside you. “Then I guess I’ll have to keep doing it.”
Bucky’s breathing was still ragged behind you, his broad chest rising and falling against your back. His arms stayed wrapped around your waist, firm but gentle now, as if afraid you’d slip away if he let go.
You both stayed like that for a long moment—pressed together, skin flushed and slick with sweat, the heavy sound of your breathing the only thing filling the silence.
Then, slowly, he eased out of you, hissing softly at the overstimulation. You whimpered, sensitive and sore and still trembling, and he caught you as your knees buckled, guiding you gently to the floor.
The moment your back hit the cold wall, you shivered.
“Shit,” Bucky muttered, voice thick and gravelly. “You okay?”
You looked up at him, lips parted, dazed. “I think so…”
He crouched in front of you, one knee bent, eyes scanning your face—not with lust now, but something softer. Something real. His pupils weren’t as blown out anymore. The sharp edge of heat in them was starting to fade.
And for the first time since all this started, you realized… the gas was wearing off.
You could see it in his body—the subtle way his muscles unclenched, the way his breathing evened, like his senses were slowly coming back under control.
“…Bucky,” you murmured, still catching your breath, “what was that stuff?”
He exhaled hard, dragging a hand back through his damp hair.
“Like I said earlier, there was a room. Down the hall. Some kind of overgrown greenhouse or lab, I don’t know.” His voice was quieter now, more grounded. “I barely stepped inside before I started sweating. My head got light, and then everything started to burn. My skin, my blood… my cock.”
You flushed, throat bobbing as your eyes flicked down between you.
He noticed. His jaw tightened.
“I didn’t know what was happening,” he added, guilt creeping into his tone. “Didn’t understand why I was reacting like that until I saw you again and I just—”
He broke off, shaking his head like he was angry at himself.
“I’m sorry,” he said, finally. “I shouldn’t’ve touched you. Not like that. Not when I wasn’t thinking straight.”
But you reached out and curled your fingers around his vibranium wrist, grounding him.
“You didn’t force me,” you said softly. “I wanted it. All of it.”
His eyes met yours—sharp, guarded, like he was still waiting for the punchline.
“You sure?” he asked. Not a tease. Just a whisper of vulnerability cracking through the armor.
You gave a breathless laugh, nodding. “Yeah. Pretty sure the three orgasms confirm that.”
That pulled a small, crooked smirk from him—but it didn’t last. His gaze drifted back to where your bare thighs were still spread, slick and flushed, your pants still tangled around one ankle. You were raw, used, full of him.
And still… somehow… the tension wasn’t gone.
“You didn’t hate it,” he murmured, like he was testing the waters.
“No,” you admitted. “And… maybe I don’t hate you as much as I pretend to.”
That surprised him.
He tilted his head, lips parting like he had something to say—but instead, he leaned forward, slowly, giving you the chance to stop him.
You didn’t.
His lips brushed yours, soft this time. Nothing like the devouring heat from earlier. Just a quiet, aching thing. A kiss that said we’re not done—but maybe not just in a physical way.
You kissed him back, fingers curling into his jacket. And when he finally pulled away, his forehead leaned against yours, breath warm across your face.
“I’ll get you cleaned up,” he murmured, voice husky again, but this time with gentleness rather than hunger.
You nodded, legs still shaky. “Yeah. I… don’t think I can stand yet.”
That made him chuckle, low and rough.
“You won’t be walking straight for a while.”
You smacked his chest weakly, and he grinned. It was the first time you’d ever really seen him smile—not that tight, sarcastic twist, but something real.
And just like that… something had shifted.
The lines that used to keep you on opposite sides of every room were gone—burned away by sweat, heat, and the way his hands had held you like he was afraid of losing something he didn’t know he wanted.
As he helped you pull your clothes back on, slow and careful, your fingers brushed. You didn’t pull away.
Neither did he.
⊹ ︶⏝⭒ ⊹ ⭒⏝︶ ⊹
By the time the extraction team touched down, the gas was well out of Bucky’s system—but the aftermath lingered on both of you like a second skin.
He still walked close to you. His arm still brushed yours whenever the hallway narrowed. His jacket, slung loosely around your shoulders, smelled like him—warm leather and sweat and something darker, primal, something you’d felt grinding deep inside you less than an hour ago.
Neither of you had said much since.
Not because there wasn’t anything to say—but because the weight of everything that had happened still hummed like a live wire between you.
And when the door to the building finally slammed open and Sam’s voice came over the comms—dry, impatient, and absolutely oblivious—you nearly jumped.
“There you two are,” he said, stepping into view in full gear, eyes flicking from you to Bucky. “Took your sweet time, huh? We were about to call it and let you rot in there.”
Bucky didn’t flinch. He just grunted. “We managed.”
Sam looked at the both of you suspiciously.
Your hair was a mess. Your pants were definitely on inside out, despite your frantic fumbling earlier. Bucky’s shirt clung to him with dried sweat, and his belt was still hanging open under his tactical vest.
And when Sam’s eyes narrowed and slid down to the distinct bite mark blooming just beneath your collarbone, visible even beneath the edge of Bucky’s jacket—
He froze.
Blinked.
And looked back at Bucky. Slowly.
“…Did you fight each other?”
You opened your mouth, panic rising in your throat.
But Bucky—smug bastard—beat you to it.
“Doesn’t matter,” he said coolly, leading the way past Sam without missing a beat. “I won.”
Sam gawked after him. “You won what? An STD?!”
You groaned and followed quickly, cheeks flaming. “Shut up, Wilson.”
“You shut up!” Sam called after you. “I’m gonna have to Lysol the entire jet, aren’t I?!”
Bucky didn’t even blink as he climbed aboard.
You shot him a glare as you slid into the seat across from him, keeping your arms crossed even though his jacket still hung around your shoulders like some ridiculous trophy.
The second Sam stepped in behind you, eyeing the both of you like a disgruntled parent, you tried to school your expression into something neutral.
You failed.
Bucky smirked.
“So,” Sam said, dropping into the pilot’s chair with a sigh. “Either of you wanna tell me why your vitals were going crazy on the monitors for thirty minutes straight?”
“Must’ve been a glitch,” Bucky replied smoothly.
Sam turned, staring at him.
You were biting your lip. Hard.
“A glitch,” Sam repeated flatly.
Bucky shrugged, unbothered. “Must’ve been the plant gas. Messed with my sensors.”
“Oh, I bet it did,” Sam muttered, spinning back to the controls. “God, I’m too old for this.”
The Quinjet engines flared to life.
You glanced at Bucky. He was watching you from under his lashes, jaw tight, one corner of his mouth twitching upward like he was this close to smiling.
You leaned closer, voice just low enough that Sam wouldn’t hear.
“You’re really proud of yourself, aren’t you?”
Bucky’s smile turned wicked.
“You’re the one still wearing my jacket, sweetheart.”
You flushed—and hated how much it thrilled you.
As the jet lifted into the sky, the tension didn’t fade.
It simply shifted.
No longer the tension of enemies circling each other like knives waiting to clash—but the quieter, heavier kind. The kind that simmers under the surface, waiting to boil over again the second you're alone.
Summary : Bucky Barnes has a harmless crush on the local weather broadcaster. He watches her every morning, and even admits it to his friends. Its not like he’ll ever meet her, right?
Pairing : Bucky Barnes x weather girl! reader (she/her)
Warnings/tags : Fluff!!! Meet cute(?), Reader is weather girl and meteorologist, Steamy, and sex is heavily implied, cursing. mention of past trauma, but not a lot. Nervous Bucky! Set after FATWS but before Thunderbolts* (let me know if I missed anything!)
Word Count : 10.6k
Notes : Hi all! This was meant to be a shorter fic, but I got carried away. Enjoy!
Bucky Barnes had really tried to like the twenty-first century.
Trying counted for something, right?
Post-war, post-everything— life was supposed to feel better. No Hydra handlers in his head, no missions, no one telling him who to be. After everything, he thought it would just be him with a notebook full of names crossed out, and a century that had sprinted ahead while he’d been frozen in place.
There were days when he didn’t feel so out of time. Sometimes, he could walk down the street without flinching at car horns. And then there were days when everything reminded him that he didn’t belong here.
He tried the things that friends suggested.
Baseball games, for one. Sam had suggested it like it was a cure-all: You like baseball. Go to a game. So Bucky went.
Baseball had always made sense to him, but the stadiums were different now. It was too big, too loud, too… commercial. Even worse, the Yankees felt wrong to support, and the Dodgers being in Los Angeles still tripped him up every single time he thought about it. He sat through a few innings, hands folded tight in his lap, before leaving with the same hollow feeling he’d arrived with.
Coffee was worse.
He liked it black, bitter, no nonsense. Now it came with foam and syrups and names he couldn’t pronounce without feeling ridiculous. He ordered the wrong thing more than once and drank it anyway, grimacing through sweetness that stuck to his tongue long after the cup was empty.
Everything felt overcomplicated.
There were too many choices to make, too much noise. Too much pressure to be something to someone.
So he built small routines, the kind his old therapist said were good for him.
One of them was the weather.
Back in the 30s and 40s, his ma used to turn on the radio every morning. The weather report would crackle through the kitchen while she moved around, apron on, humming a song. It didn’t matter if it was rain or sun. “Listen close,” she’d say, pressing a kiss to his hair. “Weather tells you how to dress for the day.”
It was… comforting.
One morning, after a whole night of being unable to sleep, he turned on the TV.
That’s when he saw you.
You were the weather newscaster, standing in front of a green-screened map with blues, greens, and yellows curling across the screen. You smiled as you spoke, not forced nor overly bright. Your voice was comforting, like the weather mattered because people mattered.
Bucky sat down on the edge of the couch without realizing.
You talked about cloud cover and chances of rain, gesturing, explaining things like storms and sunshine were just part of a bigger, understandable pattern.
When the segment ended, Bucky didn’t turn the TV off right away.
The next morning, he turned it on again.
That was all it was at first…. a routine. It was a familiar pattern to anchor himself to.
He’d wake up, make coffee, and watch the weather. He told himself it wasn’t about you, specifically. You just happened to be there.
Except… he started noticing things.
He noticed the way your brow furrowed when you talked about incoming storms, like you took it personally. He noticed how you leaned into the screen slightly when you were excited about clear skies and sunshine. He noticed your smile when you signed off, wishing everyone a good day like you genuinely hoped they’d have one.
He learned your schedule without meaning to, but not in a bad way. He just knew which mornings you’d be on, which afternoons you covered, though rare. If he missed you because he woke up too late, there was a flicker of disappointment as he pretended not to care about it.
And yeah, okay— he thought you were really pretty.
And it certainly didn’t help that Bucky caught himself wondering if you liked rainy days or just tolerated them. If you drank your coffee black or sweet. If your smile looked the same off-camera.
Still, he never lingered on those thoughts, never let them spiral. He wasn’t building some fantasy version of you in his head. He knew better than that.
It was just a crush.
A small one, harmless one.
But some mornings, he realized he’d woken up a little earlier than usual, just to be sure he wouldn’t miss you.
—
Letting Sam and Joaquin stay in his apartment after a boy's night out had felt like the decent thing to do.
Bucky had even told himself that as they stumbled through the door sometime after midnight. Sam had been riding the high of a good night out. Joaquin had been buzzing in that restless way, fueled by sugar-heavy cocktails and the thrill of getting Bucky out of his apartment for once.
The mistake became clear the moment the door shut behind them.
They stood in the living room, taking stock of the space like they hadn’t been there a dozen times before.
See, Bucky only had one spare bedroom. The other would have to stay on the couch.
“I’m taking the spare room,” Sam said immediately, toeing off his shoes.
Joaquin laughed. “What– that’s not fair!”
Bucky didn’t bother looking up as he shrugged out of his jacket. “Figure it out yourselves. I’m going to bed.”
“Rock, paper, scissors,” Sam announced. “Like adults.”
They tied. Once. Then twice. On the third round, Joaquin won and celebrated far more loudly than the victory warranted. Sam accused him of cheating. Joaquin accused Sam of being a sore loser. Bucky disappeared into his bedroom before it could escalate.
—
The next morning, Bucky woke before sunrise.
He laid still for a moment, staring at the ceiling, orienting himself. He moved through the apartment without thinking as the kitchen light stayed off. He measured coffee grounds, the bitter scent blooming in the air as he brewed. Sam was still sprawled across the couch, throw blanket tangled around his legs, one arm flung over his face like he’d lost a fight with gravity.
Bucky hesitated before turning on the TV.
He told himself it was a habit. Surely, Sam wouldn’t mind.
So the screen flickered to life as he turned the volume low enough not to wake anyone… at least, that had been the intention.
You appeared on-screen, framed perfectly against a colorful map. You smiled as you greeted the viewers, getting on with your job. Bucky leaned back against the counter, mug warming his hands, shoulders loosening without him noticing.
Sam stirred from his sleep, shifting beneath the blanket. He let out a quiet groan, waking too early against his will.
“Why,” he mumbled, “does it sound like a civic duty in here?”
Bucky didn’t look over. “Go back to sleep.”
Sam cracked one eye open, squinting blearily at the TV. “Why is the news on?”
“It’s just the weather,” Bucky said, casual to the point of rehearsed. “You don’t need to be awake for it.”
Sam hummed, unconvinced. Before he could say anything else, the spare bedroom door creaked open.
Joaquin shuffled out, rubbing his face, hair sticking up in defiance of any law of nature. He paused, eyes landing on the TV.
“Oh,” he said. “It’s her.”
Sam lifted his head now, more alert. “Her?”
Joaquin nodded toward the screen. “The weather girl, she used to cast in Miami. My mom loved her, even cried when she moved to New York. She used to be on all the time.”
“Well, sometimes,” Bucky corrected, maybe a little too quickly.
You were explaining a shift in pressure systems, gesturing at the metrics. Joaquin watched for a beat longer than necessary, then nodded to himself.
“…Okay,” he said, squinting at Bucky’s response. “Whatever. My cousin thinks she’s cute.”
“Yeah,” Bucky nodded fondly. The moment his reply landed in the room, he knew he’d screwed up.
Sam’s head snapped around. “Hold on.”
Bucky took a long sip of coffee, buying himself half a second that did absolutely nothing.
Joaquin’s eyes lit with sudden clarity. “Do you think she’s cute?”
Bucky felt heat creep up the back of his neck. “I meant—yeah, she’s objectively—”
“Ohhh,” Sam interrupted, sitting up now, blanket sliding off his shoulders. “Oh, no, no. That was not an objective ‘yeah.’”
Joaquin grinned, instantly energized. “Wait. Wait, wait, wait. Are you telling me—”
“No,” Bucky said firmly.
Joaquin leaned forward. “—that the Bucky Barnes—”
“Nope.”
He pointed at the TV. “—has a crush on the weather girl?”
“Fuck,” Bucky let breath out through his nose. “…Maybe?”
Big mistake. The room exploded.
“Oh my God,” Sam laughed, dragging a hand down his face. “This is incredible.”
Joaquin clutched his chest. “The Winter Soldier, reduced to heart eyes over the Weather Channel.”
“It’s not the Weather Channel,” Bucky snapped. “It’s local news.”
“Oh, even worse,” Sam teased. “He likes her accessible.”
Bucky shot him a glare. “You’re both idiots.”
Joaquin wasn’t letting it go. “How long has this been a thing?”
“It’s not a thing,” Bucky said, defensive now. “She’s just… she happens to be on in the morning. It’s routine.”
“Mmhmm,” Sam said, nodding exaggeratedly. “And you just happen to know her schedule?”
Bucky’s metal fist tightened. “…Look.”
They both leaned in.
“She’s just my type, okay?” he said finally, words tumbling out in a rush.
Joaquin’s eyebrows softened, just a bit, as Sam grinned anyway. “That’s adorable.”
“It’s just a harmless crush,” Bucky rolled his eyes. “I don’t think I know her. I don’t pretend she knows me.”
On-screen, you smiled as you wrapped up the forecast. “Looks like clear skies for most of the week. Whatever the weather, have a great morning, folks!”
Bucky’s eyes were glued to your sign off before realizing Sam and Joaquin were staring at him.
Sam nudged Joaquin. “Look at his face.”
Joaquin softened just a bit. “Aw, man.”
Bucky muttered, “I hate you both.”
Sam slapped him on the shoulder.
“I think it’s good,” Joaquin said. “Means you’re still capable of liking someone who isn’t actively shooting at you.”
Bucky huffed, though a smile creeped on his face. “Real comforting.”
—
A couple of months later, Sam was yet again stuck in Bucky’s apartment after an overnight blizzard.
After it passed, snowbanks still lined the streets like barricades, gray and uneven from plows that had done their best and moved on. The city felt wrong, quiet in places it was usually loud, crowded in the buildings that still had power and heat. People were digging themselves out, checking on neighbors, trying to piece everything back together.
Bucky watched it all from the window, mug warming his hands.
“The shelter’s doing post-storm relief,” Sam said, scrolling on his phone. “They’re short on volunteers.”
Bucky didn’t hesitate. “Let’s go.”
Sam glanced up, eyebrows lifting. “Sure”
To both of them, helping made sense, it always had. They saw a need, they filled it.
They bundled up and headed out, boots crunching through packed snow, wind biting but manageable now that the worst had passed. The shelter sat on a corner still half-buried in slush, lights blazing inside.
The moment they stepped through the doors, the noise hit them all at once.
People crowded the space, some shaking snow from their coats, others already clutching steaming cups of soup. Volunteers moved quickly, voices raised just enough to be heard. Tables were set up along the walls, one stacked high with donated coats in every size and color.
Sam was immediately flagged down by a coordinator. To be fair, she probably recognised them both.
“Here to help out?” she asked, eyeing both of them.
Sam grinned. “Born ready.”
As Bucky turned to sign in… he stopped in his tracks. His brain just stopped working.
Because you stood near the front door, hair pulled back messily, bundled in a thick sweater and scarf that looked nothing like your formal on-screen wardrobe. Your cheeks were flustered from the cold, sleeves pushed up as you were getting ready to help with the soup stall. You were laughing at something one of the coordinators said..
Sam noticed immediately.
“Oh,” he said, far too casually. “Would’cha look at that.”
Bucky’s heart slammed into his ribs.
“No,” he said quietly.
Sam leaned closer, grin already forming. “Is that—”
“No.”
“That’s the weather girl.”
“Sam.”
“That’s your weather girl.”
Bucky swallowed hard. “She’s not my anything—.”
Sam nudged him with his elbow. “Man, she’s even cuter in person!”
Bucky shot him a glare. “Do not make this weird.”
Sam’s grin only widened. “I’m not making it weird. You are making it weird by staring.”
“I’m fine,” Bucky muttered, pulling his beanie down lower. “We’re here to help.”
They were directed to different stations, mercifully, but not mercifully enough.
Sam was assigned to give away donated coats, and somehow, Bucky was assigned to the soup stall— the very same soup stall you were assigned to.
You approached with a box of cups, setting them down gently. “Hey,are you good to ladle, or do you want me to—”
You looked up. Your eyes flicked to his face, then squinted just a fraction. “You’re new around here,” you mentioned with a smile, before telling him your name in introduction.
Bucky’s mouth went dry. What was he supposed to say? I already know who you are? I watch you every morning? No fucking way.
“Uh…” he said intelligently.
Sam, passing behind them with a crate of gloves, slowed to a stop and watched.
Bucky didn’t look at him.
“I… nice to meet you. And I-I can—uh, ladle,” Bucky said, clearing his throat. “I’m… yeah. I’m good.”
You smiled at him, making his knees feel vaguely unreliable. “Great. Team soup, then.”
He nodded way too fast.
You both worked in silence at first. The line was steady, from families to elderly couples to people stamping snow from their boots, hands shaking as they wrapped them around warm cups. Bucky focused on the repeated motion: scoop, pour, slide the cup forward.
He kept his gaze down, keeping his hands hidden under the gloves as he continued to pretend not to know exactly who you were.
You, on the other hand, watched him with curiosity.
After a few minutes, you spoke again.
“You do this often?” you said lightly, handing a cup to a woman with a grateful smile.
Bucky shrugged. “Just… doing what needs doing.”
You glanced at his gloves and the way his shoulders stayed slightly hunched, like he was trying to fold inward.
Then you looked back at his face.
“You did a good job,” you said.
Bucky blinked. “With… soup?”
Your lips twitched into a sweet smile, head tilting.
“With the GRC,” you said quietly. “Things were… a mess. Still are, feels like”
The ladle froze mid-air.
Fuck. You… recognised him?
His heart skipped a beat as his mouth took off at a sprint.
“Oh,” he managed. “I—uh—”
You smiled again, gentler this time. You weren’t starstruck, nor invasive. You were just… sincere.
“You handled it with a lot of compassion,” you continued. “I remember watching the live coverage in the office.”
Bucky’s ears burned.
Sam, across the room, caught his eye and mouthed SHE KNOWS YOU.
Bucky did not look back.
“I was just… following Cap’s lead,” he said, because that was safer.
You studied him for a moment longer, then nodded. “Still. It mattered.”
Snow whipped past the windows outside. The line kept moving. The world kept going.
Inside, Bucky Barnes was quietly, internally losing his mind.
You handed him another stack of cups as he tried to focus very hard on the soup.
“Thanks,” he said, voice low.
“Anytime,” you replied with a chuckle.
Over the next few hours, he realised you were chatty in the most charming way.
It started small.
You commented on the soup temperature. Joked that the ladle was deceptively heavy. Mentioned that snowstorms always made communities unite, like shared misery unlocked manners. Bucky responded with short answers at first, and you didn’t seem to mind. You just adjusted, met him where he was, like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Conversation was… easy. He didn’t feel like he was calculating every word, didn’t feel like he was performing Normal Guy Behavior™. You filled gaps naturally, let silences exist without making them awkward. When he spoke, you listened like what he said mattered.
Internally, Bucky was losing a war.
Because in a deeply fucked-up, self-preserving corner of his brain, he’d been hoping, praying really, thats you’d secretly be awful. That you’d be rude, or fake, or condescending.
Because if you sucked, he could move on. He could chalk this whole thing up to a stupid crush and go back to watching you from a safe, distant screen. Maybe even deflate this stupid crush instantly.
But no.
Nooooo.
Instead, you just had to be a sweetheart who laughed with volunteers, remembered regulars’ names, and casually mentioning—
“I’ve been helping out here for years,” you said, shrugging like it wasn’t a big deal. “Since college, on and off. Storms just make it busier.”
Years.
Of course.
Of course you had. Of course you’d been doing good long before he ever noticed you through a screen. Of course you weren’t just someone who cared on-camera. Of course you were and inconveniently wonderful.
Bucky stared at the soup again, and thought, Fantastic. She’s kind AND committed. Kill me.
You glanced at him sideways, “You okay?”
“Yeah,” he said quickly. “Just… uh—concentrating.”
You chuckled, perhaps sensing his nerves, and something in his chest gave way.
Then the coordinator’s voice cut through the room. “Alright, new volunteers just arrived! Time to rotate stations!”
You peeled your gloves off slowly, like you weren’t in any hurry to leave the moment. “Guess we’re done.”
“Yeah,” Bucky said, immediately hating how disappointed he sounded.
You hesitated, then tilted your head at him, studying his face. “You know,” you said lightly, “you’re a lot easier to talk to than I thought a super-soldier would be.”
His heart did a stupid little backflip. “I… uh, thanks?”
You smiled, warmer now. Flirty in that way that didn’t demand anything but absolutely invited him in. “I mean it,” you said. “I’m glad we worked together.”
He nodded, hands curling slightly at his sides. Say something. Say anything.
“Hey, do you maybe want to…”
Oh God.
You looked back up at him as he swallowed hard. Do it. Don’t be a coward.
“...get coffee sometime?” He finished quickly. “If you want. Just, coffee, no foam. I mean—foam’s fine if you like it… sorry.”
Smooth. Real smooth.
For half a second, you just stared at him, then you smiled.
You didn’t look surprised. If anything, you looked pleased.
“I was hoping you’d ask,” you said, like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Bucky froze. “You were?”
“Mmhmm.” You reached into your coat pocket and pulled out your phone. “But I’m gonna make this easy on you.”
You scribbled your number on a scrap of paper from the counter and pressed it into his human palm.
“Text me,” you said, eyes meeting his. “And we’ll figure out when that date is.”
Date.
His brain short-circuited completely.
“I… okay,” he managed, nodding a little too fast. “Yeah. I can do that.”
You smiled, clearly endeared at how overwhelmed he looked. “I look forward to it, Bucky.”
—
Bucky stared at the scrap of paper like it might detonate.
Your number. It was real. Handwritten, and slightly smudged because his hands had been sweating like he was about to defuse a bomb instead of… text a woman.
He’d folded it once, unfolded it before folding again, tucking it carefully into his jacket pocket like it was fragile glass.
Sam, who just finished his part, noticed immediately.
He didn’t say anything at first. He asked if he wanted to go to a diner— which Bucky agreed to.
And during dinner, Sam just watched his best friend tap the table restlessly with his metal fingers as he held his phone in his human hand, unlocking and relocking the screen like that might summon courage through muscle memory alone.
Finally, Sam leaned back on the booth cushions, arms crossed. “You gonna tell me why you look like you’re about to jump out of a plane without a parachute?”
Bucky stopped tapping. “I’m fine.”
Sam raised an eyebrow. “You’ve opened your phone twelve times and haven’t done anything.”
Bucky scowled and lied. “That’s not true.”
“Oh, my bad. Thirteen.”
Bucky let a deep breath out through his nose, before admitting quietly, “I got her number.”
Sam froze. “You what?”
“I got her number,” Bucky repeated, like saying it again might make it less terrifying. “She… she gave it to me.”
Sam’s face looked like it was stuck between joy, disbelief, and chaos. “Whoa, Buck—”
“Don’t,” Bucky snapped, pointing a finger at him. “Don’t yell.”
Sam chuckled, eyes wide. “Sorry.”
Bucky rubbed the back of his neck. “She told me to text her.”
Sam’s grin was immediate and unstoppable.
“You will not tell anyone,” Bucky said firmly.
Sam blinked. “Anyone?”
“Anyone,” Bucky repeated. “Not Joaquin. Not even your sister. Not anyone.”
Sam tilted his head. “C’mon man.”
Bucky hesitated, eyes dropping back to his phone. “I don’t wanna jinx it.”
Sam held up two fingers like an oath. “Secret’s safe. On my life.”
“Thank you.”
“Now,” Sam added immediately, leaning forward, “are you gonna text her, or are you gonna die staring at your lock screen?”
Bucky scowled. “I’m working up to it.”
Sam watched as Bucky finally opened the messages app, typed a few words… deleted them. Tried again. Deleted again.
“What the hell are you writing?” Sam asked.
“Something normal,” Bucky said. “Not weird.”
“Define weird.”
“Anything that sounds like I’ve been thinking about her for months.”
Sam snorted. “Good call.”
Bucky tried again.
Bucky: Hey, it’s Bucky from the soup kitchen today.
He stared at it. Read it. Overthought it. Finally, he showed Sam.
“Too boring?” he asked.
Sam shrugged. “It’s fine, man. Hit send.”
Bucky’s thumb hovered.
His chest felt tight. This was worse than jumping out of planes. Worse than fighting aliens. At least their rejection wouldn't hurt.
He hit send.
The phone was silent for exactly seven seconds before it buzzed.
Bucky’s heart nearly stopped as he opened it immediately.
You: Hey, Souper Soldier :) I was hoping you’d text!
His breath left him in a rush he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.
Sam watched his face and grinned. “She replied, didn’t she?”
Bucky didn’t even try to hide it. “Yeah.”
—
The texting started… cautiously.
At least on his end.
You: Made it home without slipping on ice 👍
Bucky stared at the screen for a full minute before replying.
Bucky: Yeah. Same. Still thawing out though. I packed some extra soup and it helped.
Three dots appeared.
You: Soup is powerful like that
You: So is coffee, apparently. You seemed very serious about yours.
He huffed, a smile tugging at his lips.
Bucky: I prefer just black coffee.
Bucky: It gets the job done.
Bucky: You?
You: Oh I’m a menace
You: milk, sugar, sometimes cinnamon if I’m feeling interesting
He shook his head, fond despite himself.
From there, it got… easy.
You sent him pictures of the ridiculous snowbanks still clogging the sidewalks. He sent back a blurry photo of his coffee mugs. You teased him for being dry over text; he admitted (after some coaxing) that he was better in person.
Then, two days in…
You: So what do you actually do when you’re not saving soup kitchens?
He stared at it, metal plates rippling on his vibranium arm.
Bucky: Bit of this, bit of that.
Bucky: Helping where I can.
You: Mysterious. I like it 😌
You: I’m a little less exciting. I work in broadcasting
He blinked. What am I supposed to say?
Typed.
Deleted.
Typed again.
Bucky: Oh.
Bucky: Really?
He could feel the universe judging him.
You: Yeah! Local news
You: Mostly mornings
His soul tried to leave his body.
Bucky: That’s cool.
Cool???
He knew. He knew. He should’ve just said something like Hey, funny story, I already know this.
But instead, like a coward, he kept digging.
You: Weather, specifically. Nothing glamorous
Bucky stared at the word weather like he was solving an impossible equation.
Bucky: That’s great. People need to know about weather.
Smooth. Incredible. Nailed it.
You didn’t seem to notice his nerves through the screen. Or if you did, you found it charming.
You: You’re sweet
You: want to get that coffee this weekend?
He said yes immediately.
—
The date was simple.
It was at a small café of his choosing. It had warm lighting, and it was quiet enough that he didn’t feel like the walls were closing in. You waved when you saw him, bundled in a coat and scarf, smiling like this wasn’t the most terrifying thing he’d done in years.
Conversation flowed like it had at the shelter, maybe even better.
You talked about early mornings, about learning to smile on camera even when you were exhausted, about how weather felt personal because it affected everyone. He listened, genuinely fascinated, occasionally tripping over the fact and deflecting over the fact that he’d watched you tell him it was gonna be chilly over the weekend yesterday morning.
Fuck, when he developed his silly little crush on you, he had never imagined you’d be sitting across from him, laughing into your coffee.
That was a lie. Maybe he’d imagined it once or twice, but he never actually thought he’d get to do it.
At one point, you caught him staring.
“What?” you asked, amused.
“Nothing,” he said quickly. “You’re just… easy to look at.”
You chuckled, cheeks warming. “You are too, you know.”
By the time you stood to leave, his nerves were back in full force. He walked you outside, cold air biting at his cheeks.
“Well,” you said, “I had a really good time.”
“Me too,” he said, earnest. “I’d… like to do this again. If you want.”
Instead of answering right away, you stepped closer. And before his brain could reboot, you leaned up and pressed a kiss to his cheek.
His entire system shut down.
“I’d love to go on a second date,” you said warmly.
Bucky nodded, stunned. “Okay. Yeah. Definitely.”
You smiled at him one last time before heading off down the sidewalk, leaving him frozen in place, hand hovering near his cheek like he needed proof it had actually happened.
Somewhere deep down, he knew he really, really needed to tell you the truth.
But right now, all he could think was…
Holy shit. She kissed me.
—
The second date was easier.
You met him at a bookstore-themed cocktail bar tucked between a laundromat and a bodega that smelled permanently like oranges. Bucky arrived ten minutes early and spent seven of them pretending to browse a shelf labeled Modern Memoirs while actually rehearsing how not to say something unhinged. When you walked in, he forgot every plan he’d made and just… smiled.
You talked for hours.
Not the careful, surface-level kind of talking either, but real conversation. You told him about growing up watching storms roll in from your bedroom window, how weather made you feel small in a good way. He told you about Brooklyn in the forties, about baseball games, about the war. You didn’t flinch when he mentioned nightmares. You didn’t pry. You just listened, nodding like it all made sense.
At some point, you reached across the table and nudged his metal fingers with yours.
“Can I?” you asked gently.
He swallowed. “Yeah. Please.”
You traced the vibranium seams like you were learning a part of him. Bucky’s heart skipped a beat, then settled. When you left, you hugged him, and he stood there afterward thinking, oh no. This is becoming a thing.
—
The third date was dinner.
Nothing fancy. It was a small place you liked near your apartment, all brick walls and low lights. You laughed more this time. He loosened up enough to tease you about your corny ‘souper soldier’ pun, and you teased back about him being emotionally attached to black coffee. Somewhere between dessert and the check, he realized he felt… normal. Like this was just his life now.
Walking you home was not something he planned on.
The night was cold but clear, streetlights glowing against leftover snow. You talked about weekend plans, a storm system moving in next week, until you stopped outside your building.
“Well,” you said, putting your weight slightly back on your heels. “I had a really good time.”
“Me too,” he said, too quickly. Then, because he’d promised himself he would be better than his fears, he added, “I was wondering if I could—” He stopped to take a grounding breath, “—kiss you?”
You smiled, eyes warm. “Yeah,” you said. “Of course.”
He leaned in carefully, like he was approaching a goddess. The kiss was gentle at first, then sure, your hand curling into his jacket as if you’d always known where it belonged. When you pulled back, his forehead rested briefly against yours, like he needed the contact to stay upright.
You laughed quietly. “You okay?”
He nodded, dazed. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m… yeah.”
You unlocked your door and turned back to him. “Text me when you get home?”
“Absolutely,” he said, already planning to text you the second he was out of sight.
You waved and slipped inside.
Bucky stood there for a full five seconds. Then his brain caught up as he realized three things in rapid succession:
You tasted faintly like coffee and cinnamon.
His heart was trying to escape his chest.
I know where she lives now????
He blinked, looking at the door, then at the building. He felt his soul try to exit his body in a spiral of delight and terror.
He walked home in a fog, lips still burning, heart doing laps in his chest. Somewhere between your block and his, he laughed out loud, startling a passerby.
This was good. This was really good.
It didn’t, however, change the fact that he was absolutely, completely screwed.
—
The fourth date started with him standing across the street from the local broadcasting studio at four-thirty in the afternoon, hands shoved into his coat pockets, teeth clenched like he was bracing for impact.
This was nothing. This was normal. People picked each other up from work all the time. Except, he kinda knew where you worked, like, eight months before you actually told him in a text. After all, he didn’t live too far from the Channel 7 Office. To his defense, before you actually met him, he never ever, even once, thought about trying to run into you there. That would be weird.
Still, it probably explained why his heart was pounding like he was about to jump out of a quinjet.
Then the doors opened, and you stepped out.
You were dressed down compared to your on-camera look, coat slung over your arm, hair loose, face relaxed in a way he’d never seen through a screen. When your eyes found him, your smile bloomed instantly.
“Hey,” you said.
His brain went blank.
“Hey,” he managed, voice rougher than intended.
You fell into step beside him easily, like this was already a habit. On the subway ride to the Guggenheim (your idea for a date), you talked about your day. You talked about early meetings, producers arguing over graphics, and how exhausting it could be to smile before the sun was even fully up. Bucky listened like it mattered. Like you mattered. Every once in a while, you glanced at him as you spoke, checking that he was really there. He was.
Inside the museum, the space opened up around you. Bucky stood beside you under the spiraling white curves, hands tucked into his coat pockets, head tilted back as he took it in. “Feels like I’m standing inside a thought,” he chuckled.
You laughed as you moved slowly through the exhibits. Sometimes your shoulder brushed his. Sometimes your fingers found his sleeve and stayed there. He didn’t flinch when crowds pressed in, but you noticed him leaning subtly toward you as art curved upward with the building, color and shape unfolding slowly. You walked close, shoulders brushing now and then, never pulling away.
“This one always makes me feel small,” you said, staring at a massive abstract piece. “But not in a bad way.”
Bucky nodded. “Yeah. Like… perspective.”
You glanced at him. “You get it.”
Your fingers slipped around his metal finger without thinking, resting there like it belonged. He froze for half a second before relaxing into it, metal plates humming faintly beneath your touch.
By the time you stepped back outside, dusk had crept in.
“Do you…” He hesitated, heart racing. “Do you want to come back to my place?”
You didn’t even have to think about it. “Sure.”
—
His apartment felt different the moment you crossed the threshold. You kicked off your shoes, shrugged out of your coat, looked around like you were mapping him through his space. He watched you like he couldn’t quite believe this was happening.
It didn't matter, anyway. You both barely made it past the hallway.
The second it felt private enough, you pulled Bucky’s lips to yours. This kiss was deeper, more urgent than ever before. His hands found your waist on instinct, pulling you closer as if distance had suddenly become unbearable. There was no hiding behind paper-thin pretenses anymore, not that Bucky ever tried to hide his intentions of why he was bringing you home.
“I just—” He pulled back a fraction, forehead resting against yours, breath uneven. “This is okay, right?”
Your smile was unmistakably sure. “Bucky… yes.”
That was it.
The kiss resumed, heavier now. Your back hit the wall as he pressed into you, then your hands reversed it without thinking, guiding him back until his shoulders met the cool surface instead. Your mouth traced along his chin, down your neck, making him inhale sharply.
You laughed breathlessly when he fumbled with your skirt zipper and the buttons of your blouse. “Hey,” you teased gently. “Still with me?”
“Barely,” he admitted hoarsely.
You helped him, and when his shirt came off, your hands explored him like you were curious, like you wanted to learn. You swallowed, cheeks already tinged with how much you were staring. “I… I have to admit something,” you started, biting your lip like it was the only thing keeping your words from spilling over.
Bucky raised an eyebrow, “Oh yeah?”
You bit the inside of your cheek, trying not to be too nervous. “At the museum earlier… I kind of wanted to push you up against the wall.”
He froze for a second. Eyes flicked to yours, just the faintest smile playing at the corner of his mouth. “Really?”
You nodded, heat creeping up your neck. “Yeah. Nothing says art quite like… Bucky Barnes, displayed right next to a Kandinsky. But I didn’t, because… well, public space.”
Bucky’s smile became a shy grin. He pulled you closer, if it was even possible, peppering kisses on your lips. “I think I could’ve handled it,” he said confidently, surprising himself. “Even appreciated it.”
Your stomach flipped. “Bucky—” you whispered, half warning, half pleading.
“Or,” he added, tilting his head, thumb brushing along your side, “we could make tonight a private showing.”
You laughed, breathless and flustered, trying to play it cool but failing spectacularly. “I—uh… I might need a moment to… appreciate the view first,” you said, voice wobbling, teasing, but utterly incapable of hiding the heat in your chest.
Bucky’s grin widened, the kind that promised he knew exactly what he was doing. He was nervous, of course. But now he was motivated, and a motivated Bucky wasn’t something anyone should evertake for granted. He leaned in, forehead resting against yours, lips just brushing your ear. “I think I could make you forget all about appreciating the art.”
And that was it. You were undone.
After that, the bed was a blur. One moment you were pressing him up against the wall, thinking you were in control, the next he was guiding you down with reverent hands. When he landed on the mattress and helped line your waists together as you back to straddle him, the sound he made was wrecked enough to make you gain a bit of your poise back.
“Oh,” you said, almost teasing. “You okay?”
He laughed weakly. “I’m… yeah.”
You leaned down and kissed him again, and it was thorough and devastating. His hands settled at your hips, thumbs digging in like anchors. The world narrowed to the heat pooling down your core and his breath and the way your bodies fit together like they’d been working toward this for weeks.
Later, after riding each other’s high, you lay tangled together beneath the covers, skin warm and limbs heavy.
Bucky stared at the ceiling for a moment, then turned his head toward you.
“Hey,” he said quietly.
“Hey,” you answered, tracing idle patterns along his human arm.
His throat tightened, looking down. You were not just a person on a screen anymore. You were real. And perhaps, you never needed to know otherwise. “I’m really glad I met you.”
You smiled, pressing a kiss to his shoulder. “Me too.”
—
The next morning crept in too early.
Gray-blue light filtered through the curtains, city sounds still half-asleep, the clock on Bucky’s nightstand glowing 6:02 a.m. You stirred awake first, carefully, like you were navigating a minefield instead of a bed.
You slipped one leg out from under the covers, then the other, wincing when the floor felt colder than expected. You reached for your clothes as quietly as possible, gathering them up against your chest, already rehearsing how to disappear without waking him.
It didn’t work. He had super-soldier senses, after all.
“Hey,” Bucky muttered, voice still rough with sleep.
You turned slowly. He was on his side, hair a mess, eyes barely open but already focused on you like you were the most important thing in the room.
“Sorry,” you whispered. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”
He pushed himself up on one elbow. “It’s okay. What time is it?”
“Early,” you said apologetically. You pulled on your blouse, smoothing it down. “I gotta run to work. I texted my coworker to see if I can borrow a blazer and shirt so I don’t have to go back to my place, but I… yeah. I need to go.” You hesitated, then smiled sheepishly. “I was gonna leave you a note.”
You leaned down and kissed him.
When you pulled back, he looked… happy, and awake now.
“I—” he cleared his throat, sitting up a little straighter. “I can drive you? If you want.”
You laughed, warm and fond. “Buck, it’s like three subway stops.”
“Oh,” he said. “Right. Yeah. That makes sense.”
You slipped your bag over your shoulder, then paused at the bedroom door. “Besides,” you added, teasing just a little, “I want you to tune in and watch.”
His heart tried to punch its way out of his chest. He absolutely could not say I do, every morning.
So instead he said, way too casual, “Uh. Okay. It’s… MetroView NY, right? Channel 7?”
You smiled, assuming he knew from picking you up yesterday. “Yeah. That one.”
Nailed it.Totally normal. Definitely not suspicious.
You reached for the door, then stopped when he spoke again.
“Hey… um,” he rubbed the back of his neck. “A couple of my friends are visiting the city tonight. They wanna check out this new dive bar. You… wanna join us?”
You turned back to him, nodding. “Yeah. Of course. Just text me the address and when.”
Relief washed over his face so visibly it made you smile. After what he did to you last night, you found it adorable that he was still kinda flustered.
As he sat straight up, you kissed him once more, quick but affectionate, and whispered, “I’ll see you tonight, then.”
—
Bucky was standing in the kitchen an hour later, coffee gone cold in his hand, shirt tugged on hastily after you left, brain replaying the exact sound of your laugh from the night before like it was on a loop he couldn’t shut off. The apartment smelled faintly like you, and it was doing absolutely nothing to help.
Right on cue, he turned the TV on.
And there you were.
You had bright studio lights on you, a polished smile, hair styled in a way that made it painfully clear you hadn’t been up all night… appreciating art. You greeted the audience like your legs weren’t still wobbly.
“Good morning,” you said cheerfully, standing in front of the weather map. “If you’re heading out early, you’ll want to bundle up, looks like the city’s still riding the weather out today.”
He choked on his coffee.
Riding the weather out. Jesus Christ, in all of his months of watching you on TV, he had never ever heard you say something like that. Especially not after you were on top him like a cowgirl last night.
But still, it could be a coincidence, right?
You clicked to the next graphic. “Yesterday’s storm cleared beautifully, though. Sometimes all it takes is a little pressure shift to make things fall into place.”
Bucky closed his eyes for half a second.
Pressure shift. It could be totally normal phrase. He was absolutely not thinking about you trailed your hands on his shoulders or the way you’d smiled at him afterward like you knew exactly what you’d done.
“And if you were out enjoying the arts last night, maybe wandering a museum,” you continued smoothly, “you might’ve noticed how the city feels a little less windy. That trend will continue over the weekend.”
He shifted his weight, heat creeping up his neck.
You gestured toward the screen again. “Today’s actually perfect for something low-key. A walk through the park, maybe. Or checking out a new dive bar while the roads stay clear.”
Bucky stared.
“And for those staying in,” you added, lips twitching just slightly, “it’s a good night for… private showings.”
He let out a strangled noise that might’ve been a laugh.
There was no way. No way that was accidental. The camera didn’t catch it, but he did, confirmed now by the quick little glint in your eye before you smiled wide again.
“Whatever you choose,” you finished, “it’s a good day to go out, or stay warm inside. Please plan accordingly, folks!”
Bucky actually laughed this time.
You signed off like nothing had happened, like you hadn’t just flirted with one specific super-soldier through an FCC-compliant forecast.
He stood there for a long moment, heartbeat loud in his ears, replaying flashes of last night, thinking about the way you’d climbed into his lap like you already knew exactly where you belonged.
His phone buzzed.
You: I kept it professional, but I figured you’d understand the subtext 😇
He huffed out a chuckle.
Bucky: I understood, sweetheart. Loud and clear.
The reply came almost instantly.
You: Good :)
You: Tonight’s forecast is still open 😉
He stared at the message, warmth spreading through his chest.
—
Later that night, you were at the dive bar a full half hour early, for no reason except for the fact that you had nothing else to do.
Your apartment had felt too still after you got home, so you’d just changed clothes, stared at yourself in the mirror longer than necessary, and eventually decided that sitting alone with your thoughts was a bad idea.
So here you were.
The bar was comfortably dim, the kind of place that smelled faintly like citrus cleaner and old wood, neon signs humming over shelves of bottles. It wasn’t crowded yet, just a couple of people nursing drinks like they had nowhere else to be.
You slid onto a stool at the bar and ordered a soda. It felt normal. No cameras, just producers in your ear. Just a denim jacket and jeans, a Tool t-shirt, and your hair down the way it never was on air.
You didn’t mind being early. It gave you time to settle.
You’d just unlocked your phone when someone sat on the stool beside you with an audible little gasp. “Oh my god.”
You glanced over, already smiling because… yeah. You knew that tone.
“You’re the weather girl.”
You laughed, and it sounded light. “I am, yeah.”
His face lit up immediately, like he’d just stumbled into a celebrity sighting he hadn’t expected to happen in a dive bar of all places. You never considered yourself a celebrity by any means, well… maybe a local one. “That’s wild. I mean, sorry. I didn’t mean to say it like that.”
“It’s okay,” you said, lifting your soda in a small toast. “Happens more than you’d think.”
He laughed, then tilted his head, squinting slightly. “You look… different.”
You raised an eyebrow, amused. “Different how?”
“More real?” He waved a hand vaguely. “Less… map.”
You snorted. “Yeah, the green screen really does a lot of heavy lifting.”
That got a proper laugh out of him. He stuck out his hand. “I’m Joaquin. Nice to meet you.”
You shook it. “Nice to meet you too, Joaquin.”
He seemed genuinely sweet. He was friendly, a little excitable in a way that felt harmless. You chatted idly for a few minutes. About how weird it was being recognized in random places. About how this bar apparently had surprisingly good fries.
Then Joaquin shifted on his stool, suddenly looking like he was working up the nerve to say something.
“So,” he said, lowering his voice just a bit. “This is gonna sound kind of weird.”
You shrugged. “That’s usually how the best conversations start.”
He chuckled, then took a breath. “I have a friend coming in tonight who has… like. A huge crush on you.”
You blinked, then laughed softly. “Oh?”
“Massive,” he said, nodding seriously. “He watches you every morning. Has for… I don’t know. Almost a year, I think.”
You were used to people who knew you, sure, used to people finding comfort in routine, in familiar faces on their screens. There was something sweet about that kind of consistency, but your “fans” usually consist of little kids who wanted to work in broadcasting when they grew up.
“Is he… weird about it?” you asked with an eyebrow raised.
“No,” Joaquin said quickly. “Not at all, I promise. He just has a harmless crush on you. Any chance you’d maybe talk to him? He’d probably die before asking for a photo, but he’d definitely appreciate it.”
You considered it for about half a second.
“Sure,” you said easily. “I can say hi.”
Joaquin’s relief was immediate. “You’re a saint, man.”
He glanced toward the door just as it opened, letting in a rush of cold air and the crowd murmur of the street outside.
“Oh,” he said, pointing. “There he is.”
You followed his gesture.
Oh.
Bucky Barnes stepped into the bar; shoulders squared, leather acket pulled close, eyes scanning the room.
His gaze found Joaquin first.
Then it slid to you, sitting next to him.
The moment recognition hit, it was like watching a system crash in real time.
He froze, just for a beat, but it was enough for his shoulders to go rigid. His steps slowed, face going utterly blank in that way that screamed oh no even if he didn’t say a word.
Joaquin, completely oblivious to the internal apocalypse happening, grinned like he’d just pulled off the greatest surprise of his life.
“That’s him,” he said cheerfully.
You set your side down slowly, eyes never leaving Bucky as he stood there looking like the universe had personally betrayed him.
You smiled fondly, just a little bit confused. “Well,” you whispered, mostly to yourself, “this just got interesting.”
Joaquin didn’t seem to hear. He lifted his arm high, waving enthusiastically over the low din of the bar. “BUCKY!”
Bucky flinched.
Not subtly, either. It was a full-body, caught-off-guard flinch. His eyes darted once more to you before snapping back to Joaquin, as if maybe, maybe, if he didn’t look directly at you again, this would all turn out to be a misunderstanding.
It didn’t.
Joaquin waved again, bigger this time, and patted the empty stool on his other side. “C’mon, man!”
Bucky swallowed and forced his legs to move.
You watched him approach, taking in the way his shoulders were stiff. God, he looked handsome, and for a while you were distracted from the matter at hand.
You schooled your expression into polite curiosity as he reached the bar.
Joaquin beamed between the two of you. “Okay, Bucky, this is—” He gestured to you dramatically as he nudged his ribs “—well. You know who she is.”
You laughed lightly and turned toward Bucky, offering your hand like you hadn’t already memorized the exact shape of his body.
“Hi,” you said warmly. “Nice to meet you.”
Bucky short-circuited.
His brain screamed. His heart tried to exit his body. His internal monologue dissolved into white noise and regret.
Oh.
Oh no.
Oh absolutely not.
His stomach dropped so hard he was pretty sure it hit the floor.
You were acting perfectly casual, perfectly unbothered, like you’d never pressed him against the wall. Like he didn’t know exactly what you sounded like when he reached that sweet spot on your neck.
Then, you met his gaze and gave the smallest smile, mouthing: Just play along.
Bucky caught it.
And immediately started spiraling worse.
Play along.
Play along with what?
Pretending he didn’t already know how you took your coffee?
Pretending he hadnt gone on four fucking dates with you already?
He stared at your outstretched hand for half a second too long before taking it, his grip careful, respectful, like he was terrified of doing anything wrong.
“Hi,” he said, voice a little too rough. “I’m… uh. Bucky. Nice to meet you too.”
You smiled at him like this was the first time you’d ever seen him, like you hadn’t woken up in his bed that morning.
Perfect.
Joaquin glanced between you, clearly delighted. “See? I told you he was cool.”
You nodded. “He told me you’re a regular viewer.”
Bucky felt his soul leave his body. Fuck.
“I—I mean,” he rushed out, already spiraling, “yeah, but not like—” He stopped himself, swallowed hard. “I just… uh. Mornings. Routine. You’re very… informative.”
Informative.
Jesus Christ.
You tilted your head, amused. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”
Joaquin snorted. “Dude watches every morning,” he stage-whispered. “Once, he stayed at Sam’s for work, in Louisiana? He downloaded a VPN to get to a New York server to watch your daily weekday forecast on his phone.”
Bucky shot him a look of pure betrayal. “Joaquin—”
“What?” Joaquin said innocently. “It’s true.”
You laughed again, kind and easy, while Bucky was very very close to jst bolting out of the room.
Then Joaquin checked his phone. “Oh, by the way. Sam texted me. He’s gonna be a bit late.”
Bucky blinked. “What?”
“Yeah,” Joaquin said. “Some kinda thing came up.” He leaned back on his stool, completely at ease. “So! Guess it’s just us for a bit.”
You smiled at him again, and the weight in his chest eased just a fraction.
He shifted his weight, hands curling into his jacket sleeves.
But as he sat there, pretending this was the first time you’d ever met, Bucky couldn’t shake the thought looping endlessly through his head:
Please don’t think I’m a creep. Please don’t think I’m a creep. Please don’t—
Oh no.
She is definitely gonna think I’m a creep.
She’s gonna think I lied.
She’s gonna think I stalked her.
She’s gonna think I’m one of those guys who shows up to volunteer hoping to “run into” someone from TV.
He nodded anyway. “Y… yeah,” he said, forcing himself to breathe. “Cool. That’s… cool.”
You turned fully toward him now, resting your elbow lightly on the bar. “So,” you said conversationally, “Joaquin tells me you’re a big weather guy.”
Bucky’s ears burned.
“I—uh,” He laughed awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck. “I just like… knowing what’s coming.”
You hummed thoughtfully. “That makes sense.”
Did it?
Did it really?
Or did you secretly think he was a freak who built his mornings around a woman on a screen and then go looking for her in real life to pretend to to—
Joaquin, entirely unaware of the existential crisis unfolding inches away from him, grinned. “See? He’s harmless.”
Bucky exhaled through his nose, heart still racing.
You took a sip of your drink, then glanced at Bucky again, eyes dancing just a little. “So. You a regular here?”
Bucky blinked. She’s flirting. Or pretending to.Or both.
“Uh. No,” he said. “This… opened last week.”
“Mmm,” you hummed thoughtfully, as your knee brushed his under the bar.
Bucky stiffened, heartbeat skyrocketing, every memory of the past few weeks crashing into him all at once: coffee dates, stolen kisses, the way you’d laughed when he got flustered, the fact that you’d already seen him naked and were now acting like this was a meet-cute.
You leaned in slightly, just enough that only he could hear. “You’re doing great,” you whispered. “Relax.”
He nodded immediately.
You smiled, warm this time, and turned back to Joaquin like nothing had happened.
Bucky let out a shaky breath.
God help him.
If this was him playing along, he didn’t know how much longer his nervous system could survive it.
—
For the next thirty minutes, Joaquin, unfortunately, was having the time of his life.
He leaned back on his barstool like a man who believed that he was orchestrating and wingman-ing his good friend.
“So yeah,” Joaquin said casually, taking a sip of his drink, “Bucky doesn’t watch any other news channel.”
Bucky made a noise somewhere between a cough and a plea for mercy.
You tilted your head, resting your chin on your hand, eyes bright with interest. “Oh?”
Bucky tried to shoot him a warning look, but Joaquin missed it entirely.
“He knows which days you’re on,” Joaquin added. “If you’re off, he gets all grumpy. Pretends he doesn’t care, but—”
“That is not true,” Bucky cut in, face heating fast.
You smiled sweetly. “Really?”
Joaquin nodded enthusiastically. “Oh yeah. He’ll be like, ‘Huh. Must be a guest forecaster today.’ Meanwhile he’s chugging two cups of coffee.”
Bucky pressed his lips together and stared very hard at his glass.
You leaned in just a fraction, curiosity sharpening. “Two, huh?”
Bucky winced. “You don’t have to say it like that.”
“But that’s what it’s called,” Joaquin insisted. “You correct people when they get it wrong.”
You laughed softly. “Does he, now?”
Joaquin nodded. “One time Sam called it ‘the Channel Seven weather thing’ and Bucky was like—” He straightened, dropping his voice into a hilarious impression, “‘It’s Morning MetroView. It’s different.’”
Bucky buried his face in his hand.
You watched him with open fascination now. “Wow.”
“It’s not—” Bucky tried, then gave up, shoulders slumping. “I just… appreciate accuracy.”
Joaquin pointed at him. “See? Weather guy.”
You smiled, slow and curious. “Anything else he appreciates?”
“Oh!” Joaquin perked up. “The theme song.”
Bucky froze.
“…The theme song?” you echoed.
Joaquin nodded. “He hums it all the time.”
Bucky looked like he might actually pass away.
You stared at Joaquin, then back at Bucky. “You hum the theme song.”
“I do not,” Bucky said weakly.
Joaquin grinned. “You do. It drives me insane on missions sometimes. No offense.”
Your eyes lit up mischievously. “None taken.”
Bucky muttered, “Please stop talking,” as he pressed his forehead to the bar.
You stared at him for a beat, then chuckled. You didn’t laugh loudly or mockingly. Instead, it was a gentle, surprised laugh, like you’d stumbled onto a plot twist you hadn’t expected but appreciated.
“I just…,” you said. “Feel… professionally observed.”
Bucky peeked up at you, horrified. “I swear I wasn’t… I didn’t— I never. I mean, I wasn’t looking for you. I didn’t even think I’d ever meet you. I just—”
Joaquin checked his phone mid-rant. “Oh, hey. Sam just texted.”
Bucky looked up sharply. “What did he say?”
Joaquin stood, sliding off the stool. “He’s around the block. I’m gonna go meet him outside.”
Relief flooded Bucky’s face, right up until Joaquin pat him on the shoulder.
“You two keep talking,” Joaquin said brightly, then leaned in and winked at Bucky. “I’ll give you space.”
Bucky stared at his retreating back in horror.
You turned back toward him, smile still in place. You said nothing, but your eyes were very, very curious.
Bucky’s silence lasted approximately forty seconds after Joaquin disappeared before absolutely losing the plot.
“I just wanna say,” he started, too fast, hands already coming up like he was surrendering, “I’m not a creep. I swear to God. I didn’t… this wasn’t like a thing I planned or anything. I wasn’t tracking you or showing up places on purpose or—”
You blinked, startled, “Bucky…”
“I know how it sounds,” he rushed on, words tumbling over each other until it blended together now. “Guy watches someone on TV, knows the schedule, hums the theme song…. okay, that part sounds bad when you say it out loud! But it was just routine. It helped me feel normal. And I didn’t know you. I didn’t think I knew you. I never thought you owed me anything, or that you even knew I existed…”
He dragged a hand through his hair, looking up at the bar heavens as though any kind of divine force could save him.
“I swear I didn’t go to that soup kitchen because of you,” he added, panic in his voice. “That was real. You were just… there. And then you were nice, and kind, and… fuck, I just—please don’t think I’m some creep who built a fantasy in his head.”
You watched him unravel for a few seconds longer before closing the distance before he could spiral any further.
You… kissed him.
It was intentional. You were enough that he could feel the warmth of you, smell your perfume, register the way your hand slid lightly on the front of his chest like you were anchoring yourself there.
He froze for half a second. Then he melted.
When you pulled back, his breathing was uneven, eyes blown wide like he’d just been rebooted.
“I don’t think you’re a creep,” you said, lips still close enough that your words brushed his mouth.
He swallowed hard. “…You don’t?” he asked quietly, almost afraid to hear the answer.
You laughed, thumb tracing the seam of his jacket. “Can I tell you a secret?”
He nodded immediately. Anything to take the pressure off him. “Yeah. Please.”
Your smile turned a little sheepish. “I might’ve had a teeny tiny crush on you, too, way before I first met you.”
His eyebrows shot up. “No way.”
“Way,” you said. “I watched your press conferences all the time.” You rolled your eyes at yourself. “I used to get jealous of my on-field coworkers who got to interview you. I’d be in the studio like, ‘Cool, I’m pointing at a screen while you’re standing five feet away from Bucky Barnes.’”
He let out a stunned laugh. “You’re kidding.”
“I’m not,” you said, amused. “Guess that’s what I get for pursuing meteorology.” You hesitated, before adding, “My parents still have Howling Commandos trading cards in the attic. I found them one summer when I was home from college and absolutely lost my mind.”
He stared at you. “You can’t be serious.”
“Dead serious,” you said. “I thought I had a harmless crush, too. You are… a super soldier, y’know? Avengers-adjacent. No way you’d ever look my way.”
You met his eyes, smile turning shy.
“Well,” you continued, “until… you did.”
Bucky let out a disbelieving laugh. “That’s… that’s— wow.”
You smiled. “So.” You nudged his knee lightly with yours. “We’re even.”
Bucky laughed, nose crinkling adorably, “I guess so.”
You leaned in, voice low and teasing now. “We’re really just different sides of the same coin.”
He chuckled, tension finally breaking, shoulders relaxing as his hand slid to your waist like it had always meant to be there.
“You really don’t mind?” he asked, just to be sure.
You smiled, fingers curling into his jacket. “Bucky, you weren’t a creep about it. It’s not like you stalked or harassed me,” you reassured, “and I think… I would very much mind if you stop.”
You kissed him again.
This one was slower, your fingers sliding up into his hair, his human hand firm at your waist like an anchor. Bucky sighed into it helplessly as the bar noise faded into a dull hum. If anyone was watching, neither of you noticed. You were too distracted with each other, loving feeling the smile on his face when you tugged him closer, loving the way he followed your lead.
—
“Dude,” Joaquin said excitedly as he and Sam rounded the corner back toward the bar. “I’m telling you, you are not prepared for this.”
Sam raised a brow. “You say that a lot.”
“No, this is different,” Joaquin insisted. “We saw the weather girl. Y’know, the one Bucky watches.”
Sam stopped short, a grin spread across his face. “Oh. That weather girl.”
“Yes!” Joaquin said. “And Bucky’s talking to her right now.”
Sam chuckled under his breath. “Yeah, that tracks.”
They pushed the door open.
And there you were.
Bucky had your side leaning gently against the bar now, one hand braced beside you, the other warm and familiar at your hip. You were smiling into the kiss like you already knew something the rest of the room didn’t. Bucky looked… relaxed. He looked in a way Joaquin had literally never seen before.
“Oh damn,” Joaquin froze mid-step. “That was quick.”
Sam burst out laughing, slapping Joaquin on the shoulder. “Quick? Man, no.”
He nodded toward the two of you, still very much wrapped up in each other, completely unbothered by your audience.
“They met a couple months ago,” Sam added casually.
Joaquin turned around. “What.”
“There was a blizzard,” Sam said. “Power outages everywhere. Bucky and I volunteered at one of the shelters. She showed up to help, too.”
Joaquin stared at him, almost betrayed. “You knew this?”
Sam shrugged, still smiling. “Didn’t know it’d turn into that, but yeah.”
Joaquin looked back at the bar. He studied the way Bucky’s forehead rested against yours now, kissing your nose adorably.
“Oh,” Joaquin’s eyes widened. “That’s why he was shitting himself.”
Sam snorted. “Yep.”
“He didn’t tell her,” Joaquin whispered, horrified and delighted all at once.
Sam shook his head. “Not a chance.”
Joaquin looked back at the bar, where Bucky had leaned in to murmur something in your ear that made you laugh before pulling him right back in.
“…Wow,” Joaquin said. “They’re just—”
“Yep,” Sam cut in. “Bet they’re gonna be sucking each other’s face off by the end of the night.”
Joaquin laughed, a little awed now. “Good for him.”
Summary: You're the quiet new girl, but when you stumble home drunk from the bar after going out with some old friends and start yapping to Bucky as he takes care of you, things shift between you two.
Word Count: 11,319
You’re not really the “life of the party” type. Everyone at the compound knows you’re quiet – even among Avengers, who run the full spectrum of weird and loud, you’re known for hovering at the back of the room, listening more than speaking. Bucky especially seems to get it. He’s quiet too. You’ve always liked that about him, even if it means you don’t actually talk to him much.
So when you agreed to go out tonight with old friends in the city, everyone was surprised. Hell, you surprised yourself. But it was fine. Fun, even. A little too much fun.
When you get back to the compound, it’s well after midnight. You fumble with the door code, giggling at your own clumsiness. Finally you get it open and stumble inside.
Bucky is the only one in the kitchen. He's leaning on the counter in sweatpants and a t-shirt, looking broody and tired. Typical Bucky. Probably another night he couldn’t sleep. He glances up at you, expecting you to nod at him shyly and disappear to your room like you always do.
Instead you beam at him.
“Buckyyyyyy!” you squeal, far too loud for the hour.
His eyebrows jump. “Uh…hey.”
“Oh my God,” you say, immediately plopping onto one of the stools at the island. “You’re awake! Good. Hi. How’s your night going? I went out with Abby and Bailey and their friends – I mean I didn’t know the other people but it was fine – actually some of them were weird, but it was fun, y’know? I think I had like five drinks? Wait, maybe six. A margarita. And something with elderflower? Do you know what elderflower is?”
He’s blinking at you. You. The person who never says more than five words at once. Now you’re talking a mile a minute, eyes bright, hair mussed from the wind outside, cheeks flushed. You don’t even wait for an answer. You keep going:
“And my feet are killing me, oh my God, these shoes are awful. I can’t wait to get out of this outfit, everything is digging in the wrong places and the zipper is evil and–”
Bucky clears his throat, pushing off the counter. “Okay. Yeah. Uh…why don’t you…drink some water, huh?” He fills a glass for you and sets it down carefully in front of you like you’re a small animal he’s afraid will bolt.
You beam at him. “You’re so nice,” you say, picking it up with exaggerated care. “I was so thirsty. Wow. You’re like…thoughtful. Super thoughtful. Has anyone ever told you that?”
“Drink,” he says gently, nodding. You take a big gulp, then set it down, your attention immediately going to your shoes.
“Ugh these heels are the worst idea I’ve ever had,” you groan, trying to unbuckle one. You almost slide right off the stool with the effort.
“Hey – whoa.” He steps forward and braces your arm. “Don’t fall, doll.”
You giggle at the nickname. “You called me doll.”
He sighs softly, but there’s amusement behind it. “Just…hold still, okay?” He kneels down in front of you, big hands surprisingly gentle as he undoes the straps on your shoes.
You watch him with a goofy grin. “You’re like a prince. Like Cinderella but in reverse. Prince Barnes. Has a nice ring to it.”
He huffs a laugh under his breath. “Sure. Let’s go with that.” He slides the shoes off one at a time and sets them aside. Your toes wiggle in relief.
“Thank you,” you say, sing-songy. “You’re so good at this. Have you done this before? You seem like you have. I bet you’re great at tying shoes too.”
He raises an eyebrow at you as he stands. “You’re real talkative tonight.”
You blink at him, offended in the mildest way. “Am I not usually? Wait – don’t answer that. I know I’m not. But you’re quiet too! That’s why I like you. You’re…you’re easy to be quiet with. But also you’re so good to talk to, Bucky. Like, you’re listening, I can tell.”
He rubs his jaw. “Yeah. Listening. Definitely listening.”
You lean your elbows on the counter, still babbling. “We should do this more often. Me talking, you listening. Actually you should talk too. We could both talk. Or both not talk. I’m very flexible. Also why are you making that face?”
He has turned to rummage in the kitchen and comes back with a slice of bread. He sets it on a napkin in front of you. “Eat,” he says simply.
You squint at the bread, then at him. “Why?”
“Because you’re drunk, and you need something in your stomach.”
You pick up the bread obediently. “You’re so bossy. I like that. Thank you.” You take a dramatic bite. Crumbs go everywhere. “Mmm. Sober bread.”
He pinches the bridge of his nose, shaking his head with a tiny, disbelieving smile. “Sober bread. Got it.”
You point at him with the bread. “You’re the best, Bucky. Really. The best.”
He grabs a towel to wipe the crumbs from the counter, side-eyeing you but clearly trying not to laugh. “Okay, okay. Finish that, drink your water. Then let’s get you out of here before you wake up Steve.”
You gasp. “I would never wake Steve. He’s so serious when he’s mad.”
“Exactly.” He pats your shoulder carefully. “Drink up.”
You grin at him, impossibly happy despite your discomfort. Despite your usual shyness. Because Bucky’s there. Taking care of you.
You chew another bite of bread and raise your water glass in a toast. “To Bucky Barnes. My very bestest quiet friend.”
He snorts. “Yeah, yeah. Cheers, doll.”
You finish the bread (half of it, really – crumbs go everywhere), gulp down the rest of the water, and plant your palms on the island like you’re about to make a big announcement.
“Okay,” you declare. “I’m ready. Let’s go.”
Bucky just stares at you for a second, arms folded. “Go…where?”
“My room, obviously,” you say with all the dignity of someone who just nearly fell off the chair earlier. “I can’t sleep here, Bucky.”
He rolls his eyes, exhaling in that slow, resigned way he does when he’s about to do something he never asked for but will absolutely see through. He holds out a hand. “Come on.”
You slap your palm into his with unnecessary enthusiasm. “Yay! Thank you.”
He helps you slide off the chair carefully, keeping a steady hand at your waist when you wobble. You don’t even notice – you’re too busy talking.
“So I told Bailey she’s too good for that asshole, right? Because she is. And she was like noooo, he’s nice and I’m like girl no, and then Abby wanted shots but I was like nope, and then – wait, do you have my shoes?”
He holds up the heels in his free hand. “Got ’em.”
“Good,” you say solemnly. “They’re evil. Don’t let them trick you.”
“Right,” he mutters, guiding you slowly down the hall.
You keep chattering. “Anyway, they said I should go out more but I don’t know, bars are so loud, you know? But it’s nice seeing them. But I like it here. It’s quieter. And you’re here. And you’re nice. Did you know you’re nice?”
“Mm-hm.”
“You’re rolling your eyes at me,” you accuse.
“Not yet,” he lies flatly.
You snort. “You’re so serious, Bucky. I bet you were fun once. Before the whole…murder stuff.”
He actually coughs a laugh at that, then tries to hide it behind a scowl. “Jesus, you’re a menace tonight.”
“Thank you,” you say brightly.
He herds you to your door, but when he opens it and gently tries to nudge you inside, you immediately start fumbling with the zipper at your side.
“Ugh, this stupid thing – help me get it off,” you mumble, twisting around clumsily.
He freezes. “Nope.”
“Pleeeease,” you whine. “I can’t reach – just – zip – down–”
“Bathroom,” he orders, steering you bodily toward it.
“But why?”
“Because you’re drunk and I’m not undressing you in the damn hallway.”
You laugh so hard you hiccup. “You’re so proper. Such a gentleman. It’s fine, you can see my bra, it’s not even a good one–”
He groans, scrubbing a hand over his face, then takes you by the shoulders and turns you firmly. “Bathroom. Go.”
You shuffle in, still talking. “Seriously it’s okay, I trust you, I don’t care if you see – Bucky? Bucky come help me.”
He leans in the doorframe, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I’m not looking. Turn around.”
You do as you’re told, pouting at the mirror. He sighs, steps in, and very carefully, very briskly, zips it down just enough. “There. Finish it yourself.”
You grin at him in the mirror. “You’re so blushy. That’s cute.”
“Finish. It. Yourself.” He flees to stand outside the door.
You giggle the whole time you’re wriggling out of the outfit and pulling on your oversized sleep shirt, narrating through the door.
“Almost done…okay – wait – stuck…okay now I’m done…are you still there? Bucky? Buckyyyy.”
“Still here,” he calls, voice flat but amused.
“Good. Don’t leave.”
When you open the door again you’re in your giant t-shirt, hair a mess, eyes sleepy and happy. He eyes you critically. “Better?” he asks.
“Much,” you say, stepping forward and wrapping your arms around him before he can dodge. You rest your head on his chest. “You’re so nice. Have I said that?”
He sighs but his hand lands on your back automatically. “Once or twice.”
You pull back enough to look up at him with droopy, happy eyes. “Thank you for taking care of me.”
He snorts. “Yeah. Anytime.”
“Really?”
He hesitates, then nods. “Really.”
You grin so wide it hurts your face. “You’re my favorite.”
“Yeah, yeah,” he mutters, gently steering you toward your bed. “Get in.”
You flop in without grace, giggling again. He sets your evil shoes by the door. “Stay until I fall asleep?” you ask, voice small now.
He gives you a look that’s half fond, half resigned. “Yeah. Okay.”
You snuggle under your blanket, finally quiet except for one last mumble: “Best quiet friend ever.”
He chuckles softly and sits in the chair across from your bed, arms folded. Watching over you. “Go to sleep, doll.”
You lie there in bed in your room for a while, watching the shadows on the ceiling. You’re quiet now, but your brain is buzzing. The alcohol’s made you warm, restless, too aware of everything.
You hear the chair creak quietly as Bucky stands up. He hesitates by your door, then softly closes it behind him. You don’t say anything. You could. But you don’t. Instead you lie there listening to the silence, willing yourself to sleep. It doesn’t work.
After a few minutes you shove your blanket aside and get up, padding barefoot across the hall. You pause at his door, debating for all of half a second before knocking. It takes a moment. The door opens partway, revealing Bucky in that same t-shirt and sweatpants, hair a little mussed.
He squints at you. “What.”
You blink at him owlishly. “Hi.”
He rubs a hand down his face. “Hi. What’s wrong?”
“I couldn’t sleep,” you say immediately, stepping closer like you’re about to just invite yourself in.
He leans on the doorframe, looking so tired you almost feel bad. Almost. “Did you even try?” he asks flatly.
You scowl. “Yeah. I tried so hard. It’s not my fault it didn’t work.”
He just sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. But you’re already slipping past him into his room.
“You have so much space in here,” you say, immediately looking around like you’re on a tour. “It’s so tidy. It’s very you. Oh my god, you have books on your nightstand. What are you reading? Wait, are those socks on the chair? Bucky, did you actually leave something out? That’s so unlike you.”
“Can we not do this right now?” he mutters.
You spin to face him, all innocent. “Do what?”
He crosses his arms. “You. Talking. In my room. When you should be in your room.”
You blink. “But I want to stay here.”
“No.”
You pout. Then you lower yourself onto the floor with dramatic flair.
He stares. “What the hell are you doing?”
“Staying here,” you say primly, folding your hands in your lap. “I’ll sleep on the ground.”
He closes his eyes like he’s praying for patience. “Jesus, doll. Come on.”
You don’t move. You just keep talking.
“Your floor is really hard, you know. You should get a rug. Maybe a nice patterned one. What’s your aesthetic? Vintage murder shack? Ex-assassin chic?”
He tries not to laugh but you see it twitch at the corner of his mouth. “You’re ridiculous,” he mutters.
“Thank you,” you say brightly.
He pinches the bridge of his nose again. “Get up. Come on. At least sleep on the bed.”
“No,” you say immediately. “I’m fine here.”
“No, you’re not,” he says, voice low but exasperated. “You’re gonna wake up with your back wrecked. And then Steve will yell at me. Get. Up.”
You look up at him and give your best pleading eyes. “Please?”
He groans. “You can have the bed.”
You grin and scramble to your feet. “We can share.”
He holds up a hand. “No–”
But you’re already crawling onto the mattress and flopping onto your side. “It’s fine, there’s space. Come on. Don’t be weird.”
He just stares at you for a long moment. Then sighs. “You’re gonna be the death of me.”
He crosses the room and closes his door, then finally, finally gets into the bed, clearly against his better judgment. He crawls in slow, facing you, looking at you like you’re an unpredictable animal. You just beam at him, eyes heavy-lidded but too happy to stop.
“Your bed is comfier than mine,” you say immediately.
He sighs. “Uh-huh.”
“And it smells like you.”
He flushes. “Stop.”
“I’m serious!” you insist. “It’s nice. Like aftershave and laundry. Very Bucky. Very safe. I like it.”
He covers his face with one big hand. “Doll. Please.”
You giggle and poke his arm. “Your hair is messy. I like it like this.”
He peeks at you through his fingers. “You’re drunk.”
“Am not. I mean, maybe a little. But I know what I’m saying.”
He drops his hand and glares at you halfheartedly. “Can you shut up now?”
You snort. “Nope. Sorry. No can do.”
He huffs. You’re quiet for two seconds. Then:
“Do you think Steve would let me paint my room? I want a different color. Yours is all dark and broody but in a good way. I bet you picked it on purpose. It suits you. Like your shirts. You wear a lot of black. Is that a Winter Soldier thing or just personal preference? Also your metal arm is cool. Is it cold right now? Can I touch it? Wait, can I braid your hair someday? I bet you’d let me if I begged. Or maybe not. You’re stubborn. But I am too–”
“Jesus Christ,” he groans, cutting you off.
You just laugh, cheeks warm, eyes bright. And finally, finally, he shuffles closer under the covers, face to face with you, voice dropping. “Doll. Please. Sleep.”
You grin and nod, but your eyes are still wide open. He watches you for a moment. Then sighs. And he reaches out, brushing your hair back gently.
Your voice goes softer. “Okay. I’ll try. But don’t go anywhere.”
He huffs. “Not going anywhere.”
“Promise?”
“Yeah.”
You finally relax a little. But your voice still comes out in a sleep-slurred mumble. “You’re the best, Bucky. Don’t tell anyone I said that.”
He just shakes his head, amused. “Your secret’s safe with me.”
You’re quiet for maybe thirty seconds. Bucky actually dares to hope you’re out. Then your eyes blink open again in the dark. “Bucky?” you whisper.
He exhales. “Yeah?”
“I can’t fall asleep.”
He huffs, barely a laugh. “Shocking.”
You pout at him, your bottom lip catching the light from the crack under the door. “Don’t be mean. I’m trying.”
He shifts closer on the pillow, close enough that your noses almost touch. His voice is low, careful. “Just…close your eyes, doll.”
You obey for a second. Then they flutter open again. “Your room is warmer than mine,” you whisper conspiratorially.
“Blanket’s the same.”
“But your room is warmer,” you insists softly. “You like it warm, don’t you? That’s so weird.”
“It’s not weird.”
“It’s a little weird.”
He rolls his eyes but doesn’t move away. He can feel your breath fan against his cheek every time you talk. Your voice goes even quieter. “Your arm isn’t cold though. Is it warm because of you? Do you think it feels your body heat?”
He closes his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose again. “Doll…”
“Sorry,” you murmur immediately, contrite. “Sorry. I’ll stop talking. I promise.”
He lets out a long breath. “Okay. Thank you.”
Silence. For about five seconds.
“Do you think Sam would let me use his wings if I asked nicely?” you whisper.
His eyes fly open. “No.”
“Even if I said please?”
He’s biting his lip to keep from laughing. “Absolutely not.”
You snicker softly, then wiggle a little closer under the blanket, forehead bumping his.
“I like your room,” you mumble.
“Yeah, you said that.”
“It’s nice. Safe.”
He swallows hard at that, voice going gentle despite himself. “Good. It’s supposed to be safe.”
You blink slowly at him. “Your eyes are pretty.”
He sighs, trying to scowl, but it doesn’t work. “You’re gonna kill me, doll.”
You smile, all sleepy and proud. “Good.”
You go quiet again, breathing slowing. Then, barely above a whisper: “Bucky?”
He opens one eye. “Hm.”
“I still can’t sleep.”
He breathes out slowly, resisting the urge to laugh. He shifts just enough to rest a heavy arm around you, metal fingers splaying across your back. “Try anyway,” he says softly.
You squirm in closer until your forehead rests against his collarbone. “Tell me to sleep,” you mumble.
“Sleep,” he orders, deadpan.
You giggle again but it’s muffled against him. “Say it nice.”
He rolls his eyes to the ceiling, then lowers his voice until it’s almost tender. “Go to sleep, doll.”
Your eyes droop. “’Kay.”
Silence. Your breathing evens out a little. He’s almost convinced you’re out. Then, even softer:
“Bucky?”
He nearly groans. “What, doll.”
“…you’re nice.”
He closes his eyes. “Yeah. I know.”
“Don’t leave,” you mumble, finally sounding truly exhausted.
He tightens his arm around you. “Not leaving.”
Your breath hitches once, like you might keep going – but this time you don’t. Your body goes limp, settling completely against his. Your breathing steadies. Finally asleep.
Bucky sighs. Lets his head rest against yours. “Goodnight,” he whispers so quietly you can’t hear it.
And for the first time in days, he thinks maybe he can sleep too.
--
You wake up slow.
Everything feels…heavy. Your head is pounding. Your mouth is dry. Your eyes don’t want to open. It’s too warm, too close. You shift a little and feel an arm tighten around you.
Wait.
You blink blearily, eyelashes dragging against someone’s shirt. Your brain is slow, cottony. You register warmth, the scent of soap and clean clothes. Solid muscle under your cheek.
You go still. You’re in someone’s bed. There’s an arm around your waist. You can feel the hard line of a metal arm over your back. Your heart jumps. Your breath hitches.
Your head is killing you but now you’re wide awake, eyes darting around even though your vision is blurry and you’re half buried under the covers. You manage to turn your head, squinting up.
Bucky Barnes is there. Asleep. Kind of.
One blue eye cracks open when you move, fixing on you. His stubble scratches against the pillow. “…hey,” he rasps, voice wrecked from sleep.
Your brain stops. You open your mouth. Nothing comes out. You try again.
“…Bucky?”
He just grunts. Tightens his arm slightly around you, like it’s automatic. You freeze.
“Why am I–” You wince at how hoarse your voice is. Clear your throat. “–why am I in your bed?”
He closes his eyes again. “You don’t remember?”
You’re about to say no. Absolutely not. Because it’s so absurd. But then–
Bucky I can’t sleep.
Your room is so warm.
I want to stay here.
Your bed smells like you.
Do you think Sam would let me use his wings?
Your eyes widen in horror. “Oh my God,” you whisper.
He cracks an eye open again at your tone. You’re staring at him, horrified. “I – did I – oh my God I wouldn’t shut up, would I?”
He huffs. It might be a laugh. He looks exhausted. “Nope,” he says simply.
Your stomach sinks. You bury your face in his shirt for a second in pure mortification, but you’re also so hungover you can’t move too fast or you’ll puke.
He sighs. His metal arm strokes your back absently.
You squeak. “Bucky – your arm – you’re holding me.”
“Yeah,” he mumbles. “You kept trying to get up last night. This was the only way to make you stop.”
Your mouth drops open. “You restrained me?”
He actually laughs this time, low and rough. “You wanted to sleep on my floor, doll. What was I supposed to do?”
You groan and cover your face with your hands. “I want to die. Please let me die.”
He huffs another laugh. “Stop.”
You peek at him between your fingers. His hair is messed up from sleep. He has pillow lines on his face. He’s still holding you. Your head is killing you.
You squeeze your eyes shut again. “I’m gonna be sick.”
He groans. “You better warn me first.”
“I feel gross.”
“I know.” He shifts carefully, loosening his hold just enough so you can move if you want. “I was gonna get you water when you woke up. Didn’t think you’d panic immediately.”
You let out a strangled sound that’s half laugh, half whine. “I’m so sorry.”
He sighs, but his thumb rubs your side gently. “It’s fine.”
You swallow. Your voice is small. “Did I really…talk that much?”
He gives you a look. You groan again and bury your face in his shirt.
You mumble against him, voice muffled. “I remember some of it. Not all. Oh God. I asked to braid your hair, didn’t I?”
“Yep.”
You let out another pained sound.
“You called me ‘bestest quiet friend,’” he adds helpfully.
You whimper. “Bucky please.”
He’s trying not to laugh at you, but it’s not working. You peek up at him, squinting.
“You’re way too amused for someone who didn’t sleep.”
He just shrugs, eyes heavy-lidded. “You’re cute when you’re drunk.”
Your jaw drops. He uses the moment to shift, propping himself up on one elbow and looking down at you.
“Want that water now?”
You nod miserably. Your head is pounding. You stare up at the ceiling, replaying every stupid thing you remember saying. By the time he’s back with the water, you’re so red you can feel it. You sip it miserably.
Finally you mutter, voice hoarse: “...I can’t believe you let me stay.”
He snorts. “Couldn’t get you to leave.”
You peek at him over the rim of the cup. “...Thank you,” you say softly.
His expression softens. He reaches over to brush a strand of hair off your face. “Anytime, doll.”
You feel your heart do something dumb in your chest. You turn your face away to hide it, still sipping the water. Your voice is smaller, shy now. “...I’ll shut up now.”
He just chuckles, warm and rough. “Don’t,” he says quietly. “I like hearing you.”
And you think you might actually die after all. But for now, you sip your water and try to keep breathing, grateful he’s still here.
You’re still cringing into your cup of water when Bucky finally sighs and shifts beside you.
“Come on,” he says, voice gentler now that you’re clearly miserable. “Let’s get you up.”
You groan. “No.”
“Bathroom first,” he orders.
You try to burrow under the covers. “I’ll live here now. In your bed.”
“Not negotiable,” he says, pulling the blanket back.
You let out a pathetic whine but let him help you sit up. The world wobbles dangerously and you press a hand to your head with a hiss.
“Jesus, doll,” he mutters, steadying you with a hand on your back. “Easy. C’mon. Bathroom’s right there.”
He keeps one arm around you as you shuffle toward the bathroom. You stand in the doorway, glaring at the tile floor like it personally offended you.
“You gonna go in?” he asks dryly.
You make a face. “Don’t watch me.”
He snorts. “Please. Just don’t fall in. I’ll be right here.”
You manage a halfhearted scowl before closing the door. When you come back out, you’re pale but slightly more functional. He’s waiting, arms folded, leaning on the wall.
He eyes you. “Better?”
You nod miserably.
“Kitchen?”
“Coffee?” you plead.
“Yeah.”
He puts an arm around your waist like you’re injured, which you basically are, and half-guides, half-drags you down the hall. You’re grateful but mortified the whole way. When you get to the kitchen, it’s worse.
Everyone is there. All of them mid-conversation, laughing over mugs of coffee. They all stop talking when they see you two appear in the doorway, Bucky’s arm around you, you clinging to him with glassy, hungover eyes.
“Ohhhhhh,” Sam says immediately, eyes going wide with delight.
Clint whistles low. “Look what the cat dragged in.”
Tony raises an eyebrow, sipping his coffee, gaze sharp but amused. “Rough night?”
You immediately hide your face against Bucky’s shoulder with a muffled whimper. Bucky just sighs, giving your waist a reassuring squeeze. “She’s fine,” he announces. “Just hungover.”
Steve, ever the Boy Scout, looks you over with worried blue eyes. “You okay?”
You groan into Bucky’s shirt. “No.”
Bucky rolls his eyes. “She’s fine,” he repeats, guiding you to a chair.
Wanda is grinning. “You look adorable.”
You squint at her. “Stop.”
Sam leans back in his chair, arms behind his head. “So…how was it?”
You squint at him in confusion. “How was what?”
He smirks. “Last night.”
You let out a sound between a gasp and a groan and drop your head to the table.
Bucky is annoyingly calm as he moves to pour you coffee. “She was very talkative,” he says dryly.
Clint nearly chokes on his drink. “Talkative? Her?”
Nat’s eyebrow goes higher. “Do tell.”
Bucky sets the mug down in front of you, looking completely unbothered. “Didn’t shut up for hours.”
“BUCKY!” you squeak, horrified.
He pats your shoulder, pretending sympathy but absolutely smirking.
“I was in the kitchen when she got back, and she wouldn’t stop talking. Then she came into my room in the middle of the night. Knocked on my door and started rambling. Refused to go back to bed. Tried to sleep on my floor.”
Steve’s jaw drops. Sam’s cackling. Wanda’s covering her mouth to hide her laugh.
Tony is nearly falling off his chair. “Oh please tell me you let her.”
Bucky deadpans. “I tried to get her back to her room. She wouldn’t go. So yeah. She stayed.”
You let out a strangled whine and cover your face with both hands.
Nat’s voice is all mock-sweet. “Aww, you two had a sleepover?”
Bucky shrugs, completely throwing you under the bus. “She wouldn’t stop talking. All night. About my room. My arm. My hair. She wanted to braid it.”
Sam’s actually wheezing now. “Oh my god.”
Wanda leans over to squeeze your arm. “That’s so cute!”
You let out another mortified groan, peeking at Bucky with betrayal in your eyes. “You’re evil.”
He just slides the coffee mug closer to you. “Drink.”
You take it with shaking hands and hiss at the heat, glaring at him over the rim.
He just leans against the counter, arms folded, watching you with smug amusement.
Steve clears his throat, trying to look stern but his lips are twitching. “You okay now?”
Bucky glances at you, softening just a little. “Yeah. She’s okay.”
Your heart gives a little flip at that despite how embarrassed you are.
You scowl at your coffee. “You’re all mean.”
Sam claps the table, still laughing. “We love you!”
Tony grins. “Next time invite us to the sleepover.”
You shriek. “NO!”
Everyone laughs.
Bucky just reaches over to ruffle your hair like you’re a misbehaving kitten.
“Drink your coffee,” he says, softer now.
You huff. But you do.
--
A couple of weeks pass, enough for you to almost live down the embarrassment of that night. Almost.
They don’t let you forget it. Clint teases you every time you open your mouth. Sam does dramatic impressions. Nat just smirks knowingly. Bucky is the worst because he doesn’t tease at all. He just looks at you, eyebrow raised, like he’s waiting for you to start talking his ear off again.
But eventually the heat fades.
So when the team declares a night out – no missions on the schedule, no training in the morning – you’re determined it’ll be different.
Spoiler: it isn’t.
The bar is crowded, pulsing with music, low lights, and the tang of spilled beer and perfume. The team claims a big table. Everyone’s relaxed for once.
You promise yourself you’ll pace your drinks. But Tony orders a round of shots “for morale.” Sam insists you can’t waste a good margarita. Nat slides you something neon and evil with a sly grin.
By the time you realize you’re tipsy, it’s too late.
Bucky’s nursing a beer at the edge of the group, eyes scanning the bar out of old habit. He’s relaxed, though. Talking in low tones to Steve.
You spot him and beeline.
“Buckyyyyy,” you sing-song.
He looks over. Eyes narrow immediately.
“Oh no.”
You crash into his side, arms going around his waist, face burrowing against him like a clingy cat.
“Hi,” you slur, beaming up at him.
“Hi,” he says slowly. “How many have you had?”
“Dunno,” you say cheerfully. “But I feel great. Do you feel great? You should feel great. You look great.”
Steve chokes on his beer. Bucky side-eyes him murderously, then huffs down at you.
“Christ. Again?”
You just giggle and tug on his shirt. “Come onnn. Dance with me.”
“No.”
“Please?”
He plants himself more firmly. “Doll, I don’t dance.”
You make a dramatic wounded sound. “You have to. It’s team night. I’m the team. Come on.”
He doesn’t move. You start tugging harder.
Sam strolls by and claps Bucky on the back. “Dance with her, man. Don’t be cruel.”
“Fuck off, Wilson.”
You gasp. “Language!”
Bucky closes his eyes like he’s praying for patience. “You’re literally drunk.”
“And you’re boring.”
Steve almost snorts his beer out his nose.
Bucky growls. “Fine.”
You squeal in triumph. He lets you drag him to the dance floor, which is sticky and packed. The music is too loud to talk. You don’t care at all. You spin in front of him, giggling, arms up around his neck. He plants his hands firmly at your waist, holding you still.
“Stop squirming,” he yells over the music.
“Dance with me!”
“This is dancing,” he deadpans.
You pout. He tightens his grip. You lean in, voice muffled against his ear. “You smell good.”
He makes a strangled sound. “Jesus.”
You pull back enough to beam at him. He gives you a look of pure exasperation but his hands are gentle. He’s watching you carefully for signs you’re going to fall over.
You sway dramatically. “Buckyyyyy, don’t let me fall.”
“Not gonna.”
“Promise?”
He sighs. “Promise.”
You grin. You dance a few songs that way – mostly you clinging to him, occasionally trying to get him to spin you, nearly falling over, him catching you every time.
Finally he mutters something about getting water in you and starts to tug you back toward the bar. You immediately latch onto his arm.
“Bathroom first.”
He stops. “No.”
“Please,” you whine.
He rubs his temples. “Can you even go by yourself?”
“Nope!” you say cheerfully.
“Jesus Christ.”
He actually escorts you to the bathroom hallway. He’s standing outside the door waiting, arms folded, glaring at anyone who even glances at you too long.
When you come back out, you immediately grab his hand.
“Thank you,” you sing. “Best bodyguard ever.”
He sighs but doesn’t let go. You lean your head against his arm as he drags you back to the bar. Sam immediately cackles when he sees you clinging to Bucky like a koala.
“Look at you two! Married already?”
“Shut up, Sam,” Bucky growls.
You just wave at Sam happily. “Hi Sam!”
He cheers you with his glass.
Bucky maneuvers you onto a stool and shoves water at you. “Drink,” he orders. You obey, but keep one hand fisted in his sleeve.
“You’re not leaving,” you declare.
“Didn’t say I was.”
“You’re the only one I want to hang out with.”
He goes still. “…yeah?”
You nod seriously. He tries to fight it but his mouth twitches.
“Fine,” he says gruffly. “I’m not going anywhere.”
You sigh happily, still holding his sleeve while you sip water. And the team watches you both, absolutely delighted, as Bucky resigns himself to being your chosen human for the rest of the night.
Bucky tries to reclaim his arm once, experimentally tugging. Your eyes immediately go wide and wounded.
“Don’t go.”
He huffs. “I’m not going anywhere. I just want my arm back.”
You tighten your grip. “No.”
He mutters something under his breath – probably a swear – but lets you have it. You beam and scoot closer on the barstool until your knees knock into his.
“See? You’re so nice.”
He sighs and rests one hand on the bar, but the other hovers protectively near your waist in case you lean too far. You lean even closer.
“You know, you’re really warm,” you whisper like it’s classified information.
“Yeah,” he says blandly.
“Like a furnace.”
“Uh-huh.”
You squint at him suspiciously. “Are you listening to me?”
He glances down at you, deadpan. “Am I ever?”
You gasp in outrage and swat his chest, nearly falling off the stool when you overbalance. He catches you immediately, his hands firm around your waist.
“Easy,” he warns.
You giggle breathlessly. “You’re so strong.”
“Jesus Christ,” he mutters.
Sam wanders past and laughs, “She’s gonna regret all of this tomorrow.”
You immediately scowl at Sam. “Don’t be mean to Bucky!”
Bucky raises an eyebrow at you. “I think he was talking about you, doll.”
You blink.
“Oh.”
Then you shrug and turn back to Bucky, patting his chest like you’re reassuring him.
“Don’t worry. I’ll take care of you.”
He snorts. “Yeah, that’s what I’m worried about.”
You frown at him. “Stop being mean. You’re nice. You take care of me.”
You emphasize this by petting his arm, fingers tracing the seam of his shirt. He glances at your hand, then at you.
“Can you not do that here?” he mutters, voice rough.
“Why?”
“Because you’re drunk.”
You squint at him like that’s a stupid excuse. “So?”
He sighs, rubbing his forehead. “God.”
You smile and lean into him even more, both hands on his arm now. “I like your arm,” you say, running your fingers over the metal plates. “It’s cool.”
“Stop,” he mumbles, but he doesn’t actually move you.
You look up at him, wide-eyed. “Bucky.”
“What.”
“Do you think I’m annoying?”
He groans.
“Buckyyyyy.”
“No,” he admits reluctantly.
You immediately brighten. “Really?”
“Yeah,” he mutters, avoiding your eyes.
You grin and hug his arm tighter. “Told you you’re nice.”
He lets out a long suffering sigh but you catch the corner of his mouth twitching.
You don’t stop there. When you finish the water (which he makes you drink entirely), you demand another. He gets it for you without complaining. You thank him by resting your head on his shoulder while you drink it. He’s stiff for a second, then relaxes, shifting so you don’t slip off the stool.
You keep talking. About everything.
“You have really blue eyes. Did you know?”
“Mm.”
“I think you’d be good at painting.”
“Nope.”
“Yes you would.”
“Doll–”
“You should try it. I’d help you. We could paint together.”
He breathes out slowly. “Maybe,” he allows, just to shut you up.
You gasp. “Promise?”
“No.”
“Bucky!”
He side-eyes you, but there’s a softness there that he can’t hide.
Later you try to get off the stool to go back to the dance floor. He immediately snags your waist. “Where are you going.”
“Dancing,” you declare.
“No.”
“Come with me.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Please?”
He gives you a look.
You throw your arms around his neck right there at the bar. “Pleasepleaseplease?”
“Doll…”
You bat your eyelashes exaggeratedly. He closes his eyes and sighs. Tony, watching from the other side of the bar, is dying laughing.
Finally Bucky sighs in defeat. “Fine.”
You squeal with delight and press your face against his chest. “You’re the best,” you slur.
“Yeah, yeah,” he mutters.
He lets you hang onto him all the way back to the dance floor. You’re worse this time. You keep your arms around his neck, fingers in his hair.
“Bucky.”
“What.”
“Don’t let go.”
“I’m not.”
“Ever.”
He sighs. “We’ll negotiate that later.”
You bury your face in his chest again. “Promise.”
He rubs your back, voice low. “Promise.”
You’re so content you don’t even notice the rest of the team watching you both, exchanging knowing looks. Because all you know is Bucky’s arms are warm, and safe, and he’s not letting you fall. And he’s still listening. Even if he rolls his eyes every time you open your mouth.
But eventually, Wanda and Sam approach, grinning like devils.
“Mind if we steal her?” Sam asks, voice innocent in the way it never actually is.
Bucky gives them a flat stare.
You blink up at Sam. “Steal me?”
“Yeah, c’mon, sweetheart,” Wanda says, gently prying your hands off Bucky’s shoulders. “Let’s dance.”
Bucky huffs, but you giggle and let them lead you away. He just shakes his head and retreats toward the bar like a man finally released from captivity.
Wanda and Sam keep you busy on the dance floor for a good while. Wanda spins you in easy, graceful circles. Sam hams it up, showing off ridiculous moves that make you laugh until your ribs ache. You’re warm and dizzy and happy. You shout-scream the lyrics to whatever pop song is blasting. Wanda twirls with you dramatically, both of you howling with laughter when you almost fall. Sam’s whooping and clapping like you’re in a club contest.
You forget about Bucky for a minute. But not for long.
Eventually another song ends and you’re panting, hair sticking to your forehead.
“Wanda,” you slur a little, clutching her arm. “Water.”
She laughs. “Yeah, let’s get you hydrated.”
You stumble toward the bar, Sam at your other elbow. Your eyes immediately find Bucky. Seated on a stool, long legs sprawled out, watching you with arms folded and that resting murder face that you know by now doesn’t actually mean he’s mad.
Your whole face lights up. “BUCKYYYY.”
Sam snorts. “Here we go.”
You break into a messy run-walk and practically dive at him. He startles, but reacts fast, catching you under the arms and hauling you the rest of the way onto his lap before you can faceplant. “Jesus.”
You settle right down, straddling one of his thighs without shame, arms wrapping around his neck. He’s frozen for one second. Then sighs.
“Really?” he grumbles in your ear.
You ignore him completely, beaming like you’re sun-drunk. “Hi.”
He flicks a glance at Sam and Wanda behind you. “Thanks for the break.”
Sam salutes him. “Anytime.”
Wanda just giggles and waves.
Bucky rolls his eyes and wraps an arm around your waist to keep you steady. You immediately start talking.
“Bucky, they’re so much fun. Sam’s the worst dancer ever, did you know? And Wanda’s like a ballerina. She’s so pretty. She smells really good too. Like fancy witch perfume. I want perfume like that. Do you think I could pull it off?”
He gives you a look. “Breathe.”
You suck in air dramatically and keep going.
“I’m serious. I need new perfume. Or maybe lotion. My skin’s so dry. Feel it.”
You grab his flesh hand and press it to your bare shoulder. He scowls but doesn’t move it.
“Soft,” he allows grudgingly.
You beam. “See? You’re nice.”
He snorts. “Stop saying that.”
“But you are. You let me sit here.”
“Pretty sure I didn’t have a choice.”
You huff. “You always have a choice. You chose to catch me.”
He grumbles but his arm tightens around your waist. “Only so you didn’t break your damn neck.”
You grin, nose brushing his cheek. “Bestest bodyguard.”
He closes his eyes. “Jesus Christ.”
You lean back just enough to waggle your eyebrows at him. “Dance with me again.”
He actually glares. “No.”
“Please?”
“No.”
“Pleasepleaseplease?”
He tilts his head back with an audible ugh, but you see the corner of his mouth twitch. Sam’s watching the whole thing, laughing so hard he’s crying. Wanda’s just smiling at you both, all soft and knowing. You ignore them all and rest your forehead against Bucky’s, whispering like you’re sharing a secret: “Bucky. You’re my favorite.”
He huffs a laugh. Just one. But you hear it.
“Yeah,” he says, voice lower now, quieter. His arm flexes around you, steady and warm. “I know, doll.”
And you sigh like you’re the happiest person in the world, snuggling in closer. “You know, I think Steve could beat Sam in an arm-wrestling match but Sam would cheat. Don’t tell him I said that.”
Bucky raises an eyebrow. “You literally just said it in front of him.”
Sam, two stools over, is laughing so hard he almost spills his drink.
“Hey, that’s slander!” he yells.
You gasp dramatically and clap a hand over Bucky’s mouth. “Shhh! He’ll hear us!”
Bucky stares at you over your fingers. “Doll,” he says flatly against your palm. “I’m begging you.”
You ignore him.
“Your stubble is scratchy,” you note, pulling your hand back to rub his jaw.
He flinches just a little, eyes narrowing. “Stop.”
“Never,” you say proudly.
Clint cackles. “She’s relentless, man.”
Bucky gives him the most murderous glare he can muster while you’re actively petting his face. “Barton, go away.”
“Love you too, Barnes.”
Eventually the bartender calls last call. Steve’s already rounding everyone up like a camp counselor. “Alright, everyone. Let’s go. C’mon, up.”
You immediately wrap your arms tighter around Bucky’s neck. “No.”
Bucky groans. “Get up, doll.”
“Carry me.”
“For fuck’s sake.”
He sighs, braces a hand under your thigh, and practically lifts you off the stool. You squeal and cling tighter.
“I was kidding!”
“Too late,” he mutters, half-carrying, half-dragging you toward the door while the team hoots and hollers.
You nuzzle into his shoulder. “You’re so strong. Do you work out?”
Steve snorts so loud he chokes. Bucky closes his eyes and keeps walking. Outside the bar, the night air is crisp and cold. You shiver immediately, pressing even closer to Bucky. He sighs and drapes his leather jacket over your shoulders without even thinking about it. You make a pleased little sound. “See? Nice.”
He ignores that and starts steering you toward the cars as Steve’s calling out assignments. “Bucky, you got y/n.”
Bucky gives him a look that could kill a lesser man.
Steve just grins and slaps his shoulder. “You’re the best, Buck.”
Bucky finally manages to get you to the car. You refuse to let go of him even when he tries to buckle you in. “Sit with me.”
“I’m driving.”
“Sit with me.”
“Jesus. Let go.”
You whine but finally slump into the seat. The whole drive back you talk. And talk. And talk.
“Your car smells like you. Is that weird? I don’t think it’s weird. It’s nice.”
“Bucky, you drive really good. Like, safe. Steve drives like an old man. Sam drives like he wants to kill me.”
“Your hair is so shiny. Can I braid it now? Please?”
He just grunts noncommittally, eyes on the road, one hand on the wheel. But the other is resting on the console. You keep your hand over his the entire time.
When you get back to the compound, you refuse to get out on your own. “Carry me.”
“Walk.”
“Carry.”
He glares at you for three seconds. You give him the biggest puppy eyes you can. He caves. You squeal in triumph as he lifts you bridal style.
“Bucky. Bucky. You’re the best. I love you.”
He nearly trips. “Jesus Christ.”
You make a show of glaring. Then immediately ruin it by grinning. “Your eyes are really blue,” you whisper conspiratorially.
“Yeah, you’ve mentioned.”
“Did you know? They’re really blue.”
He’s trying not to laugh at this point. He gets you to the hallway outside your room and tries to set you down. You hold onto him tighter “No.”
He groans. “Doll. It’s your room. Go in.”
“Come with me.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Please?”
He closes his eyes. “You’ll just talk the entire time.”
“Promise.”
“...promise what? That you’ll talk?”
You nod solemnly. “Promise I’ll talk. To you. Forever.”
He snorts despite himself, shifting you in his arms. “God help me.”
“Please. Sit with me.”
He sighs. “Just for a minute,” he grumbles.
You squeal in triumph. He finally manages to deposit you on your bed, but you refuse to let go of his hand. So he sits on the edge, looming over you. You immediately tug him closer. “Lie down.”
“No.”
“Please.”
“Doll–”
“Pleasepleaseplease?”
He drops his head with a groan, pinching the bridge of his nose. Finally he caves, shifting so he’s lying next to you on top of the blankets, boots still on. You immediately roll into his side, arms going around him, your face pressed to his chest.
And you don’t stop talking. Not for one second.
“You smell so good. I’m so comfy. Don’t leave. You’re my favorite. Nat’s scary. Wanda’s so pretty. Clint’s funny but so mean. Steve’s so big. Sam’s loud. You’re perfect.”
He’s silent, just staring at the ceiling, one arm around you, thumb brushing your shoulder gently.
“Bucky?”
“Hm.”
“You’re my favorite,” you whisper again.
He sighs. “Yeah, doll. I know.”
And even though you keep talking for another ten minutes, slurring and mumbling and giggling, he doesn’t move once. He just listens. Because it’s you.
Eventually you’re too warm, too squirmy, too everything. You roll halfway off Bucky’s chest with an exaggerated groan. “Hot.”
He huffs, adjusting his arm so you don’t actually fall off the bed.
“Yeah. That’s what blankets do, doll.”
You squint at him. “Take my shoes off.”
He sighs like you’re the biggest burden in the world but he sits up. “Give me your foot.”
You grin and stick your leg out like a demanding princess. He wrestles the shoe off and drops it on the floor with a thunk. “Other one.”
You giggle and present the other. When they’re both off, you flop back dramatically.
“Thanks,” you slur, batting your lashes.
“Yeah, yeah.”
You tug at your shirt. “Sticky,” you whine. “Need pajamas.”
His eyes narrow immediately. “No.”
“Buckyyyyy,” you drawl.
“Bathroom. Go.”
“Carry me.”
“For fuck’s–”
He cuts himself off and just sighs, standing. “Come on, up.”
You let him pull you up off the bed, wobbling as you try to find your balance. He steadies you with both hands.
“Bathroom,” he orders again.
You point in the wrong direction. He physically turns you the right way.
“Bathroom.”
You shuffle toward it, turning at the doorway to blink at him. “Wait there.”
He crosses his arms. “Not going anywhere.”
“Promise?”
He rolls his eyes. “Promise.”
You come back out in your soft pajama shorts and one of your ancient shirts, hair all mussed from changing.
You’re blinking sleepily but still talking. “Bucky.”
“Yeah.”
“My bed is cold.”
He snorts. “That’s what blankets are for.”
You scowl. “No. You’re warmer.”
He groans. “Doll–”
“Please?” you whine, stepping closer, your voice dropping to a pitiful slur. “Please stay? Please don’t leave. Pleasepleaseplease.”
He scrubs a hand down his face. “Jesus.”
You sniff dramatically. “You hate me.”
He actually looks pained. “Don’t start.”
“You hate me!”
“I don’t.”
“You do.”
“I don’t.”
You immediately brighten. “Prove it.”
He pinches the bridge of his nose again, breathing in slowly. “How.”
“Stay,” you say simply, eyes wide and pleading.
He closes his eyes in defeat. You see the exact moment he caves.
“Fine,” he mutters. “But you’re sleeping this time.”
You let out a delighted squeal and launch at him, wrapping your arms around his middle and burying your face in his chest. He grunts at the impact but his arms come around you automatically, steady and solid and safe.
“Thank you,” you mumble into his shirt.
“Yeah.”
You tilt your head back, blinking up at him, eyes glassy from booze and exhaustion. “Bucky.”
“What.”
“I love you.”
He freezes. Your mouth keeps going before he can even react.
“Like, love love you. You’re so nice. And warm. And you listen to me. And you’re strong. And you smell good. And you have pretty eyes.”
He’s silent. You blink at him expectantly. “Bucky?”
He clears his throat roughly. “Doll–”
“I love you,” you say again, like he didn’t hear.
“Stop.”
“No.”
“Please.”
“I love you.”
He squeezes his eyes shut, jaw working. You touch his cheek with both hands. “Hey. Bucky. Look at me.”
He opens his eyes, reluctantly. You beam, sloppy and sleepy.
“Love you,” you whisper again, like it’s the biggest secret in the world.
He sighs, voice husky and low. “Yeah. I know.”
You grin and immediately lean up to kiss his cheek, missing slightly and getting the edge of his jaw instead. “Thank you,” you mumble.
“For what.”
“For staying.”
He huffs out a breath, exasperated but so gentle. “Come on.”
He guides you back to bed, steadying you so you don’t trip over your own feet. You crawl under the blankets with absolutely no grace. When he tries to stand, you immediately grab his sleeve. “No.”
He sighs.
“I’m not leaving,” he promises.
You tug harder. “Then get in.”
He hesitates. You blink at him, face scrunching, voice going quiet and wobbly. “Please?”
He mutters something like a curse under his breath. And then he does. He kicks off his boots and lowers himself next to you, carefully pulling the blanket over you both. You immediately roll into him, burying your face in his chest, arms around his ribs. You sigh so loud and happy it makes him want to laugh.
“You’re so warm,” you mumble.
“Go to sleep.”
“‘Kay.”
Silence. But only for two seconds.
“Bucky?”
He groans. “What.”
“Love you.”
He breathes in deep. Lets it out slow. His arm tightens around you.
“Yeah,” he rumbles quietly against your hair. “Love you too, doll.”
You finally go quiet after that, a smile still on your face. And he doesn’t move at all, holding you steady and safe the entire night.
--
You wake up to the soft grey light of early morning pushing in through your curtains. Your head is pounding in that unmistakable oh god I drank too much way. You squint, groaning, and immediately pull the blanket over your head to block the light. Except…
You can’t.
Because something big and heavy is in the way. You freeze. Blink. Shift your head just enough to see.
Bucky.
He’s on his side facing you, arm thrown over your waist, metal fingers splayed against your back. His other arm is bent under his head like a pillow.
He’s asleep. Actually asleep. And you’re in his arms. Very in his arms. Like – your face is smushed into his chest, one leg tangled over his.
You go perfectly still, trying to process. Then memory starts trickling back in pieces.
The bar. The dancing. Clinging to him like an octopus. Begging him to stay.
Telling him–
Oh God.
You squeeze your eyes shut in horror. You told him you loved him. Multiple times.
You want to sink into the bed and die. Your face is burning even though you’re freezing everywhere else.
Bucky stirs at your movement, brow twitching slightly, then slowly opens one eye. He blinks blearily at you. “Mm.”
You hold perfectly still, refusing to breathe. His voice is wrecked from sleep, low and husky. “Stop movin’.”
You squeak. His eyes open properly at that, focusing on you. Recognition flickers. Then amusement. “Morning.”
You immediately want to die. “Um,” you croak.
He hums, like this is the most normal thing in the world. He doesn’t let go. “Head hurt?”
You nod miserably. He smirks, barely there.
“Good. Serves you right.”
You scowl weakly, trying to shove at his chest. He doesn’t budge.
“Bucky,” you whisper harshly. “Let go.”
“No.”
Your mouth falls open. “No?”
He closes his eyes again, like he’s going back to sleep.
“Warm,” he mutters.
You’re speechless. You shift again and his arm just tightens, pulling you flush.
“Buckyyy,” you whine.
He huffs a laugh and tucks your head under his chin. You want to complain. You should complain. But he’s so warm. And you’re so hungover. And God, he smells good. So you grumble and go still.
He hums approvingly.
“Good girl.”
You freeze. He definitely smirks at that.
“Don’t say stuff like that,” you hiss, voice cracking.
“Why not?”
You open your mouth and then close it again. He snorts softly and shifts, nuzzling the top of your head in a way that makes your heart stutter.
“You remember last night?”
You shut your eyes in humiliation. “Some.”
“Yeah?”
Your voice drops to a mortified whisper. “I, um. Might’ve…said…some stuff.”
He’s silent for a second. Then his chest rumbles with a low chuckle.
“Yeah,” he says. “You did.”
You groan and hide your face in his chest. He wraps both arms fully around you.
“Stop,” you mumble. “Let me die.”
“Nope.”
You squirm. He doesn’t let go.
“Bucky, I was drunk.”
“Yeah,” he says simply. “You were.”
You glare up at him. “So you can forget it.”
He raises an eyebrow.
“Not gonna.”
Your breath catches. He leans in just a little.
“Say it again.”
You go absolutely still. He’s watching you, blue eyes half-lidded, hair a mess, voice still rough with sleep.
“Say what?” you whisper.
“You know.”
Your stomach flips so hard you think you might be sick for an entirely different reason than the hangover. You swallow.
“...I love you.”
He smiles. Slow. Real.
“Good,” he rumbles, voice low.
Then he tilts his head down, brushing his nose against yours, lips ghosting over your cheek.
“Love you too, doll.”
Your heart does something physically painful in your chest. You blink up at him, wide-eyed and speechless. He just huffs a laugh and tugs you closer.
“Now shut up and go back to sleep.”
You open your mouth to argue. But you’re too warm. Too safe. And his heartbeat is steady under your ear. So you close your eyes instead, smiling helplessly. And for once, you don’t say another word.
You don’t fall back asleep. Neither does he. You’re too wired, too embarrassed, too happy, all at once. After a few minutes of lying there in silence, his arms snug around you, you peek up at him, squinting.
“Bucky.”
“Hm?” He doesn’t even open his eyes, but you can tell he’s listening.
Your voice is mortified. “I can’t believe you let me do all that last night.”
He finally cracks one eye open, lazy, amused. “‘Let you’?”
You glare weakly. “You carried me.”
He snorts. “You wouldn’t walk.”
“You put me to bed.”
“You wouldn’t shut up.”
You groan. His mouth twitches, fighting a smile.
“Don’t laugh at me,” you grumble, trying to wriggle free.
His arms tighten immediately. “Nope.”
“Bucky!” You stop moving. Your face is burning. “...I was so annoying.”
“Yeah,” he agrees cheerfully.
You gasp, smacking his chest with your palm. “Bucky!”
He huffs a laugh, catching your hand and pinning it to his chest, his thumb stroking over your knuckles.
“But,” he adds, voice going quiet.
You go still. He looks right at you.
“It was cute.”
Your mouth opens. Closes. “Cute?”
He nods, completely serious now. “Real cute, doll.”
You whimper and bury your face in his chest again. He chuckles, the sound vibrating against your cheek.
“Stop laughing,” you mumble.
“Can’t.”
“Bucky.”
“Hmm?”
You look up slowly.
“...I really said I love you?”
He lifts an eyebrow. “Which time?”
You groan in humiliation. “Jesus Christ.”
He’s definitely smiling now.
“First when you were hugging me,” he recites, counting on his fingers with your hand still caught in his. “Second when I was trying to put you in bed. Third when I was laying with you – like twenty times.”
“Stop!”
“And fifth–”
You slap your hand over his mouth. He raises both brows at you, eyes sparkling with amusement.
“Shut up,” you beg.
He licks your palm. You shriek and yank your hand back. “BUCKY!”
He’s full-on laughing now, pulling you tight against him so you can’t escape. You squirm, shoving at him weakly.
“Ugh. I hate you.”
He leans in, nose brushing your cheek. “Liar.”
You go still at that, swallowing. He lowers his voice, brushing his lips along your jaw.
“You love me.”
Your breath hitches.
“Say it,” he murmurs.
You glare at him. “No.”
He smirks. “Say it.”
“No.”
He shifts, rolling you onto your back gently, leaning over you with his hair falling in his face. His voice drops to something even softer. “Please.”
Your heart hurts. You swallow hard, looking up at him. “I love you.”
His eyes go all warm and bright.
“Yeah?” he breathes.
“Yeah,” you whisper.
He dips down and kisses you. Slow. Gentle. Like he’s got all the time in the world. When he pulls back, you’re breathless. He presses his forehead to yours.
“I love you too,” he murmurs.
You squirm under him, embarrassed and delighted all at once.
“Stop saying it,” you mumble, but you’re smiling so hard your cheeks hurt.
“Not gonna,” he says smugly.
“Bucky.”
He nuzzles your nose. “Love you.”
“Bucky.”
“Love you.”
You’re giggling now, trying to push him away weakly. “Stop.”
He just holds you tighter, voice dropping low and certain. “Not gonna stop, doll.”
You whine but there’s no heat in it. “God, you’re so embarrassing.”
He kisses your cheek. “Love you.”
You let out a squeaky laugh. “Stop!”
He kisses your other cheek. “Love you.”
“Bucky–”
He kisses your nose. “Love you.”
You’re laughing so hard you’re wheezing, hiding your face in his shoulder. He wraps you up, burying his face in your hair, voice muffled but so, so warm.
“Love you,” he whispers one last time.
And you finally sigh, melting into him completely.
“...yeah. I love you too.”
He just hums in satisfaction, holding you like he’ll never let go.
Eventually, after way too long tangled up in bed, you groan and shove at his chest.
“Bucky. We have to get up.”
“Nope.”
“Come on.”
“Don’t wanna.”
You roll your eyes but your smile is stupidly fond. “Seriously. I need coffee. My head is killing me.”
He finally opens one eye, squinting at you.
“You okay?”
You blink at how soft his voice goes.
“Yeah,” you mumble. “Just hungover.”
He hums and shifts closer, pulling you against him again. “You were a menace last night.”
You let out a horrified whine and bury your face in his chest.
“Don’t remind me.”
He chuckles and kisses your temple. “‘Love you’ every five seconds,” he teases.
You slap his arm. “Stop!”
He grins against your hair. “Never.”
You groan again. “Coffee.”
He sighs theatrically. “Fine.”
He finally lets you go and you both drag yourselves out of bed. You’re a mess. Hair everywhere, makeup smudged from last night.
Bucky doesn’t look much better – hair sticking up, t-shirt rumpled, eyes still heavy-lidded from sleep.
You catch him watching you as you fumble for your slippers.
“What?” you grumble.
He just shakes his head, smiling. “Nothing.”
“Bucky.”
He shrugs, crossing the room to kiss you.
“You’re pretty.”
You go bright red. “Shut up,” you mutter, pushing at his chest again – but not really trying.
He just huffs a quiet laugh and keeps you close. “Come on. I’ll make your coffee.”
You finally make it down the hall toward the kitchen, his arm draped lazily around your shoulders the entire way.
You try to shrug him off once, feeling self-conscious. “People are gonna see,” you hiss.
“Good.”
“Bucky!”
He squeezes you closer, chin hooking over your head. “Let ‘em.”
You roll your eyes, but your heart does a ridiculous little flip. When you round the corner into the kitchen, of course everyone is there. They all turn at once.
Sam bursts out laughing immediately. “Look at these two.”
Nat raises one eyebrow. “Well, well. Morning, lovebirds.”
You make an embarrassing noise in the back of your throat and try to wriggle free. Bucky just holds you tighter.
“Mornin’,” he says easily, like it’s nothing.
Wanda smiles, warm and a little smug. “Rough night?”
You squeak. “Don’t–”
Bucky interrupts.
“She was fine,” he says with absolutely no shame. “Just wouldn’t stop talkin’.”
Tony snickers. Sam looks delighted. “Oh really? About what?”
Bucky shrugs, but you feel him grin against your hair.
“Everything. How much she loves me. How pretty I am. How nice I am.”
You punch his side. “Bucky Barnes, I will kill you.”
He just laughs and kisses your temple again, arm iron-tight around you.
Steve’s trying not to laugh but failing. “Glad to see you two worked things out.”
“Yeah,” Bucky says smugly. “Worked it out real good.”
You groan, hiding your face in his chest. “God, just give me coffee.”
“Already on it, doll,” he murmurs, steering you gently to a stool.
He actually makes it for you. Exactly how you like it. Sets it in front of you. You’re too mortified to look at anyone else, hands curled around the mug for dear life. He stands behind you the whole time, big hands rubbing slow circles on your shoulders.
You hiss at him quietly. “Stop it.”
“Stop what?”
“Being nice.”
He leans down, mouth next to your ear.
“Not gonna,” he whispers, voice low and smug.
You shiver. Tony howls laughing. “Oh my God, they’re disgusting now.”
Nat smirks.
“Finally,” Wanda says, all serene approval.
You whine again, slumping over your coffee. Bucky just chuckles and bends to kiss your hair again.
“Love you,” he says softly, but loud enough for everyone to hear.
You groan into your mug. “Bucky–”
“Love you,” he repeats, sing-song.
You peek up at him, cheeks on fire. But you can’t help it. You smile.
“...love you too,” you mumble.
He grins like he just won the world, and he doesn’t move an inch from your side for the rest of breakfast.
After breakfast – where Bucky refuses to let you have even one minute of dignity – everyone eventually wanders off to the common room to do absolutely nothing.
There’s no mission coming up. No real plans. Just a rare, lazy day off. You trail behind the others, clutching your second mug of coffee like a lifeline, eyes still half-closed.
Bucky has an arm around your waist the entire way. You try, once, to nudge him off.
“People are looking,” you hiss.
He doesn’t budge. “Good.”
“Bucky–”
He leans down to kiss your cheek mid-stride. You groan, smacking his chest.
“Stop being gross.”
He just grins, satisfied. “Not gonna.”
When you make it to the common room, there’s a whole squabble over the big sectional. Nat, Sam, and Clint are all arguing about who called the corner first. Steve is trying to play diplomat. Wanda is curled up in an armchair, looking thoroughly entertained.
Bucky ignores them all. He steers you to the couch, drops onto it like he owns the place, and then drags you down with him. You land half on top of him with an undignified oof.
“Bucky!” you whisper-shriek.
He wraps both arms around you. “Get comfy,” he says, smirking.
You struggle for half a second, embarrassed. Everyone is definitely watching.
Nat raises an eyebrow. Tony wolf-whistles. Clint snorts. Steve’s mouth twitches like he’s trying not to laugh. Wanda just smiles serenely.
“Bucky,” you hiss again.
He just tightens his grip, hooking his chin over your shoulder. “Sit still,” he rumbles, voice low.
You go quiet immediately, shivering. Which really doesn’t help your embarrassment. He notices and smirks against your neck. You elbow him lightly.
“Stop it,” you mutter.
“Stop what?”
“Being like this.”
“Like what.”
You scowl at him, but your voice goes a little weak. “All…clingy.”
His arms flex around you.
“Deal with it,” he says, completely unbothered.
Tony cackles from the other side of the couch. “Look at Barnes being a big ol’ teddy bear.”
“Shut up, Stark,” Bucky growls.
You groan and hide your face in Bucky’s chest. He laughs quietly and just holds you tighter. It’s so embarrassing at first. Any time you try to shift, he drags you back. If you try to sit up, he physically hauls you back down into his lap. If you so much as lean away, he makes this absolutely pathetic grumbling sound in his chest until you give up.
You keep hissing at him under your breath. “Stop it.”
“No.”
“People are watching.”
“Good.”
“Bucky.”
“Doll.”
Eventually…you just give up.
You melt against him, arm curling around his waist, face buried in his shirt.
He goes quiet and smug.
You can feel him smiling against your hair.
“Comfortable?” he drawls.
You grumble something incoherent.
He kisses the top of your head. “Thought so.”
After a while the movie goes on. Everyone pretends they’re not watching the two of you, but you can feel the occasional amused glance. You try not to squirm. But you don’t move away, either. His fingers start tracing lazy circles on your back.
You let out an involuntary sigh. He smirks.
“Shut up,” you mutter.
“Didn’t say anything,” he says innocently, but his fingers keep moving, soothing and warm.
Eventually you shift, squirming around until you’re properly sitting in his lap.
He raises both eyebrows. “Oh?”
You flush but lift your chin stubbornly. “Shut up.”
His hands settle on your hips like they belong there.
“Not complainin’.”
You bury your face in his neck. He hums happily. And you stay like that. Nat snarks about it at some point:
“Get a room.”
Bucky doesn’t even look at her. “Maybe we will.”
You smack his shoulder. “Bucky!”
He just laughs and nuzzles your temple. “Love you,” he murmurs.
You go still. Your heart thumps. You press closer.
“Love you too,” you mumble.
He squeezes your hips in answer.
By late afternoon you’re both hopeless. You’re giggling at everything he says. He’s got his arms completely around you, thumb brushing your waist.
You’re playing with the collar of his henley, fingers slipping under it to trace his collarbone. At one point you actually kiss his jaw, right in front of everyone.
There’s a collective groan of disgust from the team. “Oh my god, stop,” Sam begs.
“Gross,” Clint mutters.
Nat just smirks. Steve hides his smile behind his hand. Wanda is beaming. You bury your face in Bucky’s neck, mortified. He laughs and holds you even closer.
“Get used to it,” he says smugly.
Then, lower, just for you: “‘Cause I’m not lettin’ you go.”
Your heart skips. You squirm closer, pressing another kiss to his jaw.
“Good,” you whisper.
And you don’t move from his lap for the rest of the day.
summary | bucky agrees to let you show him exactly why pegging isn’t so scary, only to end up wrecked, ruined, and reluctantly enjoying every filthy second.
tags | (18+) MDNI, Explicit Sexual Content, pegging, sub!bucky barnes, anal fingering, anal sex, oral sex (m!receiving), dirty talk, praise kink, bratty!reader, aftercare, slight humiliation kink, bucky barnes is whipped, “good boy” kink, smut with feelings
a/n | never in my life did I imagine writing something like this. enjoy you freaks
you do NOT need to read the previous parts to read this one
likes comments and reblogs are much appreciated ✨✨
sᴇʀɪᴇs ᴍᴀsᴛᴇʀʟɪsᴛ
ᴘʀᴇᴠɪᴏᴜs ᴘᴀʀᴛ - ɴᴇxᴛ ᴘᴀʀᴛ
divider by @cafekitsune
Bucky sat on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, staring down at the floor like it had personally offended him. His jaw was tight, shoulders stiff, the picture of a man seriously reevaluating his life choices.
You stood in front of him, bare feet planted on the rug, wearing a slinky little nightdress that skimmed your thighs—soft satin, a dangerous contrast to the very unsoft gleam in your eyes.
“You sure about this?” you asked, tilting your head, the question light but loaded.
“Yeah,” he said quickly—too quickly.
You narrowed your eyes. “You don’t look sure.”
“I’m sure,” he insisted, sitting up straighter.
You crossed your arms, smirking. “You look like a guy about to be drafted...again.”
He shot you a dry glare. “You’re making this sound way scarier than it is.”
“Oh, I haven’t even started yet, Sergeant,” you teased, stepping closer. “But, you know, if you’re gonna back out, now’s the time. Door’s right there.”
He glanced at it. Just for a second. Then back at you. “…No. I’m not backing out.”
You leaned down, bracing your hands on his knees, lowering your voice. “Good boy.”
He swallowed hard, adam’s apple bobbing, eyes darting down to your nightdress like it might save him. “You’re really enjoying this, aren’t you?”
“Immensely,” you said without hesitation. “It’s not every day you get to ruin a hundred-year-old supersoldier.”
“That’s… not helping,” he muttered.
“Oh, I’m not here to help,” you smiled, straightening up. “I’m here to fuck you.”
His ears went red.
You let the tension stretch for a moment longer—just enough to make him squirm—before you stepped in closer, your knees brushing his.
“Alright,” you murmured, tone softer now, “let’s relax you first.”
Bucky’s brows pulled together like he wanted to ask what you meant, but you were already moving, sliding down onto your knees between his spread legs.
And, predictably, he didn’t complain.
Not one bit.
His big hands rested tentatively on his thighs, eyes locked on you like he wasn’t sure if he should be bracing himself or leaning in.
You smiled up at him, resting your palms on his knees. “Breathe, Sarge. I’ve got you.”
He exhaled slowly, jaw loosening, and you took the opportunity to reach up, fingers finding the ties of his sweats.
“You’re very overdressed for what’s about to happen,” you teased, glancing up at him from under your lashes.
He huffed out something that was almost a laugh, his voice low and rough. “You’re just stalling.”
“Maybe,” you admitted, your fingers brushing over the waistband, “or maybe I just like taking my time unwrapping my toys.”
His breath hitched, and you felt the twitch of arousal under your touch.
“See?” you murmured, tugging the fabric down just enough. “Already relaxing.”
You eased his sweats down just far enough to free him, and he was already half-hard—thick and heavy in your hand, the heat of him radiating into your palm.
Bucky’s breath caught as you wrapped your fingers loosely around the base, stroking once, twice—just enough to watch his shoulders drop an inch.
“Better,” you murmured.
He smirked faintly, but it faltered the second your tongue darted out to tease along the underside of his cock.
A slow, deliberate stroke, from the base all the way up, pausing just shy of the head.
Bucky’s hands flexed on his thighs.
You glanced up at him. “Still sure?”
His voice was tight. “Don’t stop.”
That was all the permission you needed.
You leaned in and pressed the softest kiss to the flushed tip, lingering there, lips parting just enough to taste the faint salt of him.
Bucky exhaled sharply, his gaze locked on you like you were doing something far more dangerous than you actually were.
You smiled against him and followed it with a series of delicate kitten licks—light flicks of your tongue over the sensitive ridge, circling lazily around the crown, never giving him enough to push him over the edge.
“Tease,” he muttered, voice dropping lower.
“Guilty,” you said with a grin, then flattened your tongue against him for one long, slow stroke, your free hand cupping the weight of him as you worked him with a pace designed to drive him mad.
Every time his hips twitched forward, you pulled back just slightly, forcing him to stay where you wanted him—under your control, under your tongue, waiting.
You kept him there on the edge for a few more strokes of your tongue—just enough to feel his thighs tense under your palms—before finally giving him what he clearly wanted.
Your lips parted and you took him into your mouth, slow at first, letting your tongue glide along the underside as you sank lower. His breath hitched sharply, his hand curling into the bedding behind him instead of grabbing you, like he knew better than to break your rhythm.
“Mhm…” you hummed low around him, feeling the way it made him twitch.
You set a steady pace, bobbing your head, swirling your tongue at the crown on every pull back before sinking down again. The little sounds he made—quiet groans, stifled breaths—only pushed you to go further.
When you finally let him slide to the back of your throat, swallowing around him, his hips jolted and his head dropped back with a low, guttural, “Fuuuck.”
You stayed there for a moment, breathing through your nose, letting him feel the tight clutch of your throat before pulling back slowly, your lips dragging along every inch.
He looked down at you, flushed and glassy-eyed, chest rising and falling faster now.
“Holy shit,” he rasped, like he hadn’t expected you to actually do it.
You hummed around him before sinking down again—this time taking him all the way until your nose brushed his lower stomach. You swallowed once, hard, and his whole body shuddered under you.
“Gonna—” he started, voice breaking—
But you pulled back just before he could finish that sentence, your hand replacing your mouth in slow, teasing strokes.
“Not yet, Sarge,” you murmured, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand and grinning up at him. “We’ve got work to do.”
You rose smoothly to your feet, wiping your palms against the silk of your nightdress before planting your hands on your hips.
“Alright, soldier,” you said, voice warm but edged with command, “get naked for me.”
Bucky gave you a long, suffering sigh—equal parts dramatic and reluctant—but he stood. His sweats slid down his hips and pooled at his feet, leaving him completely bare under the dim bedroom light.
You took your time looking.
Really looking.
Your gaze swept over the broad lines of his shoulders, the scar-mapped planes of his chest, the ripple of muscle down his stomach.
And then lower.
At the hard, flushed length standing stiff against him—clear evidence that your little warm-up had done its job.
Your smile curled, slow and wicked. “God, you’re pretty when you’re all worked up like this.”
He rolled his eyes immediately, muttering something under his breath, but the telltale red creeping up his neck gave him away.
“Don’t roll your eyes at me, Barnes,” you teased, stepping close enough to run a single finger from his collarbone down to the trail of hair leading to his cock. “It’s a compliment. You should take it.”
He exhaled through his nose, trying not to react—but his cock twitched anyway, bobbing slightly between you.
Your grin deepened. “See? He likes the attention even if you pretend you don’t.”
“Can we just… get on with it?” he muttered, avoiding your eyes.
“Oh, we will,” you promised, already turning toward the drawer where you kept your toys. “But you’re gonna regret rushing me.”
You sauntered over to your dresser, pulling open the bottom drawer with deliberate slowness—letting him stew while you rummaged.
When you turned back, the smooth curve of black silicone hanging casually from your fingers, Bucky’s brows shot up so high they nearly disappeared into his hairline.
“That’s…” he started, blinking at it like it might come alive, “…kind of big, don’t ya think?”
You bit back a smirk. “Compared to your size? Not really.”
His eyes narrowed, but there was a telltale twitch at the corner of his mouth. “That supposed to be a compliment?”
“Take it however makes you feel better, baby,” you teased, setting the toy on the bed between you like it was nothing more than a pair of socks. “Trust me, this is the warm-up version.”
His gaze flicked between you and the strap, then back to you. “…There’s a bigger one?”
You just grinned. “You’ll find out if you’re good.”
Bucky groaned, dragging a hand over his face. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”
“Mmhm,” you hummed, leaning in close enough that your voice dropped to a purr. “Now… we’ve gotta prep you first.”
He blinked at you. “…Prep?”
You tilted your head. “You know. Like how you prep me—just… with your ass.”
His whole face went red. “Do you have to be so vulgar about it?”
“Would you prefer I say ‘delicate backdoor flower’ instead?” you shot back with a grin.
He groaned again. “Please don’t.”
“Fine,” you said with exaggerated patience, patting the bed. “Get on your knees, soldier. Let’s make sure you’re nice and ready before I fuck you stupid.”
Bucky moved like a man heading to his own execution—slow, wary, and muttering under his breath. Still, he obeyed when you told him to turn over, settling on his knees in the middle of the bed, broad shoulders tense, head ducked slightly like he wasn’t sure whether to be embarrassed or defensive.
“Never in my life,” he grumbled, “did I think I’d end up in this position.”
You grinned from behind him, absolutely savoring the sight of the great James Buchanan Barnes—supersoldier, assassin, war hero—on his hands and knees for you.
“Life’s full of surprises, sweetheart,” you said sweetly, giving his ass a little appreciative glance before leaning forward and patting his hip. “Some of them are even good ones.”
He huffed a laugh, low and short, like he wasn’t ready to admit you were right. “We’ll see about that.”
“Oh, we will,” you promised, reaching over to the nightstand for the bottle of lube you’d left there. The slick sound of it opening made him glance over his shoulder, brows drawing together in suspicion.
You caught his eye deliberately, squeezing a generous amount into your palm and letting it glisten in the low light. “Gonna make sure you’re ready for me. You trust me, right?”
His jaw tightened, but he nodded once. “…Yeah.”
“Good.” You shifted closer, resting a steadying hand on his hip before sliding the other between his thighs, your slicked fingers brushing over the tight ring of muscle there. He sucked in a sharp breath, muscles tensing.
“Relax,” you murmured, rubbing small, slow circles just outside. “I’m not gonna hurt you.”
Bucky exhaled through his nose, his shoulders loosening fractionally as you pressed the pad of your finger in—not far, just enough for him to feel it.
“Feels… weird,” he admitted, his voice low and a little tight.
You smiled, working in slow, shallow movements. “Weird good, or weird bad?”
“Too soon to tell,” he muttered, but he didn’t move away.
“That’s fine,” you said easily. “We’ve got time.” You eased the first finger deeper, careful and patient, letting him get used to the stretch before curling slightly and pulling back. Over and over, you worked him open, adding more lube as you went, until you felt him start to push back ever so slightly.
“Atta boy,” you murmured, letting a little praise drip into your tone. “You’re taking me so well already.”
Bucky’s ears went red, and he grumbled something incoherent—but his thighs stayed exactly where you wanted them.
Your hand stayed steady on his hip as you slicked your fingers again, not giving him much warning before pressing back in with the first one. His body welcomed you more easily now—still tight, still hot around you, but not fighting it like before.
“That’s it,” you murmured, voice dripping with praise. “Already opening up for me.”
Bucky gave a short, shaky laugh that broke halfway through. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”
“Mmhm,” you hummed. “And you’re gonna enjoy it too. Ready for more?”
He hesitated for a beat, then grunted, “Yeah.”
You didn’t waste the chance. The first finger slid in again, and then you pressed the second right alongside it, slow but relentless. He hissed sharply, his thighs tensing, hips twitching forward like he didn’t know whether to get away from the intrusion or grind into it.
“Fuck,” he breathed, voice dropping an octave.
“Too much?” you asked, even though you could already feel the way his body was trying to accommodate you.
“…No,” he admitted, shaky. “Just—different.”
“Different’s good,” you murmured, curling your fingers just slightly, pressing into that spot that made his whole back arch. “You’ll get used to it.”
His knuckles went white where they gripped the sheets. “Holy shit,” he gasped, head dropping forward.
You grinned, working him in slow, deliberate thrusts, scissoring your fingers wider before sliding back in. Every time you pushed deeper, you angled to drag over that same spot, watching the way it made his hips jerk, the way his breath caught like he couldn’t stop it.
“Feel that?” you said, your voice low and smug. “That’s your prostate, honey. Your sweet spot. The place that’s gonna make you come so hard you’ll forget your own name.”
He groaned, the sound rough and needy, hips rocking back just enough to take you deeper.
“That’s it,” you coaxed, pace quickening just slightly, enough to keep him panting. “Push back on me. Fuck yourself on my fingers.”
His breath was ragged now, his whole body tight but moving with you, chasing the sensation even as he tried to hold on.
“Fuck, you’re gonna ruin me,” he muttered, voice almost a whimper.
“That’s the point,” you shot back, twisting your wrist just enough to grind against that spot again. “Gonna open you up nice and wide so I can fuck you with my cock next.”
The groan he let out then was deep, almost guttural—like the words alone had gone straight to his dick.
You finally pulled your fingers free, slow and deliberate, watching the way his rim clenched after the stretch. His thighs trembled faintly, and when you smoothed a hand over the small of his back, his breath was still uneven—his body already warm and pliant from the prep.
“Think you’re ready for me now, soldier,” you murmured, reaching for the harness waiting at the edge of the bed.
Bucky’s head lifted just enough to glance over his shoulder, brows knitting as he caught sight of the strap. You stepped into it one leg at a time, pulling the leather snug over your hips. The weight of the silicone cock bobbed forward, already slicked with lube from your earlier prep.
His gaze dropped to it instantly.
“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, eyes widening a fraction. “That’s… fuck, that’s really—”
“Big?” you offered, smirking as you adjusted the straps. “We’ve covered this. Not that big compared to what you’re packing.”
His gaze flicked from the toy to your face, something hot and uncertain in his eyes. “Yeah, but it’s you wearing it.”
You grinned, stepping up to the edge of the bed so the tip brushed the curve of his ass. “Exactly.”
He swallowed hard, his hands tightening on the sheets.
“Still sure?” you asked, running your palm slowly up his spine.
He hesitated for a beat before nodding once. “…Yeah.”
“Good boy,” you purred, giving the head of the cock a slow, teasing glide down the crease of his ass, letting the lube smear over him.
Bucky groaned low in his chest, head dropping forward again.
“You feel stretched for me?” you asked, lining yourself up. “Open?”
“Yeah,” he said, almost a whisper. “Just… fuck, just take it slow.”
You smirked, pressing the tip against his rim and pushing forward just enough to make him gasp.
“Breathe,” you reminded him, your free hand splayed over his lower back. You eased in another inch, the tight heat of him gripping around the toy making you groan this time.
“Shit—” he hissed, hips twitching.
“That’s it,” you murmured, rocking your hips to let him feel the weight and stretch without forcing too much at once. “Let me in, baby. Let me fuck you like you deserve.”
His groan was long, shuddering, and his ass pushed back almost imperceptibly—an invitation you were more than ready to take.
You kept the pressure steady, feeding him inch after inch, feeling every tight pull of muscle give way around the toy. Bucky’s knuckles were white where he gripped the sheets, shoulders rising and falling with each breath he forced out.
“That’s it,” you coaxed, voice low and syrupy. “Taking me so fucking well. Didn’t think you’d be this good for me, Sarge.”
“Fuck…” he groaned, voice breaking halfway through the word. His hips twitched again, not enough to push back, but enough to tell you he wanted more.
“Almost there,” you promised, pressing your palm to the small of his back to steady him as you pushed the last inch inside. The silicone was seated flush against you now, the leather straps biting pleasantly into your hips. “There. All the way in.”
Bucky let out a low, guttural sound that was somewhere between a groan and a moan, his head dropping forward until his forehead touched the mattress.
“Feel full?” you asked, rolling your hips just enough to make him gasp.
He made a helpless noise in the back of his throat. “…Yeah.”
You grinned, dragging out slowly until just the tip was left inside him, then pushing back in with a slow, deliberate thrust. His ass clenched around you, the resistance making you bite back your own groan.
“God, you’re tight,” you murmured, picking up a steady rhythm—long, smooth strokes that let him feel every bit of the stretch. “I can feel you squeezing me already.”
Bucky’s breathing was uneven now, every exhale punctuated by the faintest sound when you bottomed out.
“Fuck, that’s… that’s so much,” he managed, his voice low and wrecked.
“Bad too much?” you asked, even though you could see the way his thighs shifted, like he was fighting the urge to push back into you harder.
He shook his head quickly. “…No. Feels… good.”
“Good,” you echoed, your pace picking up—each thrust hitting that spot inside him that made his breath stutter. “Gonna fuck you until you’re dripping down your thighs, Sarge. Make you remember this every time you sit down.”
The groan he gave you then was downright obscene, and this time he did push back, his ass meeting your hips in a clumsy, desperate rhythm.
“That’s it,” you praised, gripping his hips to keep him steady as you drove into him harder now. “Ride it. Take it. Be my good boy.”
And from the way he was already shaking under you, you knew he was hanging on by a thread.
You tightened your grip on his hips, nails digging into the firm muscle there, and started driving into him harder—your slow, measured strokes giving way to sharp, deliberate thrusts that made the mattress creak under both of you.
Bucky’s moans got louder, rawer, like he couldn’t hold them back anymore. Each time you slammed into him, his body jolted forward, only to push right back into you, his ass meeting your hips with a wet, obscene sound.
“Fuck—fuck—” he panted, voice breaking. “You’re… you’re really—”
“Fucking you?” you supplied, smiling even as you picked up the pace. “Yeah, I am. And you’re taking it like you were made for it.”
He groaned, the sound guttural, and dropped his head between his arms, his shoulders flexing as he tried to steady himself against the force of your thrusts.
You kept hammering into him, each movement sharp and deep, the toy sliding over that sweet spot inside him again and again until his thighs started to tremble. The slick heat of him clenching around you only made you go harder, chasing the broken little noises spilling from his mouth.
“Fuck, you’re gripping me so tight,” you growled, leaning forward just enough to murmur in his ear. “Gonna make you come just from my cock pounding your ass, sweetheart. Bet no one’s ever done that to you before.”
Bucky shook his head, unable to speak through the wrecked sounds he was making. His knuckles were white on the sheets, sweat starting to bead along his spine, his breathing ragged as you pistoned into him without mercy.
“That’s it,” you praised, your own hips snapping faster now, relentless. “Take it. Take every inch of me.”
His thighs were trembling outright now, his whole body quivering under you. Every thrust had him gasping, his cock bobbing between his legs, already leaking against the sheets.
“Oh, fuck—” he choked out, voice cracking. “Don’t stop—please—”
You grinned wickedly, tightening your hold on his hips and pounding into him so hard the bedframe groaned in protest. The rhythm was ruthless now, deep and fast, the toy slamming against his prostate over and over until his moans dissolved into broken, wordless cries.
You kept him there—right on that razor edge—driving into him with a brutal, steady rhythm, your hips snapping forward to bury yourself to the hilt every single time. The wet slap of skin-on-skin was drowned out by the desperate, breathless sounds tearing from his throat.
Bucky was gone.
His head hung low, sweat dripping from his hairline, every muscle in his back standing out in tight, trembling relief. You could feel him clenching around you, frantic and uneven, like his body couldn’t decide whether to resist the overwhelming sensation or give into it completely.
“Right there,” you murmured darkly, adjusting your angle until the tip of your cock dragged over his prostate with every thrust. “Yeah, I’ve got it now. You feel that, Sarge?”
His answer was a wrecked moan, his fingers digging so hard into the sheets you swore you heard fabric tear.
“That’s your sweet spot,” you continued, pounding into him harder, faster, each stroke perfectly brutal. “I can feel you fucking losing it already. You gonna come for me without me even touching your cock?”
His breath hitched like you’d just stripped him bare. “I—fuck—I can’t—”
“Yes, you can,” you cut him off, voice sharp but coaxing, your hand sliding from his hip to grip the back of his neck, holding him steady as you worked him over. “You’re gonna do it for me. Gonna soak the sheets like my good soldier boy.”
The sound he made in response was almost feral—half a groan, half a whimper—his thighs shaking violently as you pounded into him without pause.
And then it happened.
His whole body seized, his breath catching in his chest before breaking into a raw, shuddering moan. His cock jerked between his legs, untouched, spurting hot against the sheets as his walls clamped down around the toy like a vice.
You didn’t stop. Not when his voice cracked on your name, not when he gasped through the aftershocks. You kept thrusting, slower now but still deep, milking every drop out of him until his arms finally gave out and he collapsed forward onto the bed, panting into the mattress.
“Fuck…” he groaned, voice wrecked. “What the hell did you just do to me?”
You smiled, dragging the toy from his spent body with a filthy wet sound. “Exactly what I said I would, honey—ruined you.”
You eased back, letting him breathe, your hands smoothing down his sides as his body slowly stopped trembling. He was sprawled on the bed, cheek pressed to the sheets, hair a sweaty mess across his forehead.
“Hey,” you murmured, running your fingers through his hair. “You with me?”
Bucky groaned low, nodding into the mattress. “Barely.”
You smiled, leaning down to press a kiss between his shoulder blades before slipping away to grab a warm cloth and remove the strap. When you returned, he’d rolled onto his side, eyes half-lidded and lazy. You cleaned him gently, wiping away the mess on his stomach and thighs, before tossing the cloth aside and climbing into bed beside him.
He immediately wrapped an arm around you, pulling you in until your legs tangled. His head dropped to your chest, and for a moment, all you could hear was his breathing.
“So…” you said, voice dripping with smug amusement, “do you still think pegging’s scary?”
He tilted his head just enough to glare up at you, though the effect was ruined by the faint flush still clinging to his cheeks. “You’re never gonna let me live this down, are you?”
“Not a chance, Sarge,” you teased, brushing your thumb over his jaw. “Especially now that I know you can come so hard you see god without me even touching your cock.”
Bucky groaned again, hiding his face against you. “Stop talking.”
You grinned, kissing the top of his head. “Can’t. It’s part of my aftercare.”
“Your aftercare’s mean,” he muttered, though his arm tightened around you like he had no intention of letting go anytime soon.
Bucky now lay half on top of you, heavy and warm, his breathing slow but uneven—like he was trying to pretend he wasn’t still floating. His hair was damp against your collarbone, his arm draped across your waist in a loose, possessive hold.
“You’re quiet,” you murmured, your nails lazily tracing down his back.
“Just… thinking,” he said, his voice low and gravelly.
You smirked. “About how you’re my good boy?”
He stiffened slightly, tilting his head just enough to glare up at you. “Don’t start.”
“Oh, I’m starting,” you said with a grin, brushing your fingers through his hair. “Good boys get praised, baby. You took me so well. Let me fuck you open until you were shaking and begging. That’s textbook good boy behavior.”
Bucky groaned, dropping his head back down onto your chest like he couldn’t bear to look at you. “You’re insufferable.”
“And you’re wrecked,” you shot back, pressing a smug kiss to the top of his head. “Can’t even lift your head without looking like you’ve run a marathon.”
That got you a faint snort, followed by a lazy mumble, “Careful, sweetheart… keep talking like that and I’ll flip you over and fuck you so hard you won’t walk tomorrow.”
The delivery was weak—slurred and slow—and it only made you grin wider. “That supposed to be a threat? ‘Cause right now you sound like you’re about two minutes from passing out.”
He let out a low laugh, though it was more air than sound. “Maybe I’ll just dream about it.”
“Uh-huh,” you teased, pulling the blanket up over both of you. “Dream all you want, Sarge. Just remember who’s in charge when you wake up.”
His response was a muffled grumble, but the arm around your waist tightened—and you knew he wasn’t going anywhere.
