BareWithMe

A sixth one comes through, your phone buzzing angrily. You roll your eyes, and for a long second you seriously consider drowning the damn thing in the abandoned beer glass next to you.

He doesn’t get to call you, like you’re some wandering child. He doesn’t get to get angry about you being out, when he’s the reason you’re here in the first place. And you told Sam to tell him that you’d be here. So really, this is Dean’s fault, then Sam’s, then yours.

The call goes to voicemail. You flip the screen back over, and take a long drink. If it’s really that big a deal that you’re out without him, he can put on his pants and come get you himself.

And he won’t. And that’s part of the problem.

Dean’s going to lecture you about safety when you crawl back in the morning, and you’re going to roll your eyes. He’ll ask you if you think something’s funny, sweetheart? You look him dead in his pretty eyes and say I don’t know, is it? He’ll get angrier. You’ll get angrier. Sam will try to mediate, and you’ll throw something at him before stomping off. Dean will chase after you, and wrestle you back into the room while calling you a brat.

When you get tossed down on the mattress, you’ll sink your nails into his shoulder, because you do every time. You want to drag him down with you, to make him feel this the same way you always have.

To big, too much. Too soft in all the wrong places, and too spiked everywhere else. There’s a sharp, angry shell around your heart that’s grown like an exoskeleton. It’s got wires and teeth that snap, whenever Dean gives you a little too much attention. You can never tell if it’s trying to eat him or latch onto him anymore. You don’t think it really matters.

Dean hates you. He thinks you hate him. He’s going to grab your knees and pin them to your chest, and you’re going to be the only woman in the world who he doesn’t notice flush against him. He’ll hiss that you can’t just go running around alone. That it’s not like you, to be reckless. You spit a fuck you, his grip will get tight, and he’ll shove you away to go take one of his long showers.

Sam will tell you to stop testing him. You’ll tell Sam to eat himself, and go back to sulking like a child in the corner.

Only Dean can do that to you. You hate and love him for it.

When you met—on a hunt that didn’t matter, until it did—he made you all giggly and dumb. Years of training and a mind that could never slow down, turned to goo from one roughish, lazy smile.

“You like trouble?” He’d asked you, trying even then to talk you out of a hunt.

“No. No one likes trouble.”

Dean had chuckled. “I don’t know about that, sweetheart. Most girls like you love it.”

You’d snorted. “Girls like me? What’s a girl like me?”

“Gorgeous.” He’d smirked, like he’d been dying for you to ask. “Smart. Mouthy-“

“Mouthy?” You’d cut him off, rolling your eyes. “Are you from the 60s?”

“No. But you’re provin’ my point.”

“You didn’t have a point. You were just trying to sleep with me.”

Dean had raised his hands in mock surrender. “Guilty. But- Is it working-“

“No.”

It had been. If Sam hadn’t come back to the car two seconds later, you would’ve climbed into Dean’s lap like a whore. Which wasn’t what you were. It wasn’t what you did. Sex with a half-stranger, sex in general, you didn’t toss your body around easily. You’d never been able to do the removing emotions part of casual sex. You’d always managed to come up with a million reasons not to, most of them looking something like have a hookup, get pregnant, the father’s already gone, the baby’s born with cancer, you love it anyway and it dies in your arms, if you’d been more responsible the baby would’ve solved climate change, everyone dies in a fiery explosion.

But you’d looked at Dean, and seen no death or path out that didn’t end in light. He’d grabbed your thigh in the dark of the car, and you’d flushed and smiled to yourself like a schoolgirl.

“You wanna know my middle name?” He’d whispered to you, later that night.

“That’s the worst pick up line I’ve ever heard-“

“It’s not a pick up line! I’m askin’ you a question-“

“But it’s going to turn into a pickup line.” You’d said flatly, and Dean had given you a boyish smile that almost made you forget that he was covered in vampire blood.

“You already know me so well,” he’d cooed, and you’d snorted.

“You’re predictable.”

“So you’re never gonna wonder what I’m thinking.”

You’d shoved his face away with a hand, still giggling. This was usually the point in a hunt where you started thinking about what came next. How long you had to get out of town, how much food you’d need to eat now before you got to your next stop—if you eat too much, you’re going to overstuff and get sick, if you don’t eat enough you’re going to be weak and pass out behind the wheel and cause a fifty car pile-up—and if there are any strings you needed to wrap up on the case.

But Dean had been smiling at you. And that had felt like the only thing that mattered.

“C’mon, ask me what my middle name is-“

You’d covered his mouth with a hand, shooting him a stern glare. His eyes had gleamed with affection, and something deeper you try not to think about now. It hurts too much. It makes you mourn for something that was never even yours to have.

“Only so you shut up,” you’d whispered. “What’s your middle name.”

You’d dropped your hand, and Dean had touched his lips like he was in some telenovela. You’d fought a smile. You’d never known someone could be so handsome it made your heart ache, and so cute you thought you’d explode.

He’d puffed out his chest, and grinned at you like he won the lottery.

“It’s Trouble-“

“It’s Adam.” Sam had called from the table. Dean had looked at  him like he’d just murdered a puppy, and you’d laughed so hard you almost fell off the bed.

And you’d thought something was growing. You’d been a foolish girl, who thought the dorky, handsome hero in front of her would give chase, when she turned him down.,

If you could go back, you’d slap yourself in the face and tell you to get it together. Dean Winchester is Dean Winchester. You listen to the what the shadows whisper. You knew his reputation before he smiled at you in the low light of his car. You’re smart. Sam goes to you for research advice, you’ve come up with whole new ways to kill demons and trap angels. You fucking knew better, than to fall in love with Dean.

You should’ve known better.

You didn’t.

So you attached yourself to them like a little, leeching parasite. You followed them around, the Winchester’s shadow, and fell more in love with Dean, and got your heart broken every night when he slipped out of the bar with another woman on his arm.

You’d gotten mean. You’d started getting short with him, and he’d fueled the fire building in the cavity of your chest by being a dick. Suddenly you were too inexperienced for every hunt. Too young to be out alone—you’ve had that fight more times than you can count—or too tense and tightly wound to think clearly.

He’s the one who doesn’t think clearly. He’s the one who drinks himself to death after a hunt and has literally fucked monsters because he can’t be bothered to plan ahead. He drags you and Sam to towns because he’s got a good feeling about them. He tells you to just relax, princess, and you want to punch him in his stupid, pretty face.

But you still love him. You love him so much you think it’s going to kill you. And you keep that locked in the deepest chamber of your heart, because he never needs to know that you still get stupid and soft for him. If he finds out that the first time he tried to leave on a hunt without you, you almost started crying in the middle of the bunker kitchen, he’ll look at you like you’re crazy.

And you are crazy. You know that. You’re a fumbling, wild ball of worries and sneers, and Dean would never want a nagger. He’d never want a younger woman who acts like she knows better—even though you do—and who needs him to be perfectly attentive and affectionate every second of every day.

You’re in love with a man who hates you. And if you had to listen to him fuck that secretary through the wall all night, you were going to kill yourself on their bed.

So now you’re at this loud, disgusting bar, drinking something that you’re praying numbs the pain, and smiling so wide it hurts your face.

The abandoned beer’s owner came back. He’s a broad shouldered, smirking man with a clean cut face, and lighter hair. If you get a little more squint, he looks just like Dean. If you get a little more buzzed, he’ll sound like him too.

You hate causal sex. It doesn’t count if you’re pretending it’s Dean. It doesn’t count if it makes this stop hurting.

“What’s a pretty thing like you doin’ here?” The man drawls, leaning across the bar.

You giggle, and it sounds distant to your ears. “Drinking.”

“Yeah?” The man smirks. “You like drinkin’, doll?”

You shake your head, swinging your feet and spinning in the bar stool. The man raises his brows.

“You sure you don’t? You’re goin’ through that thing fast.”

“It tastes bad.” You wrinkle your nose. “Feels good.”

The man’s smile turns wolfish. Your phone starts to buzz again, and you glare at the screen before shutting it fully off.

“Boyfriend?” The man asks, and you shake your head.

“He wishes.”

No, he doesn’t.

That’s the problem.

And you keep flirting—if it can even be called that, because you mostly babble about hating the drink you got and hating Dean and loving the man’s drink because Dean likes that one too—and the man’s hands find their way to your lower back and thigh.

“Why don’t I help you forget about Dean?” He winks at you, and you shrug.

The world is mostly just blurred colors and lights now. Everything feels awfully light, in a way you’re not sure you like.

But you like forgetting about Dean more. So even though you want to tell this man that it’s impossible to forget about Dean, you’re also just lost enough to want help finding your way out.

“Okay.” You beam at him.

You make it to the parking lot—his arm around your waist, herding you like a lost lamb—before Dean ruins everything. He always ruins everything.

There’s a shout of your name, almost ripping through the hazy fog of your drunken mind. You were feet from the man’s car. Just a few more steps from having fun, which you’re bad at doing, but maybe if you practiced, Dean would like you more.

From the look on his face when you turn around, it might’ve actually made him like you less.

“I’ve been looking everywhere for you.” He marches across the lot with a scowl, hands balled into fists and gaze fixed solely on you. “I almost made Sammy file a missing persons report-“

“’M not missing.” You stick your tongue out at him. “’M right here. Stupid.”

You mutter the last word under your breath, and Dean freezes. He blinks slowly, gaze raking over your body. That’s not fair. It makes you feel all warm and puddley. Your core floods with heat, and your knees get weak, and he’s get looking at you.

Dean takes a half-step forward, his voice dropping low and rough. “Are you drunk?”

“No.”

There’s a larger gust of wind. Dean’s eyes gleam in the golden light of the parking lot. He looks a little like an angel. You trip standing up, then giggle when the man pulls you back up. Dean’s jaw drops, his brow knitting tight.

“You’re fuckin’ wasted.” He mutters, shaking his head. “Jesus, sweetheart- C’mon.” He steps forward, reaching out a hand. “Let’s go.”

“Nuh uh.” You pout, shaking you head. “I’m not drunk-“

“You’re standing like we’re on a freakin’ ship. Come on.” He flexes his hand, and you cross your arms over your chest.

He doesn’t get to win. “I’m having fun.”

“We can have fun back at the room-“

“The lady said she’s having fun.” The man next to you pulls you tighter into his side, fingers curling on your hip like a lock. “Screw off, pal. I got here first.”

And Dean recoils, looking at the man like he’s noticing him for the first time. You can’t read his expression in the low light, but it seems angry. Or just annoyed. Or indifferent. His jaw looks sharp and clenched. You want to lick it.

“Listen, bud.” Dean snaps, glaring down at the man. “This ain’t a who got here first thing. My girl’s drunk. I’m takin’ her home, or I’m punching you in the face.”

The man is silent for a moment. He and Dean glower at each other, and you frown between them. There’s something poking at your drink addled brain, but it’s spelling a word you can’t read. All you can really figure out is that they’re being weird.

“You Dean?” The man asks.

Dean’s eyes narrow. His shoulders square, the way they do before he’s about to swing at a demon. “Yeah. And?”

“Nothin’.” The man smirks. “Just… Thought you’d be God, based on how she was talkin’ about you. But,” he chuckles, tipping his chin. “You’re just a little bitch.”

Dean’s jaw ticks. You don’t need the lighting to figure out what he’s thinking now. You can almost feel it, rolling off of him in waves.

He’s pissed.

He looks the man up and down, and if he throws a punch, you know he won’t be the one who goes down. You’re drunk enough not to worry about the violence of it. All your useless thoughts can spin around is the idea of Dean fighting for you. Of his massive arms flexing as he knocks down the other man—who, the longer your Dean stands in front of you, looks less and less appealing—and scoops you into his arms like the princess he mocks you with being. Then he can wrap his arm around your head and fuck you against the hood of his car, until you’re drooling all over his cock.

You giggle at nothing, a unignorable heat pooling between your legs. Dean’s attention snaps back over, and you beam at him.

Something in his gaze shifts. He lets out a slow breath, and stretches out a hand.

“Let’s go, princess.” He beckons with two crooked fingers, and you almost stumble forwards. “We can watch whatever you want, alright? I’ll get you some of that ice cream you like, and- Sammy can watch with you, if you don’t want me around. Just-“ He sighs, running a hand over his face. “Get over here. Please.”

He sounds so tired. Tired and almost sad. Your feet move without your permission, and you reach to take his hand.

The man yanks you back, and you yelp.

“Remember what you told me, doll.” He drawls in your ear, loud enough for Dean to still hear. “Remember how he treats you.”

Dean scowls. “You stay out of this-“

“He doesn’t care.” The man ignores him. “You told me, he doesn’t love you.”

Dean opens his mouth, something stricken flashing over his features. You feel a little sick.

“C’mon. I got you.” The man rubs your hip, smiling gently. “Show him what he’s missing. He can bitch about it, alone all night while you get fucked real good.”

Dean’s face is a shade of red you’ve never seen before. He has an expression like someone just punched him in the gut.

And it’s not the fucking real good that steels you. It’s the reminder that Dean won’t be alone. He has his secretary. And you’re allowed to have your random bar man, and there’s nothing he can do about it.

Dean rasps your name. “Come here-“

“You come here.” You snap, and it’s meant to be a sharp, killing blow that makes him sigh and give up.

If you were a little less drunk, you would’ve known that was never going to work.

Dean’s throat bobs. He exhales like he’s going through the trials of Hercules, rather than arguing in a parking lot. He rubs his jaw, looks up to the sky like he’s praying, and chuckles. It’s dry and flat, but so deep and rough. You shiver at the sound, and almost fall right into him again.

“Alright.” Dean mutters, shaking out his arm. “Fine.”

He marches forward, clocks the man across the jaw, and throws you over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. It happens so fast your body is still catching up with it, by the time he’s halfway back to the car. You realize you should be thrashing and shouting when you hear the Impala door unlock. Your body doesn’t seem to want to cooperate though. Dean’s back is warm, and his hand is resting near your ass, and it’s making you putty for him to play with.

He did it so fast. He didn’t even break a sweat or give the man a chance to fight back, before he grabbed you. When he lowers you into shotgun, he does it so gently. Like even after getting on his nervous, you’re precious cargo. He brushes the hair from your face, hunched over as you settle into the bench.

You blink at him, still drunk and confused. Dean still has that strange look in his eyes, his lips parted as you just stare at each other. His hand lingers on your cheek. You lean into the touch, and his nostrils flare.

Across the parking lot, there’s a roar of his name.

Dean sighs, and stands up. He walks around the hood of the car, slides into the driver’s seat, and starts the car. You watch his fingers move like a starved woman. You want him to put them in your mouth, and you almost tell him when there’s a slam on his window.

The man is shouting at him, veins bulging and eyes bugging. He looks nothing like Dean now.

And Dean doesn’t even flinch. Doesn’t even look at him. He just puts the car in reverse and pulls out of the lot. If the man gives chase, you don’t see. You’re too busy staring at Dean.

The first half of the drive is silent. Low music plays on the radio, and you watch Dean in the moving light of the road. Long shadows and dim streetlamps make him look like he fell out of a dream. Your arms twitch to wrap around him. Your eyes are heavy, your head intoxicated by the rich, amber and smoke smell of his cologne. If you lay your head in his lap, you wonder if he’d shove you away.

“You weren’t actually gonna go with him.” Dean mutters suddenly, and you blink.

“Huh?”

“That douchebag.” His fingers flex on the wheel. “You weren’t gonna fuck him.”

You frown. Useless, exhausted tears prick at your eyes. You don’t even know where they’re coming from. Just that you feel small, and you’re tired, and Dean’s dragging you back to the motel just so he can fuck another woman with peace of mind.

“He’s not even your type-“

“You don’t know what my type is.” You grumble, sinking into your seat.

Dean huffs a laugh. “I’ve seen what kinda guys you find hot on TV. He was ugly.”

“He wasn’t ugly-“

“Yeah, he was.”

“You’re ugly.” You snap, and Dean laughs. You get why. You didn’t even convince yourself.

“Only on the inside, sweetheart.”

Your lips wobbles. For some reason, that pushes the tears out of your eyes. You sink into the bench, wrapping into a tight little ball that Dean won’t be able to pry apart. You can’t stop the tears, but he doesn’t get to have more leverage.

Dean clears his throat. “Are you crying-“

“Shut up.” You sniff, wiping your nose with your sleeve.

He murmurs your name, voice softer than before, and you lean against the window.

“Shut up-“

“You’re fuckin’ crying-“

“Dean!” You glare at him through the blur of the tears. “Just- Leave me alone!”

Dean’s silent for a second. But only a second.

“Did he hurt you?” He grunts, something hot and angry lining his words. “Before I got there, did that son of a bitch-“

“He barely even touched me, you just- You fucking-“

“I what? What the hell did I do-“

“You hate me!” You shout, and Dean goes horribly still. 

“Don’t be insane.” He mutters your name, glaring out at the road. “I don’t hate you.”

You scoff, hugging your knees tight to your chest. “Yes, you do. You hate me, and you- You never let me have any fun-“

“That wasn’t fun, that was a lawsuit.”

You don’t even have a good comeback to that. He’s probably right. It just makes you angrier.

You turn away from him all together, watching the trees blur past in the window. You’re certain you’re going to be sick now. You close your eyes, the tears still flowing, and hide your face behind your hair and in your knees.

Dean sighs. His voice gets softer again.

“Listen, you’re drunk, alright? You’re gonna feel better in the morning-“

“No.” Your words are muffled, but you know he’ll still hear them. “I won’t.”

“Yeah, you will. I get a million of these drunken… feelings.” He says the word in an oddly tight tone. “You just gotta sleep them off.”

You laugh, wet and weak. “Whatever, Dean.”

“I’m trying to help-“

“No, you’re not.” You hug yourself tighter. “You just wanna get back to her.”

He’s silent again. You can hear his fingers drumming on the wheel. Almost hear the frown in his voice when he finally speaks.

“Who the hell are you talking about.”

“Your secretary lady.” You grumble, bitter and tired.

“You mean Katy?”

You grunt. “I hate her.”

“I- Princess, I sent her home like- Two hours ago.” He pauses. The air in the car feels oddly heavy. “Moment Sammy told me you were gone.”

You huff, but don’t respond. You can’t think of anything. You can barely understand what that means.

“You hate her?” Dean’s voice is so quiet you almost miss it.

“Mhm.” 

“You barely even talked to her-“

“I don’t care.” You mutter, rubbing away the tears on your cheeks. “I hate her.”

“Why-“

“’M tired.” You pull your face out of your knees, and find Dean staring at you.

He clears his throat, and looks back to the road. You think you’re going to start sobbing again, when he stretches out an arm around your shoulder.

Neither of you say anything, when he slowly pulls you into his side. You haven’t been this close to him in a while. He’s just as warm as you remember. You’re already half-asleep, just from a few seconds of his fingers tracing circles on your shoulder and your face pressed into his neck.

“I didn’t like him that much either.” Dean mutters suddenly. “Your bar guy.”

You hum, nosing at his jaw. He smells good.

“I wish you’d tell me.” He adds. “When you were goin’ out. I’d come with you-“

“I don’t want you to come with me.”

Dean tenses. He doesn’t pull away. “I’m fun at bars, sweetheart..” His voice is too casual. “We’d have a good time-“

“You’d have a good time.” You grumble. “I’d be alone.”

“I wouldn’t- If we went out, I wouldn’t ditch-“

“Yes, you would.” You yawn, and you’re crying again, but it’s softer.

Even now, Dean makes everything easier.

You wish you could hate him more than you love him. You don’t think you’re ever going to manage.

“You hate me.” You whisper, sleep already pulling on the corners of your brain. “’S not fair.” 

Dean swallows. His fingers still on your arm. “Why not?”

“’Cause I-“

You cut yourself off with a yawn. Dean mutters your name, and you shake your head, burrowing further into his side. You need to be as close as possible. You need to sink something into him that he can never wipe away, the same way he did with you.

“I love you,” you mumble. “And you hate me. And- It’s not fair, Dean.” You tremble, letting out a soft, pained breath. “Not fair.”

And sleep drags you under. But right before the world fades, you could swear you hear Dean’s low voice, and it floats through your dreams.

“I don’t hate you, baby.” He murmurs. “I couldn’t if I tried.”

Dean hasn’t spoken to you since last night.

You get up in the morning with a migraine and shame burning your face. You remember all of it. Every painful, whiny moment. You acted like the lovesick, annoying girl he accuses you of being. You told him the thing you swore you’d never say aloud. Once Sam tried to make you admit it, and you dumped a glass of iced tea over his head. You’d whimpered Dean’s name into your pillows while you touched yourself, and you’ve told yourself to get it together in the bathroom mirror, but you’ve never said it aloud.

And you just told.

You ruined everything.

He gives you meds and a glass of water to help the hangover, but he doesn’t look you in the eyes. You pack up the rooms and hit the road, but he doesn’t look in the rearview mirror to check on you even once. You bite the inside of your cheek and refuse to cry again. That will just make you seem more pathetic than you already are.

“What’s going on with you two.” Sam mutters when you stop at a gas station, hanging over your shoulder in the candy aisle.

“Nothing-“

“Don’t lie.” He gives you a flat look. “You’re not even fighting, which means you’re fighting.”

You peer up at him with a flat expression, and he sighs.

“You know what I mean. What the hell did he say to you.”

“He didn’t say anything.”

Sam mutters your name, and you grab a candy bar, flipping him off over your shoulder.

“Just drop it, okay?”

“No! I can’t drop it! I live with you guys, and- This is so much worse than when you were acting like you hated each other-“

“Sam-“

“You can’t see his face while he’s driving.” Sam hisses, grabbing a pack of almonds. “He’s either going to punch himself or cry, and that’s gonna be a whole freakin’ thing. Just- Talk to him-“

“He can talk to me.” You grab a pack of jerky. You can’t help it. Dean must be hungry too, and despite all your common sense, you still love him so much the world is slipping out from under your feet. 

Sam pleads with your name. You shake your head.

“Please. Drop it.”

He examines you for a moment, then sighs. He agrees to drop it. It doesn’t make anything better at all.

Because Dean’s not even being mean or overbearing or annoying. He’s just silent. And Sam’s right.

It’s so much worse.

Normally by this point in the ride, you’ve been fighting so much that Sam turns up the radio until you can’t hear each other. You’ll poke his neck to annoy him, and he’ll swat you like a fly before cornering you against the car when you stop for food. You’ll shove him and march into the diner. He’ll stomp after you and sit too close in the booth, making you press your thighs together with every mocking word. He’ll flirt with the waitress, and you’ll daydream about throttling her every time she bats her eyes. Dean will keep your knees against each other’s, while he gets her number, and you’ll pour a bunch of salt over his pie when he goes to the bathroom.

You’ll shove at each other, until one of you snaps and stomps away. You’ll cry yourself to sleep that night, because he hates you, he hates you, he hates you.

But you don’t even have any tears left, and Dean doesn’t hate you.

He just can’t stand to look at you, now that he knows you love him.

Sam gives you worried looks, while Dean glares silently at the road. His fingers drum on the wheel, and you hug yourself tight. He might not be looking at you, but you can’t stop looking at him. If he asks you to leave, it will kill you. If he doesn’t ask you, but never speaks to you again, you’ll just wither away into nothing. But you can’t be the one to break the silence. You’ll only make it worse.

You stop at a diner, and the waitress has the biggest boobs you’ve ever seen and the kind of honeyed smile that usually makes Dean smirk.

Today he doesn’t even look at her. You have to order for him, which makes the waitress glare at you, as if you’re responsible for him sulking so much he doesn’t care about boobs—and you are, but she has no way to know that—and you give her a tight smile.

Dean doesn’t thank you for the food, but he looks at you for the first time all day. You blink at him, biting back the pout threatening your lips. You’re not going to break here, in broad daylight, with Sam right there.

Dean lets out a slow exhale through his nose, and looks back to his food. You blink away the useless sting behind your eyes, biting your inner cheek until it’s swollen. Sam gives you a pitying look. You shoot him a glare.

“He still sat next to you.” Sam mutters while Dean checks you into a motel, that night. “Whatever happened, he’s not that mad at you-“

“Sammy!” Dean calls from the desk. “The lady needs our IDs!”

Sam sighs, going through his pockets as he walks over.

Dean’s gaze meets yours, and you flush. You can’t read the expression on his face, and you fucking hate it. You thought you knew all his expression. You thought you knew him. You thought he’d at least have the guts to turn you down like a man.

Instead his tongue flicks over his lips, and he rips his gaze back to the desk attendant. You hate her. You hate him. You love him. Your head hurts, overflowing with too many thoughts that you can’t even pick them apart. You want to scream and cry and run and sink into the floor. It’s not fair of him, to do this to you. You’re going to be sick. You want to drown your sorrows in as many drinks as you can find.

You settle for curling into your bed, hiding your face in the pillows, and crying until your body is limp and your throat is sore. He knows you love him. He hates you. He’s never going to look at  you again, and you’re going to turn into a ghost. An evil, angry ghost. One of the ghosts that he has to kill. Then he’s going to kill you, and you’re going to turn into a demon, then you’re going to start the apocalypse again, and everyone ever is going to die because you told Dean you love him.

You cry until you can barely breathe, then a little while after. It was silent. There was no way Sam and Dean would hear it, even through the door joining your rooms.

But there’s a creak, and you sniff, turning your head just enough that Sam will be able to hear you.

“I’m fine, Sam-“

“Not Sam.” Dean mutters, and you freeze.

You don’t move. You don’t dare. Dean clears his throat, and you hear him shifting on his feet. He’s close enough to be fully through the door. You hear it close behind him, and bunch the sheets in your arms.

“I- Uh- I was hopin’ we could talk?”

You still don’t move. Dean coughs. His voice is even rougher than usual. Normally, if you had the brainpower, you’d be worried about him.

“Can you look at me?”

You scowl at the pillow in your face. “No.”

Dean mutters your name, and you cut him off with short words.

“Go away, Dean.”

“No, we need to- I got some shit to say, alright-“

“I don’t care.”

“Trust me, princess, you’re gonna care about this-“

“Stop calling me that!” The words rip from your throat, sudden and broken.

You flip over, moving to your knees, and Dean stumbles back like you punched him. His face is red, and there are bags under his eyes. He’s still handsome.

Asshole.

“I-“

“Shut up.” You hiss, narrowing your eyes at his slack expression. “Stop- Stop calling me princess and sweetheart and- and acting like you fucking care about me! It’s fucking cruel, Dean, it was a dick move before and now- Now you know.” Your voice cracks. You can’t even say it again. “Now you know, alright? You know what I- How I am! And I’m sorry, okay? I shouldn’t have told you, but I was drunk, and I- I was tired, and you were being nice and you’re never nice to me-“

Dean opens his mouth, and you chuck a pillow right at his chest.

“No.” You spit, pushing up higher on your knees. “No, you don’t get to talk now. I don’t want to hear it, I don’t need- You don’t have to tell me! I get it, I know what you’re going to say!” You thought you were out of tears. You were wrong. “I’m just a stupid little girl, and you see me like a fucking sister or whatever, I don’t know what I’m talking about and I don’t know how I feel and you- You’d never-“ You choke on your own words. “You’d never feel-“

He moves quickly. You don’t even get the chance to throw another pillow.

Dean grabs your face between his hands, pulling right up into his. Dean kisses you, and your sharp words dissolve into a surprised sound, then a tiny moan.

His mouth is demanding. Your lips are already parted, and when the moan pushes its way up from your chest, Dean pushes his tongue over yours with a grunt. It’s a messy and desperate, noses bumping and spit mixing. You try and shove back, but Dean just pushes further over you, and you dissolve into his touch. 

You’re panting, when he pulls away. He keeps his hands firmly planted, his thumb tracing the swollen line of your lips and his shoulders heaving. His fingers are tangled in your hair. You feel small under his gaze, but not in the painful, ignored way like before. It’s like you’re being shielded. Like he’s trying to protect you from your own, spiraling thoughts by sucking them out of your face.

It’s working. You stare at him with an open awe you can feel in your chest, bubbling and light.

He kissed you.

His lips were soft and chapped in the best way, and he was even better at kissing than you imagined. He tasted a little sugary from the pie he had with dinner, and something richer that was just Dean. His touch on your is almost reverent, and you want to suck on his thumb to see if it tastes as good as his lips. You want to suck on every part of him. For science. You want, you want, you want. Dean kissed you, and now all you can feel—thundering through your bloodstream—is want.

He murmurs your name, scanning over your slack features. Your eyes flutter. His throat bobs.

“I’m gonna talk now.” He says, and you nod.

You should be shoving or fighting him, but he’s looking at you like you matter. And you’re far too tired to bother with anything but tears or pleas for more kisses right now.

“I thought-“ He shakes his head, huffing a low, dry laugh. “I thought you hated me.”

“I don’t-“

“Yeah, I got that now.” He gives you an amused, tired look. “But- Sweetheart, you called me a seductive manwhore last week.”

Your face burns a little. He’d been flirting with another waitress, at another diner. You’d wanted to slit her throat.

“Seductive is a compliment.” You mumble weakly, dropping your gaze to his chest. Dean chuckles.

“From where I was sittin’, it felt like you wanted to kill me.”

 You shake your head, the movement small between his hands. “You looked like you wanted me to fuck off. You always looked like you wanted me to fuck off-“

“No.” His grip tightens, and your attention shoots back up.

And you think you understand that expression. It’s heavy, and you have seen it before. But it’s always been a dull glint in his eyes, before he looks away.

Longing.

“Dean…” You whisper, and he leans down, pressing his brow to yours.

“I never want you to fuck off.” He mutters. “Never. Please- Don’t.”

His voice breaks. You reach up to grab his wrists, and he squeezes his eyes shut.

“I know I ain’t perfect. I know I’m old, and a dick, and I don’t got much to offer-“

“I like what you have to offer.” You whisper. His brow knits tighter. “I always liked it.”

Dean chuckles. “You shot me down. First time I offered it.”

“You wanted a hookup, I- I can’t do that-“

“I couldn’t either.” He looks at you under hooded eyes. “Not with you.”

You press your lips in a thin line, years of anger and sparring fading into a blur of a dull, bruising ache. He was always a wound you refused to heal. If he cuts you open any wider, you don’t think you’re going to have the option anymore.

“You didn’t seem interested.” Dean rasps. “You started- Lookin’ at me all weird and calling me names and-“

“I loved you.” You say it before you can think. Dean lets out a sharp breath, his weight pressing further down.

“But- I- You too.” He winces, like he hates the words. “I didn’t- It was never- Son of a bitch-“

He looks like it’s paining him to try and say it. And you know. You know he can’t, because he doesn’t even say it to Sam. 

But he looks like he’s going to cry. Dean never cries.

He means it. The thing you never let yourself dream of, he means it.

“I- You just- I wanted shit, and you seemed like you wanted nothin’ to do with me, so I-“

You move carefully, tugging that collar of his shirt down into the kiss. Dean goes rigid for a single, horrible second.

Then he almost melts.

His fingers dig into your skin like he can’t bear to let go. His body collapses over yours, his kisses going from the soft ones you started to fast and desperate. He kisses you like he’s trying to leave a mark, and you meet him with every bit off passion.

Dean folds you down, until you’re flat on the mattress. Your legs fly up to wrap around his torso, and he grabs one of your hands, tangling your fingers together. The kisses turn slow. A little more certain and controlled, Dean sucking on your lower lip before kissing the corner of your mouth, then your upper lip. You smile into the kiss, and a broken sound rumbles from his chest.

He pins your hands next to your head, squeezing once before he breaks away. He looks wrecked. He stares at you like you’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen, and your head buzzes, nice and clear of what ifs.

All that matters right now is Dean above you, and the electric heat in your body. How his hand fits so perfectly in yours. How your bodies are already molding together, and you’re both still fully clothed.

“You deserve better, baby.” He mutters, and you almost laugh.

There’s nothing better. There’s Dean, glorious and unreachable, and there’s everyone else.

“No.” You whisper, beaming up at him. “I don’t.”

Dean’s throat bobs. He lowers himself down slowly, pressing his lips slowly over yours. Like he’s still not fully sure. You hum happily into the kiss, and he takes the cue easily.

You lose yourself in him quickly. His lazy, passionate kisses and his hands, slowly tracing over your body. He starts with light touches near your hips and waist, every brush of his fingers making you shiver. You arch into it, when his thumb grazes the bare skin of your midriff. Dean groans, testing the waters with another slow graze of his fingers.

“Deeean…” You breathe against his lips, and he grunts.

“You’re so soft.” He mutters, slipping his hand under your shirt. “So fuckin’ reactive and soft.”

You whimper, heels digging into his back as he teases his fingers up your spine. “Don’t- Don’t tease-“

“Not teasin’.” He nips at the corner of your mouth. “Just sayin’ things that are true, baby. Not my fault they make you all stupid.”

Your breath hitches, your head tipping back as your legs spread slightly. Dean hums, interest flashing in his gaze. He noticed. Of course he did. He notices everything.

“You like that?” He drawls, kissing over your cheek, then down your neck. “You like bein’ called baby? Or called stupid.”

His hand drifts up your side, until his thumb is grazing under your breast. The sensation, combined with his dirty words, makes your hips roll. A dizzy, pleased sigh escapes your lips. Dean chuckles, rubbing his thumb in a tight circle. His lips graze a sensitive spot on your neck, and your hips roll again.

“I think you like both.” He murmurs, squeezing your hand. “Dirty girl, bet you’re already wet for me.”

You whimper, the sound turning to a sharp gasp when Dean shoves his knee right between your thighs. You buck off the bed at the sudden pressure, eyes glazing and mouth hanging open.

Dean sucks on that sensitive spot, and your whole body shivers. You can’t stand to not move, not with the heat of him all around you. His thumb drags up, brushing over your nipple right as his tongue flicks against your skin. You start to mindlessly grind against his knee, chasing just a little bit more friction. Dean chuckle, biting softly at your neck before bullying his knee further against your clothed cunt.

“That’s it.” He growls in your ear. “Messy fuckin’ girl, already humping my leg. You need it that bad, sweetheart? Can’t even wait for me?”

“I- I’m sorry-“ You whine, trying to stop your body from moving.

It doesn’t seem to want to cooperate. Dean slips his hand from under your shirt and grabs your jaw, forcing your gaze onto his, and his attention just fuels the wildfire under your skin. You need him, and form of him you can get. You need him harsh and all over your body, until there’s are marks you won’t be able to wash away in the morning. You need him to claim you so deeply neither of you can back out.

Dean watches you with a gentle, but sharp awe. Like he’s trying to memorize the scene below him, that you’re sure is quiet a sight. You fucking his leg like a dog in heat, your adoration and love finally allowed to pour all over your face.

“Need you,” you breathe out, grabbing his wrist. “Need you so bad, Dean.”

A low rumble leaves his chest, his eyes getting darker with every tiny moan from your lips. His attention is almost too much. You try and turn your face into the sheets, but he tugs it back with barely a flick of his wrist.

“Dean, please-“

“Look at me.” He taps your cheek with one finger, slamming his knee forward.

Your glossy, tear-stained eyes dart to his, and he smirks. It’s soft, but dangerous. He smiles down at you, and another breath of his name escapes your lips.

“What do you want, sweet girl?” He murmurs, squeezing your hand. “Use your words.”

It takes you a second to remember how. “You,” you breathe out, and Dean’s jaw ticks. “Want you, Dean, always wanted you-“

“I know, baby,” he coos, leaning slowly down. Your noses bump, and you whimper, closing your eyes. “You want me so bad it hurts, don’t you. Bet your little pussy is fuckin’ calling my name, begging me to stuff her up.”

“Yes,” you nod, bobbleheaded and dizzy. “Oh my god, yes-“

“But how.” His voice turns stern, the heat of his breath making you shiver. “Do you want me? Soft? Or,” he pushes your further down onto his knee, and your eyes roll a little back. “Hard?”

Dean drags his thumb over your lips, squeezing your cheeks into a tiny pout. You try to keep fucking his knee, but he’s got you pinned so hard against it that you can’t move. You’re trapped in a cruel kind of heaven, with everything right on the brink of falling, and Dean holding you over the edge by the nape of your neck.

“Hard,” you whisper, dragging your eyes open to meet his. He needs to see it. How bad you want him. “Wanna- Ohh-“ Your lashes flutter, as Dean starts to slowly grind his knee against your core. “Wanna feel you. All of you. Don’t- Don’t hold back.”

His grip on your jaw tightens. His voice drops a full octave. “Baby, are you-“

“Yes.” You smile at him, already a little drunk on his everything. “I trust you.”

And that seems to be what gets him. Dean blinks at you for a second, the façade of pure control slipping. You know it’s a game, and that when you’re done he’s going to coddle you like a princess. But you’re not sure he knew you knew. Not sure he understood that, even when you thought he hated you, you would’ve placed your life in his hands without even a beat of hesitation.

Dean leans down, and kisses you slowly. Sweetly. His hand pulls from yours, and he wraps his arm around your lower back. His fingers tickle your sides a little, teasing the side of your breast, and you giggle. Dean grunts, pushing you further into the mattress. It just makes you giggle more.

“Somethin’ funny?” He mutters, and you can hear it again. He’s back in this. It sends a shivering thrill through your body.

You need more. And you shake your head, trying to test just how much it takes him to snap.

“You’re laughin’ like something’s funny.” Dean leans back up, glaring down at your lovedrunk, giddy expression.

There’s a dangerous glint in his eyes.

You’re about to be fucked into next week.

“Look at you.” He mutters, palming at your breast through your shirt. You gasp, arching into the touch, and Dean chuckles. “You’d do anything I told you, huh. Just to make me fuck you.”

You shake your head, and Dean chuckles.

“Don’t lie, princess. Good girls don’t lie to me.”

Your breath catches. Your thighs press around Dean’s knee, the grind of your hips short and uncontrolled. He lets you writhe below him, smirking at the pants that escape your lips.

“Does it hurt?” he coos, smearing some spit over your cheek. “Your pussy aching, baby girl? Already can’t take it?”

“N- No.” You choke out. “I can take it-“

“Doesn’t seem like you can.” He mutters, scanning over your limp body. “I’m not even touchin’ you and you’re about to cum. Can’t believe you’re that fucking easy.”

You whimper, shaking your head. “I- I’m not easy-“

“Yeah?” Dean mocks. “How many other guys you fucked?”

“Two. Just two-“

“They make you feel like this?”

“No- Never-“

“Damn right. They don’t.” Dean grunts. “You’re mine, princess. My fuckin’ girl.”

You whimper, heat rushing through you at the possession in his voice. You are his. He has no idea, how completely and totally his you are.

“Say you’re mine.” Dean orders, and you nod.

“Yours. All yours, Dean, I’m- Fuuuck-“

He pinches your nipple rolling it between two fingers. Your hips try to buck off the bed, but he’s pinned you down too well.

“Fuck- Dean- You can’t just-“

You moan, and he chuckles.

“Oh, baby.” He leans back down, brushing a featherlight kiss over your lips. “I can do whatever the fuck I want.”

Dean nips on your lower lip, then rises back up, patting your cheek.

“Open.”

You do, without a thought. He chuckles, leans down, and spits right into your swollen lips.

“Swallow.” He grunts, and you obey.

You lick your lips for good measure. Just to see how he’ll react. His mouth falls a little open, a deep, possessive sound rumbling chest.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, almost fully to himself. “So fuckin’ eager. You ready to listen, princess?”

“Yeah,” you whisper, and add for good measure. “Please.”

 Dean’s lips twitch. “Beggin’ and I don’t even have you naked yet. We should fix that.”

“Fix what-“

“Stand up.” Dean drags you upright with steady, but firm hands.

You follow his lead, letting him move you off the mattress and onto shaking legs. He keeps you between his spread knees, smirking up at your confused expression. He’s got one hand, steadily rubbing the back of your thigh.

“Strip.” He orders, and your cheeks burn.

“Dean-“

You cut yourself off, when he just raises his brows. God, if he wasn’t begging you for attention fifteen minutes ago, you’d be putting up more of a fight. Just for the show of it. To prove that you’re perfectly capable of thinking for yourself. That you don’t need him at all.

But you think he knows that. And for once, you don’t want to have to think at all.

You peel off your clothing slowly, burning under Dean’s gaze. He’s tracking every movement, dragging over every bare inch of skin. Your top goes first, and his hands fly right up to palm your breasts. His hand is big and warm, and you bite back a tiny moan.

Dean smirks, leaning slowly forward to trail open, wet kisses over the valley of your breasts. You weave your fingers through his hair, your breath stuttering. You fumble with your bottoms. It’s a little hard to focus, with his tongue swirling around your sensitive, peaked nipple.

“Shit- Dean-“ You take a deep breath, tugging at his soft, short locks. “That’s- Mmmm-“

He sucks lightly, and you lean fully over his chest. He chuckles, flicking his tongue back and forth, and all you can think of is that sinful mouth against your core.

“I- I can’t-“

“Yes, you can.” He kisses your nipple, before switching to the neglected one. “For me.”

You swallow, grabbing at the hem of your bottoms and tugging them down. Dean grabs a handful of your ass, slapping it once before dipping his fingers down between your thighs. You collapse over him with a weak noise, and Dean just laughs. The shame in how quickly he’s unraveling you, how wet you know you are, it just makes you ache for him more. He’s got you, needy and in the palm of his hand. He knows it. And still, he touches you like he’s been waiting to his whole life.

“That’s my girl.” He mutters. “Son of a bitch, you’re so fuckin’ wet. You been walkin’ around like this? Waiting to get bent over and turned into my little cockslut.”

“Ye- Yes.” You press your face into his hair, nails scratching at his neck. “Oh my god, Deean-“

 “Yeah. That’s right.” Dean hums as you grind down onto his fingers, teasing between the lips of your pussy. “Barely even fuckin’ touching you, and you’re soaking my hands. Jesus,” he laughs, the sound vibrating against your chest. “You’re getting wetter every time I talk.”

You keen, when the tip of his forefinger grazes your clit. It’s like being struck by lightning, making your whole body rush with pleasure and your pussy clench around nothing. He flicks it, just that once, then pulls away. You hug his head tighter, begging between your every moan.

Dean doesn’t budge. He rubs over your pussy without touching your clit again, muttering dirty words against your skin.

“Look at you,” he kisses your shoulder. “My pretty fuckin’ girl.”

“Dean-“

“Come on.” He slaps your ass again, and your knees give a little. “Like I couldn’t make you cum just from talkin’ to you.”

You flush, wrapping your arms around his neck as he pulls you fully into his lap. Dean pauses, at the way you shiver, and pulls back. You try to avoid his gaze, but he isn’t having it. He grabs your jaw and forces your gaze back to his, eyes gleaming and playful.

“Oh, I could, couldn’t I.” He smirks. “You’d cum for me just sittin’ here, letting me call you names.”

“No.” Your protest is short. Weak. Dean looks at you like he’s just pulled the sweetest bunny into his trap, and he wants to eat you alive.

He pulls you down for one of those kisses that’s too slow and sweet. It’s almost mocking, with how his cock is straining against his jeans, pressing into your thigh. You dissolve into it, lowering your guard against your better judgement. Dean squeezes your ass, rubbing where he’d spanked before. Your knees are jelly, your core pressed right against his denim-clad bulge.

Jesus, he must be massive. Just the idea makes you shiver, and Dean smiles against your lips.

“You’re bein’ so patient,” he coos, massaging your hips. “You trust me, don’t you? You know I’m gonna fuck you real good.”

You hum an agreement, smiling from the praise. Dean combs his fingers through your hair, sucking on your lower lips before pulling slightly back.

“You’re ready, aren’t you? I could fuck you right now and you’d take me like I was lubed up.”

You whimper, and Dean pushes you further onto his bulge.

“You gonna let me own you, sweet girl? Let me make you the dirty fuckin’ cumslut you wanna be.”

“Deaan-“ You gasp weakly. “Don’t be mean-“

“Why?” He kisses your cheek. “You like it. You’re the one who said you wanted it, baby. And fuckin’ gush,” he runs his hand between your thighs. “Every fuckin’ time I call you my dirty little girl.”

He’s right. Your pussy clenches, arousal dripping down your thighs. Dean laughs, manhandling you to stay upright as moves fully onto the mattress and lies flat on his back. You stare at him for a second, unable to move with his hold on your hips, but unsure what to do with yourself. You’re straddling him, watching with an open mouth as he pulls off his shirt and settles fully into the pillow. His cock is pushed right against your pussy. You grind down, and he hisses.

“Not yet.” He mutters at your pout. “Need to taste that sweet pussy. C’mere.”

He beckons, and your mouth falls open when you realize what he means.

“Dean, I can’t- You’re going to suffocate-“

“Nobel death.” He grins, and you scowl.

“I don’t want you to die the first time we have sex.”

“First time?” He wiggles his brows. “You’re gonna let me come back for seconds?”

“Dean, I’m serious-“

“So am I, can we do an all you can eat kinda situation-“

“Dean Winchester.” You shove his chest, and the idiot just laughs. “I’m not- I’m not doing that. I don’t want to hurt you, that’s- I’m not-“

“Hey.” Dean grabs your hand, squeezing it gently. You meet his gaze, and it’s a million times softer than before. “It’s okay. This ain’t gonna hurt me, I swear, but if you just don’t wanna, I have a lotta other ways to make us both feel good.”

He drags his thumb over your knuckles, and you take a deep breath. You hadn’t realized it. You were about to cry again.

You peer at Dean through your lashes, and he offers you a boyish, gentle smile.

“Promise it won’t hurt you?” You whisper, and he nods.

“Swear on your life.”

You nod, slowly and carefully. Dean opens his mouth—probably about to ask if you’re sure—but you’re already crawling up his chest.  

He smiles, rubbing your thighs as you settle them on either side of his head. You take a deep breath, your hands fidgeting and unsure where to rest. Dean grabs them and guides them into his hair, before kissing the inside of your thigh. Your breath hitches, and you almost collapse straight over him.

He laughs, digging his dull nails into your ass. “Sweetheart, point of this is you sitting on my face.”

“I- I am-“

“You’re hovering. That ain’t sittin’.”

“I don’t want to crush you-“

“You won’t.” He sighs, kissing the opposite thigh. “I got you, right?”

You nod. He trails the kisses upwards, close to where you’re sure you’re dripping on his beard. His eyes never leave yours.

“You trust me?” He rasps, warm breath fanning over your pussy.

“Of- Of course I trust you-“

“Good.” Dean kisses your clit, sloppy and using his tongue to flick the little button back and forth.

You almost shriek, the sensation overwhelming. You squirm, unsure if you’re trying to get closer or wiggle away. Dean makes the choice for you.

“Hold on.” He grunts, right before yanking you right down onto his face.

And oh.

Oh god.

You’ve been eaten out before. Even by people who were good at it. Who enjoyed it. You came before, and walked away with no complaints.

Compared to this, they might as well have just spat on it and walked away.

Dean eats you out like he’s on a personal mission for honor between your legs. Like he lost something in your pussy and he’s trying to shake it loose. His jaw works like he’s devouring the finest food of his life, his tongue dragging and pumping in and out of your sensitive opening. His nose is pressed right against your clit, and he moves it with his full face, rubbing and rubbing and rubbing.

“Fuuck- Fuck!” You cry out, yanking on Dean’s hair. “Dean- Oh- Oh my God-“

He moans, and the vibration makes it better and worse all at once. You’re trembling, no way to escape it, no way to feel it less. Dean massages your ass as he works, keeping you pinned to his face, to the pleasure he’s slowly dragging out of your body.

You pull his hair again, and his time he smacks your ass with his moan. Your back arches. You have to grab the bed frame to stop yourself from collapsing.

“Dean- Deeaaan-“

You chant the word like a prayer. It’s all you can remember. The infernal man below you laughs, and you push down harder into his wet, open mouth. He grunts, and doubles his efforts. His tongue traces around your pussy before shoving back into your tight cunt, and you clench around him with a whimper.

He tightens his grip on your hips, dragging them slowly back and forth. Guiding you into fucking his face. You follow his rhythm, and swear you can feel him everywhere in your body. Your nerves light up, with every stroke of his tongue and bump of his nose on your clit. Your mouth hangs open, and you pant as you try to hold off your orgasm, building up and up and up in your core.

One of his hands disappears from your body. You’re too lost in his mouth below you to notice, until you hear it.

The sound of slapping skin, mixed with Dean’s increasing moans below you. You manage to find enough of a mind to look over your shoulder, and the sight shoots straight to your pussy, gushing on Dean’s face.

He’s fisting his cock, thick and long and a little curved. He beats it into his hand, the head angry and red, coated in a thick layer of pre-cum. You twist back around looking down at his face between your thighs, and find him staring back.

He’s been staring the whole time. Eyes dark and wrecked, fixed on you as you writhed and moaned above him. He’s getting off to it. To having you like this.

Dean moans—fully, totally moans—into your pussy, his eyes never leaving yours.

And you can’t hold it off.

“Dean- I- I’m gonna-“

He squeezes your ass, moaning against your pussy again.

Permission.

You cum with a cry of his name, grinding down onto his face through your orgasm. Your vision goes white, your whole body shaking and seizing up as Dean’s tongue strokes you through it. He doesn’t stop when you’re a trembling, dazed mess above him. He slowly shifts you backwards, cradling your body as sits up, forcing your back into the sheets, between his legs.

He kisses your clit gently, eyes shining on your unfocused, glossy ones.

“Taste better than I imagined.” He murmurs, slowly moving you further up the bed. “And trust me, baby. I lost a whole lotta sleep imagining.”

You swallow, eyes darting to his still hard cock. Dean follows your hungry gaze, then laughs, angling it to rub between the lips of your pussy.

“You’re really that needy, huh.” He teases. “Not enough for just my mouth. Gotta have my cock, too.”

You hum, too lost in the feeling to even protest. You’re flat on your back, legs hiked up in the air and over Dean’s shoulder, fully exposing your poor, swollen pussy to him. He slides his cock right between the slick lips, the tip bumping your clit. You pout up at Dean, spreading your legs wider to try and urge him on. He raises his brows, pausing with his cock pressed over your clit.

“Already too fucked out to talk?”

You nod, and pride and worry mix in his eyes.

“Baby, if you need me to take it easy-“

You shake your head frantically. He promised no holding back. You want to be sore from him in the morning.

Dean sighs, lowering your legs so he can lean over your face. You glare at him, grinding your hips up against him. He pins you back to the bed with a single hand sprawled on your abdomen and a stern look.

“There’s gonna be more time for it to be rough.” He murmurs. “I been plenty mean tonight. And I love it, sweetheart, I do, but I’m gonna love anything-“

“Dean.” You push out, your voice wrecked and hoarse. “Hard. Please.”

“Are you-“

You push up on weak elbows, capturing his mouth against yours. Dean leans down, kissing you with every bit of adoration and softness he’s about to rip away for the sake of pleasure. You smile against the kiss, boneless and happy, and Dean grunts. 

“Alright.” He mutters, the darkness in his voice sending a chill down your spine. “You get what you ask for, baby girl.”

Yes.

You’d say it, if he hadn’t already stolen most of the words from your body. And you thought that it was bad before.

Dean slowly shoves himself into your dripping cunt, and you can’t remember your own fucking name.

He’s big. So big you’re not sure how you’re fitting him. His hand on your abdomen pushes you deeper into the mattress, forcing you to take every thick, veiny inch of him. You whimper, and the sound gets swallowed by Dean’s lips.

“Feel that?” He hisses, tone harsh in the way that sends a thrill to your core. “Feel my cock, filling up your tight little pussy?”

You nod, mouth hanging open. Dean bottoms out with a grunt, pulling your hips roughly up to let him hit a deeper angle. You mewl, eyes rolling back at the burning, perfect stretch of him.

“That’s right.” He mutters, rutting into your wet, hot channel. “This is what you fuckin’ begged for, princess. To be a brainless little cockslut. You can’t even talk right now, can you? Just gonna lay there and look pretty while I do all the work?”

Tears prick at your eyes. You’re so full you almost don’t think you can handle it.

Dean isn’t going to give you much of a choice.

“Damn right you are.” He mutters to himself, dragging almost fully out of you before slamming back in, knocking the air from your lungs.

You sob with pleasure, reaching up to grab at his face. Dean kisses your wrist, repeating the motion with an even harsher thrust than before.

“That’s it.” He grunts, pushing over your as he finds a brutal pace. “That’s my girl. Fit me like a glove, sweetheart. Tightest fuckin’ pussy I’ve ever fucked, so good for me, so fuckin’ good-“

Dean groans, crashing his lips over yours. You wrap your arms around him, holding on for dear life as he fucks stars behind your eyes and lightning through your body. If you weren’t ruined for him before, you are now. There isn’t another man in the world, who could reduce you to such a sobbing, wrecked mess while fucking you like a doll, then kiss all over your face like you’re the most important thing in the world.

He’s handling your body like it only exists for him to fuck. Grabbing your hips and breasts like they’re toys, positioning in the best way for him to hit you deeper. So deep he’s finding burning, pleasurable spots in you that you hadn’t known existed before, that make your whole body light up with pleasure. You can feel him in your throat, though every single inch of you, his muscles flexing and chest heaving and cock drilling into you until your pussy is drooling and he’s just sliding in and out.

But he kisses you like he’s a soldier being sent off to war. Rough and desperate, but loving. With all the fervor of a man who’s trying to something both of you have lost the words for. You return his every kiss, and his thrusts get sharper. Deeper.

You make sounds that are supposed to be his name. The room fills with the obscene sound of his cock, pounding into your cunt. You tip your head back and he starts to bite and suck on your throat, like he really can’t find enough of you to worship.

“Shit, baby-“ He presses his nose against your jaw, voice cracking as the bed creaks beneath you both. “Gonna- Gonna fuckin’- Where’d you want it-“

You grab his shoulders, yanking him fully down. Dean groans, doubling over and pressing his mouth back over yours.

“Come with me, sweetheart, c’mon- Milk my fuckin’ cock-“

His thumb slips between your bodies, rubbing your clit in tight, unforgiving circles. You scream silently, as your orgasm hits you like a train. Dean fucks you through it, moaning your name as he chases his own release. White hot cum paints your inner walls, and Dean fucks it back into you with rough grunts and shorter thrusts.

You think you might be floating. You’ve never been this stuffed up, this warm. All the mocking and harshness from Dean is gone, replaced by worshipful hands that caress your face and gentle kisses over every spot he played with. Neither of you seem ready to know. You know you aren’t at all, and Dean’s curled over you like a very heavy blanket.

You rub his back, smiling up at the ceiling. It’s quiet. You’d like to stay here for a while. Maybe forever.

Dean rises over you, still not pulling out. His eyes are glazed, his expression wrecked. You reach up to cup his cheek, and he leans into the touch.

“My girl.” He mutters, and even if he doesn’t say it like one, you know it’s a question.

“Your girl.” You whisper.

You’ve never seen him smile so wide, than before he leans back down to kiss you again.

And if you make him smile like that for the rest of your life, then you know you’ve done something right.

✦End note: the good thing about writing these fics is that it's fun. the bad thing is that i've set my standards WAY too high. ✦

✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦

✦Buy me a coffee!☕️ (and get early access!)✦

All you want is some water and to clean yourself up before heading out onto the floor, but your manager decides now is as good a time as any to give you a lecture on tardiness.

Your lungs are still struggling for air as you endure his power trip, your teeth grinding together over the fact that he hadn’t let you clock in before launching into his tirade. His ruddy face and the drool collecting at the corners of his mouth would’ve made for a comical sight if you weren’t already fuming over your situation. By the time he tires himself out, he’s eaten away at seven additional minutes you could’ve been paid for.

Safe to say, there’s a black cloud over your head when you finally emerge onto the floor. Cleaning yourself up had been futile — there was nothing you could do about your hair, and you’re putting a lot of faith in the ambiance to keep the sweat stains on your uniform indiscernible. And not only are you sticky with dried sweat, smelling of the cheap drug store body spray and year-old deodorant you borrowed, but blisters are beginning to form after your uncoordinated run in heels earlier. You have a feeling you’ll be cleaning dried blood from them at the end of the shift, and until then, every step will be torture.

That is until you see the floor map at the host stand, then you don’t even register the pain anymore. The hostess fidgets nervously beside you as you double and triple-check what you’re seeing.

At first glance, it looks like it always does. You have the same tables every night with the same people filling them like clockwork, because this place thrives on consistency and it’s common knowledge that regulars have the deepest pockets. Everything looks normal…except for one table. And once your eyes catch on it, it makes your heart seize.

Your Friday night 8:30 p.m. regulars is missing — the group of eighty-something year-old men that like to compare you to their granddaughters and fuss over your wellbeing and always tip like it’s their last day on earth are no longer in their usual back booth. No, the long-standing reservation under ‘S. Lee’ is off in another corner of the screen. In Melissa’s section. In her booth.

“This has to be a mistake,” you say out loud. The young girl playing hostess for the evening squeaks, curling in on herself.

“I’m sorry, he made me,” she whispers urgently, and you know she means your manager. “You were running late and he didn’t want them to wait, so he had me put them at Mel’s table next to the piano—“

You tune her out, a hand covering your eyes to block out every sensory input you could. The missing table of your best regulars feels like the death blow to your optimism, your hope, your last chance. With debt collectors clogging up your voicemail, you haven’t thought about anything but this shift for the last week. A lot was riding on it, and not just the tips or the wages — tonight was going to be the night you swallowed your pride and pitched your sob story to the table of Warren Buffet clones. It’s a gamble — one that risks your job if you don’t play your cards right — but after months of buttering them up with winks and pats and an endless amount of patience for repeatedly-told stories, you figured at least two out of the six might crack open their wallets for a charitable cause of a motherless young woman with crippling medical debt.

But now you would never know. The thought hurts a lot worse than the blisters.

It takes great effort to slap a smile on your face and act like you didn’t just miss the last lifeboat on the sinking ship, but every time you pass the empty booth, a cold chill runs down your spine. Deadlines, due dates, and late notices swirl in your brain while you take orders or fake laughter. Your mind has catalogued everything you think the repo men will take first when they come knocking next week. It’s a dark and winding internal spiral.

But just when you think it can’t get any worse, your black cloud becomes a roaring thunderstorm.

You know the hostess thought she was helping — you’ve been catching her apologetic looks from the corner of your eye throughout the shift. But when she creeps over to you cautiously, a small smile on her face, and says she found the perfect replacement reservation for you, you’re about ready to dump a pitcher of water over her head.

“Replacement” rings alarm bells in your head. “Replacement” means reservations outside of the regulars’ time slots. “Replacement” means snotty out-of-towners with connections or ignorant first-time club members. “Replacement” means trouble.

And trouble they are.

You assess your new group of gentleman from across the bar. There are seven of them in the secluded booth, all of them spread out and lounging comfortably like they’ve been patrons of your table for years. You don’t recognize any of them, and neither does the bartender, which confirms your biggest fears. You’re at risk of cracking a tooth.

But your manager appears out of nowhere, giving you the evil eye, so you have no choice but to relax your jaw and make your way over to the newcomers.

Your forced smile could power a small generator when you sidle up to the table.

“Welcome to The Alpine, gentlemen. How are we?”

Seven pairs of eyes snap to you, and you know what comes next: the head-to-toe look over and appreciative smiles that follow shortly after. The tall blonde in the middle has a particularly disarming curl to his lips that raises the hair on the back of your neck.

“Better, now that you’re here,” he quips, line of vision resting somewhere between your chin and your naval. The man beside him chuckles.

“Well, glad I could be of service,” you say brightly, eyelashes fluttering on command. Even if it kills you, you’ll flirt like hell with them if it means better tips. “What brings you in tonight?”

The blonde one speaks up again. “Our friend here just bought another nightclub,” he says, gesturing to a man to his right. “So we thought we’d celebrate him adding to his empire.”

Your smile never falters, but you feel your eye twitch.

“How exciting,” you manage to say.

It takes you much longer than necessary to get their drink orders. The blonde man — whose name you learned is Walker — doesn’t seem to know how to stop talking. Even if you shoved a dirty bar towel down his throat, you think he’d still be shooting off jokes. Probably about ball gags, after hearing the mouth on him.

As you walk away to put in their orders, you can just hear Walker’s nasty little comparison of a bouncy ball and your ass. Your eyes roll so hard they hurt.

When you return with their drinks, he once again zeroes in on your neckline.

“How long have you been working here, sweetie?” he asks your breasts, voice cutting through the others’ conversations. Your smile is blank and placid as you hand him his drink, ignoring the purposeful drag of his fingers over yours.

“Coming up on a year,” you reply. “Long enough to know when someone interesting walks in.”

You add a wink for good measure and he devours it. Sitting up straighter, Walker puffs out his chest.

“Interesting, huh?” he asks with a smirk that’s probably meant to seduce but instead summons vomit. “Sounds like I might be a new favorite of yours.”

Do not gag do not gag do not gag—

“Oh, I don’t do favorites. I just like my clientele to feel special.”

God, you might make yourself vomit—

“Good to know,” he drawls, “because I’ll be around a lot more soon. Barnes is getting me on the short-list next month, right, Barnes?”

Before whichever man named Barnes can reply, Walker continues. “So don’t go running off anywhere. Wouldn’t want you breaking my heart before I even get settled in.”

The cliche of it all has you actively fighting the urge to burst out laughing.

“And give up the chance to have you as a regular? Wouldn’t dream of it,” you soothe, smile cracking with your hidden mirth. The man at the end of the booth makes a noise somewhere between a snort and cough, but Walker beams like he won the lottery.

As the drinks flow, his audacity grows, which you find as shocking as it is endearing — which is to say, not at all. But you play along, because what other choice do you have? None when Walker’s giving all the signs that he’ll be footing the bill.

So you keep it up, the back and forth, the balance of flirty and dismissive responses; you can see the interest growing in Walker’s eyes as his sobriety shrinks. His friends are right there with him, and soon enough the energy of the table starts to shift in Walker’s direction.

“That vest really does wonders for you.”

“I like it when a girl shows a little skin.”

“That skirt looks like it was made for you.”

Your patience is wearing thin.

To their credit, a couple others at the table try to rein him in when they can, including the man of the hour, the club buyer, an attractive guy in his early forties called Sam. He makes pointed subject changes and laughs off the awkwardness when Walker makes a comment that lands just this side of perverted. Truthfully, you wouldn’t mind Walker running his mouth until you had grounds to have him removed, essentially destroying whatever chance he has at the “short-list,” or whatever the fuck that made up thing was. But you appreciate Sam’s efforts all the same.

And then there’s the other guy, the one on the end, who takes a more direct approach to shutting Walker up.

Walker’s in the middle of a slurred proposition for you to accompany him home after your shift when the man at the end of the booth lifts his head.

“Enough,” he says bluntly, suddenly; his voice is low and rough, direct. The tongue-in-cheek comment about sharing a bed immediately dies on Walker’s lips, his eyes flashing to his interruptor.

He doesn’t even bother looking at Walker, staring at his drink as he slowly spins it on the table, still his first one when the others are on their fourth or fifth. There’s a brief flash of something black and gold peeking from underneath the cuff of his suit jacket — a brilliant watch, clearly high-end and probably worth more than you’ll ever make in your life. A ring sits on his pinky, polished titanium. His charcoal suit fits his shoulders like every stitch and seam were custom made for his measurements — and maybe they were.

You see money in various forms all the time at this job, but occasionally you’ll stumble across real money. Big money. Stupid money. The kind that expresses itself quietly instead of boisterously like Mr. Short-List. It’s not always easy to spot, but you’ve learned how to over the last year, and when you do, it doesn’t fail to knock you on your ass every time.

One quick look and you know this man has real money. Your heart stutters in your chest, thoughts of your stack of unpaid bills wiping the smile clean off your face.

On the other side of the table, Sam disrupts the new silence by making a brave pivot to the stock market, something the rest of the group jumps on, even Walker. You’re attempting to swallow the lump in your throat, scrambling to grab empty glasses and old napkins, when you feel eyes on you.

It’s him, the man at the end of the booth.

His eyes are a startlingly bright blue that sends an electric shock down your spine. His face, looking like it was carved straight from Michelangelo’s private diary, stays neutral as you meet his gaze; you can see the years on him through scars and scruff and wrinkles around the eyes, but you wouldn’t guess him to be older than forty-five. His thick dark hair is swept back, threaded with silver near the temples that matches the silver around his chin.

He’s watching you like he’s waiting for something. Some sort of reaction maybe. His pink lips are parted like he’s about to ask a question. You have no idea what it could be.

Not giving yourself the chance to hesitate, the smile is back on your face with practiced ease. “Can I get you anything, sir?” you murmur quietly, trying to draw as little attention from the others as possible.

He blinks, breaking the undisclosed stare down between the two of you. “Just the check, please.”

“Of course. Can I get the name under the membership?”

“Barnes,” he says, holding out a black credit card for you to take. “James Barnes. Thank you.”

“Thank you, Mr. Barnes.”

His eyes find yours again and stare. You offer him one last smile before leaving.

Your fingers tap restlessly against the counter as you wait for the receipt to print. From across the room, you watch as the group at the booth begins to get up. Walker’s foot catches on the lip and he stumbles into his friend; Sam’s there immediately to usher them toward the door. You place the receipt in the black book and make your way back to the table, where James Barnes still sits, still staring at his drink.

Unfortunately, you have to pass Walker on your way over. With a sad excuse for a smile, you thank him for coming in tonight. He leans forward, into your personal space, reeking of liquor and leering at you.

“Left my number on the napkin if you miss me too much. We can pick up where we left off when you’re done with work.”

Clearly he thought he was bestowing a tremendous gift on you, from the way he winks and struts away. Your smile drops as soon as you turn back to the table, where you see James Barnes staring at you yet again.

Feeling caught, you offer him a sheepish look, a small upturn of your lips, and hand him the receipt.

“Thank you for coming in tonight, Mr. Barnes. We hope you come back soon.”

He hums, taking it from your hands; your fingers brush, and your brain has no choice but to acknowledge how different it feels from when Walker did it. He signs the receipt and offers it back to you before you have the chance to give him privacy, but when you grab it, he holds on to the other end, stopping you in your place.

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly, eyes boring into yours again, “for what you had to put up with tonight.”

You blink. “Oh, that’s — it’s not a problem at all, your friends seem like a, uh — fun time.”

A smile flits across his face, crooked and devastating. “Fun? So, you enjoy getting asked to go home with your customers?”

“I—“ your blush lights up your face. “He didn’t mean it, I’m sure—“

“He did.”

“It’s fine,” you rush to say. “I get it a lot, comes with the territory. Call it a work perk.”

His eyebrow lifts.

“A work perk,” he repeats. “Sure. Some places offer health insurance, but you get to be flirted with by married men.”

Fucking dick bag, you seethe internally, your mind conjuring up a scenario where you curb stomp Walker until his teeth fall out.

You try to smile but it feels like a grimace. “What can I say? I’m living the dream.”

He chuckles, finally releasing the bill. His eyes sweep across your face.

“Are you?”

You pause. “Am I what?”

“Living the dream.”

“Is anyone, really?” you say with a quirk of your lips.

“I don’t know,” he allows, tilting his head. ”Maybe not. But we keep pretending we are.” His gaze drifts around the room before settling back on you. “Were late nights and putting up with guys like Walker what you always pictured your life to look like?”

You chuckle, but there’s hesitation in it. Images of your verbally abusive manager and meager paystubs flash through your mind. But that’s the darker side of the club that customers aren’t supposed to know about. As a server, your job is to slap a pair of rose-colored glasses over their eyes and keep them there. Yet he’s asking to take them off. It feels taboo.

He’s looking at you like he can read your thoughts, but he waits for your answer like he has all the time in the world.

“Uh, no,” you say slowly. “Definitely not.”

You glance over your shoulder like you’re expecting your manager to be standing there, red-faced and spitting again.

“Good,” James murmurs, “I was starting to worry about your long-term goals.”

“I’m…I’m actually in school,” you admit before you can stop yourself. “Grad school. Masters in Business Analytics.”

His lips do something similar to a smile, but his eyes are serious as he leans your way. “Impressive. What are you hoping to do with this degree?”

You shrug, feeling the full weight of his undivided attention. It isn’t uncomfortable, but it’s heavy.

“Something with data. It kind of — I don’t know — speaks to me, I guess? I’m good with numbers. I can read an Excel sheet, which is half the battle. Interpreting data really isn’t that difficult when you dictate the right models and—“ You stop short and shake your head quickly. “I’m sorry. I’m boring you.”

His smile returns. “You’re not boring me.”

“I was rambling. You probably have better things to do than listen to me run my mouth about dictating data models,” you joke.

“On the contrary,” he murmurs, “I’d like to hear what you have to say about data models.”

You look to the floor as the blush blooms across your face. “It doesn’t make for very thrilling conversation.”

“We’re at The Alpine Club — I’m pretty sure data models make up ninety percent of the conversations around here. What’s one more?”

You laugh, bright and unexpected. “You got me there.”

He watches you for a moment, thoughtful.

“So,” he says, twirling his empty glass, “what kind of data are you hoping to manipulate around when you graduate?”

You blink as his question lands. It isn’t lost on you that he’s prolonging the conversation. Your weight shifts, you debate answering him; you have tables that haven’t been touched in minutes, you have side work that’s waiting for you in the back. Plus, your gut is screaming at you that this has gone a lot further than the average conversation between customer and server, especially when he’s already settled up. You should thank him for coming in and walk away.

“Manipulating data sounds corrupt,” you say with a small smile. The side work can wait. “It’s more like…making sense of it. Organizations collect all this information and half the time they don’t even know what to do with it. I like the idea of being the person who can look at a mess of numbers and data points and say okay, here’s the story.”

“Sounds like an art,” he says.

“Artists don’t use spreadsheets.”

“I think it still counts.”

Your hands tighten around the receipt book. “Not sure if I’ve ever heard someone call data analytics an art. Most people start disassociating when I mention Excel.”

“Most people are missing out.”

Your smile grows. “That sounds like a line.”

“It’s not,” he says easily, placing both hands on the table. “I’m genuinely interested.”

“In data?”

“In you.”

The words are a shock to your system. You feel heat climb into your cheeks again. Okay, that’s definitely a line.

That smile flickers on his face again, and he points toward his empty glass. “Actually, do you mind if I get one more from you? Please?”

You hesitate for a moment before nodding, turning for the bar again. When you return with his drink, he takes it from you with gentle fingers that brush yours.

“Do you think you’d be able to sit with me? Just for the drink?” he asks.

You freeze.

“If you’re busy, I understand,” he says quietly. “I don’t want to keep you from your work.”

Chewing your lip, you chance a look at your section. It’s died down considerably — closing time is near, but your last few tables have yet to pay. He watches you in that patient way of his.

“No, it’s — I’m not busy,” you mumble. You’re about to move to the other side of the booth when he slides over deftly, leaving room for you to sit next to him with a healthy amount of distance left between. Your hesitation is quick, but obvious, although he says nothing when you eventually take the spot beside him.

“Where do you go to school?” he asks, like there wasn’t a break in the conversation.

“O’Malley.”

His eyebrows lift a fraction. “That’s a great school.”

“Ha. Thank you. Yeah, my mom nearly had a heart attack when I got my acceptance letter. Big school, bigger price tag.” Your nose wrinkles. “I guess you could say that’s part of the reason I’m here.”

You’re not sure what made you bring up your mom — you haven’t weaved her into conversation in weeks. While your brows furrow in thought, James shifts in his seat, suddenly, like a twitch but more intentional. He lifts the drink to his lips.

“Part of the reason?” he repeats.

“It’s a long story.”

He looks at you, eyes bright but calm.

“I have time.”

You exhale softly, unable to hold the eye contact. “It — well, it’s not a very good story either.”

He doesn’t say anything, letting you consider in silence whether or not to share. You don’t tell your story very often — in fact, you’ve tried running from it multiple times. Hence the reason the debt collectors were after you. Tonight was going to be a rare occurrence if you had actually ended up telling your table of regulars your tearful tale.

Sitting beside him, you can’t deny the pull to James, nor the urge to tell him; you want to chalk it up to being prepared for another audience, but deep down, you know it’s something completely different.

With a sigh, you start.

“I had a lot saved up. A good chunk of it from my dad’s life insurance policy. Car accident when I was sixteen,” you add, when James’ tilts his head questioningly. “It was…sad, but we got through it. My mom and me. I got the money when I turned twenty-two, just in time to graduate college. I worked at a bar part-time and made some money there, so I decided to take a year off before grad school. Travel. See the world…”

James clears his throat. “Where did you go?”

“Europe. Mostly Italy. I love the food, the history, how the country’s broken up by states and each one has its own culture…” You trail off, biting down on a smile. “I think it’s my favorite place in the world.”

Next to you, James shifts again, but he’s got a soft smile on his face as he watches the liquid swirl in his glass.

“But then my mom got sick,” you continue, your voice lowering automatically. “Stage 4 colon cancer. I came home right away, brought her to every doctor in the city, but they all said the same thing: that there was nothing they could do.”

There’s a sound like a hushed rumble coming from James’ chest. He sets his drink down and meets your eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

A stab of grief shoots through your heart at those two words. You’ve heard them a million times over in your life, eventually growing numb to them — especially when they came from strangers. But the way he’s looking at you, the simplicity in the way he said it, causes a reaction you haven’t had in months. You quickly blink away the burn behind your eyes.

“It’s…thank you.”

He nods once, a gesture of acknowledgment and to continue. You take a breath.

“She refused to give up. She was a badass, but I also think that was just her being a mom. She didn’t want to leave me on my own in the world. So we used up every cent we had flying across the country, meeting with the best doctors out there and trying treatment after treatment. We spent a stint at the Mayo in Rochester, and for a moment, things were starting to look up. But she took a sudden turn for the worse, so we came back here. We came home.”

You rest your chin in your palm, eyes following his finger as it taps against his glass. You can feel him watching you closely.

“I tried to make her as comfortable as I could. Took the rest of my savings and poured it into her care. She hated that I did that, but there was no point arguing. Not when we only had weeks left. She passed last spring.”

James’ free hand twitches in your direction. You pretend not to notice.

“After the funeral, I looked around and realized I had mountains of medical bills to pay, a mortgage suddenly in my name, and a future full of student loans.” You make a soft noise in the back of your throat, untitled in emotion. “Despite everything, my mom made me enroll in classes as soon as we got home — she wanted me to have something waiting for me on the other side of it all. I thought she was crazy at first because I couldn’t think about anything but her, but now that she’s gone, I’m glad she made me do it.”

The silence after you finish is surprisingly light. It doesn’t feel tense or heavy like it usually does, when your audience isn’t sure how to reconcile all of that grief in one person’s lifetime. James sits beside you easily, absorbing your story with careful consideration and space.

“For what it’s worth, I think your mom would be really proud of where you are today” he murmurs.

The corner of your mouth lifts.

“Don’t speak too soon. I sold the house, but it barely made a dent in the medical bills. Whoever invented interest can suck my dick.”

James coughs and takes a large sip of his drink.

“Truthfully, I’m — I’m drowning,” you laugh breathlessly. “I can’t study because I’m constantly worried about having enough money to keep the lights on, and then that makes me worry that I’ll get kicked out of the program and lose my chance at a job that pays enough to make these bills go away. So I got a job here in the meantime because — well, everything’s outrageously priced and that means you get outrageous tips, which is literally the only way to keep my head above water.”

Your voice has raised in volume, pitch and speed, but you plow on, too late to bottle it up now.

“I ran the numbers a hundred times, set them against average incomes of thousands of jobs in the city, calculated inflation and costs, and it came down to either this or stripping. Which I don’t have anything against! But I can’t move like that, I can barely do a push up — so tips would be beyond sad for me, if I get any, and then I’d be back to where I started. So between that and The Alpine, I thought why not save myself the embarrassment and—”

You cut yourself off with a wince. You did it again.

You shoot a furtive glance his way. He’s turned completely in his seat to face you, jaw tight and eyes unreadable. Like this, you get the full force of him, the piercing blue of his eyes, the sharp features of his face; it’s unnerving, but in a way that makes your skin tingle, like electricity’s dancing down your limbs. A brief look reveals a brush of chest hair peeking out from under his white button down, and your subconscious decides it would like to see the rest of it someday.

He appears to be considering something, mulling it over carefully in his head. He hasn’t looked away from you since you stopped talking, but you don’t find it creepy. Yet.

“Sounds like you have a lot on your plate,” James mutters.

“Yeah,” you say faintly, “sorry to unload all of that on you.”

He shakes his head quickly, throwing back the last of his drink in one large gulp. His lips press into a thin line. You’re kicking yourself mentally, thinking you’ve finally traumatized the poor guy with your unfiltered stream of consciousness, when he sets the glass down with a sharp klink.

“I could help,” he says quietly.

You blink. “Oh, you don’t — you don’t need to do that. I promise I wasn’t using my sob story to get you to kick me a bigger tip or anything—“

“Just listen, please.”

Your mouth shuts with a snap. The air hums with a level of anticipation that wasn’t there before. His eyes hold steadily onto yours.

“I’ll only say this once, and if it’s not for you, I won’t say another word about it ever again.” He tilts his head. “I believe two people can come together in an uncomplicated and beneficial way, like friends do, to help each other out. I’d like to make your life easier so you can focus on what actually matters to you. I’d be someone you can rely on, who values your time and wants to see you succeed…while also helping you with any roadblocks in your way. I could take some of the pressure off — financially — so that you can focus on your future instead of struggling to make things work today. And in return, I get your company. I’ve had a better time talking to you for the last twenty minutes than I’ve had with that group of guys for years. You’re sharp, you’re funny, you’re grounded…your time and your attention is all I would want.”

He lets that sit between you with a short pause. Meanwhile, the air has left your lungs.

“This requires trust. Discretion. Maturity. It’s not about rescuing anyone or buying affection. It’s more…intentional than that. Mutual.”

He pauses again, longer, as if he’s waiting for his words to sink in with you. They certainly have.

“Being my friend will never require you to be out of your comfort zone,” he continues softly. “It’s about making you comfortable. You’ll get support without strings, without owing anything, and without judgment. It’s not complicated, and it’s not about control. It’s about being a friend. I’d like to be your friend.”

Your mouth opens but nothing comes out. Not a whisper of a sound. The corners of his mouth twitch up as he searches your face — you suspect you’re not doing a very good job at concealing your emotions.

“You don’t need to give me an answer now,” James murmurs, leaning back against the booth; his voice has dipped into a lower octave, and the sound of it sends vibrations up your spine. “All I’m asking is that you consider it.”

You’re silent as you turn his words over in your mind, your heart thrumming beneath your chest.

“We don’t even know each other,” you whisper.

“I know,” he replies, “but I’d like to know you. This is a way for me to do that.”

You bite your lip. “If you’re saying all of this because of my mom, or — or ‘cause you feel bad—“

“No,” he says calmly, hand resting on the table near yours. “This isn’t because I feel bad.”

“Then why?” you ask.

“Because you’re beautiful, and I enjoy the sides of you that you’ve shown me tonight. And selfishly, I’d like to be your friend that makes things easier for you.”

Your gut swoops low. He called you beautiful. But there was an innocence behind it, like he was stating a fact rather than making a move. This settles over you like a warm blanket after a long day.

James watches you for another moment before reaching into his suit jacket and pulling out a card. He offers it to you.

“Take some time. Think it over. If you have questions, call me. If you never want to hear from me again, say the word and I’ll leave you alone. But if you’re interested in what this could be, let me know.”

You take the card without a word, absentmindedly pocketing it while you get to your feet. Your body has overridden your brain, moving you through the motions. James rises after you, and his frame towers over yours as you finally stand next to him. His bright eyes scan your face, assessing every detail. You swallow hard, his eyes track that as well.

“I hope to hear from you soon,” he murmurs, dipping his head down to your eye level. You nod breathlessly.

With a pointed look, he nudges the receipt book closer to you, where it had been abandoned on the table after he asked for another drink.

“It’s—it’s on me,” you say weakly. He raises his eyebrows, hands shoved into his pockets; you wave vaguely in front of you. “Don’t worry about it.”

“Thank you,” James says politely, and with a small dip of his chin, he turns away for the door. You watch as he crosses the room at a relaxed pace, dark hair bouncing gracefully, suit swishing perfectly. He doesn’t look back as the door is opened for him like a king and he exits the room.

You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding. Holy shit.

Later that evening, when you stumble home with ruptured blisters, smelling of stale sweat and cleaning products, you collapse onto your couch and pull out the card.

James B. Barnes, Chairman of the Board

Barnes Group, Inc.

The last name should have given it away, but to be fair, you were blindsided by the smooth talking and how good he looked. Barnes Group, Inc. is a quiet but major asset management firm that dominates the Financial District. They hold their weight against the big ones despite being around for less than twenty years. They’re well-respected and popular, from what you’ve heard around The Alpine. Your instincts proved correct once again — he really does have real money.

Your mind whirls. How cliche is it for one of the wealthiest men in the city to offer an arrangement like this to a younger woman? Very — there’s no beating around that bush.

But the way he framed it had broken through your initial judgment, hitting you in a place that was dark and dusty and unused for ages. Friendship.

You couldn’t remember the last time you spoke to someone you could call a friend. All of them had slowly disappeared after you buried your mother, and for valid reasons; you made it impossible to keep in touch, dodging phone calls and ignoring texts like it was your job. But you’re still human — even if you push everyone away, that doesn’t mean you’re immune to loneliness. And with hardly any family left, that doesn’t leave you with many options for human companionship.

His words had shined a spotlight on that gaping hole in your life, intentional or not. Maybe he could see that on top of flirting with poverty, you’re lonely.

Maybe he’s lonely, too.

You rub your eyes viscously with your knuckles, willing the day to seep from your bones. Your cat, Lucky, hops onto the couch and curls up beside you.

You can’t believe it, but you think you need to consider this. While several true crime documentaries could show you the downfall of trusting the wrong person, you can’t help but take James’ words as they are. Perhaps that ity, bity, tiny sliver of hope you allow to live on inside you has taken charge of your decision making. It would explain your sudden deviation from enormous dislike for the rich.

You sigh, stroking Lucky’s back. “If this is real, I’d be an idiot not to,” you say to him, like you have no other choice. Lucky yawns his affirmation.

So you think on it. A lot. A lot a lot. Pretty much every minute of the next three days, you’re thinking about James. His words replay over and over in your head until it’s an automatic loop of noise.

I’d like to be your friend.

It’s distracting, thinking about him and his offer. Which means you’re distracted at work, you’re distracted on the subway, you’re distracted folding laundry. You even answer a debt collector by accident because your mind is in two places. You’ll never do that again.

…He could make sure you never do that again.

It comes to a head when you’re taking your break during your shift. The August night is hot and humid, the sky bragging of potential thunderstorms. The cigarette in your hand shakes as you inhale greedily.

The same two things circle your brain: how long would you let this go on for? And what would your mom think?

Both questions hold great weight, yet both are unanswerable to you — at least for now. Just when you start going down that road, your brain screeches to a halt in some sort of self-preservation tactic, distracting you by throwing mental memories of James’ soft smile, his quiet empathy, or — even worse — his chest hair.

It makes it a lot easier to pull out your phone than you think. The card is slightly crumpled from taking it out and holding it so often, but the numbers read clearly as you punch them in.

He’s offering you a way out of this mess you call your life. Just because he wants to. And all he asks is for you to smile and thank him for it over dinner every now and then. Either he’s dealing with a lot of guilt over having money, or he truly wants to see your life get easier because of him. Maybe it’s both. Either way, it’ll change your life.

For the better. Right?

The line rings three times before he answers. “James Barnes.”

“James,” you croak, exhaling a cloud of smoke. “It’s me. From The Alpine. Hi.”

Something shifts in the background, like he’s sitting up straighter or moving something around. It sounds like sheets against skin. “Hi,” he says back, neutral. You glance at the time on your phone.

“Shit,” you mutter, “I’m sorry. I didn’t even think about how late it is. I can call you back—?”

“No,” he cuts in. “Now’s fine. How are you?”

You chew on your lip. “I’m good. Busy, but…I’ve been— uh, I’ve been thinking.”

“Oh, yeah?” he murmurs, soft and loose like it’s a knee-jerk response. Your gut swoops low.

“About what you said,” you choke out. “About being…friends. I…I have some questions.”

“I have some answers.”

“I was wondering if we could meet. Soon. So I can ask you the questions. And learn a little more about…what this will be like.”

There’s a pause on the other end, not even a rustle of fabric or a brush of his breathing against the receiver to be heard. Then he clears his throat.

“How about tomorrow night? 8 o’clock at Pepper’s.”

“Yeah— uh, yes. That works,” you breathe. There’s a moment of silence where all you can hear is the pounding of your own heart.

“Would it be presumptive of me to bring a few documents? Unless you’d like to have a lawyer look over them—”

Your mouth goes dry. “No. That’s okay,” you say. “You can bring them.”

He makes a soft noise, something pleased. “I’m glad you called,” he says, voice low and warm. “I was starting to think I wouldn’t hear from you.”

The hand holding your cellphone spasms. “I’m sorry,” you whisper.

He shushes you quietly. “It’s okay. I’m glad you took your time. You seem like the type of person who wants to know exactly what she gets herself into. I admire that.”

You hum, because words are elusive as ever right now.

“Are you working?” he asks.

“Yes.”

“It’s almost midnight. Isn’t The Alpine closed by now?”

“Yeah, well…side work’s a bitch. I’ll probably be here until one.”

He grunts. “Let me send a car to get you home.”

“James, I—“

“Please. It’ll let me sleep tonight. Worrying about you walking around New York at one in the morning in the rain will do the opposite.”

Your foot taps restlessly. “Okay,” you breathe.

“Okay, doll.”

A flush runs through your body, from the crown of your head to the tip fo your toes. It leaves behind a wave of tingles that tickle your skin.

“Yeah, uh. I’ll let you— uh, I’ll let you get back to it then. I’ll see you tomorrow, James.”

“Tomorrow,” he vows. And the line goes dead.

You adjust the straps of your dress again, pulling them further back on your shoulders so that they frame your chest just right. It’s your favorite dress — or, more accurately, your only dress — and your one item of clothing that’s acceptable enough for the five star restaurant you’re meeting James at.

He’s sending another car — he texted you this time, brokering no argument over it, just a time and the driver’s name. You’d be put off if the ride last night hadn’t cut your usual hour-long hike home down to ten minutes and saved you from a torrential downpour. Private cars have their benefits, apparently.

The driver, Bob, picks you up at half past seven. He weaves in and out of traffic flawlessly, leaving you with very little time to fix your makeup and call on every shred of courage you have.

When he pulls up to the curb, he hops out of the car and opens the door for you, helping you to balance on your heels that don’t entirely cover the bandaids on the back of your ankles. You thank him for the ride as he ushers you into the restaurant.

James waits at the table tucked into a secluded corner at the back of the room, hair parted perfectly, scruff a little longer than before, and dressed in a suit of midnight black. His shirt is a shade lighter, the top three buttons undone and exposing even more chest hair than the last time. You take a deep breath as you approach.

He stands immediately when he spots you, eyes appraising you gently, like his favorite person in the world just showed up.

“Hello,” he says, coming around to hold out your chair for you.

“Hi,” you mumble, blushing as you sit. He holds eye contact as he resettles into his own seat, a small smile on his face.

“You look breathtaking,” he admits, a twinge in his voice that could pass for pained, like the way you look is so devastatingly beautiful, it hurts.

“Thank you. You look very nice, too.”

His smile grows. “I’m glad you could meet me tonight. I have to say I’ve been a bit restless since our talk last night.”

“Oh?” is your dumb response. Your pulse flutters as his smile grows crooked.

“I guess you could say I’m eager to hear your questions.”

“Oh, um…yes. I have a few…”

He gestures to the table. “Do your worst.”

You were prepared for this, but it still makes you feel light-headed as you pull out the small slip of paper from your purse. He watches you carefully as you unfold it, pieces of the ripped edges fluttering to the floor. Maybe you were expecting a bit of small talk, but what’s there to talk about when you hardly know each other? You can appreciate cutting to the chase, even if it makes your mouth dry.

“First, I…I just want to say thank you,” you begin quietly, shyly meeting his gaze. “For listening to me. And for not making it a big deal. It was the first time I’ve told that story that I didn’t feel like a tragedy after, and you made me feel that way.”

His shoulders seem to relax a little, his expression gentle. “You’re welcome.”

“That being said,” you continue shakily, unable to meet his eyes any longer. “I’m wondering what kind of help you want to give, and if there are things I can say no to.”

He nods, his face becoming serious. “Of course. I want to help, not intrude. If there are things you don’t want me to touch, then I won’t. You get the say in that.”

“So, if I say I don’t want any help with my student loans…”

“Then that’s that. I won’t push you about it either.”

You nod, fingering the edge of the paper nervously. The silence stretches.

“Would it be useful to give you a summary of what I will and won’t help with?” he asks, leaning back in his seat. You nod again, motioning for him to continue. He settles into his seat, clearing his throat. “To start, I won’t help with the circumstances of friends or relatives, unless they’re direct dependents of yours, which it doesn’t sound like you have anyway. This arrangement is for us, so it stays between us. And I won’t help with any legal troubles either. If you end up in jail, I won’t pay for bail, I won’t pay fines, and I won’t pay for legal counsel. If you’re charged with anything, this arrangement is void.”

His voice is level, almost monotonous, like he’s said this a few times. You gulp.

“But I will pay for everything else, if you’ll let me,” he remarks, growing softer. “You’ll get my card for the day-to-day things. Groceries, coffee, transit, take out. Anything you do when you’re not at work. I also want to pay for the things you couldn’t do before. Expect appointments booked for the spa, massages, hair, nails — whatever you decide. My assistant will help with that.”

“Okay,” you breathe, feeling just a little dizzy. God, when was the last time you got your nails done?

“I’ll also pay for your rent. Or, if you want to move, I’ll buy you a new place. Apartment. Condo. Brownstone. Up to you. I want you feeling comfortable and safe when you’re not with me.”

Your mouth falls open to protest. Buy a brownstone? For you? The girl he just met? You crumples the paper in a reflex reaction, but he holds up a hand before you can speak.

“You don’t have to, I’m just giving you the option. Remember, you’ll never have to go out of your comfort zone with me.”

He scans your face — you’re sure you’re a shade paler than before.

“Where do you live now?” he asks gently.

“Queens.” He smiles.

“Then I’d at least argue for you to use my driver.”

“Makes sense,” you murmur distractedly.

The server comes over then, placing a whiskey in front of James and asking what you’d like to drink. You order a white wine, cringing when he asks if you have a preferred bottle, but James answers for you, naming a brand you’ve never heard of, his eyes on you the entire time. The waiter returns a minute later with your glass, and you take a greedy sip as soon as it hits the table.

“I also like to give gifts,” James says, picking up where he left off. “That could mean jewelry, bags, cars, vacations—“ you choke on your wine, he politely ignores it. “Whatever I’m feeling that day.”

“Oh, is that all?” you say weakly. He chuckles, genuine and soft.

“It may change, depending on what I think you’d like. And what you tell me you like.”

“I’m picky,” you attempt to joke.

“I like a challenge.”

The air shifts subtly, you’d miss it if you weren’t paying attention. He crosses his legs effortlessly at the knee, looking every bit composed while you’re pinching yourself to keep from hyperventilating.

“Ideally, you’d quit your job,” he begins slowly. “Not for me, but because you won’t need to work anymore. You don’t have to if you don’t want to, but you’re in school, and it’s clear you love it. I want you to be comfortable enough to focus on that. Put your time into studying. Not dealing with men like Walker.”

You huff a soft laugh because you aren’t sure what else to say. Quitting your job hadn’t even crossed your mind through all of this, but now that the seed’s been planted, it takes root quickly, despite the voice in your head telling you not to let it.

James must be a mind reader, because he leans forward, making sure you meet his eyes.

“I’d like to spoil you, because I think you deserve it. Not because of what’s happened to you, but because of what you’ve done since it happened,” he says, voice pulling you in with the husky lilt to it. “I think you’ve earned the right to feel taken care of. It can be on your terms, of course, but trust me when I say there’s almost nothing I wouldn’t help with. Including the medical bills and the debt. Including the loans. But I will respect whatever you wish to keep separate from this.”

For a moment, you’re not sure what to say, but you end up on, “Thank you, James. I…I’ll think about it.”

He nods, businesslike. ”What other questions do you have?”

You blink, looking down at your list. “Well, you answered a couple of them, actually…um, I guess my next question is—“ You feel the heat rise to your cheeks. “When you say friendship, what does that…include, exactly?”

He leans back in his seat, taking a slow sip of his drink.

“I meant what I said about being friends,” he offers, “and I meant it in the traditional sense. This isn’t a “friends with benefits” situation. Holding hands, a light hug, or sitting close together are all reasonable to me. But touch isn’t required by you — you’re welcome to do whatever you’re comfortable with, and I won’t withhold anything from you if you aren’t comfortable with it. And I won’t touch you if you don’t want me to, but I will say I’m hoping to earn that right eventually.”

Something loosens in your chest, an unnamed tension releasing.

“I understand,” you say slowly. “I think those are reasonable, too.” His eyes flicker across your face for a moment. “I appreciate you clarifying that for me. It was on my mind a lot over the last few days.”

“That’s why we’re here,” he answers calmly. “Any more questions?”

“Yes, um. How does this…start?”

The smile returns to James’ face, sweet and relaxed. He waves two fingers in the air, and a server comes hurrying over with an official-looking envelope, setting it before him. James pulls out a small stack of documents and finds a pen in his suit jacket.

“It starts with a couple signatures. These are NDAs stating you won’t talk or publish anything about our time together, and the same goes for me. I’m held to the same principles you are. If I say a word about us to anyone without your permission, you have every right to sue me for all I’m worth. I hope it tells you how serious I am about this.”

It actually says a hell of a lot more than just how serious it is, but he’s already shuffling the papers aside, picking up the one on the bottom.

“This is an agreement on what I’m allowed to pay for. Like the rent — I’ll need to know where to pay to. There’s also a place for your bank account information, in the case of moving large sums of money. I’d like it wired safely and securely.”

You must show signs of panic, because he quickly tucks it away and says, “You don’t have to decide on anything today. You can add whatever you want to this as time goes on.”

Your breathing evens. He taps the pen against the stack of NDAs.

“Anything else?” he asks quietly. Your pinching grows stronger.

“Are you…friends…with anyone else right now? Or is it just me?”

His lips quirk like he was expecting this question. He leans forward, elbows on the table, and holds your gaze steadily.

“Just you. And I can promise that I won’t need any other friends as long as I have you.”

Oh.

“But you’ve…had other friends before. In the past.”

His eyes go blank for a moment. “Yes, I’ve had other friends before. A few.”

“They’re not still your friends, though?” you ask.

“No,” he answers. “There came a point when it was time for them to explore other…friendships. Start different lives. It always ended amicably.”

You hesitate. “So, if one day I decide I want to…stop being friends, that would be okay with you?”

“Of course. I’m here as long as you’ll have me. Or until we both decide it’s time.”

“Okay,” you whisper, meeting his gaze. There’s a roaring sound in your ears, like the ocean on a stormy night, but your hands are surprisingly steady as you reach out your hand toward him. “Okay. Can I borrow your pen?”

James smiles, the biggest smile you’ve seen from him yet. He offers you the pen and the first document, pointing out where to sign and initial. You do so quickly, conscious of your climbing blood pressure, but the adrenaline leaves a sweet aftertaste as you write your name with a flourish. Or maybe it’s him, beaming at you while you sign up for this new chapter of life with him.

Once the documents are signed, he proposes a toast. “To friendships,” he says. You clink your glass to his. “And, by the way, call me Bucky.”

“Bucky?” you ask, eyebrows raised.

“It’s what my friends call me.”

It starts immediately.

The next morning, you’re greeted with a jungle of flowers waiting outside your apartment door. Flowers of all shapes and colors, some tropical, some simple, and all of them make you smile. You’re placing the last of them on the counter when there’s a knock on your door — a dozen freshly-made croissants from the Parisian cafe in Midtown. Impossible to get into, impossible to order out from, yet here’s a box full of their best-selling pastries, still warm from the oven. You indulge in one too many, but it’s worth it.

Throughout the day, Bucky texts you. It’s something he mentioned off-handedly, probably meant to give you a choice, but he likes to talk during the day. A lot. He likes check ins, he likes updates; he wants to hear about anything and everything.

At first, it’s odd having someone to talk to so consistently again — the last person you spoke to like this was your mom.

But Bucky keeps it unforced, easing the conversation along with the right questions and dry comments that actually have you smiling at your phone. When you get to work that night, he wishes you a good shift. No mention of you quitting. You appreciate this so much that you have half a mind to quit anyway.

Not today, you tell yourself. You need to wait to see if Bucky actually puts his money where his mouth is first.

It isn’t long before he does.

Less than a week after you signed the papers, he asks you to join him for dinner on your night off. He makes the reservation early because he knows you have an exam in two days that you’re stressed over, leaving you with the rest of the evening to study. You’re grateful for his mindfulness, but equally grateful for the distraction he’s providing. He’s waiting outside the restaurant when Bob pulls up, offering his hand to help you out of the car.

“You look beautiful,” he states plainly, like only an idiot would argue with him. Your answering smile is wide and uninhibited.

Inside, the two of you are seated at a booth mostly concealed from the other diners. He sits beside you, much like he did that first night, close but with enough space for you to breathe easily. He asks you about your day, he encourages you to try something strange on the menu, he compliments you again and again and again.

Your whole body is flushed from the wine and his attention by the time the desert arrives. You’re licking chocolate syrup off the spoon, regaling a work story involving your meathead manager and another server.

“He just chooses to ignore anything that makes us seem human to him. No emotions allowed. No personal problems allowed. You show up for your shift, you do your job, and that’s it. Leave your life at the door, God help you if you don’t.”

You sigh, your spoon clattering loudly onto the plate. Bucky fidgets with his own spoon, eyes on the corner of your mouth. He shakes his head a little, like he thought better of something, then points to the corner of his own mouth, smiling. You blush, taking the hint, and wipe a dab of chocolate away from your skin. Bucky’s still smiling as he takes another sip of his drink.

“Might be because he lacks his own personal life,” he muses. “People are always going to project what hurts them.”

You consider this. “Now that you say it, I don’t think I’ve ever seen him take a day off.”

“That can do some fucked up things to a person.”

“Tell me about it,” you whine. “I haven’t taken a day off in months.”

His eyes slide lazily to you, glass held loosely in his hand. He smiles wryly, and you understand what he means before he says a word.

“I know, I know. I just…” You take a breath. “I need to know this is real first. Before I start cutting ties.”

He’s quiet for a moment. “Tomorrow’s the first of the month,” he says. “Have you thought more about allowing me to help with your rent?”

Your breath hitches.

“Yes,” you whisper. He hums, eyes sparkling with something bright and ambiguous.

“And what have you decided?”

“I think…it would be a show of good faith…if you helped me out.”

“Good faith,” he laughs. “Sweetheart, I’ll buy you the moon if it means you’ll believe me when I say I’ll take care of you.”

The next morning, you get the email at 9 a.m. — your rent has been paid, utilities as well. Your stomach had been in knots when you wrote down the information for him, but seeing the confirmation makes you feel like you’re floating.

It only takes you another week until you’re calling your manager and quitting. To celebrate, Bucky rents out the Met for the night, and you explore and observe and admire to your heart’s content as he stands quietly and steadily by your side. He knows an impressive amount about art, surprisingly, but then he starts making things up when a specific piece stumps him, and the rest of the unguided tour is spent inventing made-up artists and their tragic backstories. By the end of the night, you can’t resist anymore. You quickly lean in and wrap your arms around his waist.

It’s clear he’s shocked, that you’ve caught him off guard. But he recovers quickly, mirroring your grip and resting his cheek on top of your head. It’s strange, it’s new, but it’s…comforting.

Quitting your job means a lot more free time, but Bucky is adamant about you dedicating much of that time for school. So to keep a balance between time spent studying and time spent with him, Bucky proposes you come by his office between classes. Sometimes for lunch, sometimes to take a break, sometimes to set up camp on his leather couch, nose to your laptop screen as you research data sets and monitor the market while he quietly works at his desk.

It’s calming and oddly motivating — he’s the perfect person to work next to.

When you’re not studying, Bucky’s supplying you with appointments that fill up your calendar. You have a new contact saved in your phone — Inga, Bucky’s very Dutch, very cheerful assistant — because she calls you at least twice a day, arranging your schedule and finding time you didn’t know existed to fill.

A certain Thursday brings a yoga class from 7:45 to 9, then a massage from 10 to 11:30. After that is lunch with Bucky at his office (take out sushi from a place you’ve only ever dreamed of going to), followed up by a nail appointment from 2 to 3 and a virtual meeting from 3:30 to 4:30 with your old therapist that you had to abandon when money got tight.

Once you get past the catch up, your therapist says you seem a lot better than you were the last time you saw her. Crazy concept, to agree with a therapist, but you actually do.

You’re about a month into the arrangement when Bucky clears his throat at dinner, making you pause while twirling your pasta on your fork. You’ve slowly graduated to sitting closer, and his arm rests on the back of the booth behind you, its presence warm and obvious around your shoulders. You look up at him, waiting.

“I’ve got this thing tomorrow night,” he begins, voice a little on the gruff side. You’re shocked to realize he’s being shy, and poorly hiding it. “It’s a gala. The black tie kind. It’s for charity — Children’s, I think. If you’re up for it, I was wondering if you’d like to come with me.”

You smile slowly. “I’d love to. Just need something to wear.”

A stack of hundred dollar bills is on the table in seconds. Inga accompanies you the following morning to ten different stores, all designer, all with prices that make you feel faint, but she is quick to shoo you away from the price tags and push you to try on the dresses that make you sigh dreamily. Maybe that’s the reason Bucky wanted her with you.

You pick something bold, something you’d never see yourself in unless you had it on your body. It fits like a glove and reminds you that you’re a woman, not just a cog in the wheel of the working class. You only panic a little when you hand over the entire wad of cash Bucky gave you.

After that, you’re dropped off at the salon, where a facial and a blowout get you glowing like the sun. Bob picks you up and brings you to your apartment where your dress is waiting for you, courtesy of Inga. At 9 o’clock, Bucky’s waiting for you outside. The late September breeze ruffles his hair and swishes your dress as you come face-to-face.

He takes in every inch of you, from your painted toe nails to your shiny hair, and he sighs.

“You look…unbelievable.”

Later, when you’re buried deep into a crowd of people you don’t know, Bucky’s anchoring you to him with a hand on the small of your back, thumb brushing the skin there. He leans in, nose nudging your temple, and whispers, “I’m very lucky to have you here with me.”

Just like that, something inside of you breaks. Not in a sad way, but in a revolutionary way. Like a floodgate’s been cracked open, and what’s been locked inside is beginning to trickle out.

When he pulls back, your eyes linger on him. He flashes a movie star smile for the people that approach, but when he meets your gaze again, he gives you his crooked grin. Meant only for you. His warm hand pulls you closer into his side.

And that’s when it begins, right there at that gala. Your appreciation for Bucky has opened up into something larger, still undefinable, but growing in magnitude.

You find yourself sweating under the lights of the ballroom, not from the heat, but from the unknown shift. It shapes itself a little more when Bucky runs into a colleague and introduces you as his friend. He’s been doing it all night, but this time, it doesn’t feel right. It feels…off. Generalized. Misplaced.

Not that you’d ever tell him. Bucky was clear about your arrangement being a friendship — to question what he calls you would be to question where you stand, and you don’t want to make it seem like you can’t hold up your end of the bargain as his friend.

So you smile through it, focusing on the feel of his hand on your skin, and push it down. For now.

You’re a couple months into the arrangement when Bucky opens his home to you. It’s a penthouse suite hundreds of feet in the sky, offering breathtaking views of the city sprawled below. The apartment is big and modern, with plenty of low lighting and soft colors. You find out right away that he’s messy, which you think is more endearing than it is a nuisance, even if that means throwing sweatshirts and belts and books off the couch just to find a place to sit.

He apologizes constantly, but it never gets better each time you come over. You don’t mind.

With classes gearing up for finals, your time is more limited than before, leaving you with just a few windows of opportunity a week to be with each other. Most of these fall late at night, past 10 p.m., or early in the morning before he leaves for work.

So you start staying over.

It happens accidentally the first time. He picks you up and takes you back to his place for Chinese take out and binge watching trashy reality TV (of which he is a secret super fan), but you end up passing out minutes after he turns the show on.

The next morning, you wake in a soft bed, surrounded by oversized pillows and silk sheets. Bleary eyed, you stumble into the kitchen to find him dressed for work, sipping a coffee at the kitchen island and scrolling on his phone. He sets both of them down when he sees you, standing as you shuffle over.

“Morning,” he says, stretching out a hand to catch your sweatshirt clad waist.

This is par for the course these days — soft, grounding touches that don’t linger for too long, cuddles on the couch that don’t get too pretzel-like, barely-there kisses against the forehead when you say something that makes him smile a little too hard. All friendly, all innocent.

“Did I — did I crash?” you ask, suppressing a yawn. He chuckles, offering you his coffee.

“Didn’t even make it to the elimination. Steve R. went home.”

“Fuck, I liked him.”

“Me too.”

You look up at him, suddenly shy. “I’m sorry. Thanks for carrying me to bed.”

“Only threw out my back for it. No worries.”

You slap away his hand on your waist, but it’s teasing, playful. He withdraws, taking a seat again so you’re eye level with him. A look takes over his face, something caught between serious and hopeful.

“You know, that room can be yours, if you’d like.”

You pause mid sip of coffee. “What?”

“The room. It’s yours. For when you want to crash. Or just don’t want to go home.”

“Really.” It’s not a question.

“Really,” he repeats. “Don’t ever feel like you have to stay, I’ll take you home any time of night. But if you do want to stay, it’s there for you.”

“That’s…really sweet of you.”

He smiles a little. “Not too much?” You shake your head. “Good. ‘Cause I like knowing you’re close. Think I slept better. And I like waking up with you here.”

The feeling from the gala returns with renewed force. It almost drowns you, leaving you reeling in its tidal wave of emotion. It defines itself a little more as you picture sharing mornings with him, pouring travel mugs of coffee and shoving pieces of toast in his mouth as he races out the door.

But he’s watching you closely, expecting an answer, so you beat the feelings down until you’re numb. Sending him a smile over the mug, you say, “Okay.”

And that’s that.

The first time you sleep over intentionally, Bucky’s not in a great mood. Which is a rare occasion in and of itself. You know he’s only human, but you’ve barely seen him annoyed, let alone upset.

He makes an effort to hide it from you, greeting you with a soft kiss to the top of your head when you step out of the private elevator that opens to his floor. He all but forces you to relax on the couch while he cooks dinner, so you do, cracking open your textbook and stretching out lazily while he cooks. But even from the living room, you can feel the negative energy radiating from him.

He throws pans into the sink with a little too much force. He answers a call with a sharp bark of “what now?” He mutters to himself like a cranky old man.

His face is drawn and stony when he hands you a plate and joins you on the couch — pasta with red sauce, simple, and a family recipe, he claims. But the way he eats it, you’d think he hates it.

“Bucky,” you say after watching him stab his food with homicidal intent. He grunts. “Bucky,” you try again.

“What?” he snaps, sneering. Immediately, his eyes go round with guilt before you even have the chance to react. “Oh, God — I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean—“ He pinches the bridge of his nose, breathing deeply; when he opens his eyes again, his expression is calmer, more open. “Jesus. You didn’t deserve that. Forgive me.”

“Always,” you say like it’s second nature. “What’s going on?”

He sighs, setting down his plate. “Work,” he mutters, “is killing me. Someone fucked up a deal with a really, really important client. They aren’t happy, so I had to step in to clean up the mess. But now they’re playing hard to get, so all day I had to suck their dicks and call them pretty just to get a reply.”

You giggle. He tilts his head at you.

“You think that’s funny?”

“A little. But I can’t imagine anyone not getting on their knees for you immediately.”

Something flashes in Bucky’s eyes, something darker that doesn’t fit the conversation topic. It’s quick, brief, but you see it. He smiles before you can think twice about it.

“Not these guys. They like to test me. And I don’t like being tested.”

“I can tell,” you comment. “Want me to help?”

He side-eyes you. “How?”

“You can take all your anger out by…rubbing my feet?” Your smile is saccharine as you slide your legs into his lap. He laughs, one loud sound, but takes your left foot in his hands anyway.

“How sweet of you,” he coos. “How’d you know this is exactly what I needed?”

His mood improves for the most part, although his phone buzzes a few times and sets his jaw ticking. But whether it’s to keep him sane or to keep the easy vibe of the night going, he ignores it. Reality TV is watched, cookies are eaten (he has five), and you’re feeling satisfied for having turned his night around just as you start to yawn.

He notices it immediately.

“Alright, doll. You’re tired. I’m taking you home.”

“I might stay here tonight, if that’s okay with you.”

He freezes as he reaches for his keys. Slowly, his arm lowers, and there’s a slightly dazed look in his eye.

“Sure, yeah. Whatever you want,” he breathes.

He sets you up with a tooth brush and towels, an old shirt of his and boxers. While you’re brushing your teeth, you wander over to his bathroom and find him doing the same. You stand beside him, laughing through the toothpaste as he gets his all over his mouth and chin. Unintentionally, though he’ll deny it.

He walks you to your room like he’s dropping you off at the end of date. You try not to think too much about that.

“Sleep tight,” he says softly, leaning against the doorway, smiling at the too-big shirt and boxers. You smile back, sleepy and content.

“Goodnight, Bucky.”

He’s gone before you wake up the next morning, but the note on the counter thanks you for being there with him last night. It makes your heart flutter much too fast for having just started your day.

When you get back to your own apartment, your phone alerts you to a new email. The name on it makes your stomach sink: the debt collectors. They’ve been quiet for a while since you’ve been able to offer them bigger scraps of money, so what do they want now?

Thank you for your payment. Your bills have been reconciled and your current balance is at $0.00.

The room tilts. Your breathing stops. Hundreds of thousands of dollars of medical bills, gone overnight.

Bucky.

It was only a week ago that you had shyly asked to amend the document on what he could help pay for. You weren’t even sure that he looked at it yet.

Well, now you know he has. And in one fell swoop, he banned the debt collectors from ever bothering you again. Your mind can hardly wrap around it, can hardly wrap around Bucky, and his generosity, and his promises, and his follow through. All of it is a murky, muddy emotional mess inside of you. For the first time in months, you break down and cry.

Later that night, when the tears have finally dried and you’re sitting next to him at your favorite little Italian spot, you place a hand over his and just squeeze. You meant to say words, but they’ve disappeared on you.

But Bucky doesn’t need the words. He knows everything that you’re saying with the simple touch. He squeezes back, smile soft, posture relaxed as he nudges your shoulder with his.

The floodgate inside of you swings open wider.

sammy speaks again: wowowowowow ok that’s a wrap on part one. part two coming almost immediately! I tried to fit it all into one but tumblr doesn’t like 30k word posts I guess :/ don’t forget to let me know what you think, I appreciate all of you for making it this far 🤍

“Hey,” Bucky’s voice cuts through sharper this time. “You good?”

“Fine,” you grit out automatically.

Another cramp tears through you.

Not a cramp. Not really.

Pain. Blinding, twisting pain that wraps around your lower back and squeezes until your vision whites out at the edges.

You suck in a sharp breath.

“Sweetheart?” Bucky’s voice changes instantly.

You try to stand and nearly collapse.

Then suddenly Bucky is there, metal hand catching your elbow before you hit the ground. His blue eyes sweep over your face, immediately alarmed.

“You’re pale.”

“I’m okay,” you insist weakly.

“You’re sweating.”

“Well, we are in the middle of a mission, Barnes.”

Another wave hits before you can finish the sentence.

This one is worse.

A broken sound escapes you before you can stop it, your knees buckling as your hand clamps onto his tactical vest.

Bucky freezes.

He’s seen you injured before. Seen you bruised, bleeding, stitched up after bad missions. But this?

This looks different.

“What hurts?” he demands.

“My stomach.”

His face drains of color.

“Did you get hit?”

“No—no, I don’t think so—”

The pain spikes again.

You double over so violently Bucky catches your full weight against his chest.

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, panic finally slipping into his voice. “Sam, we need extraction now.”

“You injured?” Sam asks immediately through comms.

Bucky looks down at you curled against him, trembling.

“I don’t know.”

---

The quinjet ride home is chaos.

Bruce keeps asking questions from the med bay station while you lie across one of the seats with your head in Bucky’s lap.

“Where exactly is the pain?”

“How long has this been happening?”

“Any nausea?”

Bucky answers half the questions for you because you’re too busy trying not to scream every few minutes.

Natasha kneels beside you at one point, pressing a cool hand to your forehead.

“You sure you weren’t hit with something?” she asks carefully.

“I don’t know,” you gasp. “I just—God—”

Another contraction.

Bruce’s eyes narrow.

“Wait.”

Everyone looks at him.

“Can you describe the pain?”

You glare at him through watery eyes.

“Really not the time for a survey, Bruce.”

“No, seriously.”

Your breathing turns shaky.

“It feels like my spine is splitting in half.”

Bruce goes very still.

Then his eyes slowly widen behind his glasses.

“Oh.”

“What oh?” Bucky snaps.

Bruce looks almost afraid to say it.

“How recently did you do a full medical scan?”

You blink at him.

“…uh.”

Bucky looks between the two of you. “Bruce.”

Bruce points at you carefully.

“I think she’s in labor.”

Silence.

Absolute silence.

Then:

“What.”

Bucky says it flatly. Horrifically.

You stare at Bruce.

Natasha blinks once.

Sam nearly crashes the quinjet.

“LABOR?!” he yells.

“That’s impossible,” you say immediately.

Bruce looks deeply unconvinced.

“Actually, considering enhanced physiology and the irregular hormonal patterns we’ve documented—”

“Bruce,” Natasha interrupts. “English.”

Bruce swallows.

“I think she’s about to have a baby.”

Bucky goes ghost white.

“A baby,” he repeats faintly.

You look at him in horror.

“We don’t even have a crib.”

---

The emergency wing explodes into motion the second the quinjet lands.

Doctors swarm you onto a gurney while Bucky refuses to let go of your hand for even half a second.

“This is insane,” you whisper, terrified. “Buck, this is actually insane.”

He looks just as panicked as you feel.

“You’re telling me.”

Another contraction hits and you cry out, gripping his hand so hard the metal plates in his fingers creak.

One of the doctors glances between monitors.

“She’s fully dilated.”

Bucky nearly chokes.

“What does that mean?”

“It means the baby is coming now.”

“NOW?”

“Preferably, yes.”

“Jesus Christ.”

You start laughing.

Not because it’s funny.

Because you’re terrified and overwhelmed and the only other option is crying.

Bucky immediately cups your face.

“Hey. Hey, look at me.”

Your eyes meet his.

And suddenly his panic softens.

“You’re okay,” he says quietly. “I got you.”

“I don’t know how to do this.”

“Neither do I.”

Another contraction tears through you and your nails dig into his wrist.

Bucky kisses your forehead immediately.

“You’re doing so good, sweetheart. C’mon. Breathe for me.”

The room blurs into noise after that.

Doctors talking.

Machines beeping.

Someone yelling for towels.

Sam and Natasha arguing outside the room about whether they should start baby-proofing the compound immediately.

And through all of it—

Bucky never leaves your side.

Not once.

He talks you through every contraction with his forehead pressed against yours.

Lets you crush his hand.

Brushes sweaty hair off your face.

Tells you over and over how good you’re doing even when you feel like you’re falling apart.

Then suddenly—

A cry.

Tiny.

Sharp.

Alive.

The entire room stills.

You collapse back against the pillows, breathless.

And Bucky…

Bucky looks shattered.

Not in a bad way.

In the way people look when their entire life changes in a single second.

A nurse carefully places the baby against your chest.

Your daughter is impossibly small.

Pink-faced.

Crying angrily.

Perfect.

“Oh my God,” you whisper.

Beside you, Bucky actually starts crying.

Real tears.

Openly.

His metal hand trembles where it rests against the baby’s tiny back.

“She’s ours?” he whispers like he can’t comprehend it.

You laugh softly through tears.

“Apparently.”

Your daughter immediately grabs one of Bucky’s fingers.

And that’s it.

That’s the exact moment the former Winter Soldier completely and utterly falls apart.

“Oh, I’m done for,” he says hoarsely.

Natasha appears in the doorway first.

Then Steve and Sam.

Then Wanda.

Clint.

Bruce.

The entire team slowly crowds outside the room with expressions ranging from emotional devastation to absolute disbelief.

Sam looks at the baby.

Then at you.

Then at Bucky.

“You guys just casually had a secret baby?”

“We didn’t KNOW,” you defend weakly.

Natasha smirks faintly.

“You missed nine months?”

“In our defense,” Bucky says seriously, “we’re both idiots.”

“That’s true,” Clint agrees.

Wanda steps closer carefully, eyes softening as she looks down at the baby.

“She’s beautiful.”

Your daughter yawns.

Sam immediately melts.

“Oh no,” he whispers. “I love her.”

“You’ve known her thirty seconds,” Natasha says.

“I would die for her.”

Bucky looks down at the baby in your arms with complete awe written across his face.

Then he leans down and kisses your forehead gently.

“You okay?” he murmurs.

You look at him.

At your daughter.

At the Avengers crowded into the room already arguing over who gets holding privileges first.

And despite the exhaustion, the shock, the complete insanity of the day—

Your chest feels warm.

Full.

Perfect.

“Yeah,” you whisper.

Bucky smiles at the two of you like you’re the most precious things he’s ever seen.

Author's Note

I'm going through stuff so you guys get another mini-series. We're starting in 2010s Winter Solider era, and then we'll be going over the years with some canon divergence.

Chapter List

You pause mid-typing, barely looking up from the keyboard in front of you. “From Mr. Fowler?”

“Yeah.” He frowns. “No agenda. Just says he wants to ‘touch base.’”

Your stomach does something strange. Because you already know what that means. It means he’ll be here in exactly seven minutes. It means you’ll hear the quiet, measured sound of expensive shoes approaching before he even turns the corner.

It means—

“Good morning.”

You freeze. There it is. That voice. Low. Controlled. Effortless.

You look up. And there he is—Nick Fowler himself—standing in the doorway like he owns not just the building, but the air inside it. Which… technically, he does.

“Mr. Fowler,” your boss greets, already rising. “Didn’t realize this was urgent.”

“It isn’t,” he says calmly. But his eyes? They’re not on your boss. They’re on you. Just for a second. Maybe less. But it lingers. You feel it anyway. “I just thought it would be beneficial to go over projections in person,” Nick continues, already stepping inside.

Your boss sighs, grabbing a file. “We literally went over those yesterday.”

“Then this will be quick.”

A beat. “Miss…?” He’s looking at you again. Waiting.

You swallow. “Y/N.”

He nods once, like he’s committing it to memory all over again. Even though you know he already knows. “Miss Y/N,” he repeats, quieter this time. “Would you bring in the quarterly reports?”

Your boss blinks. “I can grab those—”

“It’s fine,” Nick cuts in smoothly, not even looking at him. Still looking at you.

You stand. Because what else are you supposed to do? “Yes, sir.”

The walk to the filing cabinet feels longer than usual. Or maybe it’s just the awareness. The weight of his gaze. The way it follows you. Careful. Measured. Not inappropriate enough to call out. But not innocent either.

When you return, he’s seated now—relaxed, composed, one arm resting along the back of the chair like he has nowhere else to be. Like this is exactly where he wants to be.

You hand him the file. Your fingers brush his. It’s brief. Accidental.

But you notice the way his hand tightens, just slightly. Not enough to trap you. Not even to cause concern. But enough that you notice.

“Thank you,” he says. Softly. Too softly for a CEO thanking a secretary.

You pull your hand back quickly, heart betraying you with the sudden, uneven rhythm.

The meeting starts. Numbers. Projections. Safe, boring, professional things.

But it doesn’t feel that way.

Because every so often, you catch it. The way his attention drifts away from the presentations in front of you. Not to the charts. Not to your boss. To you. Watching. Studying. Like he’s trying to figure something out. Or maybe like he already has.

By the time the meeting ends, your boss is already halfway out the door, muttering about emails. Nick doesn’t move.

You start gathering papers, avoiding his gaze.

“You’re very efficient.”

You pause. “…thank you.”

“I mean it.”

You glance up despite yourself. Big mistake. Because he’s looking at you now. Fully. Not pretending otherwise.

“I’ve sat through a lot of departments,” he continues, voice even, controlled. “Yours runs… smoother than most.”

“That’s my boss,” you say quickly. "I have nothing to do with that."

“No,” he says. Too fast. Too certain. “That’s you.”

Your breath catches. The room suddenly feels smaller. Quieter. More dangerous.

“I imagine,” he adds, standing slowly, “that makes you… difficult to replace.”

Your pulse spikes. “I’m not looking to be replaced, sir.”

A pause. But then he smiles. Not kind. Not cruel. Something in between. “I didn’t say I was looking to replace you.” He steps closer. Not too close. Just enough. Just inside the line. “But I do think,” he says quietly, “I’ll need to schedule more meetings with your department.”

There it is. No pretence this time. No ambiguity.

Your throat goes dry. “…is that necessary?”

His gaze flicks to your lips for the briefest second before returning to your eyes. “No,” he admits. And somehow that’s worse. “But I find,” he continues, straightening his cuffs, composure snapping perfectly back into place, “that necessity isn’t always the most compelling reason to do something.”

He turns toward the door. Stops. Glances back. “Same time tomorrow.”

It’s not a question.And just like that, he's gone.

Leaving you standing there, heart racing, mind spinning, and one very dangerous realization settling in your chest: Nick Fowler isn’t calling meetings for business. He’s calling them for you.

The music is too loud. The lights too dim. The entire company party feels like something out of a different world—people laughing too freely, ties loosened, drinks in hand, rules blurred just enough to be dangerous.

You weren’t even planning to stay long.

But then—

“You’ve been dodging me all night.”

You turn, smiling politely at the man from accounting—what was his name again? “Have I?” you ask lightly.

He laughs, stepping a little closer. “Yeah. I was starting to think you didn’t like me.”

“That’s a big assumption.”

“Then prove me wrong.”

It’s harmless. That’s what you tell yourself. Harmless conversation. Harmless flirting. Something normal. Something that doesn’t come with the weight of sharp eyes and quiet authority and unspoken things.

So you let yourself laugh. Let yourself relax. Let yourself exist in a space where you’re not hyper-aware of every movement, every glance— Until— You feel it. That shift in the air. Subtle. But unmistakable.You don’t even have to look.You already know. You look anyway.

And there he is. Across the room. Nick Fowler Watching. Not talking. Not drinking.Just watching. His expression is unreadable to anyone else. But not to you. No.

Over the last few weeks, you’ve learned the difference between his neutral and his controlled. And right now? He’s barely holding it together.

“…you okay?” the man in front of you asks.

You don’t answer right away. Because Nick is already moving. Crossing the room with slow, deliberate steps that don’t draw attention—but somehow command it anyway. Your pulse spikes. “Excuse me,” you say quickly.

You don’t wait for a response. You move. Out of the crowd. Past the noise. Down the hallway where the music dulls into a distant thrum.

You barely make it ten steps before—“Y/N.”

Your name lands like a command. You stop. Close your eyes for half a second. Then turn. He’s right behind you now. Because of course he is.

“You left your conversation,” Nick Fowler says, voice calm. Too calm.

You fold your arms, trying to steady yourself. “It was just small talk.”

“With him?”

You let out a short breath. “You don’t even know his name.”

“I don’t need to.” There it is. Sharp. Controlled. Possessive in a way that makes your chest tighten.

You shake your head. “This is exactly why I’ve been avoiding you.”

Something flickers across his face. Not surprise. Recognition. "Have you?” he asks quietly.

“Yes.”

“Why.” Not a question. A demand.

And something in you snaps. “Because this—” you gesture between you, frustrated, overwhelmed, done pretending “—whatever this is, it’s not appropriate. You’re my boss’s boss, Nick.”

He doesn’t react to the name. But his eyes darken. “You call me that when you’re upset.”

“Don’t deflect.”

“I’m not.” A step closer.

You hold your ground. Barely.

“You were laughing with him,” he says, voice lower now. “Letting him stand too close. Letting him think he had a chance.”

Your heart pounds. “That’s none of your business.”

A beat.

“It is to me.”

The words hit harder than they should.

You stare at him. “Why?”

Finally. Finally, it’s out in the open. The question that’s been sitting between every glance, every “unnecessary” meeting, every too-soft thank you.

Why.

For the first time—

Nick Fowler doesn’t dodge it. Doesn’t soften it. Doesn’t pretend. He steps closer. Close enough now that you can feel the heat of him, the quiet intensity he never lets slip in the office.

“I think about you,” he says. Just like that. No hesitation. No apology. Your breath catches.

“You shouldn’t.”

“I know.” That should make it better. It doesn’t. “I look for you in every meeting,” he continues, voice steady but low, like this is something he’s been holding back for too long. “I schedule them just to have a reason to see you. To hear you speak. To watch you move around a room like you don’t realize what you’re doing to me.”

Your pulse is out of control now. “This isn’t okay,” you whisper.

“No,” he agrees. That makes it so much fucking worse. Because he knows. And he’s still standing here. Still looking at you like this.

“Then stop,” you say, even though your voice isn’t as firm as you want it to be.

A pause. A long one. His jaw tightens slightly. Like he’s actually considering it. Like he’s weighing something. “No.” It’s quiet. Final.

Your stomach drops. “You don’t get to just decide that,” you say, but there’s less bite in it now. More uncertainty. More something else.

“I don’t,” he agrees. “You do.”

Another step closer. You don’t move back this time. “If you tell me to stop,” he says, softer now, eyes locked on yours, “I will.” The air between you feels thin. Fragile. Dangerous. “But don’t stand there,” he adds, voice dipping, “and pretend you didn’t feel it too. Don’t pretend you didn’t notice every time I walked into that office. Every time I said your name.”

Your silence betrays you. He sees it. Of course he does. A faint, almost disbelieving exhale leaves him. “Right,” he murmurs.

And then— gentler, somehow— “Say it.”

Your throat goes dry. “Say what?”

“That you want me to stop.”

The hallway feels too small. Too quiet. Too charged. Because the truth? You don’t say it.

And that's all the answer he needs. His expression shifts. Not triumphant. Not smug. Something deeper. More dangerous.

“Okay,” Nick Fowler says softly.

The quantum tunnel hissed as it powered down, the air in the Avengers compound crackling with residual chroniton particles. You stumbled out, Sam right behind you, both of you looking like you’d just run a marathon through a hurricane.

“Status?” Steve’s voice was a sharp, worried bark from the control platform.

“We got it,” Sam wheezed, holding up the inert Tesseract cube in a lead-lined case. “But man, 1943 is a hell of a vibe. Very… sepia.”

You weren’t listening. You were standing stock still, your gaze locked on the vault door of the compound’s hangar where you knew he’d be waiting. He was always waiting. The man you’d painstakingly, lovingly pieced your life together with over the last three years.

Bucky was leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, a portrait of stoic relief. His dark hair was pulled back, his metal arm glinting dully under the fluorescent lights. He was all sharp angles, weary eyes, and the quiet, banked intensity of a man who had learned to be still after a century of storms.

You started walking towards him, a tired smile forming, when Steve’s hand on your arm stopped you.

“Hey,” Steve said, his voice low, his blue eyes filled with a strange, unreadable emotion. “You okay? The mission… it went smooth, right?”

“Smooth as time-travel gets,” you confirmed, trying to shrug him off. Your heart was already reaching for Bucky. “We were in and out. Didn’t even make a ripple.”

“You didn’t… run into anyone you shouldn’t have?” Steve pressed, his gaze flickering between you and Bucky.

You finally looked at him, a flicker of confusion in your chest. “We were in an abandoned warehouse district, Steve. The only people we saw were a couple of patrol officers two blocks away.”

Steve’s jaw tightened, but he nodded, releasing your arm. “Okay. Good. Glad you’re back.”

He let you go, and you closed the distance to Bucky. He unfolded his arms, pulling you into a fierce embrace. His scent—leather, gun oil, and the clean scent of his soap—enveloped you. You buried your face in the crook of his neck, and for a moment, the weird tension Steve had stirred up vanished.

“Told you not to worry, handsome.” you murmured against his skin.

He pulled back, his hands framing your face, his stormy grey eyes scanning every inch of you like he was cataloguing you back into existence. “I always worry,” he said, his voice a low rumble. “Don’t go anywhere for a while, alright?”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” you said, leaning into his touch.

But you felt it. A subtle shift. A tremor in his fingers that had nothing to do with you. He was looking at you, but his gaze was distant, troubled.

Later that night, in the quiet of your shared quarters, the truth came out. You were curled up on the couch, your head in his lap, when he spoke.

“Steve told me.”

You went rigid. “Told you what?”

“Where you went. When you went.” His voice was flat, the way it got when he was trying to control a storm inside him. “The warehouse district in Brooklyn. That specific July night in 1943.”

Your heart plummeted. You sat up, turning to face him. “Bucky, it was just a drop-off point. We were there for maybe forty minutes.”

“I was there that night,” he said, not looking at you. He was staring at the metal fingers of his left hand, flexing them one by one. “Shipping out for England the next morning. I was… I was walking a dame home. A girl I’d met at a USO dance a few weeks prior. We cut through that district to avoid the rain.”

The air left your lungs. Oh, God.

“Steve said the chroniton trail was faint, but it was there. You and Sam were two blocks away.” He finally met your eyes, and the pain there was so raw it stole your breath. “You were there. In my world. And I was right there. I could have seen you.”

“You wouldn’t have,” you said, your voice a whisper. “We were careful. We didn’t interact with anyone. We didn’t change anything.”

“But you saw him, didn’t you?” he asked, the question sharp, cutting through your defense.

You wanted to lie. The instinct to protect him, to protect this, was overwhelming. But the look on his face demanded the truth.

“…Yes.”

It had been a fluke. A brief moment of downtime while Sam recalibrated the tunnel’s return coordinates. You’d stepped out of the abandoned warehouse for some fresh air, pulling your period-appropriate cap down low. The rain had just started, a soft drizzle that slicked the cobblestones.

And then you saw him.

He was on the other side of the street, laughing. His laugh was a sound you knew intimately, but this version was different. It was lighter, freer, untethered from decades of nightmares. He was in his army uniform, the jacket unbuttoned, his hat held over his heart as he said goodnight to a pretty blonde girl on a stoop. He helped her up the steps, tipped his hat, and then turned, jogging back down into the rain.

He was about to cross the street. Your street. He was going to walk right past you.

You should have gone back inside. You knew you should have. But your feet were rooted to the spot. This was Bucky. Your Bucky but it wasn’t yours at the same time. His cheeks were fuller, his jaw unclenched, his eyes clear of the ghosts that haunted your lover. He was young, whole, and utterly, devastatingly innocent of the horrors that awaited him.

He spotted you.

His step faltered. For a second, his gaze just… held. The rain was falling harder now, plastering strands of his dark hair to his forehead. He didn’t leer or catcall. He just looked at you with an expression of such open, guileless wonder that it felt like a physical blow to your chest.

He smiled. It was a small, almost shy thing, a stark contrast to the confident charmer Steve told you about or that you read in some books.

“Excuse me, miss,” he said, his voice carrying over the rain. It was the same voice, but without the gravel. “I know this is forward, but I—have we met?”

You shook your head, your voice trapped in your throat.

He took a step closer, his hat now held in front of him like a shield. “Are you lost? It’s not a good part of town for a dame to be out alone this late.”

You managed a weak smile, forcing the word out. “Waiting for my… my brother. He’ll be out in a minute.”

He nodded, but he didn’t move to leave. He just stood there, a respectful distance away, letting the rain soak his uniform jacket. He looked at you like you were the only source of light in the entire borough.

“I’m James but my friends call me Bucky. You can call me whatever you want, doll.” he said, and the simple introduction, devoid of any recognition of the Winter Soldier, of Hydra, of a hundred years of pain, almost made you sob. “I was just about to head home. I could wait with you, if you’d like. Make sure you get back safe.”

Your heart was screaming. This was the man you love. Unbroken. Pure. And he was looking at you with the first stirrings of something you recognized instantly—the same devotion your Bucky showed you every single day.

You whispered your name and you don’t know why it felt like a betrayal.

His smile widened, crinkling the corners of his eyes and he repeated it as if tasting the word. “That’s a pretty name for a… pretty woman who appears out of thin air in the rain.”

He said it as a joke, a charming line, but the way his eyes searched yours said he felt it, too. That cosmic click. The soul-deep recognition that transcended logic.

You saw Sam’s silhouette appear in the warehouse doorway. “Hey! We’re good to go!”

Panic seized you. You looked back at young Bucky. “I have to go.”

The light in his eyes dimmed, replaced by a flicker of desperate confusion. “Wait,” he said, reaching out a hand but stopping himself. “Will I see you again? I’m shipping out tomorrow, but—I’ll be back. I always come back, no matter what. Just tell me where to find you.”

The words were a knife. I always come back.

“Goodbye, Bucky,” you said, your voice breaking and a painful smile plastered on tour face.

You turned and walked away, forcing yourself not to look back. You heard him call out one more time, saying your name. “Please! I want to see you one more time.”

Sam had to physically pull you into the warehouse. “What the hell were you doing? We can’t interact with anyone!”

You didn’t answer. You just stood there, trembling, as the quantum tunnel enveloped you, the image of young Bucky’s hopeful, heartbroken face seared into your memory.

Now, back in your quarters, you sat across from your Bucky, the silence between you heavy with the ghost of his past self.

“He was so... good,” you finally said, the tears you’d been holding back since that night finally spilling over. “He was kind and sweet and he just looked at me like I was a miracle and he didn’t have any of the nightmares yet. He was going to ship out to war and he was happy.”

Bucky’s jaw was a granite line. He didn’t speak.

“And I wanted to tell him,” you confessed, the words tumbling out in a rush. “I wanted to grab him and scream, ‘Don’t get on that train! Don’t go with Steve! Your life won't be the same’” You took a shuddering breath. “I could have saved him. I could have saved that Bucky. I could have saved you, Bucky but then… then you…”

He finished your sentence, his voice hollow. “Then I wouldn’t be here.”

You looked at him then, really looked. At the shadows under his eyes. At the way his metal hand was clamped around his flesh wrist like he was holding himself together. At the man who woke up screaming some nights, who flinched at sudden movements, who had spent decades being unmade and had somehow, against all odds, pieced himself back into someone who knew how to love you.

And the guilt you’d been carrying since that night in the rain finally found its voice.

“I’m selfish,” you said, and the words came out broken, ugly, raw. “Bucky, I’m so fucking selfish.”

He frowned, confusion cutting through his pain. “What are you talking about?”

“I could have saved him,” you repeated, your voice cracking. “I had the knowledge. I had the chance. I could have told him everything—Hydra, the train, Zola, all of it. I could have changed his trajectory. Maybe he would have deserted. Maybe he would have gone into hiding. Maybe he would have lived some quiet life in some small town, gotten married, had kids, grown old with all his limbs and all his memories intact. He would have been happy, Bucky. Truly happy. Without seventy years of being erased. Without Hydra in his head. Without—” your voice broke entirely, “—without any of this.”

You gestured at him, at the room, at the life you’d built together.

“But I didn’t,” you whispered. “I walked away. I let him ship out. I let him fall off that train. I let Hydra take him. Because if I saved him—if I saved that Bucky—then this Bucky wouldn’t exist. The one who came back. The one who fought through decades of brainwashing. The one who held me after every bad night. The one who learned to make my coffee exactly how I like it. The one I—” your voice gave out, a sob catching in your throat.

You looked down at your hands, unable to meet his eyes.

“I looked at that sweet, innocent man in the rain, and I chose you. I chose us. I chose this timeline, this version, this—” you laughed bitterly, “—this selfish, comfortable love that only exists because that man got tortured for seventy years. Because he got his arm ripped off. Because he was turned into a weapon. Because he suffered in ways I can’t even imagine.”

The tears were streaming down your face now, hot and relentless.

“What kind of person does that make me?” you asked, your voice barely a whisper. “What kind of person looks at someone she loves and thinks, I know how to save you from hell, but I won’t, because the version of you that comes out of that hell is the one who loves me back?”

You finally looked up at him, and your face was a wreck of grief and shame.

“I saw the life I could have given him,” you said. “A good life. A whole life. And I chose to let him burn so I could keep you. That’s not love. That’s… that’s consumption. That’s me putting my happiness over his entire existence. Over his soul.”

You wrapped your arms around yourself, shaking.

“He looked at me like I was a miracle,” you choked out. “And I was the one who sent him to his death. Because I was too selfish to let him go.”

The silence that followed was deafening. You couldn’t bring yourself to look at Bucky. You were afraid of what you’d see—disgust, maybe, or worse, that hollow agreement that confirmed everything you’d just said about yourself.

But then his hands were on you.

His flesh hand cupped your face, tilting it up, while his metal hand gripped your hip, anchoring you. His eyes weren’t hollow. They were fierce, blazing with an intensity that stole the breath from your lungs. There was nothing but love and devotion in those blue eyes.

“Listen to me,” he said, his voice low and rough. “And I need you to hear what I’m saying, because I’m only going to say it once.”

You stared at him, trembling.

“You didn’t send anyone to their death,” he said, each word deliberate, precise, like he was loading a weapon. “Zola did. Schmidt did. Fucking Hydra did. Not you. You are not responsible for the choices of monsters.”

“But I could have—”

“You could have what?” he cut you off, his grip tightening. “Risked creating a paradox that unravels the entire timeline? Risked stranding yourself in 1943 with no way back? Risked Sam’s life? Risked Steve’s existence? Risked the fate of everyone who ever lived because one soldier might get saved?”

You opened your mouth, but he kept going.

“And let’s say you did it,” he said, his voice dropping. “Let’s say you told him. Let’s say he believed you. Let’s say he avoided the train. You think that means he gets a happy life? You think Hydra just… gives up? You think Zola doesn’t find another soldier? You think the war just ends and Bucky Barnes goes home to Brooklyn and lives happily ever after?”

He let out a harsh breath.

“I’ve played this game,” he said. “I’ve spent a hundred nights lying awake thinking about every moment I could have done something different. Every alley I could have avoided. Every order I could have disobeyed. It’s a maze with no exit, sweetheart. There is no version of my story that doesn’t end in blood. The only difference is whose.”

You were crying harder now, but you couldn’t look away from him.

“And here’s the thing you’re not understanding,” he said, his voice cracking for the first time. “That boy in the rain? The one who looked at you like a miracle? He’s not gone. He’s not some separate person I used to be. He’s in here.” He pressed his flesh hand over his heart. “As much as I love to say I no longer know him, baby.”

His thumbs were wiping your tears but they still keep coming out.

“He’s the part of me that trusted Steve enough to follow him into a warzone. He’s the part of me that pulled me out of the ice when Hydra tried to freeze me for good. He’s the part of me that saw you years ago, and thought, there she is. There’s the face I’ve been looking for since before I knew what looking meant. Felt like a miracle, baby, one of those things I thought I lost after all the shit.” His voice broke on the last words. “You didn’t choose to let him burn,” he said, his forehead dropping to rest against yours. “You chose to love the man who crawled out of the fire. That’s not selfish. That’s the most unselfish thing anyone’s ever done for me. Because you didn’t just take the easy parts. You took all of it. The nightmares, the triggers, the days I can’t get out of bed, the nights I wake up screaming. You took the version of me that’s held together with scars and guilt and whatever pieces I could salvage. And you didn’t flinch.”

You shook your head, trying to pull away. “But I could have saved you from all of that—”

“No,” he said, his voice sharp. “You could have saved a version of me that never knew you. A version of me that went to war and came back different anyway, because war changes people, sweetheart. It always does. A version of me that might have met some other girl, married her, had a life, and died of old age never knowing that somewhere out there, the woman his soul was reaching for was standing in the rain watching him walk away.”

He pulled back just enough to look into your eyes.

“You think that’s a better ending?” he asked. “You think I’d trade this—you, us, the first real happiness I’ve had since 1943—for a life where I never knew what it felt like to be loved by you?”

“But the pain you went through—”

“Is mine,” he said simply. “It’s mine. It’s part of me. And I’m not saying I’m grateful for it, because I’m not. I’m not grateful for a single thing Hydra did to me. But I am grateful that I survived it. I am grateful that I found my way back. And I am grateful, every single day, that you looked at the wreckage of what they made me and decided I was worth loving anyway.”

He pressed his lips to your forehead, then to each of your cheeks, tasting the salt of your tears.

“You didn’t send that man to his death,” he murmured against your skin. “You mourned him. You carried him with you. And then you came home to the man he became. That’s not selfish. That’s love. That’s the kind of love that says, I see all of you. Every version. Every scar. And I’m not leaving.”

You were sobbing now, your fists clenched in his shirt, and he just held you, his arms wrapped around you so tight it was almost hard to breathe.

“I’m jealous of him,” he admitted quietly after a long moment.

You let out a wet, confused laugh. “You’re jealous of the man you just told me I shouldn’t feel guilty about sacrificing?”

He huffed a soft laugh too, his thumb tracing circles on your back. “He got to meet you for the first time. He got to feel that lightning strike without any of the baggage. He got to look at you and think, maybe the world isn’t so bad after all.” He smiles at you, barely there but you saw it mostly on his eyes. “He got to see you wearing one of those outfits from those days, honey.” He winks at you.

You pulled back, wiping your face with the back of your hand while a small laugh is finally out of your system. “And what do you get?”

He looked at you then—really looked—and the intensity in his eyes made your breath catch.

“I get to keep you,” he said simply. “I get to wake up next to you. I get to fall asleep with your heartbeat under my ear. I get to learn every sound you make, every expression you wear, every way you say my name. I get to love you with all the pieces of me that survived. And that,” he said, his voice dropping to a whisper, “is more than that man in the rain could have ever dreamed of.”

You stared at him, your chest aching with a tangle of grief and relief and love so fierce it almost scared you.

“I’m still selfish,” you said quietly. “I still chose you being here.”

He shook his head slowly. “You chose us. And sweetheart, that’s not selfish. That’s the only choice that’s ever mattered.”

He kissed you then, soft and slow, like he had all the time in the world. Like he was memorizing the shape of your mouth all over again. When he pulled back, his eyes were wet too, but he was smiling—that small, genuine smile that was just for you.

“Now,” he said, his voice rough but warm, “I believe you owe me a night of not leaving this bed. And maybe some of those pancakes you make when you’re trying to apologize for things that aren’t your fault.”

You laughed, the sound watery but real. “Pancakes at midnight?”

“Best kind,” he said, pulling you toward the kitchen. “And then, I’m gonna show you exactly how not-jealous I am of a version of me who only got to see you for five minutes in the rain.”

He shot you a look over his shoulder, and for a moment, you saw him—the man in the rain, the soldier, the survivor, the man who had crawled through hell to find his way home.

Your selfishness, you realized, wasn’t in choosing him.

It was in thinking you ever had a choice at all.

In the quiet of the compound kitchen, with Bucky’s arms around you and the scent of pancakes filling the air, the ghost of a man in the rain finally, peacefully, let go.

⤷ notes: this is pure filth y'all. let me stress again that THIS IS A LITTLE MORE ~TABOO~ IN PREMISE THAN WHAT I TYPICALLY WRITE. like it says above I'm pretty sure it doesn't require any sort of dddne tag, because though past faux-cest is referenced, it's not current (steve and reader are no longer step siblings). the references are def there though, so let me know if I missed any tags!

a couple of other short things: reader wears a dress and heels. petnames used include baby, sweetheart, honey, babydoll, princess, angel, etc. (sorry I literally couldn't stop myself they just kept coming out). there is one instance in which hair is said to be 'grabbed' but it's vague, mostly just head movement and stuff, no other descriptions I think. reader is mentioned to have stretch marks.

and a last obligatory warning NOT TO DO ANAL without adequate prep and research beforehand jdgfskjhgf.

not proofread. enjoy! x

You haven’t seen them in almost ten years. 

That’s enough time to become a different person. To uproot your life. To change your hair, the way you wear your clothes. To walk a little more confidently. To go to school, get a job, make a career out of your passion and be damn good at it, even if it’s made you a little lonely in the process. Enough time to build a brand new life. 

And yet, when you run into Bucky in the middle of a bustling city street, he recognizes you immediately.

Approaches you with that same unfaltering suavity that you used to see flickerings of before, only now its grown into something more sophisticated. Experienced. Something that, if you think about it the right way, seems to be a shiny veneer over a much darker and rougher inside. 

But that’s probably just your imagination. A seemingly never ending string of lackluster dates and bad sex will do that to a woman. 

When he mentions that Steve’s in town too, some business convention or something they’re both attending at one of the nicer hotels, you already know what’s coming. Already know you should readily and emphatically decline the invitation. 

But he asks, and you hesitate for a moment too long, and when the corner of his smirking mouth pulls upward at the corner, you already know you’re going to give in. 

He steps forward then, the world narrowing to only the two of you as his cologne blankets your shoulders, hand warm on your arm and lips brushing your cheek in a friendly graze. 

See you tonight, sweetheart, he says. And you nod, because—well. 

Because you’ve never been able to resist them, not even with a decade of practice under your belt. 

You look over your shoulder to watch him go when he walks away, a pit in your stomach that tells you running into you likely hadn’t been a coincidence at all.

The lounge at the hotel is swanky and dimly lit, with dark furniture and velvet curtains hanging from the ceilings. 

Your drink is sweating against your clammy palm in your lap, the martini style glass garnished with a lemon twist and far above your usual spending threshold, even for a night out. But Steve insisted on paying and Bucky insisted on picking something off the menu, and that alone makes you grip the stem a little more tightly, both ready and reluctant to cling onto whatever of this night you can. 

It’s been so long since even just a glance had heat licking up your spine. You vow not to tell them that they’re the only ones who’ve ever been able to elicit such a response. 

Steve’s casual, “So, tell us about you,” is enough to shake off the ice in the conversation, and you observe them carefully from across the glass coffee table between your settees as you touch on the highlights of the last several years. 

Your ex-stepbrother doesn’t really look much different, save for that his hair’s a little darker and thicker, spreading down to cover his jaw and his upper lip as well. The last time you’d seen him in person, he’d been clean shaven. All smooth lines and a soft mouth, a pointed chin and crooked nose. He’s got the same polite smile as he nods along to your story, the sips of his own drink slow and savory as he watches you with one arm folded over the back of the sofa, the rest of his body turned to face you. 

Bucky, conversely, has always been his counterbalance. The drink in his hand is straight off the shelf and stronger than you could ever stand to manage, and he takes liberal swigs of it while he talks, eager tongue gliding along his lower lip to catch any remaining wetness. His grin is less civil than Steve’s is, each flash of his teeth and cunning gaze near blinding as he sits with his knees spread and posture relaxed. 

They seem to have done really well for themselves. You’d read a little about it, scavenging for updates online on the nights when you felt particularly lonely and wondered what they might be up to. They’ve certainly upgraded in a few noticeable areas, their clothing much nicer than anything they would’ve worn before, watches wrapped around their wrists and that sweet smelling cologne that must be expensive clinging to their discarded suit jackets over the back of the settee. You’re only a few years younger than them but the time between you feels stretched; like suddenly you’re eighteen again, when the distance to their 21 and 22 felt like ages. 

They seem even more in tune with each other now than they were then. Even if it’s cruel, a small part of you had been hoping they might drift apart—if only so the past could stay buried deep. 

“It sounds like you’ve done good for yourself,” Steve comments when you’re finished, smiling softly. “I’m proud of you.” 

The praise has your hand stuttering where you’ve been watching your drink swirl around your glass, catching it just narrowly before it spills out onto your dress. A memory rushes back into your head, unbidden. 

Opened right up for me, didn’t you? All mine. Fuck, honey, take my cock so well—so proud of you. 

Your face feels hot when you tip your drink back toward your mouth, using it as a shield as much as a breather. You’re certain your eyes are glassier than you mean for them to be. 

Even when you lower the glass, Steve’s smiling. Watching. Absorbing your quiet thanks like it’s something he’s owed. 

That’s the difference between them, you think; whereas every inch of Bucky screams open invitation, Steve has a dangerous streak of composure that the other doesn’t. Something that won’t give in unless you make the first move. Unless you beg. 

You’ve done it once. You’re not sure you have the courage to do it again. 

“Such a coincidence I ran into you today,” Bucky picks up the conversation, fingers tapping on the side of his glass on his thigh. 

“Small world,” you offer with a smile of your own. 

“Had to go over to Brooklyn the other week for work. Could see the lights and the ferris wheel from my hotel room.” 

You swallow. “Oh?” 

He nods. “Thought about you.” 

A different memory lines the curve of his mouth, a thick, trimmed beard where there used to be tan skin, the back of a car parked out behind the commotion of the boardwalk overlooking the pier. Dark eyes, long lashes, your wetness smeared across Bucky’s clefted chin in the light stretching from the dock as he watched you with his mouth buried in between your legs. 

Look at this wet fuckin’ pussy. You’re so easy for it, sweetheart. What would your brother say? 

“I think I’ll get a refill,” you announce suddenly, uncrossing your legs to stand. 

Before you can get to your feet, two other glasses are clinking down onto the table in between you, Bucky and Steve moving into your space on either side and blocking your exits. They operate fluidly, like a unit, settling to your right and left without a word. In their business slacks and button-ups, collars open bordering on indecent, you aren’t sure where to look that’s safe. 

Bucky’s fingers take your drink away and set it aside, the touch of glassware sharp in the muted, dwindling volume of the lounge. On your other side, Steve’s thigh presses against yours. Your heart rate spikes like you’re on trial for something. 

A bend of two calloused fingers find their way underneath your chin, pulling your steadfast gaze off the table and over to Bucky’s mischievous blue eyes. 

“Sweetheart,” he smiles gently, “you think we didn’t talk?” 

Your heart drops somewhere into your stomach, shame crawling up the back of your throat. You twist out of his grip, but all it does is turn you right into Steve’s chest. 

He curls his fingers around your wrist, stroking over the frantic thump of your pulse. In the same polite tone, he says, “We don’t keep secrets, honey. Haven’t since we were kids.”  

“And you?” Bucky continues, breath hot on the back of your shoulder as he leans in. “You were the most tempting fucking secret.” 

You let your eyes close for a moment, drawing several breaths until you can finally speak around the knot in your throat and the burn in the back of your eyes. 

“Did you tell everyone?” you whisper. 

“No, honey. ‘Course not,” Steve frowns, swiping a thumb against your temple. 

“We might be filthy perverts but we’re also a little… what’s the word you’d use, Stevie?” 

“Greedy. Selfish. Possessive,” Steve lists off with an unspoken underscore of pick one. “We protect what belongs to us.” 

The present tense of it makes you shiver, and with both of them pressed in close, you’re positive they can both feel it. 

“But I didn’t…?” 

“You weren’t ours?” Bucky asks. “Really? Not when I had you ride me ‘til your legs were shaking in the back of that Camaro?” 

Steve sympathizes. “How about the time we both had you in the same night? You thought we wouldn’t figure it out when you went straight from one to the other, but you needed both of us to be satisfied, didn’t you? That wasn’t clear enough?” 

Bucky's voice lowers to a gruff whisper. “What about that first time you snuck into Stevie’s bed, huh? When he talked you off with his fingers inside you sayin’ all those filthy things about what a good girl you were—lettin’ him ruin you for anybody else.” 

The two of them give you no time to catch your breath, every bit of youthful charisma that used to make you swoon now hardened, sharpened and honed into something ten times as lethal. 

“You don’t have to say it,” Steve smiles, knuckles brushing your cheek. His gaze grows fond, tone softening as if he’s calling you beautiful even if what he actually says is undeniably more filthy. Wrong. “We all know what you are.” 

Bucky’s fingertips trace the hem of your dress on your thigh, and even Steve falters a little at the noise you make. 

“Tell me, sweetheart,” Bucky implores, stroking over your skin. “You were pretty adventurous before. You ever been with two men at once?” 

The entire day begins to fall together in your mind, a plan perfectly orchestrated—one you’d walked directly into in your favorite dress and sleek black heels. 

You could say no. Go home. Try to sleep this off and pretend it didn’t happen. 

But. But. 

No one’s fucked you so well since them. Ten years of trying to experiment with different things, partners, kinks, the world at your fingertips, and you still couldn’t get them out of your system. After a while it was easy to tell yourself you were just focusing on your career. The sorts of things Steve and Bucky had awakened in you weren’t at all in line with your real life goals and ambitions. They were obsession and fixation, something forbidden and undeniably right all at once. 

You’ve only spent a couple of hours around them tonight, and already the ache has started again. Maybe you haven’t changed so much either. 

“No,” you admit eventually. 

Bucky’s hand slips up your dress. Steve smiles. 

“You want to?”

The penthouse suite is dark and sprawling, with marbled tile and a wall of floor to ceiling windows covering one side. 

Suit jackets are strewn on the back of leather chairs. Shoes are left by the door, one pair toed off neatly and the other kicked off with a thud. Hands run through hair, working out pomade and stress, and the kitchenette sink gives a metallic sound as a glass of water is filled and the sheets on the bed are folded back. 

You eye Bucky as he approaches you in the foyer again, lifting the water to your mouth to wash out the alcohol. 

“Do you guys…do this sort of thing often?” you ask in between sips. 

“Not really,” Steve replies as he returns from the bed, “Buck and I have different tastes.” 

Bucky peels your fingers off the glass as he takes it from you, thumbing at a drop of it left on your lip. “But you’ve always been just right.” 

He downs the rest and then abandons it, tugging at the collar of his shirt as he begins to undo the buttons. Even still in your heels, you don’t reach their height when Steve steps up beside you. He reaches out with one hand to hold the back of your neck, the other slipping down the front of your dress to lay claim to one side of your lace-covered breasts with his fingers. 

Your moan is a sharp, startled noise, eyes wide on Steve’s as he touches you like he never stopped. It catches Bucky’s attention, who’s bare chested this time when he crowds into you. Steve’s fingers catch your nipple between them just as Bucky’s find the hem of your dress again, and they don’t stop at your thigh this time. 

Casually proprietorial in a way that makes you vaguely lightheaded, his palm slides up your thigh and inward, cupping your cunt through the thin material of your underwear. You whimper, ashamed and undeniably turned on, hips twitching against his hand. 

Your knees go weak between them, sensation pulled rapidly between your chest and in between your thighs as they grope at your pliant body. You’ve typically mastered the art of strutting across board rooms and business halls in your heels but tonight you’re wobbly on them, and the way you lean into Bucky and Steve for support only seems to spur them on further. 

“Tell me,” Bucky says again, fingers rubbing a shallow circle on your clit over your damp underwear. “How many men have you let inside this pussy since the last time we had it, huh? How many times we gotta fuck you to make sure you’re ours again?” 

Your eyes burn again, embarrassed in that way that feels sweeter than it should. It feels freeing to be so unabashedly needy, even more so now than it had back then. The three of you fall back into your roles easily, even if it was only ever with one of them at a time before. 

“I—I don’t know,” you murmur. 

“She doesn’t know, Stevie,” Bucky taunts. “You think it’s ‘cause she’s already goin’ tongue tied on us? Or maybe she just lost count.” 

Your whimper gets muffled by Bucky’s thumb slipping into your mouth, no longer able to defend yourself. 

“S’that it? Were you a little bit of a slut, honey?” Steve carols in faux sympathy. “That’s okay. Just couldn’t find anyone who could do it better. Could you?” 

You shake your head, but it’s not good enough. Bucky’s thumb slips out of your pouting mouth and leaves a trail of spit on your chin. He taps it there twice, sticky and smearing. 

“No, what?” 

“I—I couldn’t find anyone who could fuck me better than you,” you confess. 

“Poor baby,” Steve hums. “Must be fate that led you back to us, hm?” 

“Fate’s a good word for this tight little fuckin’ cunt,” Bucky interjects, two fingers slipping beneath the fabric and dipping toward your entrance. “She knows what she needs.” 

“Please,” you agree. 

“Ten years you ran from us,” Steve says belatedly, ripping the top of your dress down in an unexpected pull. You gasp as the cool air of the hotel suite meets your chest, crooked lace leaving you halfway exposed as he palms at you roughly. “Pretended you didn’t need us even when it’s so obvious you do.” 

“You have any idea how much that hurt us, sweetheart? You were gone when we came back. We couldn’t even find you—just when we could’ve made you ours.” 

“I’m sorry,” you beg, vision blurring with tears that begin to spill over when Bucky’s fingers trace your entrance and then pull away again. “I’m sorry, please.” 

“S’okay, baby. We forgive you. But you’re still gonna have to do better than that.” Bucky’s hand slips out of your underwear altogether, coming up to grip your jaw. “You wanna make it up to us?” 

You nod as much as he’ll allow, sniffling. “Yes. Please.” 

Eyeing you so intensely it makes your breathing stutter, you hold it altogether when Bucky leans in just enough to press the softest kiss he’s ever given you against your slack mouth. It’s sweet and slow and he keeps his eyes open to watch you when he does it, and he strokes a hand down the back of your head before he pulls back to say—

“Get on your knees.” 

You sink to the carpeted floor like a feather, hardly feeling the collision on your shins for the way you have both of their attention. It’s always been a thrill, even when you had them separately—the paradox of power; the way you draw them in like a magnet, making them revolve around you even if they’re the ones giving the orders. 

You wonder if they were like that before, too deep in your own thoughts back then to notice it. 

The liberal touches don’t stop, feeling very much still in between them even from your lowered height. Neither of them make a move to unlatch their belts or unbutton their slacks, letting your own fingers find their way up the seams of their pants while the tips of Bucky’s fingers graze the spot behind your ear and Steve strokes a thumb over your jaw, watching you with devastating precision. 

You’re less steady than he is when you slip a palm up the inside of his thigh. The years between you have made you hesitant but the instinct is still there, the overwhelming need to indulge the way you used to. 

Would it be so bad if you did? 

Pride already left at the door with their kicked off shoes, you turn from Bucky slightly, just enough that his fingers fall to your neck as you lean into Steve’s legs. With one hand tucking fingers into his belt and the other slipping up the muscles at the back of his calf, it’s his fingers touching your hair that makes you give in. 

With closed eyes and a mouth wrenched open around a gasp that gets stuck in your throat, you let yourself fall forward enough that your face is buried at the apex of his thighs. He smells different now, you think idly; what used to be familiar soap and lingering body spray has shifted into expensive linen and cologne—but the scent underneath is still there, something masculine and sharp, something that makes your mouth water the same then as it does now. 

Steve lets out a muttered curse above you as you rub your cheek against him, their voices distant now when his hand lowers to your neck, holding but not pushing. 

“Look at you,” Bucky murmurs. “Right where you belong.” 

The noise you make in agreement is muffled by the material covering Steve’s hardening dick, your lips parted the slightest bit around it to map out the shape. When he feels your hot breath, his hips stutter forward before he holds himself back again. 

His voice is tight when he says, “Fuck. Think she’s missed us, Buck.” 

“Think she has,” Bucky reckons. “Always so eager. Hasn’t changed a bit. Why don’t you take him out of his pants, sweetheart?” 

You hardly part from him as long as it takes to get the button open and ease down the zipper, but you’re glad for the brief sacrifice. Steve’s scent is even stronger like this, the fabric of his pants folded down around his thick thighs, nothing but his boxers between you now. 

At Bucky’s direction you reach for the band of those too, eyes flicking up to Steve’s for reassurance you haven’t needed in years. It’s not like you haven’t experimented since you’d been with them, and sometimes you’d even played around with being the one more in control. 

This, though. This is what you’d been craving ever since. 

“Go ahead, honey,” Steve nods. 

With his permission you carefully peel down the underwear, bringing it down his legs with his pants. It’s a blur to you as he moves back to step out of them and kick everything aside, your eyes glazed and drawn to what you’ve tried for so long not to want as badly as you do. 

Objectively, you’ve spent quite a bit of time not looking at Steve below the belt. Even while you were together it was in ways that made the forbidden feel less bad—lights off, secret rendezvous and hiding places, middle-of-the-nights and under covers. Bucky’d been like that too, but for different reasons. 

Tonight might be the first time all of this is happening without any of those other things. The lights are low but they’re all on, glowing softly from the corners of the room. They hadn’t bothered with closing the curtains so the cityscape shines bright outside the window against the backdrop of stars, high up enough that no one can see you but deliberate enough an act not to close them that you know it’d been intentional. 

Now, they don’t care who sees. Now, there isn’t anything to hide. 

So you let yourself look, properly this time. 

When he steps back up to you he looks obscene, this new, older version of his body so much harder and more defined. The lines and planes of his abdomen flex as he leans back with his torso to give you free reign of his hips, the swell of his pecs and the thick, subtly groomed dark blonde hair leading down to his cock making you even more desperate. 

His shirt hangs open off his shoulders, a mimicry of the professionalism he’d had downstairs. He’s already disheveled, a single strand of his hair curving down over his forehead to graze his brow, lips swollen pink from his teeth and tongue, skin flushed to match. 

The three of you seem to be in agreement that you need this, a little bit of recalibrating before jumping immediately back into things. Bucky’s given you some space and Steve doesn’t try to rush you, hooded blue eyes watching intently. 

Your own gaze finally sinks down his body toward his cock, standing thick and proud between his legs. The darkened tip is shiny with a little of his excitement, and the odd familiarity of it makes your mouth twitch with a fond smile. 

Careful as you had over his pants, you dip forward until your nose is inches from the hot skin that his boxers had covered on his hip, smoothing your lips to a stray freckle there it’d always been too dark to notice before. You press against it with your thumb when you part from it, and it makes Steve’s breathing go uneven above you. 

“Don’t tease him, babydoll,” Bucky adds quietly, drifting a touch over your shoulder. “Been a real long time for both of you, hasn’t it?” 

With a whine, you turn a little further and split your lips, letting your tongue appear in the seam as you drag wet kisses up the side of Steve’s cock. He curses again, hand twitching on the back of your head while he breathes hard through his nose. You want to ask how long it’s been for him too, but—right now you’re growing desperate to have your mouth occupied with something else. 

When one side is slick enough you switch and do the other. By the time you finally reach the leaking tip it’s like a reward, and you moan, unabashed and unfiltered, as the taste settles on your tongue. 

“Oh, shit,” Steve exhales, heavy and curling with a bit of his old accent. “Fuck, I missed this mouth.” 

Pleased with the encouragement, you widen the split of your lips and take him deeper, slow passion instead of eager skill. You’re less worried about technique at the moment, focused on keeping your teeth covered but letting the rest of your mind drift into muscle memory. Steve’s always been responsive, quick to praise, restless up to the moment he’s finally spent. It drives you crazy in the best possibly way, makes your blood hum with something hot and needy and ravenous, something you’ve kept locked in a box in your mind and shoved far, far away. 

It rises to the surface again now as you work your mouth over him, easing down and slipping back up again, fingers gripping the sides of his legs like you’re afraid he might disappear. His own hand is no better, twitching from the back of your head to your jaw to your shoulder and back again, like he wants to touch it all at once. 

Something like a whimper slips free when Steve withdraws from your mouth, holding himself in hand and giving a few slick strokes. 

“Not too fast, honey,” he says in explanation, eyes dark as he nods toward Bucky. “Want this to last. Why don’t you switch to Buck for a minute, okay?” 

With a glance over your shoulder, heat sparks again in your stomach at the look Bucky’s giving you. He’d behaved himself while you and Steve got reacquainted but you know that expression—the one that says I waited, now it’s my turn. 

Where Steve was always intense and passionate, Bucky was playful and, sometimes, a downright tease. He’s got a filthy mouth and little filter for it, and his favorite hobby was reducing you to needy helplessness and then talking you off a ledge so steep it left your legs shaking. 

You’ve never been able to hide anything from him. You’re pretty sure you can’t now either. 

He’s already kicked off his own pants, completely naked now as he steps toward you with a hand fisting his cock. He’s just as hard as Steve is but he doesn’t leak as easy, the skin toward the tip bunching up with each drag of his fist before sliding back down to expose a wink of the enticing pink slit at the top. 

“Don’t have to worry about too fast with me, baby,” he mutters, closing the last of the distance to smear himself all over your mouth in a lewd drag. “Been dreamin’ about this mouth for fuckin’ years. You gonna give it to me?” 

With a shaky nod, you wet your lower lip and lean forward, but Bucky pulls away. You lose your balance for a moment, his free hand steadying you with impeccable timing. You blink up at him. 

“Ah-ah,” he shakes his head, stroking himself faster. “Tell me it’s mine first.” 

“It’s yours,” you tell him without hesitation. “I’m yours. Please fuck my mouth, Bucky.” 

“Good girl,” he moans, drawing out the word as his brows furrow in pleasure. He traces the corners of your mouth with his thumb. “Look at you, remembering your manners. Open wide, princess.” 

It isn’t the slow exploration Steve had allowed you, but you weren’t expecting it to be. 

Bucky slides into your mouth easy as if no time had elapsed since he last had you, one hand steadying himself at the base, the other pinching your chin between his fingers. His gaze is intense and unwavering from above you, the back-and-forth motion of his hips and torso controlled but eager in execution. 

“So good, baby. There she is,” Bucky grunts, rutting against your face while you try to relax your mouth. He’s not as thick as Steve is but he’s another inch or so in length, and he taps the back of your throat quickly as he works himself inside, spit gathering at the corner of your mouth and tears quick to shine in your eyes. “You can take it. Let me in, sweetheart. That’s it.” 

Each thrust tests your boundaries a little more, pushing and working you open until you truly can’t take any more. There’s no way you can take all of him—not Steve, either. But this is definitely more than you ever took before, and Bucky eases up and slows a little when he notices you’ve reached your limit. 

“Shh, there we go. So full of me, huh? Swallow around it, baby. Let me see that throat work.” 

His thumb finds your neck, stroking over it tenderly as you squeeze your eyes closed and swallow, your muscles contracting around the tip of his cock. He holds close for another few seconds then rips himself out of your mouth altogether, squeezing the base of his dick tightly. 

“Fuck. Good girl. Back to Stevie now, c’mon.” 

Steve steps up to you this time instead of making you turn around again, both of them standing with hips pressed together as you’re fed his cock again. It slips in much easier this time, your mouth a mess of spit and pre-come, your throat worked open from Bucky’s length. Your sinuses sting and your throat will undoubtedly be sore in the morning, but you’ve never wanted anything more. 

With regained control you work Steve over more confidently this time, less about acquaintance and more about enjoyment. He hisses when your own palm replaces his to hold him in place, your mouth bobbing up and down on him while your hand works over the rest. It’s a comfortable rhythm save for the handful of times Steve’s control wanes and he bucks into you a bit too hard, making you pull off to cough and swallow before leaning back in. 

He’s always been sensitive at the tip—you pull a little of your focus there this time, pursing your lips against it and moving them the way you might if you were kissing Steve’s mouth. It’s different, stickier and more flavorful, making you feel filthy and deliciously free all at once. 

The shift of your head back to Bucky’s dick is easy. When he steps up to you, the head of his cock poking your cheek as he jerks himself off, you slip off of Steve and onto him easily, the two of them nearly touching in the rush to get you where they want you. Your hand keeps working Steve over even while you’re sucking Bucky, your cheeks hollowed and eyes fluttered closed. 

It turns out your fleeting thought hadn’t been too far off base. As the lines begin to blur again between whose turn it is, Steve and Bucky both groan when their dicks touch against your mouth, your hand working them both as one barely slips into your mouth before the other thrusts a little for their own pleasure, making you even more of a mess. 

“Shit. Think you can take us both?” Steve asks, panting. 

“She’s a grown woman now, Stevie,” Bucky tuts. “Not your little sister anymore.” 

You whine in protest instinctively, but there’s no concealing the way your folded thighs tense on the floor, suddenly aching for something between them you could grind against for some relief. 

“Hush. We both know it makes you wet,” Bucky says, gripping just enough of your hair to tilt your head back further. His eyes are surprisingly gentle for the obscene way he’s painting your lips with his pre-come, sharing your tongue with Steve. “It’s not even the word itself, is it? You just like knowing you belong to someone.” 

Whatever noise tries to escape you this time is completely muffled as Steve slides fully into your mouth again, your throat working around him as you swallow, Bucky’s thumb wiping underneath your eyes. 

“You’ve been so lost, honey,” Steve laments, smiling gently. “But you’re home now.” 

He slips out again abruptly, leaving you to gasp out a wet “Thank you,” before Bucky’s back, taking his place. 

“Know it’s not just the word. ‘Cause there’s nothing tyin’ you to either of us anymore and you’re still here, aren’t you? Still need us just as much,” Bucky goes on. 

“I do,” you nod frantically when your mouth is free again, a string of spit connecting you to Bucky’s cock. “I need you.” 

Their hands pet over your face, your shoulders, your hair before tugging you upward in tandem, taking your shaky balance in stride. 

“Come up here.” 

Bucky’s arms circle your middle and lift, your feet hovering inches off the ground with your cheek pressed to his shoulder as he carries you across the suite to the bed. You give a hazy sigh and Bucky chuckles, pinching the side of your ass under your dress until you yelp and squirm. 

The practiced move of his fingers beneath the lace of your underwear has them slipping off of you and landing on the floor, left behind as you keep moving. His body heat is nice, your nearly-bare breasts pressed to his chest, his arms around you, his voice in your ear. You’ve missed being close with anybody lately, really, but most of all them. 

He pauses just before the mattress, Steve stripping off his shirt in your peripherals as Bucky’s palm slides over your spine and down, palming indulgently at your ass for a moment before parting it and dragging a fingertip over the exposed seam. You make another urgent noise, kicking weakly. 

“Calm down,” he scoffs, smacking a kiss to your shoulder before dropping you back onto the mattress in front of him. “I know you remember the finger I had in your ass when I made you come that last time.” He reaches for your hips, rolls you over, lands a light slap against the aforementioned body part while you gasp. “Said you’d let me fuck it one day, baby. Remember that? You gonna follow through?” 

“We’ll get to that,” Steve intervenes, stretching out across the mattress to lean over you as he takes your face in his hands. “Been waiting for this for too damn long.” 

His mouth seals to yours with a finality that makes everything else distant, your moans mixing together as you sink into each other. 

Steve bends further as you rise up on your hands and knees, both of you meeting in the middle in a tangle of limbs and lips. His tongue presses inside, tastes the heady mix of flavors from you and Bucky and himself combined, his desperate grip on your cheeks and the roll of his hips against you betraying how much he likes it. 

Rolling slightly, Steve turns onto his back and pulls you on top of him, Bucky’s hands finding the clasp at the back of your dress and undoing the material. It slips the rest of the way down your hips and Bucky drags it down over your thighs, folding your calves one by one to get it off of you without you having to part from Steve in the process. 

It leaves you nearly nude and shivering on top of him, left in only the lace stretched over your chest. Bucky unhooks that too, lowering the straps down your arms and off your hands. You vaguely think you hear it hit the furniture somewhere before his palms are on your breasts, kneading roughly, and you part from Steve’s mouth finally with a whimpering whine at the prick of pleasure-pain. 

He uses the grip on your chest to pull you up and backward, your pliant body swaying and reflexes kicking in too late to do anything but blindly obey. Your bare shoulder blades collide with his chest behind you, your knees still spread over Steve who lies panting and focused beneath you on the bed. 

Bucky’s mouth finds the back of your ear, smears a gentle kiss there. You shiver. “See—there’s some people who’d probably punish you for running away. But we know the truth. You didn’t run ‘cause you were a brat. You ran ‘cause you were scared, right? Felt too much, too quick, for the wrong people. Didn’t know what to do with it.” 

You nod as you turn your head to catch his mouth, and he indulges you in a quick and deep plunge of your lips before pulling back to lay his fingers flat against your cheek, shaking lightly to get your attention. 

“So we’re not gonna punish you, sweetheart. We’re just gonna remind you why it’d be so much better for you if you stayed. And if that means making you feel so good it hurts a little, well…” his gaze flashes with something dark, pupils expanding as he peels down your lower lip and watches it obediently bounce back into place before looking back into your eyes again. “You’ll be a good girl and take it for us. Won’t you.” 

It isn’t a question, not really, so you don’t bother answering. 

Steve gets his legs underneath him and shifts back to sit up against the headboard, catching you easily when Bucky passes you back over. You’re back is to his chest this time, and your throat seizes with an unexpected knot of emotion at the feeling. 

“Still fit so well,” Steve murmurs against your cheek, arms sliding over yours, circling your middle to pull you close. “Missed you so much.” 

You tilt back to kiss him again so he won’t see the tear that escapes, your chest feeling close to bursting with everything you wish you could say. Bucky and Steve have had each other all these years, no matter if it was mortifying for your secret to be known or not. They could talk about it, remind each other that it happened. 

You had no one. You’d tried, of course, but it wasn’t like this. Was never just easy. As natural as breathing. 

Steve hadn’t said missed this mouth like earlier or missed this body or missed being inside of you. It wasn’t the thrill or the secrecy or the fact that it was wrong. 

He’d said I missed you. 

“I missed you too,” you admit against his mouth, the lines in his face easing at the admission. 

He says your name, once, like it’s not a secret anymore. “Gonna make you feel so good.” 

There’s a bottle of lube on the sheets when you look down again, Bucky’s body shouldering up between the split of your thighs to lay on his stomach. He doesn’t even need the bottle, not yet—your wetness is audible when he parts you further and slides two fingers through the hot, sticky evidence. 

“So wet,” he marvels, pressing the tips of the digits to your clit to rub in slow circles. “Missed me too, then?” 

“You know I did,” you reply immediately, catching Bucky’s bravado-encased insecurity before it can derail. 

He’s not very good at hiding things from you either. 

He flashes you a small, private smile and turns to press his lips to the inside of your thigh, tracing every divot, mole, stretch mark until he reaches your hip. Your body’s changed just as much as theirs have but in the opposite way; when you were younger you were firmer and more fit. Age and natural processes have made you softer around the edges, your youthful lines replaced with winding curves. 

Bucky seems to enjoy it just as much as Steve is, one pair of hands molded to your chest while the others feel out the skin around your hips and thighs. You moan when Steve’s fingers close in on your nipples, mapping out your breasts that have grown a cup size or two since the last time as he pinches and rubs and kneads, his calloused hands causing an even bigger mess between your thighs for Bucky to witness. 

“Please,” you breathe when the touches start to get overwhelming, Steve’s hands too big and Bucky’s mouth too eager everywhere save for where you need him the most. Bucky pushes your thigh back open when it tries to close in on him. 

“Please what?” Bucky asks, raising a brow when you don’t answer. “You goin’ bashful on us?” 

“You were so brave before,” Steve reminds you, squeezing you lightly with his arms, then his hands. “Who made you so shy, honey? No reason to be embarrassed about what you want.” 

“You know what,” you whine, then yelp when it earns you a pinch to the hip. 

“Good girls use their words,” Bucky says. “Or have you forgotten all of ‘em already?” 

With a steep intake of breath, you steel yourself, leaning into the warm embrace of shame and something sweeter. “Please put your mouth on me,” you beg. “Nobody does it like you, Bucky, please.” 

“Better,” he purses his lip, considering. His fingers, still lazily stroking over your clit, press down a little harder. You shiver. “I’ll give it to you—on one condition.” 

“What is it?” 

His touch drifts off of your nerves, down over the seam of your entrance, further toward your ass and under a little until he can use your wetness to slick up your back entrance too. You twist in his hold, still shocked by it, even though it really isn’t that uncomfortable. 

Bucky presses you down again. 

“So naive, all those years ago. Thought lettin’ me play with you back here was enough to distract me from the fact that Stevie fucked you an hour before. Almost was, sweetheart,” he says casually, pressing a kiss to your hip as his eyes narrow mischievously. “Almost.” 

His thumb rolls over you in small, tight circles, working against the pucker of skin similarly to the way he’d worked your clit moments before. 

“It’s okay if it feels good,” Steve soothes, hands leaving your breasts so all of your focus pools on Bucky between your legs. “Let yourself lean into it a little, yeah?” 

Head tossed back on his shoulder, you try to let yourself internalize his advice. Bucky had started trying to ease you into this years ago, but you haven’t tried since and the touch is just as jarring as it had been the first time he wanted to finger you back there and you compromised with him opening you up on his tongue instead. At the time, it felt like the filthiest thing you’d ever done. 

Now, in comparison, it just feels…curious. 

Your body echoes your thought without you even verbalizing it, your hips lifting slightly from the bed to rock against the teasing press of Bucky’s fingers, first against your clit, then back down to your ass. He notices. 

“We fucked you separately so many times,” he continues, pressing in with a little more intent when you lean into it. “You ever think about what it’d be like for us to fuck you together?” 

A groan, shaky and accidental, leaves your mouth without permission. Bucky chuckles again when your cunt bears down on nothing right in front of him, and you can feel the shift inside of you—the need so great to have something filling you up that it begins not to matter where it is so much as that the mission’s accomplished. 

Bucky’s voice pulls you up again. “That a yes, sweetheart? Gonna let me make you come with my mouth while I open you up on my fingers?” 

You’re nodding before you’ve even fully considered the question, nervous and undeniably excited. The two of them share a lot of your firsts between them. After years of feeling like you don’t really have any of those left to give anymore, it feels thrilling to be able to uncover one you’d forgotten about. 

“Words, honey,” Steve says against your cheek. 

“Yes. Please—your mouth, your fingers. I want—” you force yourself to swallow, too worked up to think properly. “I want to feel you both at the same time.” 

Their groans chorus around the suite, and Bucky doesn’t waste another second giving you what you asked for. 

His mouth descends on your cunt at the same time Steve’s hands find their way back to your breasts, his chin hooked over your shoulder so he can kiss you while Bucky makes you gasp and cry out. He catches your tongue between his lips and sucks, the vibration of his moan rattling your teeth as you try to gather yourself enough to kiss him back. 

“Shit, Bucky,” you pull back to breathe, head dropping back against Steve’s shoulder again. His fingers loosely wrap around your throat, just enough to guide your view down between your own legs to watch. 

Bucky eats like a man starved, his teasing momentarily replaced with naked want that demands to be sated. His need makes you feel better about yours, on the same page despite the missing chapters in between. 

He certainly remembers how to pleasure you. Even the bits you’ve adapted and changed he picks up on quickly, dark blue eyes heavy on each of your reactions as one hand holds your hips down and the other sneaks, warm and wet with lube, between your ass against the bed, his mouth working relentlessly over your clit while his tongue tucks up inside and maps you out again. 

The first time he stops rubbing and starts pressing at your back entrance, you tense around him. His mouth shifts back up, flicking his tongue against your clit in rapid passes that make your  muscles twitch open again. 

“Relax,” Steve instructs, mouth moving against your shoulder as he squeezes your breast in his hand. “You can take it.” 

You’re not so sure, but Steve’s confidence makes you want to try anyway. Ages ago, in the back of Bucky’s car in the dark, he’d gotten one inside you before. Surely you can manage at least that much again. 

Sliding one hand over Bucky’s on your stomach and the other behind you to hold Steve’s neck, you use them as tether points and let your body float on the sensations in between. With the insistent pressure on your clit you can feel your pulse in your cunt, the subtle jab of Bucky’s wet chin teasing you. Further below, his finger presses and this time, just the very tip of it works its way inside when you bear down. 

“Fuck,” you exhale shakily, shivering at the newness of it as Bucky holds you down so he doesn’t slip out. 

“There we go,” he lifts off your cunt to praise, smearing a sticky kiss to the inside of your thigh. He presses a little more, the first part of his finger inside, and then gingerly begins to move it in and out with an awed look on his features. “That’s one.” 

The breath you’d been holding finally collapses out of your chest, Steve shushing you as you writhe on his chest, getting used to the feeling of being full in a different way. Bucky works himself in little by little, his lips descending to your clit again to suck lewdly as a distraction. 

You feel it when his knuckle presses against you, halfway down the digit. Your body isn’t as tense about it this time even if you try to be briefly, the most jarring part of the intrusion already overwith. 

Beyond that, it isn’t bad. It’s strange at first and you can’t see yourself ever doing it alone, but with someone else it’s sort of nice, the heat of it, the way your body keeps sucking him in, molding to his shape. He was right—you do like to be full, and this is just another way to get there. 

“You can come when I’ve got two fingers in,” Bucky says when you’re bucking on his hand, fucking yourself down onto one whole of his fingers and up against his mouth. 

It takes you a minute to blink back to reality, a whine already on your frowning lips. “Bucky—” 

“Or not at all.” 

Your pout deepens, and Steve sighs over your shoulder, squeezing your side. “Go easy on her, Buck,” he mutters. 

“You think I don’t know what she can take?” Bucky cocks a brow from between your legs, pumping the digit into you steadily. “I remember every fucking thing about this body. When it had enough. When it craved more.” His eyes shift to your face, assessing. “You wanna stop, sweetheart?” 

Your head shakes. “Keep going.” 

He flashes you a filthy, familiar grin. 

“That’s my girl.” 

His mouth doesn’t lower back to you immediately. Instead, Bucky sits up on his knees between the spread of Steve’s ankles, unhooking your legs from Steve’s that’d been holding you open and putting them on his shoulders instead. 

You make a noise as your body is lifted with him, Steve’s palms spread wide over your back to hold you up, your thighs touching either of Bucky’s ears on the sides of his head. It puts the three of you eye level, his gaze much more intense this time when he dips to lave his tongue over and in between your folds. 

It also gives him much more room to finger you open, his fingers returning with another layer of lube with complete access to your ass as it hovers in the air. 

You have to lock your ankles behind his back when one slips inside of you again, your body shuddering at the easier stretch this time. The angle lets him go deeper too, probes at places no one else has ever been before so he can mark them for himself. 

It sinks in then, how badly you want them both inside of you. 

“More,” you gasp, rolling your hips as you ride Bucky’s face. 

This time, you can feel his grin when it stretches wide between your legs. 

His free hand joins Steve’s on your lower back to hold you steady when he adjusts his grip, pulling his mouth back so he can see. Watching your face, he sinks his pointer and middle fingers inside your cunt, then stretches down to prod his ring finger and pinky against your back entrance. 

It takes only a few lube-heavy slides of his digits and a well-timed rotation of your hips to break past any resistance, and then—fullness. 

“Yeah,” you babble mindlessly, nodding against Steve’s neck. “Yeah, yeah—Bucky, more.” 

“Told you,” Bucky boasts, mostly to Steve, you think, but you can’t even bring yourself to care. 

With his other fingers working inside of you from both angles, he lowers his mouth to your clit a final time above them to suck gently at your nerves, holding you steady while his tongue flicks and pulses in a quick back and forth. It’s not unlike the pattern of the vibrator that you used to keep in your nightstand you and Steve used to play around with, and that—the thought that that’s something else the two of them have talked about together, that they know—makes your thighs start to shake around Bucky’s head. 

“She’s coming,” Steve tells him, moments before you’ve actually done it, too familiar with all your tells. “Don’t stop, Buck.” 

Your eyes roll as your mouth drops open, the obscene slick noises between your legs growing loud and rhythmic as Bucky keeps the pace and pressure until it peaks. Your body jerks and shivers between them, their hands underneath your back all that keeps you suspended as your mind goes blank. 

You whimper into Steve’s neck as the waves keep coming, mouthing blindly at his pulse. 

“I know,” he croons, nosing at your warm cheek, teasing your slack mouth with chaste kisses. “Been so long since you’ve been able to let go like this, hasn’t it? We’ve got you. Just let it out.” 

Bucky’s relentless even through the aftershocks, making you twitch and writhe while he teases out every last bit of your orgasm. When he finally parts from you with a wet mouth and dripping fingers, you slump in relief, grateful to be back on something solid when you’re lowered down to Steve’s chest again. 

Still shaking a little, you press your thighs together and turn into Steve, happy to tilt up for his kisses when he asks. You can hear Bucky moving around but it’s all distant, your release so strong it’d left your ears ringing for a minute. 

Your movements, haphazard at first, narrow into something more focused when Steve’s cock finds its way in between your legs. It stands up against your cunt, squeezed between your thighs, your wetness making everything move together all too easily. 

“Shit, honey,” he curses, hands gripping your sides when you slide against him. 

“She wants to be fucked, Stevie,” Bucky says bluntly, returning to the bed. He kneels over you again, appraises your desperate grinds with a detached pleasure that makes your insides melt. Far past pride, you whine in eager agreement. “You ready to give it to her?” 

It’s another rhetorical question. Steve says nothing as he gently shifts you off of him and onto the sheets so he can move around, but Bucky’s less tentative as he rolls you onto your front and yanks your hips up, the lube clicking open yet again. 

You murmur, vaguely confused as you try to look over your shoulder at him, but his fingers find your ass again before you can ask. You tense but moan as two digits plus his pinky circle your rim, more stretched back there than you’ve ever been before. 

Impatient now, you bear down accordingly when he presses, praises falling from his lips as he tests the width with several shallow, then deep thrusts. When he thinks you’re ready they disappear altogether, clean hand patting the side of your ass to get you to turn again. 

“We need condoms, sweetheart?” 

Splayed out on the mattress, you shake your head at the ceiling. “It’s—it’s been a while for me, and I’m on something anyway.” 

Bucky snorts, rearranging your legs. 

“Still like it bare, huh?” 

“Not with everybody,” you confess, glancing between them. “Only you two.” 

Steve pauses at the end of the bed, eyes widening. “Really?” 

“Fuck,” Bucky spits when you nod, dropping down to kiss you messily on the pillow. “Gonna fuck you nice n’deep, make you remember. Hope whatever you’re on is strong.” 

“No you don’t,” you retort, your orgasm impairing your filter. Your lips twitch with a smile anyway. 

Bucky stares hard at you, the blue in his eyes nothing but an icy, thin ring now. 

“No. I fuckin’ don’t.” 

He kisses you hard once more, and you hope it’ll bruise. All too soon he’s leaning up and away, but you don’t have time to complain before you realize he’s taking you with him. 

Your delayed reflexes don’t even kick in until you’re in the air, clinging to him with your arms around his shoulders and legs around his hips as he carries you toward the end of the bed. Steve’s there already, waiting with open arms and eager hands as he helps Bucky situate you between them, shifting you so that you’re facing him instead of Bucky. 

Steve holds your upper body, one hand splayed between your shoulder blades, the other on your waist. Bucky takes the weight of your lower body, palms spanning up and down underneath your thighs before he picks a spot and holds, his other hand disappearing as you hear the slick sound of him fisting his cock behind you. 

“Got you,” Steve says in response to the noise you hadn’t realized you were making, your eyes blurry when he pulls back to look at you. “Y’okay?” 

“Need you,” you murmur against his neck. “Please. Both of you.” 

WIth a muttered curse, Bucky closes in behind you, reaching underneath to position Steve’s cock for him so it’s poised at the entrance of your cunt. Steve hisses and you moan, shifting your hips as much as you’re able to get him inside. 

“Ready for him?” Bucky asks against your shoulder. 

You nod, gravity doing most of the work when their combined grips on you slacken enough to let you lower onto him. You shudder between them as he fills you up, the feeling intense and briefly overwhelming as memories come rushing back to you of before. 

You take a minute with him fully inside of you, basking in Steve’s sweet murmurings and Bucky’s hands rubbing at your skin, waiting until the knot in your throat doesn’t burn so much to press a kiss to his jaw. 

“I missed you,” you tell him again. 

His laugh sounds a little wet when he presses his lips against your forehead. “Missed you too.” 

Carefully unfolding one of your arms from his shoulders, you reach back to tug Bucky flush against your back. 

“Let me have you too, please.” 

“Anything you want,” he promises, seeming dazed as he sways into your body. He leans into your hand, amending his words with a press of his lips. “Anything for you.”  

Everything moves slower this time, Steve gripping your thigh as Bucky spreads you open, positions himself and tentatively presses the head of his cock against your other entrance. You have to remind yourself to keep breathing, not to tense up when you’re so close to getting what all of you want. 

Slick and steady, Bucky traces the blunt head of his cock all the way from where Steve’s buried inside of you back to the seam of your ass, spread wide and stretched accordingly to be able to take him. Even if he was the one who was certain you could do it he seems to hesitate for a moment, lingering in the build up. 

Then, slowly, he begins to press. 

Your mouth falls open as the head of his dick begins to stretch you like his fingers had, your brow furrowed at the subtle differences of the sensation. His length feels unforgiving but your body yields despite your worries that it wouldn’t, eased by the prep and the lube he’d applied generously throughout. 

The head pops into you with an audible shift, and the three of you share a collective exhale at the breach. Your body flutters around him, squeezing Steve in tandem, and the first sparks of heat begin to flicker again in your stomach at the fullness. 

“More,” you instruct again. 

With his forehead pressed against the back of your neck to watch, Bucky grips you with clammy palms and presses onward. The rest of him is longer than it is thick so the stretch isn’t bad, your head rolling to fall back onto Bucky’s shoulder now as he thrusts his way shallowly into you. 

Both of your eyes snap open when it’s Steve that ends up breaking the tense silence with a loud groan, his eyes half rolled back, fingers whitening at the knuckles where he’s gripping you. 

“I can—fuck,” he tries to explain through gritted teeth. “I can feel you, Buck.” 

Bucky’s cock slips in the last couple of inches all at once when his hips buck at the words, his moan just as loud in your ear as if he’s just realized the same thing. 

“Holy fucking shit,” he breathes. “Y’okay, baby? It’s—fuck, you’re so tight.” 

“I’m okay,” you tell them, already panting where you’re caught between their bodies—and now, their cocks. Your own moan is lower, needier, your hips so achingly full that you think you might never escape it. 

“I gotta—” Steve grits, sweat beading on his temples when you look at him. “Let me fuck you, baby, please. I can’t—” 

“Me neither,” Bucky chimes from behind you. “Can we move, angel? S’it too much?” 

The name sends another rush of memories through you, sacred murmurings between you behind the pier, at a drive-in movie, in Bucky’s bedroom under the covers. You whimper, turning to slot your mouth against his with a hand thrown back into his hair. 

“Please. Move.” 

They shift as soon as they have permission, an unspoken team effort to distribute your weight and find a rhythm. It’s Steve who pulls out a bit first experimentally, pushing back in as slow as he can manage. When he’s in to the hilt Bucky starts to pull out, giving his own tentative thrust in response. 

Gradually they gain a little momentum, Steve fucking into you one second, Bucky the next, never left empty in between. It feels good but it’s hard to get everything coordinated just right, until Bucky nods at Steve over your shoulder. 

“Hold her like this,” he proposes, helping Steve shift a bit until he can get your legs slung over Steve’s forearms. When they slip back inside with the changed angle you moan, shivering at how much more exposed you are, how much deeper they can reach with you folded up between them. “Fuck yeah, that’s better. Here, sweetheart, put your arm around my shoulders.” 

 You do as you’re told, shaky but determined, stretching your torso sideways a little until you have one arm slung around Bucky’s shoulders, the other around Steve’s. It distributes your weight better, lets Steve slip his arms under your calves and hold onto your thighs while Bucky grips your ass from underneath and helps you move. 

It also lets you see both of their faces. 

You take full advantage as they begin to fuck you proper, leaning over to kiss Bucky as you’re bounced between both of their thrusts. It’s tongue and teeth mostly but it’s exactly what you need, the roughness of his face against your soft lips making them sting. You hope the swelling stays even afterward, your lower lip caught between the graze of his canines. 

He grunts when you turn away from him to get to Steve instead, not even halfway there before Steve eagerly meets you halfway and moans against you. His sweetness is tinged with his desperation, the messy slide of spit on your chin and cheek in the rush to get to you quicker. 

How could you ever have thought you’d find this with anyone else? 

“Please keep me,” crosses your trembling lips before you can stop it, eyes stinging as you watch both of them, body overwhelmed with everything all at once. “I’m sorry I ran. M’sorry—it was stupid. I didn’t want—” 

“Hey, hey. Shh,” Bucky frowns, nudging his cheek with yours while he fucks you. “Not goin’ anywhere. Not ever. Not again.” 

Steve’s mouth presses against your cheek, firm and deliberate this time despite the pace of his hips. “We’ve got you.” 

They’re both so close to your mouth now, your brain hazy and your body undecided with the want to kiss both of them at once. Without thinking you bring your hands to the backs of their necks and pull them both in and, to your surprise, they both come. 

The three of your mouths clash in the middle in one big tangle of lips and tongues and hot, panting breaths, notes of wine and the taste of each other’s bodies still thick between you. You choke on a sob against them and it makes them all the more desperate, not even fighting for dominance or taking turns as much as giving you everything just like you’d asked, uncaring how much of themselves overlaps in the process. 

Bucky’s hand stretches over your hip and down in between your spread, stretched thighs, helpless to resist it when his fingers find your clit. You gasp, two eager tongues shoving themselves against yours as your overwrought nerves are expertly worked over by someone who knows each of your tells. 

“Make her come with me, Stevie, c’mon,” Bucky grunts, eyes heavy lidded and inches from Steve’s as they stare each other down. Steve’s eyes drop to Bucky’s mouth before he swallows and nods, and then he’s jostling you a little in his hold until he can drop his lips to your chest, wrapped tight around your nipple. 

Without the distraction of your mouths all together you can’t help but focus on your pleasure again, mounting rapidly inside of you. Bucky’s rough fingers are rubbing you exactly how you’d taught him to so long ago and Steve’s mouth is sealed tight around your breast the way he used to in his bed back home, lashes fluttering contentedly against your skin as if he’s the one being pleasured by it. 

And the fullness—it’s inescapable. Steve thick inside your cunt while Bucky lays claim to your ass, the two of them working in tandem to get you to fall apart in a way only they ever could. 

Bucky’s earlier words were right; it is more so the fact that you like belonging to something more than anything else. 

But you love that they belong to you too. 

“Gonna mark you up. Stretch you out so good nobody else’ll ever satisfy y’again,” Bucky rambles in your ear, breath hot against your cheek. “Gonna have to be both of us or nothing.” 

“Already has to be,” you manage, panting. 

His fingers speed up on your clit, grazing the spot where Steve’s dick is steadily rutting into you below. “Yeah? Those others didn’t do it for you?” 

“Pictured you,” you admit, touching your forehead to his. “Was always you.” 

“Fuck,” he spits, kissing you hard again. “Good girl. That’s our good fucking girl.” 

It’s audible when your nipple slips out of Steve’s mouth, peaked and aching with the memory of his teeth and tongue. His cheek presses up against the swell of your breasts, and for a moment, he looks nineteen again, glassy eyed and drunk on pleasure. 

“Wanna feel you come, sweetheart,” he says, voice deep and pink mouth slick with spit. “Want you to come so we can fill you up.” 

Bucky hums in agreement on your other side, bouncing you up a little between them so he can get the rest of his fingers on your clit instead of just his thumb. “Fuck yeah, c’mon. That’s it, angel. Can feel you squeezin’ us.” 

You can hear yourself making noise but it’s all distant, eyes rolled back under perpetually fluttering lashes as Bucky and Steve lave kisses all over your face and chest. Your cheek smushes against Steve’s hair as you press your open mouth against his temple, nails digging into either of their shoulders where you’re gripping them. Bucky was right—you can feel your body bearing down on them, the full, aching pressure of being more filled than you’ve ever been. 

And about to be even more so. 

“Shit, Steve, you think—think I’ll be able to feel you fillin’ her up?” Bucky chokes. 

The thought of it makes the coil in your stomach finally snap, gasping their names as you start to come, hips bucking between them out of your control. You’ve had intense orgasms but never one quite like this, where every limb twitches, muscles quivering and nerves unraveling all at once from the knot they’d been woven into, even your quivering chin steadied by Steve’s touch. 

It’s a team effort to keep balance as you feel them come too, Steve first, deep inside your cunt, the same one who’d done it last. Then Bucky from behind you, his hands gripping tight around your middle while he marks up your ass for the first time with shallow, jerky thrusts, feet planted wide on the carpet to keep steady. 

You slip a hand around the back of both of their heads to pull them in close as their thrusts slow and eventually stop, the last of your energy used to press all your mouths together. Even when your head rolls back against their shoulders they keep going, lips sliding against each other and spit connecting them, and you hum as the noise accompanies your eyes closing against Bucky’s shoulder. 

For the first time in years, you’re completely, thoroughly, hopelessly satisfied.

There’s a jacuzzi tub, a room service menu, satin sheets on the bed. The mattress faces another set of floor to ceiling windows and you can see practically the whole city from where your head is pillowed against Steve’s ribs, plates set on the nightstand and silk hotel robe tied loosely around your waist. 

Your legs are extended over Bucky’s lap where he sits up against the headboard, Steve laying flat on your other side. His fingers rest on top of your hair while Bucky’s drift idly up and down your leg, teasing the edge of the silk but not pushing it further. 

You already know it’s coming when Bucky finally lets the confident smirk fade, replaced instead with a small frown. 

“Why’d you run from us, sweetheart?” 

“I thought you’d be mad if one of you found out I slept with the other too,” you admit, relaxed enough that you can talk about it without wanting to bolt; even if you avoid their eyes. “I wanted both of you but I didn’t think—I didn’t see how it could work, definitely not back home. And I didn’t want you to pity me because I was younger and got attached and—” 

“Hey, easy,” Bucky squeezes your knee. 

“We told you we wanted you,” Steve frowns. 

“Yeah, but. Separately. And I—I couldn’t choose between you.” 

“What about after the divorce,” he asks. “Did you…think about reaching out?” 

“All the time,” you admit. “But I figured I’d waited too long. It’s not like there was a reception or a party I could run into you at to talk about it. I would have had to contact you directly and I…” you hesitate, clearing your throat. “I was selfish. You and Bucky always seemed like you had so much going for you, and I didn’t want to deal with the hurt if I found out one of you was seeing someone or married already.” 

A bittersweet silence settles between you for a moment, Bucky and Steve sharing a glance over your head. Steve’s fingertips graze your brow. 

“There hasn’t been anyone else. Not seriously. Not for either of us.”

It’s your own turn to lapse into silence now, unsure of what exactly that means in the context of your rather unique relationship. 

“I’m embarrassed that you knew the whole time,” you tell them, tentatively raising your eyes. 

“We didn’t know the whole time,” Steve admits.

“We had our suspicions, but I think we were both tryin’ to protect you. Neither of us brought it up ‘til a couple years later when we were reminiscing, and—well, missin’ you,” Bucky admits sheepishly. 

There was a time when the idea of them reminiscing about you would have made you melt into a puddle of shame. But in this light, knowing what you know now, you can’t find it in yourself to feel that anymore. 

Turning your head slightly, you graze your mouth against Steve’s stomach, a finger tracing the dull notches of his ribs. “I’m sorry I was gone so long.” 

“No more sorries,” Steve says, dipping his chin to smile at you. His fingers settle at the back of your neck, rubbing at the skin. “You’re here now. Let’s focus on that.” 

You nod with a small smile of your own, and then pause. 

“So, what—what happens now?” 

“Whatever you want,” Bucky slips his palm up your thigh, massaging the muscle. He glances at Steve again. “I mean, I know what we’d like, but.” 

Your fingers cover his and squeeze. “I think I probably want the same things. You said you guys haven’t done this before? Like, with three people?” 

“There’s no one we wanted to try it with but you.” 

Steve’s cheek is tinted with color when you reach up to press a hand to it, and he turns to kiss your palm when you do, fingers wrapped loosely around your wrist to keep you there. 

“We do have most of our shit figured out, promise,” Bucky says. “There’s just a few things that we’re…still working out.” 

Your gaze slides back and forth between them as they look at each other with heavy eyes, and your mind rewinds to those hazy few minutes post-sex and pre-shower when the two of them kissing had seemed like the easiest thing in the world. 

Without interrupting, you stroke your thumb against Steve’s cheekbone, Bucky’s fingers tangled with yours on your thigh. 

“Maybe I could help?” 

Two pairs of blue eyes refocus on you, careful smiles from both. “Yeah?” 

“We’d love that, sweetheart.” 

You know now for certain that finding them again hadn’t been a coincidence at all. 

find my masterlists here!

"Fucking—come on—you absolute bastard of a—"

The couch shifts. You yelp. Bucky's halfway down the hall before he realizes he's moving.

"Need a hand?"

You twist around, and something in his chest does this stupid, inconvenient flip. Your face is flushed, one cheek smudged with what might be dust or maybe yesterday's mascara, and you're looking at him like—well. Like he's not Bucky Barnes. Like he's just some guy in the hallway who might know how geometry works.

"Oh thank god," you breathe, and the relief in it makes his mouth twitch. "I've been battling this thing for twenty minutes. I think it's winning."

He assesses the situation with the same tactical precision he'd use for a Bulgarian arms deal, if arms deals came upholstered in emerald green and smelled faintly of vanilla perfume mixed with fresh sweat. The angle's all wrong. You've been trying to force it through horizontally when it needs to go vertical, then rotate.

"Here." He steps closer, and you shift to make room, your shoulder brushing his chest in a way that absolutely doesn't make his pulse stutter. "If we flip it—"

"Oh, you're strong," you say, like an observation about the weather, as he essentially deadlifts one end of your couch. The metal arm whirs faintly. You don't flinch. "That's convenient."

Convenient. Right. He maneuvers the couch through the doorway in three efficient moves, trying not to notice how you smell like coffee and something floral, how you hover just inside his peripheral vision like you're trying not to crowd him but can't quite stay away.

"There." He sets it down in what's clearly the only spot it could go in your tiny living room. The space is chaos—boxes everywhere, art leaning against walls, books stacked in precarious towers. "You just moving in?"

"Yeah, from—" You wave a hand vaguely eastward. "Nicer neighborhood. Turns out freelance graphic design doesn't pay for Manhattan rent. Who knew?" The self-deprecation comes with a grin that transforms your whole face, and Bucky has to look away, focus on the box labeled 'KITCHEN SHIT' in aggressive Sharpie. "I'm—well, you probably don't care what my name is."

He does, actually. Cares in a way that makes his teeth ache.

"Bucky," he offers, even though you clearly already know. "4C."

"The grumpy congressman." Your grin goes wider, teasing. "I've seen you on C-SPAN. You look like you're being held at gunpoint during those hearings."

"Feel like it too," he mutters, and the laugh you give him hits like a shot of whiskey—warm and slightly dizzying.

"Well, Congressman Barnes of apartment 4C, you've just saved my Saturday. Can I pay you in beer? I've got—" You dig through a box, emerge triumphant with two bottles. "Hipster IPA or hipster IPA?"

He should say no. Should maintain boundaries. Should remember what happened the last time he let someone get close—the scar on his ribs from Belgrade still aches when it rains.

Instead, he finds himself accepting a bottle, listening to you chatter about the neighbor who warned you about the rats (definitely real) and the ghost (probably not real but who knows), watching how you gesture with your whole body when you talk, like you're too much for your own skin.

It's dangerous, how easy you are to be around. How you look at him like he's just Bucky, not the former Asset, not the killer, not the congressman who can't pass a single fucking bill. Just a guy who helped with your couch.

He stays too long. Drinks two beers. Helps you unpack exactly three boxes before some long-dormant self-preservation instinct kicks in and he makes excuses about constituent emails.

"Thanks again," you say at the door, and there's something in your eyes—curiosity, maybe. Interest. "For the couch. And the company."

"No problem."

He's halfway to his own door when you call out: "Hey, Barnes?"

He turns. You're leaning against your doorframe, backlit by the disaster zone of your apartment, smiling that smile that makes his chest tight.

"I make really good coffee. You know. If congressional hearings ever drive you to caffeine dependency."

It's an offer. An opening. Everything in him screams to close it, lock it down, maintain operational security. Instead, his traitorous mouth says, "I'll keep that in mind."

He's so fucked.

The thing is, Bucky's gotten good at keeping people at arm's length. Seventy years of being a weapon teaches him that distance equals safety—for them, not him.

When you're already dead, what's a little more damage?

So he shouldn't notice when you start leaving your apartment at 7:23 every morning, shouldering a bag that's always slipping off your shoulder. Shouldn't time his own exits to avoid those encounters, then feel like an asshole when he succeeds. Definitely shouldn't lie awake listening through the thin walls as you sing along to whatever pop music you play while cooking, off-key and enthusiastic.

But here's the other thing: you make it really fucking hard to maintain distance.

You leave cookies outside his door with notes that say things like "for emergency constituent-induced rage" and "survival fuel for C-SPAN." You knock when you know he's home, ask to borrow sugar or vodka or a screwdriver, then stay to chat like his apartment isn't just bare walls and a couch Sam made him buy. You touch—casual, constant. A hand on his arm when you laugh, fingers brushing when you hand him things, like physical contact isn't something that makes his brain static out.

"You're a really good listener," you tell him one evening, three weeks into whatever this is. You're sitting on his floor, back against his couch, because you'd knocked asking for wine and then somehow ended up staying. Your knee presses against his thigh. He's catastrophically aware of every point of contact. "Like, actually good. Not just waiting for your turn to talk."

"Not much of a talker," he says, which is true and also easier than explaining that he's memorizing everything—how you twist your rings when you're nervous, the way your voice drops when you're saying something real, how you look in his space like you belong there.

"Bullshit." You bump his shoulder. He doesn't flinch anymore, which is either progress or a sign he's completely fucked. "You're just selective. Quality over quantity."

You say things like that—observations that feel like being seen, really seen, not just looked at. It's terrifying. It's addictive. It's going to get you killed.

Because here's the thing Bucky knows down to his bones: everything he touches turns to ash. Everyone he cares about becomes a target. And you—with your sunshine laugh and your disaster apartment and your way of looking at him like he's worth something—you're exactly the kind of light that attracts the worst kind of dark.

He should stay away.

He doesn't.

"So," Sam says, watching Bucky check his phone for the third time during their coffee meeting. "Who is she?"

"What?" Bucky pockets the phone. You'd texted asking if he knew how to fix a leaky faucet. He knows seventeen ways to kill a man with a faucet. Fixing one can't be that different. "Nobody. Work thing."

"Uh-huh." Sam's doing that face, the one that means he's about to be insufferably perceptive. "That's why you just smiled at your phone. Over a work thing. You. Smiled."

"I smile."

"No, you do this thing with your mouth that's like a smile's evil twin. This was an actual smile. So. Who is she?"

Bucky takes a long drink of coffee, considering how much lying is worth the effort. "Neighbor."

"Neighbor." Sam leans back, grinning. "Cute neighbor?"

The memory of you last night, paint in your hair and gesturing wildly about your latest client, flashes unbidden. His silence is apparently answer enough.

"Buck. Man. This is good. You need—"

"I need to not get people killed," Bucky cuts him off. "I need to remember that anyone who gets close to me ends up hurt. I need—"

"You need a life," Sam interrupts right back. "You need to stop punishing yourself for shit that wasn't your fault. You need to let yourself have something good."

Bucky's jaw works. The phone buzzes again. He doesn't check it.

"She doesn't know what she's getting into," he says finally. "She's—" Bright. Warm. Good. "She's not part of this world."

"So keep her out of it." Sam makes it sound simple. Like there's a way to compartmentalize, to have you without putting you at risk. "Be her neighbor. Be normal. Be happy, for once in your goddamn life."

Normal. Right. Because nothing says normal like a centenarian ex-assassin with more kills than most armies and a metal arm that could crush a skull like an egg.

But then he thinks about your smile when he fixed your garbage disposal last week. How you'd said "my hero" in this teasing, fond way that made him want impossible things. How you treat him like he's just Bucky, not a weapon someone else aimed.

"I don't know how," he admits, quieter than he meant to.

Sam's expression softens. "Nobody does, man. You just try anyway."

The faucet thing turns into a whole production.

You answer the door in tiny pajama shorts and an oversized t-shirt that says "FEMINIST KILLJOY" in glitter letters, and Bucky's brain shorts out for a solid three seconds. Your hair's piled on top of your head in what might generously be called a bun, and there's toothpaste at the corner of your mouth, and he wants to—

"Oh good, you're here," you say, grabbing his arm and pulling him inside. Your fingers are warm through his henley. "It's making this noise like a dying whale. I tried YouTube tutorials but I think I made it worse."

The kitchen is a disaster. Tools scattered everywhere, water pooling on the floor, YouTube still playing on your laptop ("—sure to turn off the water main first—"). You've clearly been at this for a while.

"Did you turn off the water?" he asks, already knowing the answer from the growing puddle.

"I turned off a valve," you say defensively. "Several valves. None of them seemed to be the right valve."

He finds himself fighting a smile as he locates the actual shut-off. You hover behind him as he works, close enough that he can feel your breath on his neck, keeping up a running commentary that's part apology, part stand-up routine.

"—and then the wrench slipped and I maybe screamed a little bit, and Mrs. Nguyen next door started banging on the wall, and I had to yell that I wasn't being murdered, just defeating by plumbing—"

"Hand me the—" He turns to ask for the wrench at the same moment you lean forward to see what he's doing. Your faces end up inches apart. Time does that thing where it forgets how to work properly.

Your eyes are very wide. There's a water droplet on your cheek. Bucky's hand twitches with the urge to wipe it away.

"Wrench," he manages, voice rougher than intended.

"Right. Wrench. That's a—" You scramble backward, nearly slip on the wet floor. He catches your elbow automatically, steadying you, and your skin is so warm under his fingers it feels like a brand. "Thanks. I'm not usually this much of a disaster. Actually, that's a lie. I'm exactly this much of a disaster, you've just caught me on a particularly disastrous day."

He fixes the faucet in under ten minutes. You insist on making coffee as payment, which turns into leftover pizza, which turns into three hours on your couch watching some reality show about people making elaborate cakes. You provide running commentary that's funnier than the show itself, and Bucky finds himself actually laughing—not the dry chuckle he's perfected for public appearances, but real laughter that comes from somewhere deep in his chest.

"See?" you say during a commercial break, grinning at him. "I told you this show was addictive. Next week they're making a life-size dragon cake that actually breathes fire."

"Next week?" The words slip out before he can stop them, too revealing.

Your grin softens into something else, something that makes his chest tight. "Well, yeah. You can't miss fire-breathing dragon cake. That's un-American."

It becomes a thing. Thursday nights, your couch, increasingly ridiculous cooking shows. You always have too much dinner ("I'm terrible at portions, shut up"), he always fixes something that's broken ("it's not broken, it's just temperamental"), and somewhere between cake disasters and your laughter, Bucky forgets to maintain distance.

"Your boyfriend's here," Mrs. Nguyen announces loudly when Bucky knocks on your door a month later, because apparently the entire floor has decided they're invested in whatever this is.

"He's not my—" Your voice cuts off as you open the door. You're wearing a dress, which is new. Red, which is newer. Lipstick, which is going to kill him. "Hi."

"Hi." His brain's stuck on the curve of your shoulder, the way the fabric clings. "Going out?"

"Wedding. Old college friend." You're fidgeting with your earring, a sure tell that you're nervous. "I hate weddings. All that optimism and overpriced chicken."

"So don't go."

"Can't. I already RSVP'd, and I'm a good friend even if I'm a wedding-hating gremlin." You pause, still fiddling with the earring. "Unless..."

He knows what's coming by the way you're biting your lip. "No."

"You don't even know what I was going to ask!"

"You were going to ask me to go with you."

"...okay, so you did know." You lean against the doorframe, giving him a look that's probably supposed to be convincing but mostly just highlights how your eyes catch the hallway light. "Come on. You're a congressman. You must love overpriced chicken and small talk."

"I really don't."

"There's an open bar."

"Still no."

"I'll owe you one. One big favor. Anything."

That makes him pause, but not for the reason you think. The idea of you owing him anything makes his skin itch. You already give too much—your time, your laughter, your casual touches that rewire his brain. But the idea of watching you navigate a wedding alone, of other people getting to see you in that dress...

"Fine," he hears himself say. "But I'm not dancing."

The smile you give him could power Brooklyn for a week.

He's absolutely, catastrophically unprepared for how you look in candlelight.

The wedding venue is one of those rustic-chic places that thinks exposed beams equal personality. You're at table eight, which puts you safely in "college friends but not close enough for the wedding party" territory. You've been providing whispered commentary all through the ceremony ("five bucks says she wrote her vows the night before"), your shoulder pressed against his in a way that makes paying attention to anything else physically impossible.

"See that bridesmaid?" You nod toward a blonde who's definitely already three champagnes deep. "That's Amber. We were roommates sophomore year. She once tried to seduce our RA by leaving Post-it poetry on his door."

"Did it work?"

"Depends on your definition of 'work.' She did get his attention. Also a conduct violation." You're playing with the stem of your wine glass, fingers tracing patterns. "Thanks for this, by the way. I know wearing a suit and making small talk isn't exactly your idea of fun."

He could tell you that wearing a suit is nothing compared to tac gear, that small talk is easier than Senate hearings. Could mention that the way you keep unconsciously leaning into him makes any discomfort worth it. Instead: "It's fine."

"Such enthusiasm." But you're smiling, soft and maybe a little fond. "Dance with me?"

"I said no dancing."

"You said that before you had champagne. And before they played—" You tilt your head, listening. "Oh my god, is this Bon Jovi? We have to dance to Bon Jovi. It's the law."

"That's not a law."

"It's a law of wedding physics. Come on, Barnes. One dance. I promise not to step on your feet much."

The thing is, he can't say no to you. It's becoming a problem. You want him to fix your sink? Done. Need someone to hold your laptop while you Skype your mother? He's there. Want him to dance to "Livin' on a Prayer" at some stranger's wedding? Apparently, that's happening too.

You're a terrible dancer. Genuinely awful. You have no sense of rhythm, keep trying to lead, and you're laughing too hard to even pretend otherwise. It's perfect. He spins you out just to watch your dress flare, pulls you back too close, and for a moment—your hand in his, your face tilted up, surrounded by fairy lights and other people's happiness—he forgets why this is a bad idea.

"See?" you say, slightly breathless. "Dancing's not so bad."

His hand is on your waist. He can feel your pulse through the thin fabric. "No. Not so bad."

Someone bumps into you from behind, pushing you fully against his chest. Your hands come up to steady yourself, one landing over his heart, and he knows you can feel how it stumbles. Your smile falters, shifts into something else. Something that looks dangerously like realization.

"Bucky—"

"They're cutting the cake," he says, stepping back. The loss of contact feels like losing a limb. "Should probably watch. For your show."

You blink, then recover. "Right. Yeah. Cake."

But you're quiet for the rest of the reception, and he catches you looking at him with this expression he can't decode. Like you're working through a complex equation and not liking the answer.

He drives home. You spend the ride fiddling with your phone, uncharacteristically silent. When he pulls up to the building, you don't immediately get out.

"I'm sorry if I—" you start.

"Don't." It comes out harsher than intended. He tries again, softer: "You didn't do anything wrong."

"Feels like I did." You're still not looking at him. "I forget sometimes, that you're—that we're—"

"Friends," he supplies, even though the word tastes like ash. "We're friends."

"Right." You finally meet his eyes, and there's something careful in your expression now. Guarded. "Friends."

You're out of the car before he can figure out what to say to fix this. He watches you disappear into the building first, red dress like a wound in the grey evening, and knows he's fucked everything up without quite understanding how.

You pull back after that.

It's subtle—you still smile when you see him in the hall, still text him memes at inappropriate hours. But you stop knocking on his door for impromptu dinners. Stop touching him casually. When he offers to fix your eternally-dripping showerhead, you say you'll call the super instead.

"You're moping," Sam tells him two weeks later, during one of their mandatory "make sure Bucky's not spiraling" brunch dates.

"I don't mope."

"You're the Black Widow of moping. The Michael Jordan of emotional constipation." Sam pauses. "That neighbor you mentioned?"

Bucky's silence is damning.

"What'd you do?"

"Why do you assume I did something?"

"Because you always do something. You get close to someone, panic, and pull some self-sabotaging bullshit." Sam's voice gentles. "Talk to me, man."

Bucky stares at his coffee like it holds answers. "She wanted to dance."

"...okay?"

"At a wedding. And I—we danced. And it was..." He doesn't have words for what it was. How you felt in his arms, how the world narrowed down to just the two of you, how for a moment he forgot he was dangerous. "And then I shut it down."

"Why?"

"Because." He sets the mug down too hard, coffee sloshing. "Because she's sunshine, Sam. She's late-night cooking shows and glitter pens and leaving snacks for the delivery guy. She has no idea what I've done, what I'm capable of—"

"Did you ever think maybe she does know and doesn't care?"

"Then she's naïve."

"Or maybe she just sees you better than you see yourself." Sam leans forward. "Buck, you can't protect people by pushing them away. That's not how it works."

"It's worked so far."

"Has it? Because from where I'm sitting, you're miserable, she's probably confused as hell, and nobody's actually safer."

Bucky wants to argue, but then his phone buzzes. Your name pops up: my smoke alarm is having an existential crisis. is it supposed to beep in morse code?

He's already standing before he realizes it.

"Go," Sam says, shaking his head but smiling. "Fix her smoke alarm. Talk to her like a human being. Maybe try not to fuck it up this time."

Your door is already cracked when he gets there, smoke rolling out in lazy waves.

"I'm not on fire!" you call before he can knock. "Well, the oven mitt was, but I handled it."

He finds you on a chair, ineffectively fanning the smoke detector with a dish towel. You're wearing those little pajama shorts again and his brain still isn't prepared for the sight.

"How does an oven mitt catch fire?" He reaches up, disables the alarm with practiced ease.

"Well, when you forget it's on your hand and rest it on the stove burner..." You shrink a little at his look. "I was distracted."

"By what?"

You don't answer, just hop down from the chair. This close, he can see the flour in your hair, the way you're worrying your bottom lip. "Thanks. Sorry for texting, I know it's late—"

"Why are you apologizing?"

"Because—" You make a frustrated gesture. "Because I'm trying to give you space. Because you clearly regretted the wedding thing and I'm trying not to be that neighbor who develops inconvenient feelings—"

"Feelings?" His brain snags on the word like cloth on a nail.

You go very still. "Shit. I mean. Not feelings. Just. You know. Neighbor...ly concern. Very platonic. Super appropriate."

"You're a terrible liar."

"Yeah, well, you're terrible at—" You stop, visibly collecting yourself. When you speak again, your voice is carefully level: "I like you, okay? More than I should. And I know that's not what you want, and I'm trying really hard to be okay with that, but you standing in my kitchen looking all concerned while I'm having a feelings crisis is really not helping."

The words hit him like a physical blow. You like him. More than you should.

"You don't know me," he says, defaulting to the easiest argument.

"Bullshit." There's heat in your voice now. "I know you reorganize my bookshelf when you think I'm not looking because the chaos bothers you. I know you bring me coffee on Tuesdays because you noticed I have early meetings. I know you have nightmares—yeah, the walls are thin—and I know you pace afterwards like you're trying to walk off whatever you dreamed about."

Each observation feels like being flayed open.

"I know you're careful," you continue, softer now. "I know you think you're dangerous. And I know you've probably got reasons for that. But Bucky? I also know you'd never hurt me. Ever."

"You can't know that."

"Why? Because you're what, too damaged? Too dangerous?" You step closer and he should step back but he's frozen. "You carry my groceries. You fixed my faucet. You danced with me at a wedding even though you hate dancing. Really dangerous stuff there, Barnes."

"You don't understand—"

"Then explain it to me." Your chin juts out, stubborn. "Give me one good reason why we can't—"

He kisses you.

It's the wrong thing to do. Selfish. Stupid. But you're standing there in your flour-dusted pajamas, looking at him like he's worth fighting for, and his self-control just...snaps.

The sound you make—soft, surprised, maybe relieved—shorts out every rational thought in his head. Your hands come up to frame his face, fingertips cool against his burning skin, and then you're kissing him back like you've been waiting for this, like you've been drowning too.

You taste like smoke and whatever you were baking, sweet with an edge of burn, and he's dizzy with it. His hands find your waist, fingers spreading wide against the soft cotton of your shirt, and he pulls you in until there's no space between you, until he can feel your heartbeat hammering against his chest. You're so warm, so alive, radiating heat like a small sun, and he wants to map every degree of it with his mouth, his hands, his—

Reality crashes back like ice water.

He jerks away, but his hands won't let go of your waist, like his body's in revolt against his better judgment. You're both breathing like you've run miles—harsh, ragged pulls of air that fill the space between you. Your lips are swollen, kiss-bruised, and he did that, he marked you, and the savage satisfaction of it wars with the knowledge that he's just made everything infinitely worse.

Your eyes are huge, pupils blown wide, and you're looking at him like he's just rearranged your entire understanding of the universe. One hand is still on his face, thumb pressed to the corner of his mouth like you're trying to hold the kiss there, keep it from escaping.

"That's why," he says roughly. "Because I want—because you make me want things I can't have."

"Says who?" Your eyes are very bright. "Who decided what you can have?"

He doesn't have an answer for that. Doesn't know how to explain the mathematics of survival, how everyone he's ever cared about becomes a liability, a target, a grave.

"I should go," he manages.

"Or," you say, "you could stay."

The offer hangs between you like a lit fuse. He can see the future unspool in both directions: leave now, go back to safe distances and polite nods in the hallway, watch you eventually move on with someone who doesn't come with a body count. Or stay, and risk you realizing what a mistake you're making. Stay, and selfishly take whatever you're willing to give for however long you're willing to give it.

You're still looking at him, patient and terrified and hopeful all at once.

He leaves.

The word echoes in his head all the way back to his apartment. Coward. Coward. Coward. But it's the right thing to do. The safe thing. You'll hurt for a while, maybe hate him a little, but you'll be alive to do it.

He doesn't sleep. Just sits on his couch, staring at the wall that separates your apartments, listening to the muffled sounds of you cleaning up. The shower runs at 2 AM. He knows you cry in the shower when you think no one can hear—learned that three weeks into being neighbors, when your freelance client stiffed you on a big project. He'd wanted to break the fucker's legs then.

Now he wants to break his own.

You're a better person than he'll ever be, which is why you still smile at him in the hallway.

It's careful now, contained. The kind of smile you'd give any neighbor, not the one that used to light up your whole face when you saw him. You don't knock anymore. Don't text about your smoke alarm or your leaky faucet or the rat you're convinced lives in the walls. You just...exist, parallel to him, in a way that makes his chest feel like it's full of broken glass.

"Fixed it myself," you say one morning when he catches you wrestling with a new deadbolt installation. Your drill slips, gouging the doorframe. "YouTube University, you know?"

He could fix it in under a minute. Could show you how to align the strike plate properly, how to test the throw. Instead: "Good for you."

Your smile flickers. "Yeah. Good for me."

Mrs. Nguyen gives him dirty looks now. The whole floor does, really. Like they know he's the reason you don't laugh as loud anymore, why your music's quieter, why you started getting grocery delivery instead of making three trips up the stairs, arms overloaded, dropping things and cursing cheerfully.

It's fine. It's working. You're safe.

He tells himself that every night when he hears you through the walls, moving around your apartment like a ghost of the person who used to dance while cooking.

Three weeks post-kiss, Valentina calls them in for a mission that's barely legal on a good day.

"Weapons shipment," she says, sliding photos across the conference table with her usual theatrical flair. "Enhanced tech, off-market, very much not supposed to exist. The kind of toys that make governments nervous."

"So we're stealing them," Walker states, not asks.

"Recovering," Val corrects with a smile sharp enough to cut. "For the safety of the American people, of course."

Yelena snorts. Alexei's already studying the compound layout like there'll be a test. Bob's doing that thing where he shrinks into himself, trying to become invisible. Bucky catalogs exits, counts guards in the surveillance photos, and tries not to think about how you looked last night, hauling groceries with your hair falling in your eyes.

The mission goes sideways in minute three.

"Intel was wrong," Ava's voice crackles through comms, too calm for the situation. "Triple the guards. And—"

The explosion cuts her off. Then another. The "barely defended warehouse" is a fucking fortress, crawling with military-grade security who definitely got the "shoot to kill" memo.

"Fall back," Bucky orders, but Alexei's already charged ahead, yelling something about Soviet glory. Walker's trying to flank, Bob's panicking, and somewhere in the chaos, Yelena starts laughing like this is the best thing that's happened all week.

It takes two hours to fight their way out. By the end, Bucky's left arm is sparking, his ears are ringing, and he's pretty sure at least three ribs are cracked. Yelena's favoring her right leg, Walker's bleeding from somewhere he won't admit, and Bob—Bob's dissociating so hard Bucky has to physically guide him to the extraction point.

"Well," Val says over comms, observing from her safe distance, "that was bracing."

Bucky doesn't trust himself to respond.

They limp back to New York in sullen silence. No debrief—Val's already spinning the disaster into something palatable for the brass. Bucky goes straight home, ignoring Sam's calls, ignoring everything except the need to get somewhere quiet before he starts breaking things.

His hands are still shaking when he reaches his floor. Adrenaline crash, probably. Or the delayed realization that they'd all nearly died for some bureaucrat's idea of asset recovery. Or—

Your door is open.

Not open-open. Cracked, like it didn't latch properly. Like someone left in a hurry. Or—

The deadbolt is broken.

The one you installed yourself three weeks ago. The one he'd watched you struggle with, pride keeping you from asking for help.

Bucky goes utterly still.

His body moves before his brain catches up. He's through your doorway, cataloging details with mechanical precision: lamp knocked over, books scattered, coffee table shoved sideways. Signs of a struggle. Signs of—

Blood.

Not much. Just droplets on the hardwood, leading toward the kitchen. But enough. Enough to make his vision tunnel, his chest compress until breathing becomes theoretical.

"Sweetheart?" The pet name slips out, raw. No answer. He clears each room like he's back in Hydra facilities, except his hands won't stop shaking because this is your space, your things, your—

Your phone is on the kitchen floor, screen cracked. There's a handprint on the wall—bloody, smeared. Too small to be anyone's but yours.

Something inside him breaks. Clean, sharp, like a bone snapping. The careful distance he's maintained, the walls he's built, the conviction that keeping you at arm's length would keep you safe—all of it crumbles in the face of your empty apartment and that small, bloody handprint.

He's already moving, phone out, calling in favors he's been hoarding. Because someone took you. Someone came into your home—the home he was supposed to be protecting by staying away—and took you. And they're going to learn exactly why the Winter Soldier's name still makes people flinch.

His phone rings. Unknown number.

"Barnes." He doesn't recognize his own voice.

"Ah, the infamous Winter Soldier." The voice is male, amused, completely at ease. "I was hoping we could talk."

"Where is she?"

"Safe. For now. Though that really depends on you, doesn't it?"

Ice spreads through his veins, familiar as an old friend. This is what he was trying to prevent. This exact scenario. You, hurt because of him. You, taken because someone figured out—

"What do you want?"

"You've been playing house, Barnes. Getting soft. Forgetting what you are." A pause, calculated. "I'm going to remind you. And your little neighbor? She's going to help."

The line goes dead.

Bucky stands in your ruined apartment, surrounded by the evidence of his failure, and feels something fundamental shift. Not break—he's been broken before. This is worse. This is the cold clarity that comes after, when there's nothing left to lose.

Someone made a mistake today. They touched you. They made you bleed.

He's going to paint the city red for it.

"Buck, slow down—"

"No." He's already moving, gathering gear with brutal efficiency. The weapons he's not supposed to have. The tech that's definitely illegal. Every favor, every resource, every skill Hydra beat into him over seventy years.

Sam's on speaker, trying to be the voice of reason. "You can't just go in guns blazing—"

"Watch me."

"This is exactly what they want. You, isolated, operating without backup—"

"They have her, Sam." The words come out raw, flayed. "They took her because of me. Because I was stupid enough to think distance would keep her safe."

Silence on the other end. Then: "What do you need?"

That's why Sam Wilson is Captain America. No more arguments, no more trying to talk him down. Just immediate, unwavering support.

"Intel. Cameras in my building, surrounding blocks. Last twelve hours." He straps a knife to his thigh, then another. "And get me backup."

"I can rally your team. Get Walker, Yelena—"

"No." The word comes out sharp. Another knife. Extra magazines. "The Thunderbolts are compromised. That clusterfuck of a mission proved it."

"Buck—"

"They're not ready for this. Half of them can barely work together without Val pulling the strings." He's checking his tactical vest, muscle memory taking over. "This isn't a government op. This is personal."

"So what, you're going in alone?"

Is he? Bucky stops, considers his options. The Thunderbolts are a mess on a good day—Walker's still trying to prove something, Bob's hanging on by a thread, and Alexei treats everything like a performance. They're not who he needs for this.

"They touched her," he says simply.

"I know, man. I know. But—"

"Get me what intel you can. I'll handle the rest."

"Buck, come on. At least let me—"

"They have her, Sam." His voice cracks, just slightly. "Every second we waste talking, they could be—"

"Okay. Okay. Intel coming your way. But Barnes? Don't do anything stupid."

"Too late for that."

Bucky stops in your doorway, looks back at your apartment. There's a photo on your bookshelf—you and him at the building's July 4th party. Mrs. Nguyen had insisted on taking it. You're laughing at something, leaning into him, and he's looking at you like—

Like you're everything he never thought he'd get to have.

"I'm coming for you," he tells the empty room. A promise. A threat. A prayer to whoever might be listening.

Then he disappears into the night, and the Winter Soldier goes hunting.

The trail goes cold in six hours.

Whoever took you, they're not amateurs playing at being dangerous. They're ghosts—professionals who know exactly how to disappear in a city of eight million people. Every camera angle's been scrubbed. Every witness suddenly develops amnesia. Even the blood in your apartment leads nowhere; cleaned of DNA markers by something that makes Bucky's teeth ache with familiarity.

"Talk to me, Buck." Sam's voice through the earpiece, carefully level. "Where are you?"

Bucky stands on a rooftop in Queens, staring at another dead end. Another empty warehouse that should have had something, anything. "Nowhere."

"That's not an answer."

"It's the only one I've got." His metal hand clenches, servos whining. Below, the city keeps moving, oblivious to the fact that you're somewhere in it, hurt, taken because of him. "They're good, Sam. Too good."

"We'll find her."

We. Like this isn't Bucky's fault. Like his past isn't bleeding into your present, staining everything he tried so hard to keep clean.

He drops from the rooftop, lands hard enough to crack pavement. A passing couple startles, hurries away. Good. He doesn't feel particularly human right now anyway.

Hour twelve. Yelena finds him in your apartment, sitting on your couch like a grieving statue.

"This is pathetic," she says, stepping over the crime scene tape he'd ignored. "Even for you."

"Get out."

"No." She perches on your coffee table, uncharacteristically serious. "You think sitting here feeling sorry for yourself will find her? You think guilt helps?"

"I said—"

"I know what guilt looks like, Barnes." Her voice cuts, precise as the knives she carries. "I know what it is, failing someone you—" She pauses, searching for the English word. "Care about. But this?" She gestures at him, at the apartment, at the bloody handprint he can't stop staring at. "This is just... как это... self-pity? No, worse. Useless."

The laugh that tears out of him is ugly. "Thanks for the pep talk."

"Someone needs to knock sense into your thick skull." She leans forward. "Whoever has her, they want you like this. Emotional. Sloppy. Making mistakes."

"I know that."

"Then stop giving them what they want."

Easier said than done when every surface in this apartment carries your ghost. The mug on the counter with your lipstick stain. The book splayed open on the side table, marking your place. The sweater thrown over the chair—his sweater, actually, stolen three weeks ago when you'd claimed your apartment was freezing.

"Keep it," he'd said, trying not to notice how it made something primal in him satisfied, seeing you wrapped in his clothes.

"Just until I fix my radiator," you'd promised, but you'd worn it three more times that week, and he'd never asked for it back.

"Barnes." Yelena snaps her fingers in his face. "Сфокусируйся. Focus."

"I am focused."

"You're spiraling." She pulls out her phone, shows him surveillance footage he's already memorized. "Look again. Really look. Use your brain, not your bleeding heart."

He wants to tell her he's looked at nothing else for twelve hours. Instead, he watches you leave your apartment at 6:47 PM, mail in hand. Watches you come back at 6:53. The timestamp jumps—7:31 to 8:15, forty-four minutes missing. By 8:15, your door's ajar and you're gone.

"Professional crew doesn't need forty-four minutes for grab," Yelena says, her English getting rougher as she thinks. "So why take so long? What were they doing?"

Bucky's phone buzzes. Unknown number.

His blood turns to ice, then flame.

"You're going to want to watch this alone," the familiar voice says. "Though I'm sure your friend is lovely. Hi, Yelena."

She stiffens. Bucky's already moving, putting distance between them, some instinct screaming danger.

"Just me," he says. "Let her go."

"See, that's your problem, Barnes. Still trying to protect everyone. Still thinking you can control who gets hurt." A pause. "Check your messages."

The video file is already there. His hand shakes as he opens it.

You're in a concrete room—could be anywhere, everywhere, the kind of place that exists in every city's bones. Sitting in a metal chair, wrists zip-tied but not apparently hurt beyond the cut on your temple still sluggishly bleeding. You're still wearing his sweater.

"Say hello, sweetheart." The voice comes from behind the camera.

You look up, and the defiance in your eyes makes his chest seize. "Go fuck yourself."

The slap comes fast, snaps your head sideways. Bucky's phone creaks in his grip.

"Language." The camera shifts, focuses on your face. "Try again."

You spit blood, manage a smile that's all teeth. "Hi, Bucky. Nice weather we're having."

Another slap. Harder. Your lip splits.

"I told you he made you weak." The voice continues conversationally as you work your jaw, testing damage. "The Winter Soldier, reduced to playing house with some nobody. It's embarrassing, really."

"You talk a lot for someone hiding behind a camera," you mutter.

This time it's a fist. Your head rocks back, and when you look up again, your nose is bleeding. But you're still glaring, still unbroken, and Bucky loves you so fiercely in that moment it feels like drowning.

"Here's what's going to happen," the voice continues. "Every hour Barnes doesn't come alone to the address we'll send, things get worse for you. And before you get any ideas—" The camera pans to show three other men, armed, professional. "—we've planned for contingencies."

Back to you. Blood drips onto his sweater. You notice the camera returning, look directly into it. "Don't you fucking dare," you say, and despite everything—split lip, bloody nose, zip-tied to a chair—you mean it. "You hear me, Barnes? Don't you—"

The video cuts.