FuriousMushroom

“Have you tried cocaine?” you’d asked, a small smirk on your lips.

“What? No! Cocaine is like…” he’d lowered his voice and leaned over the counter, scowling. “Very illegal.” 

Then he leaned back abruptly as if burned, and looked you up and down. “Why? Do you do cocaine?”

“Not my scene,” you’d replied, your turn to lean forward conspiratorially. “But I can make you something just as efficient. We’ll have you practically vibrating out of that little dad outfit of yours in no time.”

And that had been all it’d taken. Six shots of espresso and a criminal amount of vanilla syrup over ice with milk. You’d expected to see his face plastered on the morning news for a caffeine overdose. Instead, he became a regular, always in right before closing. Sometimes he’d stay and chat with you until the shop was closed up for the evening and then he’d insist on walking you to your car. 

Which became you two sitting in your car and talking for hours. 

Which, one particularly cold evening, became you two making out in your car. (You’d finally had to be the one to initiate - Adrian couldn’t pick up on a goddamn signal if his life depended on it.)

Adrian decided you were boyfriend and girlfriend after that, always said with a beam of pride and like it was one big mashed up word: “boyfriendgirlfriend”. As if he was afraid if he didn’t say it fast enough that would be the exact amount of time you’d need to break up with him. You weren’t sure how much say you’d actually had in the matter of becoming boyfriendgirlfriend, but it was weirdly nice, actually. After the last several years of fuckboys and ghosting and “not putting labels on things”. You’d had a gnarly past with dating - you’d probably be a serious contender for Guinness World Record for Most Times Someone Had Been Cheated On. And Adrian knew that. And Adrian Chase was built different. 

Until he wasn’t. 

At first, that was a good thing. 

Sure, he was obsessed with you in a way that was sometimes vaguely disconcerting, but he loved you. Hard. You weren’t sure he knew any other way. He loved his friends hard, too. They were basically all a package deal. You never quite understood how they all became friends? They were like a random grab bag of people flung together by circumstances that were entirely unclear to you, no matter how many times one of them gave you a half-assed explanation.

And really, the problem with Adrian Chase had been a slow build. The issue had always been there, it just became more and more prominent over the year you were together until there was simply no ignoring it. 

He had been hiding something from you. 

You’d never confirmed he was cheating, not like you had with all the others. There was no smoking gun: no incriminating texts accidentally sent to you, no “hey girlie” DM from some stranger, no friend who’d seen him at the club making out with someone else. There was just...something. Something not right.

He’d go radio silent for long stretches of time, which was uncharacteristic of a man who often sent you over 100 texts a day. He’d be evasive about what he was up to when he wasn’t with you or at work. Once, you’d gone to Fennel Fields to drop off his jacket that he’d left at your apartment when he left “for work” only to find he wasn’t scheduled at the middling Italian restaurant at all.

The final straw had been when you’d woken up in the middle of the night to find his side of your bed empty. He didn’t come back for three days. 

Then he’d shown up at your door in the middle of the night, soaking wet from the rain, his eyes brimming with tears, a set of scratches down his cheek. He looked like some cat that had come skulking back to its owner after discovering the alleycat life wasn’t all it was cracked up to be.

And you’d hated that his pained expression made you feel anything at all. That your heart squeezed tight when you looked at him. That his choked, desperate pleas had been almost convincing. But you’d learned your lesson the hard way in the past and you weren’t willing to repeat your mistakes. The risk of Adrian breaking your heart all over again was insurmountable.

Worse still was the fact that the anger never came - only the sorrow and the loneliness. You’d stayed awake for nights after, wondering if you’d made the wrong decision. Because Adrian wasn’t like the others…right? He’d adored you. Worshipped you, even. The way he looked at you like you hung the moon and stars…

Either way, he wasn’t being honest with you. You had to hold tight to that certainty.

Adrian Chase: i’m so sorry please forgive me Adrian Chase: i can’t explain but I promise i’d never hurt you

So you’d spent an entire weekend drinking Three Buck Chuck (you didn’t give a flying fuck if inflation made it $4.49, it was still $3 in your heart) and repeatedly washing every fabric in your apartment until none of it smelled even remotely like Adrian Chase. You’d stood numbly over the washing machine, bottle in hand, and willed yourself not to cry.

If only it were so easy to wash your brain clean.

Unknown Number (Possibly: Adrian Chase): you were right to break up with me Unknown Number (Possibly: Adrian Chase): i won’t bother you again

But time heals all wounds, right? And time was certainly making a valiant effort at it. 

Your best friend had made you re-download Hinge, your coworkers at the coffee shop had all consulted on your profile, and you were officially back on the market after much protest and turmoil. Of course, dating would require your heart to be “in it”, which it certainly was not. But some casual dating to take your mind off of things surely couldn’t go amiss.

That was, of course, until Vigilante showed up.

The first time seemed like pure coincidence. 

It just so happened that Vigilante was in a foot chase with some low level criminal or another and ended up knocking over the outdoor dining table you had been sitting at with your first Hinge date. That could happen to anyone! Especially in godforsaken Evergreen.

In the end, it was actually kind of fortuitous that Vigilante had shattered a perfectly good table in your lap. Your date had turned out to be some kind of red pill loser who listened to Andrew Tate like it was mindful meditation. He had just been going on about “low value females” when glass and ceramic and wood exploded and spared you from another second of any of that bullshit. You were…weirdly grateful to Vigilante?

He stood up from the table, dusted himself off and held out the purse to a woman standing breathless on the sidewalk a few feet away. He kicked the purse thief in the ribs for good measure, waved at you and started to take off.

“Wait!”

You weren’t sure why you said it. You stooped to collect the hunting knife that’d fallen off his…utility belt?...and offered it to him. He came back and reached for the knife, but for some reason your fingers had been unable to let go. At the time you’d chalked it up to some kind of panic response - your brain synapses simply weren’t firing correctly. Shock. Or something. It was only later that the real reason became startlingly clear. 

You’d been struck by the odd desire to keep him close. 

“Uh…thanks, citizen?” he said with a clumsy attempt to disguise his voice. You released the knife into his grasp unwillingly.

“Why do you sound like that?” you asked, crossing your arms over your chest. 

“Like what? I don’t sound like anything. I just sound like me. Vigilante.”

“No,” you replied, shaking your head. “Why are you doing a weird voice? You sound like Yoda swallowed Kermit the Frog.”

“That’s…no I don’t!”

You paused for a long moment, trying to place the vaguely familiar insistence in his tone. “We’ve met before.”

“N-no we haven’t,” he said lowly, a tremble in his voice. “Because I - I would definitely remember meeting you.”

It was strange, how you felt a little dejected that he didn’t remember that night. In his defense, it had been over a year. Probably a little after you and Adrian had originally started to become friends, actually. 

You’d been walking home one night and he’d appeared out of nowhere - handed you the earbud you hadn’t realized had fallen out of your pocket about two blocks prior and then just…stayed. Walked you home in a companionable quiet (which you remembered thinking was weird, because all the reports you’d heard and the late night Reddit posts you’d read about him mentioned how chatty he was) and disappeared the moment you were safely in your apartment with the deadbolt slid into place.

At the time you’d thought: he probably did that sort of thing all the time, right?

Of course, now you knew better.

That first date had ended with your date looking back and forth between you and Vigilante, before calling you a “freak bitch” and leaving you splattered in salad dressing with a check to cover.

What, in all likelihood would have technically been the second time Vigilante crashed your date, you’d gotten ghosted instead.

So maybe you decided to have a drink or two while you waited for what had clearly become a total, radio-silent abandonment. And maybe you’d not eaten anything beforehand because it was supposed to be a dinner date. And you’d fucking driven yourself there but your ass would be walking home. 

It was probably for the best - you were pretty sure you’d only matched with the ghoster because he had glasses that reminded you of Adrian. 

Of course Vigilante was standing in the parking lot when you tripped out the front door. You walked straight past him and straight past your car and you didn’t even bother to look to see if he was following. Somehow, you knew he was. 

He fell into step beside you silently, somehow feeling not like a threat, but a gentle comfort. A wordless offer of companionship.

“I imagine you’re not on any dating apps, Vigilante, so you don’t get it, but it’s fucking bleak out here,” you complained. “There are no good men left on this Earth. I finally had one who was good and he still managed to let me down in the end.”

“How?” came the gruff, muffled, accented reply. You stumbled on the uneven sidewalk and your hand flew to his bicep just as his hands wrapped around your waist. You didn’t pull back, you just stared up at him, hoping maybe your drunk self would see something your sober self couldn’t.

“It’s…hard to explain,” you replied, scrunching your brow as you studied his featureless face, head tilted back slightly to look up at him.

“Try me,” he said, his voice painfully soft. For not the first time you wondered what the man under the mask was really like. You reluctantly released your hold on his arm, and, in turn, his fingers drifted away from your waist. You started walking again, weighing whether there was any harm in unburdening your heart to Vigilante.

“Adrian was the first guy I dated who really and truly made me feel loved? Like I never doubted that he adored me. And I think because of that I was willing to overlook some things for a long time. And then suddenly one day I realized he’d disappear a lot, or be vague about where he was or sometimes he was straight up lying to me. And it didn’t matter how much I thought he loved me because his actions proved that maybe I shouldn’t have been so certain,” you explained, really focusing on your words, wondering in the back of your brain if you sounded like a drunk idiot. 

When he didn’t say anything, you continued, “I’ve dated more than my fair share of guys who cheated or fucked around and even though I felt so certain Adrian wasn’t like that, there was still this doubt in the back of my mind that overweighed everything else. Maybe he wasn’t cheating but I’d given people the benefit of the doubt in the past and always been sorry in the end. Cheating or not - which, I’ll be honest, I find really hard to believe he was cheating because of the way he’d…um, actually you don’t need to hear about that! Uh, cheating or not, he was keeping something from me.”

Vigilante’s decisive lack of response kept your drunk mouth running. “I think the worst part is I maybe miss him? Or, not maybe, I know I miss him. I think about him all the time even when I try not to. I even miss his quirks – of which he had many, let me tell you! But I guess that’s what happens when you love someone that much. And now I’m worried maybe that was the best it’ll ever get for me and it’s gone and I fucked everything up forever.”

You could feel his gaze on you but you didn’t indulge it. You were too busy thinking about the thing you knew you shouldn’t say, the most painful, stupid, ugly part of it all. “The worst part is that it makes me feel like there’s something wrong with me? That there’s something inherently unlovable about me baked into my DNA or something. Why else would all these guys cheat on me, or lie to me, or whatever? Like there must be something fundamentally wrong with me. I’m the common denominator.”

You felt his gloved hand scrape at your elbow, fingers pressing into the skin firmly. 

“I didn’t know you felt that way,” came his quiet reply finally, his voice strangely ragged. You squinted up at him. 

“Yeah, well, why would you?” you asked, genuinely confused.

“I…wouldn’t,” he replied slowly, before nodding emphatically.

“Right…”

“Right.”

You weren’t totally sure if he was being confusing or you were just drunk? Maybe both?

You turned and found yourself at your apartment door. You blinked for a moment - you’d been so preoccupied you didn’t even remember marching up the stairs. Wait, did it mean that he did remember walking you home all those months ago? Or you’d just led him right straight there. Again. A total psycho knew where you lived.

“Good night,” he said suddenly in that stupid put-on voice. Your heart leapt into your throat anyway. Were you that desperate? 

“Good night, Kermit Yoda,” you taunted, flashing him a smile as you closed the door and you definitely didn’t wobble on your feet. You made an auditory show of dramatically flipping the deadbolt and sliding the chain lock into place. 

“Fuck.” You heard him whisper from the other side of the door in a voice that sounded much more real than the one you’d come to know. There was a small thump and you wondered if you looked through the peephole you’d see his forehead resting against the door. 

You decided it was better not to know.

You leaned with your back against the door and pulled out your phone. Against your better judgment, you scrolled through your old texts until you found the Unknown Number (Possibly: Adrian Chase) thread that you’d been so good about not looking at. Mostly. You hadn’t had the heart to block him, but you’d deleted his number to remove the temptation. And true to his word he hadn’t bothered you again.

You dragged your thumb along the edge of the screen as you debated. Maybe there would be no harm in just…checking in on him? You were still somehow unaccustomed to the total lack of him in your life after a year that was so full of him. You’d find yourself missing him in tiny ways over and over again, even if you were loathe to admit it. There was a stupid, Adrian Chase sized hole in your heart. 

Your other hand drifted into the waistband of your jeans. What if you opened the door and invited Vigilante inside to fill something else of yours? Maybe you could bite into one of those biceps of his and convince him to let you call him Adrian.

Fuck. Fuckfuckfuck. What the fuck was wrong with you? You pulled your hand from your pants, closed your messages and opened Hinge instead. 

The second time (ghosting date notwithstanding) was perhaps the strangest of all.

It was quick drinks at a bar downtown before he suggested you two hit the club. You could tell what he was after the moment you’d laid eyes on him, but you didn’t mind. You’d been meaning to fuck Adrian Chase right out of your system (and apparently Vigilante, too) and your date was easy on the eyes, if a little smarmy. You could deal with that if it meant getting railed so hard you forgot your own name. Though, if you were judging by the rhythm of his hips as he grinded against you, you might be out of luck on that front.

“Club’s a front for drug smuggling!” a familiar voice called as it passed you, so casual your brain didn’t process it until a moment later. You barely had time to react before Vigilante was pulling a gun and executing the club owner right in front of everyone. Your mouth dropped open and for a second you swore he was turning back to look at you, like he was looking for your approval.

Then, the club burst into understandable chaos. People went running for the door, shouts filling the room in lieu of music. Someone knocked straight into you and you hit the deck hard. You managed to get yourself onto your knees (the drink-slick floor was not agreeing with your choice of shoewear) when your date’s hand appeared in front of you. You grasped onto it, grateful for your only lifeline, and opened your mouth to thank him when you realized rather suddenly that the hand was gloved and attached to the rest of fucking Vigilante.

“Are you okay?” he asked, sounding strangely breathless.

You yanked your hand out of his and scowled at him. “That was really fucked up.”

“I thought you said drugs weren’t your scene,” he snipped back. Was that some sort of accusation? It felt loaded with a meaning you couldn’t quite parse. The club music was still blasting and you’d just watched Vigilante kill a man in front of your very eyes. Your brain was…not thinking clearly. 

Still, it reminded you of something distant. Or someone.

“What?”

“Nothing!” he exclaimed. Then he looked over his shoulder and you both processed that the dead club owner’s security seemed to be getting themselves together, hands reaching into jackets for what you could only imagine were concealed weapons. He spun you around and pushed you towards the door. 

“Oh! I ordered you an Uber: silver Honda Civic, license plate JG8566, Jamil has a 4.9 star rating. Get home safe!” he chattered at you before pushing you out the front door and onto the sidewalk. The heavy metal door slammed shut behind you. 

The driver of a small Honda Civic waved at you from across the street. He poked his head out the window. “Uber for Vigilante?”

You looked around furtively to see if anyone had heard him and then with a hearty sigh you stepped off the curb.

The third time was the time that really pushed you over the edge.

Your new date had taken you to one of those trendy places-of-the-week that filled a niche so specific you weren’t sure how they sustained a business on “boutique rice pudding”. As it turned out, they didn’t. In fact, it turned out that Rice to Riches was a money laundering scheme. 

A money laundering scheme that Evergreen’s own Vigilante had taken upon himself to break up right in the middle of your date. He’d breezed right in the front door, waving at you as he passed. For a moment you presumed you were actively hallucinating. But the sound of a fight in the kitchen had you realizing otherwise. You listened to the sound of fists hitting flesh over and over and by the time your brain was able to properly have the feeling that you should definitely leave, Vigilante was standing at your table.

“Hey!” He was still doing the stupid voice, apparently. 

“Hi?”

“So, just a heads up this place was a money laundering front.”

“Okaaaay,” you drawled, uncertain of how you were supposed to respond to that info. “You know, a heads up usually comes before you murder a bunch of people.”

“Oh, I didn’t murder anyone. They’re just uhhhhh out cold. Tied up,” he replied in a way that was utterly unconvincing. 

“Jesus Christ,” you muttered. You turned to your date to say something but he was white as a sheet, his fingers still gripping his spoon while his mouth hung open, slack jawed. 

“Are you on a date?” he asked flippantly, examining the fingers of his gloves as if he were casually looking at his nails. 

“Yes?”

“You sure go on a lot of dates.”

Wait a minute, did Vigilante think you were a slut?

“Three dates is not a lot of dates. And, not that it’s any of your business but…I’m trying to get back out there after a really shitty break up. Is that a fucking crime?”

His sure-fire posture shifted slightly and he crossed his arms over his chest. Your gaze caught on his biceps and suddenly your fingers itched with the memory of them. God damnit. “Maybe it should be.”

Your brow furrowed. Was he fucking pouting? You were indignant, and feeling a little reckless. “Well, then, Vigilante, go on - put that dumbass sword on your back to good use and kill me.” 

“Uh…do you two know each other?” your date asked. You blinked at him dumbly - you’d forgotten he was there. 

“No!” you and Vigilante snapped at the same time. You stared hard at him, trying to make out anything beyond that stupid red visor of his. 

“Look, you seem nice but this has been deeply weird, sooo I’m gonna go,” your date said, but not before taking his rice pudding with him. You couldn’t blame him - for a money laundering scheme the pudding was really good.

You whipped back towards Vigilante as the bell sounded over the front door and the only person with a lick of common sense in the scenario fled the scene.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” you demanded. You clarified before he could shrug it off, “Why are you so hell bent on ruining all my dates?”

He laughed, an awkward, strained sound that devolved into a cough as he clearly tried to disguise the sound. “Um, selfish much?”

“Excuse me?”

“You really think the world revolves around you so much that I’m specifically trying to interrupt your little dates or whatever?” he scoffed, apparently intent on doubling down on his unusual attempt at indifference. “I’m a little busy fighting crime to worry about your inept dating life, dude.”

You narrowed your gaze at him, almost positive he was lying. But the alternative did seem insane. He sighed. “What possible reason could I have for wanting to keep you from dating?”

“I don’t…I don’t know,” you admitted. What else were you meant to say? There was no proof, not really. But you didn’t believe in coincidences.

“Oh, so he’s like…in love with you?” your friend said when you’d finally finished recounting the strangest weeks of your life.

Coffee threatened to spill out of your nose as you choked, “What?”

One of your regulars piped up from their usual table by the counter. “Oh, yeah, no I agree. It sounds like he’s totally in love with you.”

“On what planet is he – oh my god, there’s no way, guys!” you argued, even if the sinking feeling in your stomach said otherwise. Was it possible? And if it was – why? Why you?

You waved them both off. “He doesn’t even know me.”

Even if you were unconvinced of some kind of undying love you were convinced that it was all on purpose. Fate had often been unkind to you in the past, but it was a level of sadism that even you could not believe existed naturally in the universe. 

And all of it – the failed dates, the weird, strangely intimate encounters, the skin-crawling feeling of being followed, the gnawing feeling of familiarity – had led you to a totally logical, reasonable plan: set a trap for Vigilante. 

So maybe you’d spent maybe a little too much time planning it. Thoroughly vetting the restaurant, the people who ran it, pouring through social media accounts and a background check on your date - certifying that there was no off-hand excuse for Vigilante to crash your date.

No crimes, no drug fronts, no nefarious owners. Just an above-the-board night out with a nice guy. It was your own little challenge to him, a desperate bid to prove your theory right. If he crashed this date you would know for sure that this wasn’t just some weird cosmic intervention and that he was doing it on purpose. 

“Are you okay?” your date asked. Alex? Andrew? Adrian? (NO, definitely not.) Fuck. What was his name again? “You seem a little…distracted.”

You dragged your gaze back to him and put on a carefully practiced smile. “I’m so sorry. I am distracted, you’re right. And that’s not fair to you.”

“Anything I can help with?” he offered with a lift of his brows and a small tilt of his head. He took a sip of his drink, waiting for you to fill in the blanks for him. Adam! Adam seemed…nice. And you were…toootally blowing him off. You sighed, defeated, and smiled apologetically. 

“It’s going to sound crazy,” you started, raking your hands over your face.

Adam smiled. “Try me.”

You shifted slightly in your seat. “Okay, so you know Vigilante?”

“Vaguely? The costumed maniac who works with Peacemaker and is somehow not in jail?”

You chuckled. “That’s the one. Well, uh, I think he might be – ” In love with me? But you figured that was not the right thing to say on a first date. Was the alternative really much better? “Stalking me?”

Adam choked on his sip of wine. “What?”

“Or it’s total, weird karmic coincidence that he just keeps showing up where I am!” you offered. Adam’s head tilted slightly to the side, bewilderment written across his handsome features. 

“How many times has this happened exactly?”

“Four. Give or take. Not counting the time he walked me home like a year ago.”

“Sorry, Vigilante walked you home?” he asked in disbelief.

“Yeah, I know how it sounds.”

Adam’s eyes studied you for a moment before he turned and flagged your waiter down. Damn it, you thought, he doesn’t even need to be here to ruin dates for me. Maybe you’d have to store the Vigilante card in your pocket for some bad date down the line. 

But instead, Adam leaned back in his chair and smiled at the waiter. “I think we’re going to need another glass of wine. And what’s the best dessert you’ve got?”

When the waiter disappeared to fetch both things he leaned his elbows on the table. “Okay, start from the beginning.”

Outside the restaurant you two did the awkward dance between lingering and saying good night once and for all. With both your rides ordered the two of you stood waiting, close together. (It was cold! Who could blame a girl?) Adam reached up and tucked a strand of your hair behind your ear.

“Listen, I’m really hoping I don’t get a visit from Vigilante later for this, but, uh, can I kiss you?” Adam asked. His sandy hair was given an orange halo by the streetlight above you both. He really was handsome in a sort of everyman kind of way. Considerate, kind, easy to look at and not Vigilante – you nodded. His lips pressed against yours gently and something that felt almost like guilt twisted in the base of your stomach. 

When his car rolled up first he offered to stay with you but you’d waved him off. “Can’t lose you to Vigilante, now can I?”

He pressed a kiss to your cheek and made you promise to text when you got home safe. The second his car disappeared around the block your driver cancelled on you. You’d already waited an eternity and getting a rideshare in downtown Evergreen on a Friday night was a nightmare scenario. Besides, the walk would be good for you. There was plenty to think about on the way home. Like…

Where the fuck was Vigilante?

Maybe you were back to the drawing board entirely. You’d been so convinced he was doing it on purpose, but maybe you’d been wrong? Maybe it really was just all coincidence? What a weird, specific curse to have upon you. 

And then you heard the footsteps behind you.

The feeling of being followed was familiar now, unfortunately expected, but when you whipped around the very clear glint of a knife pointed at you, well…that was new.

“Oh!” you managed to squeak out. It wasn’t Vigilante at all. Instead, you were face to face with some guy who was very clearly trying to mug you. 

“Jesus Christ,” you sighed.

“Give me your purse, bitch!” 

You raked a hand over your face. “Please don’t do this. I’ve been having a really shitty few months and I’m - ”

“Shut the fuck up!”

“Listen, asshole, I’m just trying to warn you. Vigilante has been stalking me so you probably don’t want to fuck with me.”

You didn’t think you’d get to play the card so soon! A strange delight unfurled in your gut. Maybe invoking his name would somehow finally make him appear. Your life in danger would be his very own Bat Signal. 

The man faltered slightly before tightening his grip on his knife. “Why would Vigilante be stalking you?”

“You know, man with knife, that’s a really good question,” you said, nodding thoughtfully. The strange sense of calm running through you really should have been more alarming. You felt yourself take a step towards him and his expression shifted into pure confusion. Maybe that was good. Maybe you could actually handle this yourself. Maybe this was like when people gave advice to out-freak your would-be attacker. Maybe –

A single gunshot silenced the rest of that train of thought. Hot blood splattered against your clothes, your cheek, in your slightly open mouth.

“Oh my god,” you managed, frozen for just a moment before bending to spit onto the sidewalk. You lifted the hem of your sweater to your mouth to scrape the taste of blood out of your mouth while you tried desperately not to gag.

“Nice! I’ve been looking everywhere for this guy!” Vigilante cheered, a slight hop in his step as he crossed the street to where you stood.

“Are you okay?” he asked, giving your shoulder a slight nudge with his own. You at least had the good sense to recoil from his touch. His hands shot up to shoulder height, palms towards you in a show of reassurance.

“Sorry! I was running a little late. Did I miss your date?”

“Yeah, you did,” you replied, realizing a moment too late that you sounded a little disappointed. Seriously, what the fuck was wrong with you? “I even got a good night kiss. Which, before you say anything, is not a crime.”

Tension visibly rippled through Vigilante’s muscles. “Was he…was he good to you?”

“He was very nice.”

“That’s it? Just ‘very nice’? Sounds kind of lame to me!”

“Well, he’s not you.”

“Not me good, or not me…bad?” he asked quietly. 

You faltered a moment, genuinely unsure. Sure, the stupid, depraved thought had been knocking around in your head for a little while now. That while Vigilante was actively ruining your dating life, at least he was somewhat consistent. At least he showed up for you. And maybe there was something kind of hot about the mask now that you thought about it.

God damnit, you really needed to get away from him before you did something stupid. So, you continued walking towards your apartment, thinking maybe he’d have to stay behind to deal with the body. But instead he just followed along with you like some hapless dog.

“For one thing, he didn’t just murder someone in front of me again,” you said instead of really answering the question.

He put his hands on his hips. “That guy was going to hurt you. You’re telling me you would have preferred I let him stab you in the face over a purse? That would be a total waste of a really good face.”

“No! I’m not saying that, I’m saying…fuck I don’t know, Vij,” you sighed. He froze, a particular tension to his posture. But your brain was busy playing catch up with the fact that he’d said you had a…good face? 

“Say that again,” he murmured. Something was so, so familiar about the cadence, the desperation. An impossible thought prickled at the back of your mind and you batted it away.

“Say what again?” you asked.

“Call me Vij. I like it when you say it.”

A shudder rolled down your spine, involuntary and unwelcome. You struggled against the feeling settling in your gut. “Not until you admit that you’ve been trying to ruin my dating life.”

“Why would I admit that?” he scoffed. “Or, um, I mean, uhhh…I told you before, I think that’s a really self-centered way of looking at the world. To assume that just because I happen to show up at all your dates and they happen to be interrupted or end badly while I’m around doesn’t mean that I’m doing it on purpose! And actually, as a feminist, I find that kind of assumption offensive.”

“Oh really?” 

“Yes, really! I think all women should be allowed to date whoever they want!”

“All women?” you asked.

“Mhmm!”

“Even me?” you continued to press.

His shoulders shifted slightly. “Yup!”

“And so I should be able to fuck whoever I want as much as I want?”

His entire body went stiff as he seemingly tried to force himself to nod.

“For sure. Yes! Definitely! Go off, diva! Have sooooo much sex. Like maybe even have too much!” he rambled. You just stared at him with wide eyes. Then he laughed sharply, and the familiarity of it ran through your whole body. There was no way… “I mean, can one even have too much sex? Probably not!”

You tilted your head slightly. “Are you okay?”

“Can I admit something?” he asked, the question bursting out of him like he’d been biting his tongue, his voice sounding strained. He waited for your sharp nod before he continued, “I’ve been trying to ruin your dating life.”

You faltered. “What?”

“Yeah, ha, you totally caught me!” He scratched at the back of his neck and again that sense of familiarity ran through you like ice in your veins.

“You know, my friends think it’s because you’re totally in love with me.”

His head tilted slightly and you would have given anything to see the expression on his actual face. “Oh! Well, probably because I am.”

For a moment you could practically smell the short-circuiting happening in your brain. “You…huh?” 

He shifted awkwardly from one foot to the other as you both stood at the bottom of your apartment complex stairs. “Sorry, I thought it was obvious?”

“Why else are you doing all this?”

“Is love not enough these days?” he joked breathlessly. 

Something like panic started to crawl down your spine. You had, of course, considered the possibility, but faced with the simple truth of it you didn’t know what to do or say. So you did the only thing you could think of in the moment - you turned wordlessly and walked up the steps towards your apartment. You fished your keys out of your bag, fingers brushing over the lock before you turned back around to look at him one more time. 

It was a mistake. 

You couldn’t believe it. You were about to do something so, so fucking stupid. But the theory brewing in the back of your mind needed to be accounted for. 

“Aren’t you going to kiss me goodnight?” 

No sooner had you asked then Vigilante ducked his head down and pressed his mouth to yours, fabric scraping at your chin. You made a noise of surprise, muffled against his mask, as he pushed you back against your front door. All you could taste was polyester and sweat and something metallic. His tongue tried to lick desperately into your mouth but was constrained behind the fabric, now wet and sticking to your skin and his. It was entirely unsatisfying, frustrating even, but still you couldn’t deny the warmth spreading in your stomach. 

So you slid your fingers up his suit until you were prying at fabric, pushing it up until his hands grabbed your wrists firmly and made you stop. He pinned your arms down at your sides but still you leaned back to examine the small stretch of canvas he’d allowed you, taking in the pale expanse of his neck, the very bottom of his face. Even in the dim light something about it was familiar.

You leaned forward and peppered kisses to his exposed skin until you reached his uncovered mouth and waited. He surged forward, kissing you for real this time - nothing but wet lips and eager tongues and hot breath and his hands fisted into the fabric of your shirt as he yanked you against him and – oh. 

You pulled back.

“What the fuck?” you panted. If you’d felt insane moments before, you now felt the Earth had completely flipped on its axis the moment your lips had touched his. 

Because you knew that mouth. 

“Adrian?” 

“Um…who?” he attempted. 

“Take the mask off right now,” you ordered, pulling away from his grasp. 

“I can’t, I, uh, well, I’d have to kill you! If you saw my face! Because, you know - secret identity,” he scrambled. Oh my god. How had you not realized it sooner? You really were a fucking idiot.

“You won’t kill me,” you said firmly, crossing your arms over your chest. 

“You don’t know that!”

“I do. And besides, I already know what your face looks like, Adrian Chase,” you snapped.

He looked frantically over his shoulder. “Can we please talk about this inside?” 

“Why the fuck would I let Vigilante inside my apartment?” you asked. 

“C’mon, please don’t be like that,” he whined. 

“Like what? Seriously, tell me why I should let a stranger who is a murderous superhero wannabe into my home,” you said, putting your hands on your hips. “I’ll wait.”

“I don’t wanna be pedantic but you did just let Vigilante put his tongue in your mouth, so, I’m not really sure what the difference is?”

You stood your ground. You just wanted to hear him admit it. Because you knew him and you knew he’d cave.

“Fine! Fuck! It’s me, Adrian!” he exclaimed in a rather loud whisper. You rolled your eyes at him and he reached up to take the mask the rest of the way off.

“Jesus Christ, don’t! Don’t do that out here, you idiot!” you gasped and reached up to stop him. You cursed under your breath as you unlocked your door and then dragged him inside, your fingers hooked under the chest plate of his suit. With the door closed behind him and the lock safely in place, Adrian reached up and pulled the mask off with a gasp.

He stared at you with those wide, bright green eyes of his and smiled from ear to ear. “See, you do care about me still!”

You shifted uncomfortably and avoided his gaze directly. You knew exactly what it was like to fall into those eyes and you weren’t totally convinced you’d be able to climb your way back out. 

“No, I care about my nosy neighbors seeing me with a wanted criminal.”

“Sure,” he agreed, clearly sarcastic. He fished his glasses out his pocket and slid them onto his face. For some reason, seeing your Adrian - glasses and all - in the Vigilante suit was more befuddling than it was before. Worse still, it was also strangely arousing.

And then it hit you like running headfirst into a brick wall.

This is what he’d been hiding the whole time. 

“Why?” you asked, somehow the only word you could seem to muster.

“You’re gonna have to be a little more specific…”

“Why the fuck were you lying to me about this, Adrian?”

“I mean, not to be technical but I was lying to you about other stuff. You never asked me if I was Vigilante!”

You rolled your eyes and groaned. “Well, pardon me for not thinking to ask if my boyfriend is the psychopath running around Evergreen killing people for minor infractions! Adrian, you’re weird but you’re like…sweet weird. You don’t exactly give off psycho-killer vibes.”

“Qu’est-ce que c’est?”

You punched him straight in the arm. “Please be serious right now!”

“Sorry! I couldn’t help it! That song is so funny. Because like, what is this, you know? They’re really asking the right questions.”

“I cannot believe I spent a year dating you,” you sighed.

“Hey!”

“You don’t get to ‘hey’ me! You’ve been living a double life for…wait, was it the whole time we were together?”

Adrian chewed at his lower lip. “Maybe.”

“Adrian!”

“Yeah, okay, the whole time we were together and also like…for a while now.”

Your mind was reeling, trying to deal with the puzzle pieces and details and – oh yeah, the gnawing of your own presumed morality at the back of your brain. The man you loved was a killer. And maybe you loved the killer, too.

“When you disappeared for three days were you…doing Vigilante shit?”

“Oh, ha! Yeah, I was on a super serious top secret mission,” Adrian laughed. Then he took in your expression and he, too, sombered. “I wanted to tell you then. I wanted to explain. That night on your doorstep I planned to…um, but when I came back…when you told me we were breaking up, that you couldn’t trust me, I…I think it broke something in my brain. But I also realized you were right to break up with me. That actually you’re safer when you’re not dating me. I couldn’t live with myself if someone were to somehow trace me back to you. But then I realized that I could protect you as Vigilante, even if I couldn’t protect you as Adrian.”

“I didn’t want to break up with you, you know that, right?” you asked quietly. Something like a glimmer of hope flashed in his bright green eyes. “But I had to protect my heart.”

“What if…do you think there’s a chance you could let me protect that, too?” he asked, voice quiet and unsteady. “That’s what I’ve been trying to do.”

“Is that what you think you’ve been doing this whole time? Protecting me?” you asked, genuinely trying to understand the way his clearly warped brain worked.

“I know I don’t deserve it, but you do. You deserve the world. Because you’re not the common denominator in a sea of shitty men. You’re like a bright star that everyone is drawn to. And bright lights attract some losers, too and…I think I’m losing track of the metaphor but all I really mean to say is: you’re exceptional.”

Call it weakness, call it stupidity, call it what it was: a kindling breath on a flame you’d tried desperately to snuff out. You loved him.

It was unclear if it was you who leaned forward first or him but either way you found your head pressed against his chest, his arms sure and firm around you. 

“I have to ask — how did you know it was me?”

“I had my suspicions,” you laughed. Though clearly not enough. “But I knew for certain the second my lips touched yours.”

Adrian well and truly cackled. He lit up all over, exactly the same man you’d fallen in love with the first time you’d met him. Just with a little…more than you could have conceived of before. Maybe you weren’t ready to admit it to him quite yet, but a part of you clamored to get to properly know Vigilante, too. There was a whole new, strange, thrilling part of Adrian Chase for you to discover.

“I can’t believe you recognized my mouth, dude! That’s kind of insanely romantic if you think about it!”

“Yeah, I’m actively choosing not to think about it, thanks!” you retorted. Then, because for some reason you couldn’t help it, “I mean, I’m very familiar with that mouth’s work, it would be a crime if I didn’t recognize it.”

“Are you flirting with me right now?” Adrian asked, the question half a gasp, half a squeal of excitement.

“No! I don’t know! Maybe a little bit! Fuck! I can’t help it.” You scrubbed at your face with both hands like maybe you’d be able to wipe it all away. “It’s like…in me, you know?”

“What is?”

“Everything about you. I see your face and it’s like you’re hardwired in my skull and in my heart. I could have gone on one hundred dates or none and it wouldn’t have made a difference at all, because none of them were you!” you exclaimed, breathless. You knew Adrian well enough to know you were maybe being too flowery for his very literal brain to fully comprehend.

“Me Adrian or me Vigilante?” he asked, surprising you.

You forced yourself to meet his gaze and then gave a defeated shrug. “Both, I think.”

“Fuck, I think that’s the nicest and the coolest and the hottest thing anyone’s ever said to me,” Adrian murmured. He pulled you tight against him by the hips. “Can I kiss you again? I think I need to or else I’ll die.”

You answered him by pressing your lips to his, his chin captured in your hand, fingers pressed firmly into the skin – just enough pressure, not too much or too little for dear, sweet, Adrian. You kissed him hungrily, which seemed to take him delightfully by surprise, if the noises he made were anything to judge by. His tongue scraped over your teeth, and you bit at his lower lip and pulled. His fingers pressed so hard into your hips you thought they might bruise and you also thought you didn’t give a fuck. Adrian’s mouth travelled from your lips to your jaw to your neck. He sucked at the skin just below your ear and you knew he was trying to mark you as his. That was the question, wasn’t it? Were you willing to be his again, knowing what you know? 

It was utterly incongruous: your perception of Adrian, the man you’d loved and practically lived with for an entire year versus Vigilante, a man you knew to be a totally cold-blooded, obsessive killer. Did it make a difference if it was in the name of justice? You had seen on the news when he’d been involved with saving the planet from those butterfly alien things with Peacemaker. How was he the kind of guy who could play D&D for hours, and talk incessantly about Pokemon, and kiss you so gently, and also the kind of guy who kicked criminal ass with no remorse and saved the planet from alien invasion?

“What are you thinking?” he asked, pulling back suddenly. He had that gentle, focused look in his eye that you knew all too well. 

“I think I should probably be scared of you,” you replied honestly. His tight hold on you loosened almost imperceptibly, but still you felt it. Of course you did.

“I would never hurt you,” he whispered. “Please believe me.”

“I do. And, I also think you’ve permanently fucked up the wiring in my brain,” you grumbled against his mouth.

“Does this mean we’re getting back together?” he asked, and you could practically feel the excitement of the idea thrumming through his body. 

“Maybe,” you offered. He deflated slightly. “If we’re going to try and figure this out then there’s no more secrets between us, okay?”

Adrian nodded. “Sick! I mean, now you basically know all my secrets. Except, I guess, about all the drugs and blood money in my basement.”

“The what now?”

He darted forward and peppered your forehead, your eyelids, your cheeks with kisses. Somewhere between them all he managed to say, “Thank you for giving me another chance. I’ve missed you so fucking much.”

“Hard to miss someone when you’re stalking them, Adrian,” you reminded him.

“But I miss you every time I blink,” Adrian breathed, wide-eyed and stupidly adorable and achingly earnest. Your fingers itched for every part of him but you refrained, hooking your fingers into the chest plate of his Vigilante armor. 

“I need to hear you say it – no more secrets. We are both totally honest with each other, for better or worse,” you demanded.

Adrian nodded, a wide grin on his lips. “I’ll never keep anything from you ever again. You can trust me, I promise. In fact, I promise on Peacemaker’s life! He’s the only thing I cherish in this life even remotely close to you, so you know I mean it. If I was gonna swear on the most important thing, well, that would be you, but I figured that’s a little counterproductive to the whole swearing on something thing.”

When you kissed again it wasn’t hungry any more. It was slow, it was deep, it was an acknowledgment that you had all the time in the world. Your fingers wove into his curls and pulled tightly, just the way you knew he liked. Because you knew him. He groaned his approval into your mouth and he wrapped around you, practically enveloping you. The next thing you knew his hands were under your ass and he was supporting you so you could wrap your legs around his waist. He carried you effortlessly towards your bedroom, pausing along the way to press your back to the wall and kiss you even deeper, his fingers needy and clumsy at the hem of your shirt. His fingers, still gloved, scraped across the skin of your stomach, reacquainting themselves with familiar territory. 

His lips didn’t leave yours the entire time, even as he carried you to your bed and laid you down like the most precious thing on the planet. He leaned over you, hands pressed into the mattress, you hooking your fingers into the straps on the front of his suit to try and pull him as close as humanly possible. Things blurred into a hot, slow, haze of Adrian. 

Suddenly, you drew back with a gasp, both desperate for air and with another gnawing question on your tongue.

“Wait wait! You didn’t kill any of those guys I went on dates with, right?”

“Only the first one,” he said with a kind of severity that sent a chill down your spine and had you anticipating the feeling of him between your thighs in equal measure. Then you realized, somewhat dreamily, that Adrian already was in between your thighs. So you squeezed your legs around him tighter – you weren’t letting him go again. Adrian Chase really had ruined you forever.

“And what crime did he commit?” you asked against his mouth, your arms snaking around his neck.

“Being an asshole to the person I love most in the world.”

Then he unhooked your legs so he could slide down your body until he was kneeling at the edge of your bed. His fingers made quick work of your pants and yours pressed into the mattress as he made himself at home between your thighs like no time had passed at all.

Adrian watched you sleep for some time, your limbs tangled with his, you asleep in one of the oversized shirts he’d left behind, the poster of Fargo printed across your chest. The evening had gone better than he could have ever planned. And he had done a lot of planning. 

Sure, he hadn’t anticipated your date kissing you, but it didn’t even bother him anymore. But he’d heard what that stupid guy had said to you while he was hidden out of sight. 

Can’t lose you to Vigilante, now can I?

Now the mugger had been a total coincidence but one that made him look so cool and tough. He’d saved you from death, not just a shitty date with some stupid guy! Extra points for Vigilante! He’d high five himself if he could.

Adrian moved slowly, making sure not to disturb you in the slightest. He got distracted for a long moment just watching you sleep peacefully, a ghost of a smile on your beautiful mouth.

When he slipped back into the bed he had the Vigilante mask on and your phone in his hand. He cuddled up behind you and then tucked his chin into the crook of your neck. He ensured the flash was off and then took a picture. He opened your texts and found Adam (Hinge) with ease.

He attached the photo and then, smiling from ear to ear, typed:

You lose.

breaking up is hard to do taglist: @sideblogmeanz @danversxwasabi @countvonklit @tlfg-adrianchase @bunch-of-bens @lovenerdywhitemen2 @morguegrl89

gen adrian taglist: @countvonklit @tlfg-adrianchase

"I'll totally call you later, um thanks I had a great time!" Adrian told you once his pants had dried the next morning. 

"Oh you can stay a little longer if you'd like I don't have any clients what with the store being trashed..." You hardly got out half your sentence before he'd shimmied his jeans on and ran out the door.

Adrian dashed towards the Sebring, shoes in hand. He had to find out who the fuck did this to your store.

But the day went by and you didn't receive a single call or text from him as promised. 

Because he was preoccupied with solving the crime as Vigilante now. Also he had another important matter to contend with.

"Hey BFF." Adrian walked up to Chris in the lunch room with that look on his face whenever he had an insane question.

Chris put down his lunch as a precaution before answering with, "Yeah buddy?" 

"Have you ever been with a girl and kinda finished like way too soon?" Adrian asked loudly, not noticing the looks he drew from Sasha and Adebayo at the table directly across.

This had never happened to him before. If anything during the threesomes it was the opposite problem and he couldn't finish. 

"What's way too soon?" Chris willed everything within himself not to laugh when he saw the severity in Adrian's demeanour.

"I creamed my jeans when she gave me a lap dance around...two minutes thirty in." 

That was a total lie, it was more like a minute tops. You were just so sexy in that spider lingerie, his jerk off material come to life in a gorgeous goddess form. 

Adrian wanted to make sure it didn't happen again and try to last longer next time for you. Only if you'd still wanted there be a next time of course! 

"Well I've personally never experienced that before, but it's normal to sometimes happen to dudes. Isn't that right Economos? Got any tips for Adrian?" Chris shot over to John who flipped him off.

"Oh fuck right off, I have never finished that quick before..." John stopped when he saw Adrian's face fall. "But uh yeah what Chris said it's normal or whatever." 

"Damn what kind of magic lap dance was this?" Langston got into the conversation, sipping his coffee by the machine.

"She was role playing as Lolth the man-hating Spider Queen of the drow off d&d and touching my hair." Adrian explained, assuming they'd all get it. To his surprise only John sort of half nodded. 

"What happened after?" Harcourt needed to know but kept her expression neutral. She was secretly the biggest office hoarder of juicy gossip.

"I cried." Adrian shrugged, and the room collectively winced at that. "But she told me to stay and cuddled me," he began.

"Aww so cute!" Adebayo gushed.

"Afterwards, I ate her pussy out like she owed me money." Adrian finished with a wide grin.

"Adrian. Don't phrase stuff like that ever again please." Adebayo didn't know why she got her hopes up. 

"Nice one dude!" Chris high fived him.

"Thanks P!" 

"Ugh boys..." 

"I've got to find those dumb fucks who wrecked her store too, hey you can hack into stuff right?" Adrian pestered John, who was trying to finish his burrito.

"I can after lunch." John said and Adrian sat down patiently across waiting for him. 

"Are you going to stare at me like that until I'm finished?" 

Adrian nodded, looking directly into Economos' soul. "Yeah this is important!" 

"For fuck sake." John rolled his eyes, wrapping up his lunch. "Let me get out my laptop..." He grumbled.

It didn't take John long to track them down, it was an inside job. The mall security guard alseep was in on it and let his loser buddies in to wreck the joint.

After the guy had even gotten a nice fade from you, which was why your place was targeted. He saw how pricey the salon equipment was you'd saved up for.

Adrian saw red, then he put the visor on. It was Vigilante time. 

He found the first two accomplices let into the mall at a bar they frequented for duis. Stalking down the alley, Vigilante dispatched of them with his honshu blade. Their wallets and ID would hopefully show up with some of your equipment they hadn't flogged off yet.

Getting into the mall was easy, their overall security was garbage. He decided to go right at close and wait out in the bathroom stall. 

Taking out the security guard would be simple, first cause a big scene outside your salon on the cameras. Vigilante had that covered with a well placed firecracker and mocking wave up at the security camera.

Second, await the dumbass mall cop. On cue he arrived, donut dropped, weapon drawn.

Third, time for Vigilante to ice this motherfucker.

Before he got to do that step there was a surprised shout from your store. 

"Hey! D-don't mess with me or my shop anymore. I uh have a weapon okay?" A woman shouted from behind the tarp covering a smashed window.

He instantly recognized your lovely voice and calmed down, lowering his gun from the tarp.

"No need to worry citizen. I'm here for this chuckle fuck!" Vigilante drew the gun right up again towards the security guard. 

You stumbled through the blue builders tarp at the sound of his voice. Shocked you were faced with Vigilante in a stand off with the mall cop you gave regular haircuts to.

"Don't worry, he won't hurt you or your business anymore." Vigilante swept his leg and kicked the gun out the man's hand, smooth like buttering toast.

"Because I'm going to put a fucking bullet in his head." 

"Please don't...oh please I'm so fucking sorry."

"Wait! Do you still have my equipment?" You asked the guard pleading for his life. 

"No I fucking sold it! Okay you bitch? Like you don't have the money to replace it..." He screamed back.

"I don't." You ground your teeth, seething. "I actually don't, you've ruined my livelihood." 

"But he does, he sold it right? And a bunch of other stuff too." Vigilante chirped, pushing on his temple with the barrel. 

"Ergo, bing bang," with the bang he pulled the trigger, "boom, we'll recover the money and it won't be cursed because it's rightfully yours." 

Brain matter chorused out of the man's cranium and spattered on the floor.

"Holy shit!" You screamed, leaping backward.

As you watched the masked killer investigate the corpse for loot like he was playing Skyrim, you saw something dangling from his neck, caught out of the suit.

The faint glimmer of gold caught your eye, and familiarity dawned on you when the chain slipped out. Clutching your own necklace it was the same. 

A little owl holding a heart.

"Adrian?" You couldn't believe it! 

Vigilante was Adrian?!

Your sweet Adrian who you have haircuts to and cried in your arms last night?!

"Huh? No! It's not." Vigilante argued, not changing his voice in the slightest. Then he deepened it like a muppet. "I don't even know a Adrian, such a dumb name!" 

Yep definitely Adrian.

"Adrian, it's you. I'd know your handsome voice anywhere." You giggled. 

"Damn it! Maybe Ads is right and I should really invest in a voice modulator." Vigilante sighed.  

"I got the two other assholes who stole from you too, I'll go check out their addresses and recover what I can." He made to leave but you gripped him by the arm.

"Vigilante...don't go. Not yet." You felt a wave of desire wash over you like nothing else. 

It was so wrong but watching him kill for you, right in front of you, take someone out for ruining your life was insanely hot.

Was there something wrong with you?

Probably.

But who the fuck cares?

"But I..." Vigilante began. 

"Come home with me, I want to thank you for helping save my salon. And me. Who knows what this guy might've done if he found out I was waiting to see if they were going to come back."

"I well...if you want me to. I'll uh..." Vigilante swallowed thickly, "try and last longer this time." He gave an anxious laugh.

"Hm, I don't mind baby. Do you think it might've been me touching your hair? I noticed you seem to really like that?" You whispered, kissing him on the mask where his lips would be. 

"Y-yeah that was part of it." He admitted.

"How about you keep the mask on this time?" You suggested. "I think it's pretty hot." 

"Let's do that, oh god yeah let's go back to yours and yeah, yes please." Vigilante nodded, then turned to the body on the ground. 

"I'll clean up and delete the footage. You wait for me and keep your window unlocked. Vigilante will be on patrol tonight so don't worry." He whispered sharply, gloved hand going down to cup your backside.

Still, he’s “attending” this tech conference, and he’s surrounded by these rich assholes all day who think they’re better than everyone else, and they’re constantly using pretentious buzzwords. It’s exhausting, to pretend to like them. To pretend to be like them. At the end of the day—when the work is done, when he’s back to being himself again, not the persona that has been crafted for him—it’s lonely.

On day four, Adrian starts to feel sleep deprived. The hotel bed is maybe the nicest he’s ever slept in, soft and comfortable and fucking massive, but all he can think about is the fact that he’s in it alone. He’s become so used to sleeping next to you, hearing and feeling you breathing. When he wakes up to the unfamiliar noises of the humming AC unit, or the voices and footsteps in the hotel hallway, it’s unsettling. Especially when he can’t turn over in bed and curl up around you to turn it all out. He can’t get back to sleep, so he sits there and stares at the ceiling and misses you and feels sorry for himself.

On day five, he tries to drink coffee in the morning, even though he thinks it tastes fucking disgusting. It’s partly to wake himself up, but it’s also because—you drink coffee in the mornings, and when he smells it, it makes him feel like you’re there with him, and for a split second the gaping emptiness in his chest that’s normally filled with you doesn’t feel like it’s going to collapse like a black hole. So he dumps way too much fucking sugar in it, just to make it bearable, and chugs it anyway.

On day six, he’s antsy. He misses you. It’s as simple as that. Thank god he can still make phone calls. Video calls. He’s sending good morning and good night messages, counting down the days until he gets to come home. He’s never the one that hangs up the phone. He can’t ever bring himself to press the red button that disconnects his reality from yours, even if it’s only your voice, even if it’s only for a little while. A two-minute phone call to tell you about the weird-looking statue some rich dude has in his house and remind you that he loves you. His heart skips a beat with every picture you send him, there’s a tiny ache in his chest every time your name pops up in his notifications, and he just—misses you.

Because the notifications aren’t enough. He wants your arms around him, your hands in his hair, your warmth curled up against him—and not just in bed. He wants your absent hums in his ear as he yaps on and on about his special interest of the day. He wants to feel the couch cushion dip next to him, sinking lower with the familiar weight of you. His fingers keep twitching, itching for your hand to hold. Maybe also twitching from the nasty, sugar-laden coffee he keeps chugging to keep himself awake throughout the day.

He feels your absence everywhere he goes, and he had no idea it was possible to miss someone this much, and it hurts—a kind of hurt that won’t heal. Adrian’s not used to feeling like that. He can sleep off his aches and pains, every stab and bullet wound. But the wound of missing you isn’t one so easily cured.

On day seven, he meets Chris and Emilia and the tech guy at a restaurant down the block for a dinnertime debrief. Chris instantly tells him he looks like shit, and Adrian knows. He can feel the bags under his eyes, the way every blink feels gritty, because he just can’t fucking sleep without you. But he can’t admit that to his coworkers, it would make him sound like—an incompetent loser.

He can’t hide how much he’s missing you, though. When Chris notices Adrian checking his phone for the dozenth time in two minutes, he calls him out on it.

“What are you waiting for, dude?” he asks. “An email from the president?”

“No,” Adrian grumbles. “She said she would text me when she got home. She’s normally back by now.” He’s already sent three messages.

Hi baby, I miss you 🧜

Are you okay?

Text me when you can 💙

“You’re a little clingy, man,” Chris says. “Maybe she’s just enjoying the silence.”

“Some time apart might be good for you,” Harcourt says across the table. “Absence makes the heart grow fonder, or whatever.”

“Fuck you guys,” Adrian says. “You guys get to go on missions together. You probably fucked literally right before this meeting.”

“How the fuck did you know that?”

“Chris,” Harcourt scolds. “Shut the fuck up.”

Adrian’s a bit smug that he was right, but the smirk drops right off his face when Harcourt says, “Listen—” and he just knows that what she is about to say is something he does not want to hear.

“What,” he says flatly.

“I know you’re not gonna be happy about this,” she says, “but…we’re probably gonna be here an extra week. Things have gone a bit sideways for one of our other contacts on the inside. There’s more going on here than we expected. We need to scale back, take things a bit slower—our target might be getting suspicious.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Adrian says. He’s not even angry, he’s just—distraught. And so, so fucking tired.

“I’m sorry, man,” Chris says, and he sounds like he genuinely means it.

“It won’t be so bad,” says the tech guy, Not Economos. “At least you’re staying in a nice ass hotel room. The rest of us are stuck in the shitty motel downtown. You’re lucky, asshole.”

“Fuck you,” Adrian says, and maybe he is angry, actually, because he can feel it, hot under his skin, the red flush building up his neck. And he just—can’t sit here, right now. At this table with Chris and Emilia and Not Economos, pretending like everything is fine and he has it together, when all he wants is you. He gets up abruptly.

“Adrian—” Emilia sighs.

“Whatever you have to tell me—just—fucking email me, I don’t give a shit,” he says. “I’m tired. I’m going to sleep. Fuck this shit.”

“Do you want us to bring you dinner?” Chris offers, sympathetic, and Adrian almost hates that the most, that his best friend is treating him like he’s soft.

“No,” Adrian spits. “I do not need you to bring me dinner like I’m fucking five years old. I am a professional assassin. But here I am, playing dress up like a circus monkey, pretending to be a rich dickwad because you guys need me to. I would rather be in the shitty motel room, in my Vigilante suit. But here I am, sucking it up, taking one for the team. And I haven’t complained about it once, I might add.”

“I know,” Emilia says, and even she sounds a little sorry. “And I know that what we’re asking of you right now isn’t what you signed up for when we started this whole thing. Go back to your room, eat, get some sleep. Call your girlfriend. I’ll text you the details about everything going on for the next couple days.”

“Hey, baby,” you say, your voice soft, a little tired in his ear, but just the sound of you after a day without hearing it makes him relax back into the pillows.

“Hi,” he says, closing his eyes. “I miss you. So fucking much.”

“I miss you too,” you admit.

“I—” Adrian hesitates. He doesn’t even want to say the words, but he swallows past the bitterness and rips off the bandaid. “Harcourt says we’re going to be here an extra week.”

You go silent on the other end of the line.

“Fuck. That sucks,” you say. It’s an exhausted sigh, and he thinks maybe you’re sleeping just as poorly as he is right now. “That sucks a lot.”

“It’s the absolute fucking worst,” Adrian agrees, but he doesn’t want to spend the few minutes a day he gets to talk to you dwelling on it. He wants to hear you laugh, to make you smile. “I should quit. Come home and be your housewife.”

You giggle, and he grins. Mission accomplished. “You would be such a shitty housewife. You can’t even fucking cook.”

“I can make dino nuggets. And I know how to use DoorDash.”

“We can’t live off of dino nuggets, babe.”

“Maybe I should go back to Fennel Fields,” he says. He’s only half joking.

“Adrian,” you say. “You are not going back there. You fucking hated that job.”

“I hated that job. But I love you,” he says, his voice thick. He’s glad his eyes are closed, because if they weren’t, he’d be actively blinking back tears right now, and he does not want to cry. “And if I was a busboy again then I wouldn’t be halfway across the country right now instead of where I want to be.”

“Where’s that?” you ask, even though you already know the answer.

“I would be home in bed with you. Obviously.”

“Hmm,” you hum noncommittally. “That does sound nice. It is kinda cold right now, without my personal space heater.”

“That’s all I’m good for? Temperature regulation?”

“And snuggles.”

“Of course. How could I forget the snuggles?” he laughs. “You’re in bed already?”

“Yeah, I was gonna turn in early,” you say. There’s a pause, and Adrian hears you shuffle around for a minute. “You are too?”

“Yeah,” he says, eyes blinking open to stare at the ugly wallpapered hotel ceiling. “You gonna watch a movie? Maybe we could watch one together?”

“I had a better idea,” you say. Adrian hears your breath hitch, and his brow furrows.

“Why are you out of breath?”

“Because I’m touching myself, baby,” you tell him, and the breathy words send a bolt of heat shooting down Adrian’s spine.

“You—what—” he stutters, his own breath catching in his throat when you moan right in his ear. 

“Wish it was your fingers, though. You fill me so good, you always do.”

Adrian chokes on an inhale, a hand drifting down the front of his sweatpants. This is new territory for him. You’ve never been apart long enough to warrant phone sex before, but fuck if he isn’t down to try. “Oh, god,” he says. “You want—you want me to—”

“Touch yourself, Ade,” you say. “I want to hear you.”

“Fuck,” he says, palming his growing erection. He hasn’t come since he fucked you the night before he left, and it’s almost embarassing how quickly he gets hard. He leans back against the pillows again, squeezes himself, wants.

“Baby—” Adrian exhales as his eyes flutter shut. “Fuck, I can’t—” He puts his phone on speaker and tosses it on the bed beside him, uses both his hands to stroke himself, smearing precum down his shaft, and he whines.

“Imagine it’s me,” you pant, your voice thin and frantic as you chase your own release. “It’s my hand touching you, babe, just the way you like it.”

He tries. He does. He tries to pretend his hands are yours, to pretend your voice is whispering in his ear and not ringing through the phone speaker. He jerks at his cock furiously, trying to lose himself in the sensation, in the sound of your huffing breaths on the other end of the line.

“Shit,” he grunts. “Oh, fuck. God, I wish you were here. I want you—I want you so bad, babe, you have no fucking idea—”

He pictures it, you kneeling on the bed next to him, taking his cock in your hands, in your mouth. Your whines and gasps come through the speaker, and he focuses on the sounds you make as you come, trying to ignore the way it’s slightly tinny and robotic. It’s so fucking frustrating, the way you don’t quite sound like you, the way even your voice is warped by the distance.

When he finally comes himself, groaning loud so you can hear him, it’s not the satisfying release he wants. It just makes him feel worse, because you’re not there in the aftermath. He’s just a sticky mess, and he’s alone, and he misses you just as much as he did before. Maybe even more. His chest heaves as he catches his breath, and he hears you doing the same.

“I love you,” he says.

“I love you, too,” you say. “We can do this, baby. Two more weeks.”

“Two more weeks,” he repeats. He swallows past the tightness in his throat.

Adrian throws himself into work as a distraction. His daily mission reports are more detailed than ever, because when he gets back to the hotel room at the end of the night, there’s nothing else for him to do while he waits for you to call. When Harcourt compliments him on it, he rolls his eyes.

“Don’t get used to it,” he grumbles.

A week and a half later, when they’ve finally collected enough evidence, gotten the information that Checkmate needs for their client, and he gets the go-ahead from Harcourt to kill their target, he smiles wider than he has in what feels like years.

He doesn’t even get the satisfaction out of it that he usually would—it’s not an enjoyable kill. He could draw it out if he wanted to. Inflict a little pain. The guy did some fucked-up shit, and it’s his damn fault that Adrian has been forced to stay out here for three weeks in the first place. But he just wants to get it over with. It’s just one more obstacle to overcome, one step closer to going home, to seeing you again.

Adrian throws on the Vigilante suit and goes to take the target out execution-style, nice and simple. The guy gets in a good punch to his kidney that he probably shouldn’t have, and it hurts like a motherfucker, but Adrian is just so—fucking exhausted. He hasn’t slept right one single night without you. It’s affecting his performance; sue him.

Harcourt and Chris make the body disappear while he attends yet another fancy dinner with the rest of the shitty rich people he’s dealt with the last few weeks, so he’s got an alibi. The rest of the week will be for appearance’s sake. If he disappeared too quickly, it would draw suspicion. Still, despite the ache in his injured side and the couple days of bullshit looming ahead of him, he’s in a fabulous mood when he gets back to his fancy hotel room, flopping onto the mattress with a relaxed smile.

When you call, he picks up the second his phone starts ringing. “Hi baby,” he says, smiling. “Two more days.” It’s been his greeting every night for the last week. An excited countdown to the day he gets to see you again.

“Adrian,” you say, and you sound…nervous? Upset? He’s normally good at reading you, even though he sucks at reading other people, but it’s harder when he can’t see your face. He wishes for the billionth time in the last three weeks that you were standing here in front of him instead of a disembodied voice over the phone.

“Are you okay?” he asks, a little hesitant, because he can tell something is up.

“It’s gonna be a bit longer than two days,” you say quietly, and his stomach drops to the floor. He sits up in bed.

“No,” he insists. “I’m coming home. I promise you, baby, I’ll be home in two days—”

“I know,” you say, sounding pained. “You’ll be home. I won’t be home.”

“What?” he says, because you’re not making any sense. “What—why—”

“They’ve decided the newbies are ready for long-term field work,” you say softly, trying to break the news gently, but Adrian’s heart cracks in half anyway. “Me, Ads, and two of the new agents are leaving for Bludhaven tomorrow for a mission. Ten days.”

Adrian falls silent, and any trace of his good mood from the evening instantly vanishes, and the sinking feeling in his stomach opens up into a terrible, empty pit.

“Ade?” you say hesitantly. “Talk to me? Please?”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Adrian says, closing his eyes against the tears that threaten to well up. He rubs his face and tries to breathe through it, but he is so, so exhausted.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper. “I’m so sorry. I don’t want to go, but—” Adrian shakes his head and cuts you off.

“No. No, baby, it’s not—it’s not your fault,” he says, even as his voice shakes, even as he tries not to cry. “It’s not your fault. I just—I love you, okay? I love you, and I miss you. And I’ll keep missing you for another shitty week if that’s what I have to do. I’m gonna fucking bitch about it to everyone in earshot—the entire office is not going to hear the end of it—”

You laugh, just a little, on the other end of the line, but the sound is wet, like you might cry, too. Maybe you are. He wishes he was there, that he could see you, that he could wipe the tears from your face, kiss the sadness away, tug you into his chest and never let go again. He’s so fucking frustrated, because—you were so close, right within his reach, and now you’ve been snatched out of his grasp, again.

“But you don’t worry about me,” he says firmly. You’ve been strong for him, these last few weeks, and he thinks that now, you need the same from him. “You go out there and you do your job, which you are so fucking good at because you’re a badass, and—don’t get distracted by me, okay? I’ll be fine. I’m always fine. I’ll be waiting for you when you get back, right? And then we’re both taking a whole fucking week off and I’m not letting you leave the damn bed until neither of us can fucking walk anymore—”

“Okay,” you interrupt, and you giggle, and something in Adrian’s chest loosens, because he made you laugh. If you’re laughing, then everything’s okay. At least, if it’s not right now, then it will be. He forces the corner of his mouth to quirk up.

“You leave tomorrow?” he asks quietly.

“Yeah.”

“You’ll be careful?” he says.

“I will,” you say. He knows you will, you always are, but it never stops him from worrying.

“You should probably sleep, then,” he says, thinking of the injury he sustained tonight because he’s been struggling to sleep, exhausted and just a little slower than usual. He doesn’t want the same thing happening to you. “Get some rest. I don’t want you—overtired and distracted, while you’re out there, okay? Go to sleep, for me.”

“Will you stay on the line?” you ask, your voice small. “And just talk?”

“My specialty,” Adrian says. “Of course I will. I’d talk for a thousand years for you.”

He rambles, about everything and nothing, about his mission, about animals, about the things he loves about you, for nearly two hours, listening intently to the sound of your breathing on the other end of the line. Only when he finally hears your soft little snores through his speaker does he let himself fall quiet so the familiar noise can lull him into his own sleep.

Three days later, when Adrian finally gets to go home, it’s to an empty apartment.

There are all kinds of these events. Valentina drags the team around to parade like her own person diamonds, and you make sure the diamonds don’t stab or shoot anyone while being paraded.

You’ve already confiscated three guns, two knifes, and John’s shield—which you told him not to bring five fucking times—and you haven’t even seen Yelena or Bob yet.

Bucky, of course, is making your life stupidly easy. He’s smuggled no weapons—although you look at his arms, and his chest, and he’s the weapon, and that shouldn’t make you feel so fuzzy—and he’d been waiting obediently for you to come in, hands on his hips and a small smile on his face.

“You look nice.” He offers, and you laugh.

“The handler at the zoo does need to look presentable for the show.”

Bucky’s lips twitch a little higher, and you point your pen at his neck.

“Tie.”

He grunts, and gets to work in a second. The tie was fine. He’s just too perfect, and you needed to find something wrong for your sanity.

“Are you just hovering?” He asks, watching you carefully, and you shrug.

“I’m wherever the night needs me to be.”

“Hm.” His tongue flicks over his lips, and he turns back to the mirror. “None of us like these things, you know.”

“I don’t like them either-“

“And sometimes.” He drawls. “They make us feel like meat-“

“Bucky.” You say firmly, and he meets your gaze in the mirror.

Drawls your name, an amused smirk on his face.

Your heart does a stupid little fumble, and you bite the inside of your cheek. Hard, to stop yourself from drooling.

The only person who must know about your… situation is Valentina. You don’t know how she knows. What she thinks of it. But she must be punishing you for being such a fool by making Bucky look like that.

Edible. The suit is too tight on his arms, perfectly fit on his torso, his hair long and soft and his eyes glimmering with teasing light, and you feel a little dizzy-  

Bucky says your name, sounding a little more concerned this time.

You pinch your wrist behind your back—fucking get it together—and stand a little taller.

“I’ve talked to her.” You say lightly, glancing over your shoulder to check no one’s in the hall. “I can’t try again too soon, she’ll get angry.”

Bucky grunts. “Let her be angry-“

“No. Not-“ You take a steadying breath. “Angry, angry. Like If  you can’t get them in line, I can start looking for someone who will.”

You echo Valentina’s words, a thin chill running up your spine. Bucky’s gone still, his hands hovering at his tie, and you wonder if he cares.

If the threat means nothing to him where it means the whole universe to you.

You need this job. You’ve worked for it, you survived brutal application process, the training period where the New Avengers were treating you like a rotten au pair they wanted to drive out of the house, the public scrutiny and surprising amount of foul press about your body, your hair, your personality and relationships.

Valentina threatens to fire you every month. You think it’s her way of saying she likes you.

But you’d gotten close to the team. They tell you their problems like you’re going to wave a magic wand and fix them, and you haven’t helped yourself by actually doing that.

From their point of view, they go to you and complain about something trivial. Alexei wants more missions in snowy areas, they remind him of Great Mother Russia. John needs everyone to stop calling his hat stupid. Ava thinks the tea in the kitchen tastes like ass, and would like it corrected, please.

Usually, you have to tell them to say please. The only ones who always say please are Bob and Bucky, and they barely ask for anything anyway.

But if you get that please, you wave a magic wand.

You research until you uncover a drug cartel in northmost Alaska for Alexei. You make threats and ambush column writers on the street for John, even run a fucking propaganda campaign to make his dumb beret come back in style. You rewrite a whole contract with the tea company for Ava, and barely get a thank you in return.

But you’re not magic. And even if you were, there’s one wish your magic wand can’t grant.

Changing Valentina’s mind.

Bucky had asked you to talk to her about the events. He asked because they send him for the big request, like he’s their fucking dad or something.

And you tried. You did.

Valentina said no. And her threat wasn’t a playful, look at how amazing I am for hiring you joke. It was real.

She won’t bend on it. And now you look at Bucky hopelessly, begging him to understand.

“I can try again in a few months.” You mumble, shifting on your feet. “But- Not now.”

“No, it’s fine. They’ll survive, but-“ Bucky frowns, turning around from the mirror. “Are you okay?”

You blink at him, a lump building in your throat. Something is stinging behind your eyes, your head spinning, and you nod weakly.

Bucky says your name, taking a step forward.

You take a step back.

You are not a damsel or foolish civilian girl for him to comfort. You are a grown woman, who can handle being in trouble with her boss alone. Bucky’s reaching out like he’s going to try and catch you, his eyes so strangely soft, and your stomach does a flip.

You don’t need his pity.

You don’t need him.

“I’m fine, James.” You snip, and Bucky’s hand freezes. “Fix your tie.”

“I- Uh-“ He glances down. “Already did?”

You shrug, raising your chin. “Then fix it again.”

You turn on your heels before he can say anything else, and march out of the dressing room.

It’s one of the rules you have for yourself. You’re not supposed to be alone with him. Not for more than ten minutes. Your hands get all sweaty, and he sees right through you, and it jeopardizes everything.

You can’t be in love with Bucky. You are, but you can’t be.

It puts your job at risk, and your job is your life. It’s getting you out of college debt, it gives you health insurance, it paid for your parent’s house and your sibling’s college, and soon it’s going to pay for you to have a home, which is almost unheard of in your generation.

Loving Bucky is a distraction. A pipe dream through a straw, flimsy and pointless. You will not risk your fucking life just so that the pretty, sweet, strong man will like you back.

Your dumb body and heart get all giddy in his presence, but you know better. You are better.

Love like this—mind numbing, world moving love—is for schoolgirls. You’re stronger.

Bucky does not need to be privy to the fact that you love him. He’s lucky he knows you like him. If you loved him a little less, you might’ve been able to pretend you didn’t care about his existence at all.

You’d tried that, when you felt the love start to bloom. There had been a whole week, where you ignored him entirely.

It had made you sick. Literally. You’d lost sleep and stopped eating, your thoughts entirely devoted to just missing him—his dry humor, his smile, his small, silent acts of kindness and his face, oh his face—and it had gotten so bad you’d called out with the flu by Friday.

Then you went to the doctor. And you didn’t have the flu. You just missed Bucky.

He’d visited you on Saturday, while you lay in your bed like some Shakespearian heroine, lamenting and tormented by your devotion. He brought you soup, his Ma’s recipe, because he hates you.

“Can I ask you something?” He’d said while you devoured the soup straight from the container, your stomach deciding to cooperate in his presence.

You’d hummed around a noddle, and his lips had twitched.

In the light, he’d been looking at you like you mattered to him. Like you were cute.

Bucky’s hand had flexed on the mattress, as you blinked up at him. He’d looked away, tongue darting over his lips, and spoken low words.

“Did I do somethin’ to you?”

You’d choked on a noodle. “What?”

“Just- before you got sick. We hadn’t been talking.” He’d sighed. “You left the room, when I walked in. And if I did somethin’, that make you uncomfortable or whatever, I’m sorry.”

That had been the moment. The out. If you were smart, you would’ve told him you needed space, or that he did make you uncomfortable, and it was best if you just didn’t speak for a while.

But he’d looked so sad. Almost nervous, his lips in a tight line and a flush on his ears.

So you’d shaken your head.

Because you’re weak, and so in love with him it’s pathetic, and if he asked you’d open up the sky with your bare hands, no please required.

“No. We’re okay.” You’d offered him a small smile. “Just really wasn’t feeling well.”

Bucky had nodded, and grinned. The kind of grin that lit up in his eyes and make your whole chest sing with delight. You made him happy. You made him smile.

“Alright. Good.” He’d kissed your sweaty brow, and lightning had sparked through your body.

You’d leaned into the touch, just barely.

Bucky, by a small mercy, hadn’t noticed at all.

“Feel better, doll.” He’d said before he left, his tone something close to tender and hopeful.

You had within the hour.

It had been the  last straw.,

You were in love with him. There was no outrunning it or stomping it down. But you don’t stay alone with him for too long. You don’t give him special treatment. You tell no one, and deny any accusations.

Jealousy isn’t allowed. He’s not yours to be possessive over.

That doesn’t stop the sting, as you watch him talk to some rich lady across the room. She’s dressed like a bird, all feathers, her lips more like a beak, long nails like talons. You fight off a sour expression, when she reaches up to brush something from his shoulder.

There’s nothing there. You pressed his suit, and he’s a clean man.

You could rip her talons off her fingers and feed them to her. That would be a nice lesson.

That you’re not allowed to teach.

He’s not yours.

You turn back to the bar, taking a heavy breath through your nose and ordering another drink. The only upside of these parties is that you’re allowed to get wasted. You’ve got the team trained on good behavior, the worst that happens anymore is Alexei trying to grab the band’s microphone so he can tell a story. You can handle that drunk or sober.

Right now, it’s going to need to be drunk. When you turn back to watch the party, Bucky’s still talking to the bird.

You down your glass in one gulp, and push off the bar. You won’t fall into this trap. It’s not her fault she got his attention. Not his fault he’s entertaining it.

It is entirely your fault, for daring to look and letting your heart tell you he’d stay silently loyal to a love he doesn’t even feel in return.

You glide through the crowd, putting as much distance as you can between yourself and them. You can get through this. You’ve done it a million times before, and you’ll do it a million times again.

“You’re allowed to have fun at these, you know?”

You sigh, giving Yelena a flat look.

She materialized at your side. You’ve gotten used to it.

“I am having fun.”

That gets an amused smirk. “You look like someone kicked your puppy.”

“I’m tired-“

“We are all tired. That is why we drink.” She clinks her glass against yours. “But you are sad drunk. Be happy drunk.”

“I’m trying.” You grumble under your breath, taking another large swig, and Yelena laughs.

“You know what your problem is?”

“No.”

“You are angrier than Barnes at joy.” She points Bucky out in the crowd, and you bite your tongue until it bleeds.

You never lost track of him in the crowd. You don’t think you could if you tried. But it still feels like you’re being ripped open, to see that he’s letting the bird touch him. She’s tracing her finger over his tie, tilting her head and smiling like a wolf ready to eat him alive, and you’re going to fucking throw up-

“At least he is letting loose.” Yelena hums, and you force your face back into an indifferent mask. “Even if it is with a woman dressed like a duckling.”

You choke on your drink, covering your mouth with your hand. Yelena looks up at you with delight in her eyes, watching you try to wipe the bit of champagne that escaped your lips.

“She laughs! I have never seen you laugh, it is weird. Disturbing-“

“Shut up.” You mutter, wiping the last drops from your cheek. “You’ve heard me laugh before.”

“Have I? I think I would remember the witch experiencing joy.”

“I am not a witch-“

“You are magic and mean.”

“I’m not mean-“

“Not to us.” Yelena shrugs, grabbing some cheese off a wandering server. “But to everyone else. Bucky Barnes says you tried to talk to Valentia about these dummy parties.”

You swallow. “I did, but- Yelena-“

“It is okay. He says you tried, and though he is untrustworthy fool, I believe him.”

You nod, taking the cheese Yelena’s offering you, then frown. “Bucky’s not untrustworthy-“

“No. About most things.” She takes her cheese in one bite, speaking through the mouthful. “He will not be going home with duck-woman tonight. We will see you in the morning?”

“You’ll see me in an hour, I’m going back to the Watchtower with you-“

“Hm. No you are not.” Yelena smiles knowingly. “Turn on your location. It is safer.”

You gape at her, unable to get another word in before she’s walking away. You don’t know why you’re surprised she knows. Of course she does. She’s Yelena.

But it makes your fingers curl on your glass, your eyes darting back to Bucky and the duck.

She’s draped herself over him, cooing and batting her eyelashes. He’s barely looking at her at all.

Bucky’s scanning over the room, a tight frown on his face. Then, for a split second, your eyes meet.

You rip your gaze away, downing what little was left of your champagne. Yelena was right.

There’s no way you’re going home tonight.

Some would call it unhealthy. You call it a survival technique.

“Another one?” The bartender asks you as you return, nodding to your empty glass.

You smile and giggle, leaning over the counter, making your voice all airy and high. “You remember me?”

The bartender’s smiler widens, and you twirl your hair.

He’s nothing bad to look at. Rich skin and deep, gentle eyes. Nice, thick arms. Short hair. Smells like some thick, amber cologne that won’t give you a migraine.

He’ll do just fine.

By the time he’s done, you’ll still be thinking about Bucky. You’ll probably picture him, as this sweet bartender fucks you like an animal. You’ve gotten good at not calling Bucky’s name, too, so you can probably squeeze out two or three rounds.

It’s a band-aid on some internal bleeding. It’s a show that fixes nothing, but at least the illusion makes everyone else see what you need them to.

You don’t care about Bucky at all.

And you certainly don’t look for him one more time before the bartender takes you home.  

The bartender is the latest in a long, long line. It’s nothing you’re ashamed of, nothing you bother to hide.

Even if only Yelena will say it, the rest of the team certainly knows. Fuck, even Valentina and Mel know. Last summer you went to a conference, and Mel joked that you’ll tear your way though half the crowd before midnight.

“Do you think I’m some kind of slutty Cinderella?” You’d joked, and she’d smiled.

“Is it bad if I say yes?”

You’d laughed it off, and you know those kinds of jokes are supposed to hurt, but it’s barely even a paper cut. You know why you sleep around, and if people think you’re just a whoreing man-eater, there’s more power and mystique than being a starry-eyed, lovelorn idiot over one old man.

The system works. You fuck around, and no one even thinks you might be interested in romance.

In a life with Bucky, where you roll over and he’s always on the other side of the bed. Where morning sex is slow and loving, drizzled in honey and adoration, rather than just one more quick fuck before you march out the door.

He’d be soft. Gentle. You’ve seen how he handles fragile object, how he arranges everything so meticulously and touches everything he finds important with such care.

You’d like to be something he finds important. You’d like to be the most important thing in his life. His doll, smiling at him and leaning your chin on his shoulder, listening to all his problems and sitting in his lap to whine about your own. Finding yourself under him in bed with your arms pinned up, giggling while he kisses all over your neck then gasping when he moves to your breasts.

That’s the move Bartender pulled last night. And it felt fine. Nice enough. You’d moaned a little louder than you needed to—only slightly over-performing—but you really hadn’t hated it. Hadn’t hated him.

Eventually, you’d  gotten sick of it and flipped him over. Pinned his hands and rode his cock until you came with a tiny, pleasant shiver, then jerked him off until he stained your tits.

“Call me later?” Bartender asks, and you give him a sweet smile, looking up from your shoes.

“Sure. Bye!”

“Wait, you don’t have my number-“

You’re already out the door. Fixing the straps of your dress as you walk down the hall, calling your ride without a glance back.

Nobody says anything when you get back to the tower. Alexei high fives you, but that’s the only reaction at all.

Bucky isn’t there, though.

Why isn’t Bucky there.

“Where’s Barnes?” You say, causally as possible, and John grumbles.

“Thought being the keeper was your job, not ours-“

“He’s in the gym.” Ava drawls over John. “He’s been there all morning.”

You nod, grabbing your coffee, and mutter that you’re going to go get changed. You’re not going to check on him wearing the clothing. He’s not your top priority.

That’s the whole illusion.

You take a long, hot shower, and the Bartender really was good, but you’re still aching.

You’re thinking about Bucky.

About him in they gym all morning. How even a super soldier gets sweaty after a while, even if he doesn’t lose stamina. How he’s going to be panting and grunting, his hair stuck to his brow and neck, maybe his shirt will be off and you’ll get to see his broad, thick chest-

Your fingers had wandered between your thighs, and you’ve pressed yourself back up against the wall. Angled your hips up, your legs spread shamelessly wide, short moans falling from your lips as the water pelted against your clit. You slide two fingers in and out of your pussy, picturing Bucky in the shower with you.

“Needy fuckin’ baby.” He’d murmur in your ear, body folded over yours. “You’d be soaked without the water, wouldn’t you. Ready for me when I so much as look at you, my perfect little slut-“

You moan him name into the shower, and the Bucky in your head chuckles.

He’d graze his lips over your jaw, crook his thick fingers deep inside your weeping cunt, start to brutally rub on that gummy, sensitive spot. You’d call his name again and he’d kiss you, rough and deep, and your legs would give out as you came all over his hand-

You slump down to the floor, turning your head to avoid the fall of the water. Your clit throbs, your body still shaking, and you squeeze your eyes shut.

Fantasies help too. The tend you over, stop you from doing something stupid.

But they can be dangerous too. Because you get dressed and go to find Bucky—which is normal, because it’s your job—and find him twice the mess you pictured.

He’s shirtless alright. Shirtless and wearing loose shorts. There’s a feralness, to the way he’s punching the bags, a wild glint in his eyes and his hair flying around his face. He hasn’t even bothered to put it up, and with how his chest is heaving, he’s been at this a while.

All morning. Ava said.

You swallow the drool, letting your eyes rake over his flexing muscles, his shining skin, his sharp, clenched jaw. Christ, how you’d like all that brutal attention turned on you. He could throw you around like that punching bag, rearrange your guts and grab you until you bruised, just as long as he kissed the bruises after.

You’re supposed to be doing your job.

Just for today, you let yourself stare for more than a second before dragging yourself together and clearing your throat.

Bucky catches his punching bag, turning to you immediately. You smile at him, and his jaw flexes.

“You’re home.”

“Obviously.” You shrug, glancing at the bag. “Ava says you’ve been here all morning.”

He grunts, releasing the bag and slowly pulling off his gloves.

Bucky never wears gloves. Not when it’s just a workout. You’re surprised the bag isn’t broken.

“Couldn’t sleep.” He mutters, and you frown.

“Nightmares? I can get another appointment with Dr. Indira-“

“No. The meds are fine. Just-“ He sighs, giving you an unreadable look. “Couldn’t sleep.”

You blink at him, tilting your head slightly. Bucky’s spent years getting back to a tolerable sleep schedule. You helped with every appointment, with every new med and strategy. It took months to get right, and if it’s not working anymore-

“I’m fine.” Bucky repeats firmly, and you scowl.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“Could hear you thinking, doll.”

You stick your tongue out, digging your nails into your arm. “Shut up.”

He chuckles dryly, unhooking the bag from the ceiling. “You back for the day?”

“I’m always back for the day, it’s my job-“

“You weren’t doin’ your job last night. Maybe you’re seein’ the guy again.”

You flush at that, turning your chin up to hide it. When Bucky turns to look at you, you glare at him, and his mouth twitches.

He raises his brows in silent challenge. You can’t help yourself. It’s Bucky giving you the bait.

“I don’t see people twice. You know that.”

He snorts. “Yeah. I do.”

“What’s that supposed to mean-“

“Nothin’. I’m agreeing with you-“

“You didn’t say it like you were agreeing with me.” You snap. “You said it- You- Yeah. I do.”

You drop your voice to mimic his sardonic, dismissive tone, and Bucky gives you a look of almost mocking delight.

“You’re not good at impressions, are you?”

“I’m not- You just said it like an asshole-“

“You think I’m an asshole?”

“I think you’re like an asshole.” You sneer, and Bucky’s grin widens.

You don’t know what’s gotten into him this morning. You’ve been sleeping around for almost two years now. If he had a problem with it, he’s never so much as glared at you after.

He’s barely even looked at you. Everyone else teases or lets it go, but Bucky doesn’t even turn your way. Because you’re nothing but a friend to him, just like he’s supposed to be to you.

But now he’s taking a large step forward, looking at you with a strange glint in his eyes that makes your heartrate jumpstart. You take heavy breaths through your nose, trying to keep it together. You can keep it together.

Even with Bucky towering over you, all muscle and intense, blue eyes, you have to keep it together.

“That hurts my feelings, doll.” He mutters, leaning slightly down.

You’re not touching, but you can feel the heat rolling off his body. It’s almost an aesthetic, making your head empty and mouth hang slightly open.

Keep it together.

“Then stop being like an asshole.” You manage to snap. “And I’ll stop hurting your feelings.”

He laughs again, a low, deep sound that lights a fire in your gut. “Wouldn’t it be nice, if it were that damn easy.”

You blink at him, for once completely lost in the conversation. “What?”

“Nothin’.” He shrugs, leaning in a little closer.

His breath is warm and minty on your face. He takes up your whole vision, demanding every ounce of your attention, and all you can try to do is keep your breathing steady. Bucky’s eyes rake over your body like an inspection, landing near your throat.

On a hickey, you’d forgotten to cover with makeup.

You open your mouth to make a lame excuse, but he’s already moving.

Bucky reaches up his metal hand, and drags his thumb over the mark. Over your collarbone, then your sternum, then your neck. His touch is feather light and taunting. Your breath catches, your eyes fluttering against your will. Bucky hums, his hand wrapping fully around your throat. Your body reacts like a magnet, leaning into the touch.

He drags his attention back to your slack, hopeless face, your parted lips and glossy eyes.

His hand is just resting on your throat. His tongue darts over his lips, but you can’t imagine what he’s thinking. Why he’s doing this to you, when he’s never once looked at you like he is now.

Like you’re something tantalizing he needs to taste.

Like he’s hanging onto himself by a thread, and isn’t sure if his grip will slip before the string just snaps.

You try to say his name, to make him realize what he’s doing. How close he’s gotten, how your knees are threatening to give, if he doesn’t look away now. But it just comes out a shaky exhale, and Bucky looks hungrier.

Bucky doesn’t do this kind of thing. Not to you. He’s your friend—you cling so desperately to the fact that at least he’s your friend, at least he doesn’t hate or desire you, at least you’re the only one being broken—but now his breath is fanning over your flushed  face, his eyes blown out like he’s just as stranded in the dark as you are, his fingers digging into the nape of your neck like he’s trying to leave a mark.

All you’d have to do is lean a little forward and your lips would meet. Every secret fantasy—in the dead of night, until the shower so even the walls don’t hear your shame—would be real.

You can’t let this be real.

Bucky’s eyes flick down to your lips. His nostrils flare, moving slightly forward until your knees and chests bump.

With every bit of resolve you’ve got, you move a hand up to his chest.

He goes rigid. Frozen like he’s waiting for you to shove him or drag him closer. Your fingers curl in the cloth of his shirt, as his grip slackens on your neck.

“Bucky…” You whisper, not even sure what you’re begging for.

He makes the hard choice for you.

Bucky lets go of you, stumbling back as if repelled. He frowns, blinks at you once, then just… leaves.

Walks out of the gym without another glance in your direction, swaying and stranded in the room.

Alone. Just like you wanted.

The air around you so, so cold.

You don’t stop thinking about it.

A week passes. Work resumes like normal, and Bucky behaves as if nothing happened at all.

Technically it wasn’t anything. Nothing HR would care about, at least. In a workplace of assassins and mercenaries, getting choked is more of a don’t be such a fucking pussy thing.

Which isn’t amazing legally. But Bucky didn’t hurt you. If you’d shoved him, you’re sure he would’ve let go.

But you hadn’t shoved him. He’d just stared at you with that look—the one now seared into your memory, that makes your thighs press together and thoughts work overtime—then left.

On missions he’s treating you the same as ever. Small grins and low, sarcastic jokes that make you both smile. Once in the kitchen he taps your shoulder and passes you tea without a word. John walks in a second later, shouting about how he wants a better parking spot—which is ridiculous, you don’t have parking spots, it’s a limited garage with two hundred parking spots and like eight people who use them—and Bucky puts a firm hand on your shoulder before you can stand up and start fixing it.

“Make him ask.” He mutters, low enough for only you to hear. “You gotta start makin’ them say please.”

You snort, breaking off a piece of your muffin. “You ever teach a toddler raised by wolves manners?”

He frowns. “Children don’t get raised by wolves-“

“They do in stories.”

“What stories-“

“The Jungle Book. Phineas and Ferb, but- Those are ocelots.”

Bucky hums, tongue flicking over his lip. “Y’know I met an ocelot once-“

“You met an ocelot-“

“In 19… 86?”

You snort. “Old man.”

“Shut up.” He nudges your knee with his, and the whole world stops for a second. “But yeah, I met one. Reminds me of someone.”

“Yeah?” You give him an expectant look, and he smirks.

“Walker.”

You giggle.

Like a fucking ditzy idiot, you giggle, and John cuts off his rant to look at you like you just vomited.

“What was that sound.”

“She laughed, John.” Bucky says dryly, taking a long drink of his coffee, and John frowns.

“No, I’ve heard her laugh, she laughs like a swamp witch-“

Your mouth falls open. “I do not-“

“Yes, you do, it’s all-“

“Walker.” Bucky grunts, giving John a silent, firm glare.

John scowls. “Whatever. Stop flirting with her so she can fix my damn parking spot.”

You flush, the usual biting tactic not working at all. Beside you, Bucky doesn’t even talk. He excuses himself as soon as John starts asking why Yelena’s scooter even needs a spot over his bike, leaving the space next to you just as empty and cold as before.

He probably just didn’t want to listen to John. You don’t either, you’re just being paid a disgusting amount of money that depends on going to Yelena and buying her five cakes in exchange for her moving her scooter five feet to the left.

Bucky might’ve already forgotten about the gym. Everything would be easier if he did. No complex conversations or dynamic. Just your livelihood safe, and Bucky not thinking about you.

Which is fine. Everything, as always, is perfectly fine.

You go out that weekend. There’s a club several blocks over where you know the bartenders and you usually get free drinks. You just need to not be in the tower. To not be near him, and remember that you are, in fact, capable of surviving silent love.

“You’re dressed up.” Bucky mutters as you stand at the elevator, and you laugh.

“Look at you, being observational.”

You only get a grunt in return.

“I won’t be out late,” you sound like a fucking mom, sliding on your heels and giving instructions about how to care for four grown adults. “Bob might forget where his meds are, in the new spot-“

“Top right cabinet.” Bucky mutters, and you nod.

“Don’t let Yelena drink coffee past seven, she’ll be up all night. Switch her to tea. If Alexei is looking for me, tell him I rented all the movies on the TV, and tell John I ordered his gun part-“

“We’ve got an event tomorrow.” Bucky says suddenly. “Save the seals. In Philly. We gotta leave early-“

“No, we don’t.” You grab your bag, not looking him in the eyes.

That always makes you want to stay. Forgetting Bucky—the point of this whole thing—is impossible when you look in his stupid, beautiful eyes.

“I got us out of it.” You tuck your phone in your bag, rolling out a crink in your neck. “And it was Save the Sea Lions.”

Bucky doesn’t respond. You usually don’t let yourself look back, but then he says your name.

“What time are you gonna be home?”

You swallow. His eyes are shining on yours. There’s a pull in your chest, that hurts to ignore.

But you’re good at it. And if you drink enough, you won’t be able to feel it at all.

“I don’t know.” You shrug. “Don’t wait up.”

You turn and walk away. He can’t be allowed to call you back. You’d always return to his side.

The night is just as awful as you expect. You drink too much, and find someone with blue eyes that can artificially feed the love ringing in your ears. It’s under the beat of every song, and on the tip of your tongue as they fuck you into a mattress.

You leave long before dawn, and far after midnight. Call a car and fix your hair in the backseat, like anything matters at all.

When the elevator dings, you touch the wall to keep yourself walking steady.

There’s a lamp on, in the living area. You poke your head in to check it’s not Bob.

It’s not.

It’s Bucky.

He looks you up and down, taking in the disaster like it’s a book. You smile at him. He doesn’t smile back.

His eyes land on a hickey near your jaw. His tongue flick, his brows knit.

And you thought you were good. That even after the gym, you were good.

But Bucky stares at you like you’re nothing. Not gutter trash or a buzzing fly.

Just thin air he’s trying to look right through.

He turns off the light, and walks past you again. Your shoulders brush, and the world shakes.

And you’re alone again. Which isn’t the end of the world.

Your heart is doing this strange, boiling roll about how it is the end of the world. Burning and howling like you’re flaying it alive, when it is perfectly fine.

Everything, even as your chest starts to absorb that cold, hollow space, is fine.

It’s not fine on the roof.

Everything is all in it’s perfect place, and then… the roof.

You go up there to listen to the city. To lean over the edge and watch the lights blink, and wonder if you’re really this small. It’s where you get dramatic, and listen music and pretend you’re important. Where you cry when you need it, your tears carried away in the wind. Where you whine to the sky about how much you love Bucky, and how pathetic it is, then go back inside and go about your business.

It’s a good thing you hadn’t quite gotten to that last stage yet, when you heard the door close behind you.

That’s where everything started to crumble apart.

Bucky says your name, and you glance over your shoulder, not hiding your surprise.

“What are you doing here?”

“Looking for you.” He shrugs, holding up his phone. “Called three times.”

“Oh. No service-“

“Yeah, figured that out.” He stops at your side, leaning over the wall. “But you’re here.”

“I’m here.” You pause. “Where did you think I was?”

“Don’t know.”

“Did you need something-“

“Not really.”

“Bucky-“

“Just wanted to know where you were.” He mutters, glaring out at the city. “Didn’t know that was a crime.”

You don’t have anything to say to that. You try, opening and closing your mouth, but everything you can think of is mean. You don’t like being mean to Bucky, not when something in the air feels raw. Looking at his shoulders, it’s like he’s about to snap. You want to help. To make it better for him.

For this, you’re not sure how.

“You like it up here?” He asks, and you nod.

“I- I like seeing the people.”

“Course you do.” He mutters, dragging his gaze up to the sky.

“Wha-“

“There used to be more stars.” He cuts you off, brows knitting tight. “You woulda liked that too.”

You stare at him. If you didn’t know better, you’d think he was drunk. “I like the stars now just fine. All three of them.”

That gets a low laugh, even if he shakes his head. “Nah. In the 40s, it was different. You woulda loved that.”

“The 40s? Where I would’ve been property-“

“Not that part, but- The sky. The water was cleaner, the air-“ He sighs, looking back down to the city. “Never mind. Forget it.”

You swallow, trying to make your voice softer. “Do you ever want to go back?”

“To the 40s?” He snorts. “Fuck no. There are just- Some things. That I think that you would’ve liked.”

“Oh.” You watch his jaw clench in the dark, fidgeting with your fingers. “What would Yelena have liked?”

Bucky shrugs. “I dunno.”

You blink, lost for words again. Bucky takes over the silence first.

“You really never see any of them twice?”

“Any- Huh?”

“Your… people.” He clarifies, a bitter look on his face. You frown.

“My hookups?”

He grunts, and you shake your head.

“No? I don’t even get their names.”

“But you fuck them?”

“Oh- Um-“ You flush, looking back out to the city. “Yeah?”

“Hm. Seems unsafe.”

“I share my location with Yelena, and I’m pretty sure Valentina put an implant in me, so I think I’m safe.”

It’s a joke. Bucky doesn’t laugh. “Why don’t you bother to date ‘em?”

You feel his gaze burning into you. It’s hard to speak in an even voice. “I- I don’t know-“

“They gotta have something for your attention.” He mutters, but it sounds like it’s mostly to himself. “The hell are they doing that isn’t up to your bar? What is up to your bar?”

It’s impossible not to look at him now. His gaze is demanding, and your heart starts to flutter under the attention.

“Why do you care?” You try to snap. It sounds weak.

Bucky chuckles to himself. “Why do I care, doll? You got the fix for everything.” He leans a little forward.

Your lips are inches away. His forearm is pressed against yours, and the sky is so big over your head but it’s all narrowing down.

It’s Bucky. Just Bucky. So close, closer than before, close like he wants to be touched. Like that could be allowed.

His eyes shining on yours in the dark.

His voice, deep and mocking and enchanting you like a bee to flowers.

“What’s my fix for this?” He looks back to your lips, his tongue flicking out. “Tell me what I’m supposed to do, ‘cause I feel like I’m losing my goddamn mind.”

You stare at him, voice small. “Bucky, I- I don’t know what you’re talking about-“

“I know.” He sighs. “Just- Tell me no.”

“No-“

He reaches up, thumb brushing over your lips, and your whole head goes quiet.

“Tell me to walk.” He mutters, gaze dragging back to yours. “Now. Please.”

You should. If your brain was working, it would’ve given him what he wanted.

But every thought but Bucky has left the building. And now it’s just your heart, singing his name.

You kiss him. It’s a movement like a wave, rising up until your lips are comfortably pressed together, every movement so natural you’d think you’d kissed a million times before.

Bucky cups your face, return every bit of passion in a second. You melt into him, your bodies moving like you were made for this, the heat spreading from his touch and taste straight to your core.

You grind forward, and Bucky moans your name.

It flips a switch. You’re not just a flame, kindled and alight in his arms.

You’re not supposed to do this.

You pull back, and Bucky freezes. You open your mouth, trying to find an apology, to beg him to convince you that this is a good idea.

But Bucky just lets you go.

You both stare at each other. You take a small step closer, asking him to catch you.

It’s not fine. You can’t breathe, if he walks away. You’re supposed to be stronger than that, but the world is going to fucking end, if Bucky leaves you here alone again.

“Why.” He rasps, and you shake your head.

“Bucky-“

“If you’re not- If this isn’t what I’ve been reading-“

“No, it’s-“

“You kissed me-“

“I know-“

“And you-“

“I know!” You scream, taking a stumbling step back. “I know, Bucky, I know- I just can’t!”

“Can’t what?” He takes a step forward. “Just tell me you’re not interested, I told you I’d walk-“

“But-“ Your hands wring, unsure what to do if they’re not allowed to touch him. “I don’t want you to walk.”

“But you shoved me-“

“I know.” You whisper. “I’m sorry.”

Bucky just stares at you, and you bow your head, hugging your chest tight. He’s going to walk. This time, he’s going to walk away-

“Can you give me the reason?” He mutters, and when you risk a look up, he’s hunched into himself like a kicked puppy. “I mean- I can try and help work it out, maybe change something-“

“No, it’s not-“ You swallow. “You don’t need to change anything Bucky.” Tears prick at your eyes. “You’re perfect.”

He nods, then mutters, “But you don’t want me.”

“I just- It’s-“ You take a shaking breath, looking up to the sky before you speak. “I’m negotiable, okay. I worked really hard to get where I am, and I- I’m not like you. Valentina can find another version of me, who doesn’t fall in love with her superheroes, and then everything- everything- That I have worked for is gone.”

You give him a pleading look, begging him to understand.

Bucky looks like you shot him. You don’t realize why until it’s too late.

“You love me?” His voice is rough, and your heart drops to your stomach.

“I- That’s- That wasn’t my point-“

“But you do-“

“I’m trying to say I shouldn’t-“

“But you do.” He mutters. He says it like it’s a miracle, and not your greatest curse. “You love me.”

“Well, don’t fucking say it like that.” You snap. “Of course I- You’re you.”

“And you’re you.” He counters, taking a step forward.

Your legs can’t seem to will themselves to step back. “Yeah. That’s my whole point-“

“It’s allowed.” He mutters, and you blink.

“What?”

“Us. Dating.” His eyes might be searing into your soul. “I checked.”

“Oh- Okay.” You frown slightly. “Why did you check?”

“Because.” Bucky’s hovering over you again. Both of you clear under the open sky, the heat from his body radiating onto yours, his hand slowly rising up to trace your waste. You want to murmur his name, but you can’t remember how words work.

Again, it’s all just Bucky.

“I can’t survive another hour.” He mutters, tracing a hand over your face. “Pretending I don’t need you like oxygen.”

Your mouth falls open. Bucky presses closer.

“It kills me, doll. Bein’ your friend kills me, ‘cause I’m lucky you’re just nice enough to pretend we’re better than a pack of feral animals with muscles and powers, but then you’re strong and kind and always so goddamn pretty, and I’m your friend but you’re my whole damn world.”

“Bucky-“

“I don’t ask you for anything.” He mutters, leaning down until your lips brush. “’Cause there’s nothing I want from you that I got any right to have. I want all your smiles, doll. Those cute snorts and glares, when you’re sad and hide it like it’s not making the whole place feel wrong, when you’re getting lost and you need someone to hold onto, hold onto me. Anything you need, I’d get. Anything. I’ll even let you keep fucking around with all that asses that can’t keep you satisfied for more than a night, if that’s what you need. But,” he drops his brow against yours, voice thick. “I want your mornings. Please.”

You can’t think enough to speak. If you do, you’ll break the moment and you want it to last forever.

“We can keep it secret.” He’s sinking down. Getting on his knees. “Or if Valentina threatens to sack you, I’ll threaten to walk. Just-“

“Bucky.” You whisper, because there’s only one answer you can give.

He stares at you desperately, your fingers combing through his hair. You’re tired of being alone.

And his body, pressed against yours is so warm.

“Okay.” You whisper, and his throat bobs.

“Okay?”

You nod, and smile.

Bucky smiles back.

And you’re under open sky, but you don’t really care who knows.

You fall into him, just as he rises into you. And this is even better than the kiss. This is hungry. Urgent and made of a fever you’re finally just letting sweep you away.

Bucky grabs at your hips, one arm sliding around your back as the other cradles the back of your head. Your arms wrap around his neck, your leg hiking up to his hip, and your kisses are urgent and sloppy. Open mouths pressed over each other, tongues tangled together with moans, Bucky’s hand dropping to your ass as your nails dig into his neck.

He squeezes, and you can’t stop the moan. Your fingers scramble to tangle in his hair, and he grunts at the pull, picking you fully up off the ground.

He’s getting hard, against your core. You grind down, trailing kisses over his jaw and trying to spur him into action.

Bucky moans in your ear, squeezing your ass again.

“Doll, you’re startin’ something-“

“Good.” You whisper, nipping at his throat. “Want it. Want it so bad, Bucky, wanted you forever-“

He groans, grabbing your jaw and slamming your lips back together. You make a high noise of delight, grinding faster and faster, the fractured pressure winding you tight like an electrical coil about to snap.

Bucky stumbles blindly back to the door, his mouth never fully leaving yours. His grip on you is possessive, and he stops every few feet, to kiss you deeper, squeezing your ass again. His hand slips further down, his fingers brushing over your core through your pants, and you whine into his mouth.

You barely make it into the stairwell.

Bucky kicks the door closed behind you, pauses for a split second, then whirls around and pins you against the wall. You start to pull at his shirt, but he’s got a single mind.

His mouth slots over yours, swallowing every single breath and gasp of his name. One hand grabs your wrists, pinning them over your head, and the other starts to tease down your body. Over your collarbone, up and down your sides, under your shirt to palm your breasts.

“Bucky…” You whine against his lips, and he only grunts, pinching at your nipple. “No- No teasing-“

“’M not teasing.” He kisses the corner of your mouth, dragging his hand back down to your waist. “I’m takin’ my time, doll. There’s a difference.”

“It- It just feels-“ Stars spark behind your eyes, when he switches to the other nipple. “God, Bucky-“

“Feels what?” He mocks, leaning back just enough to watch your expression. “Gonna use your words like a good girl.”

You try to snap back, but Bucky pinches the sensitive bud and your mouth falls stupidly open. Your breathing is coming short and fast, your head spinning with desire, and Bucky’s just playing with you like his favorite toy.

But God, being his favorite anything is paradise.

When he’s done with your breasts, your short breathless pleas for more completely ignored, he starts to kiss you again.

You just think he wants to taste your moan, when he finally shoves down your pants.

“Fuck.” He groans, dragging his fingers between your pussy lips, your head falling back against the door with a squeak. “You’re soaked. You always walk around this soaked for me, baby? Always wondering when I’ll finally be the one to take care of this pretty fuckin’ mess, fuck you so dumb you can’t even remember how to stand?”

You nod, straining at his hold on your wrists. This is the best torture you’ve ever experienced, bare to his whims and exposed, but you need more. You need him to fuck you like an animal, for the cool, metal fingers brushing teasing touches over your clit to just get inside of you, to let the release boiling over inside of you explode. They way you’re reacting to his light touches, you’d think you were a blushing virgin. You certainly feel like one.

You want to touch him. You need to touch him-

“Hey.” He spanks your pussy, and your whole body rushes with heat. “Asked you a question-“

“Yes.” You moan, giving him your best, doe-eyed stare. “Please, Bucky, fill me, I- I need it- Need you-“

That does it for him. He groans, and two fingers tease at your entrance. Bucky watches your reaction carefully, your legs spreading in offering, eyes still soft and pleading on his.

“Bet you’re gonna taste good.” He mutters, smearing your arousal all over your pussy, knuckles grazing your clit. “Think when I’m done with this, I’ll sit you on my face. Let you ride it until I’m drowning in it. You can touch me all you want, like that. But I’m not lettin’ you up until you’re begging.”

Bucky slides one finger in, slow and taunting. You squeeze around him, and he groans.

“Goddamnit, babydoll, you’re perfect.” He kisses all over your face, your lust glazed eyes unable to do anything but flutter with desire. “My pretty girl, mine-“

Another finger. Then a third. He starts to pump slowly, and you make a sound like his name.

“I know.” Bucky kisses your cheek, the pace picking up. “I know, but you’re takin’ it so good. Jesus, look at you.”

He yanks his hand out, spanking your pussy before shoving them back in, and you scream with pleasure.

“This fucking dumb on my hand, you’re gonna be drooling on my cock. I’ll fuck that smart head empty, keep you all pretty and relaxed in my bed for a month-“

You moan again, dropping your brow against his, and Bucky chuckles.

“Oh, you fuckin’ like that. Like the idea of bein’ nothing but a pretty slut for me, spending every day being fed and stuffed full of cock. You can put in your mouth, doll, take it how ever you want. Touch yourself  in front of me, jerk me off, just get on your hands and knees and I’ll take you, just spank your pretty fuckin’ ass until you’re begging for me to fuck you-“

His fingers are drilling into your cunt now, the wet sounds echoing through the stairwell. He’s going faster than a machine, abusing your pussy until it’s fluttering and dripping down your thighs, slamming against that deep spot and driving you right up to the edge. When he chuckles the sound rolls through you, and when his cold thumb starts to rub furious circles on your clit, you open your mouth in a silent scream.

“That’s it, baby, there you go. All relaxed and happy.” He kisses you gently, and you whine.

Bucky smirks, twisting his fingers as his pace hits an impossible, skin-slapping high.

“Come for me.” He mutters in your ear, thumb working your clit into a frenzy. “Give it to me, baby, c’mon-“

Your release hits your with a scream. Your body goes limp as the stimulation turns into a blinding rush of pleasure, your pussy clenching wildly around Bucky’s fingers and a hot, wet gushing sound hitting your ears as your grind onto his hand.

Bucky pulls out slowly, keeping your hands above your head.

Then he cleans his fingers, holding your gaze the whole time.

Your hips buck, your fingers itching to hold onto more than just his wrist, and he grins. Leans down to kiss you sweetly, his lips tasting of your own arousal and making the heat in you spark up even faster than before.

“My room?” He mutters, and you nod.

“It’s closer.”

He hums, drawing back just enough to look you in the eyes. “And you’re staying the night?”

There’s the weight in his words. The silent promise, that he’s asking for.

It’s so easy to make it. There will be things to deal with, in the morning.

You’d rather deal with them, having Bucky at your side.

“Yeah.” You whisper. “I am.”

Your fingers trailed down his chest, slow and deliberate, stopping just above the waistband of his sweatpants. Adrien’s breath hitched, his pulse visible beneath the skin of his throat. "I’ve been thinking," you murmured, leaning in until your lips brushed the shell of his ear, "about how much I love the way you taste." His grip tightened on the couch cushions, knuckles whitening.

You didn’t wait for a response. Sinking to your knees between his legs, you hooked your thumbs under the elastic of his pants and dragged them down just enough to free him. His cock twitched against his stomach, already half-hard, and you couldn’t resist running your tongue along the underside in one long, teasing stroke. Adrien groaned, hips jerking involuntarily. "Fuck—"

"Mm, that’s the idea," you grinned against his skin before taking him into your mouth, slow and deliberate, savoring the way his thighs tensed beneath your palms. His fingers tangled in your hair—not pushing, just holding, like he was afraid you’d vanish if he didn’t keep you there. You hummed around him, the vibration pulling another broken sound from his chest.

When you pulled off with a wet pop, his grip tightened instinctively. "You’re so good at this," he breathed, pupils blown wide. "Always so fucking good." You nuzzled into his thigh, pressing a kiss to the sensitive skin there before glancing up. "Want you to use me," you said, voice low. "Want you to hold me right here and take what you need."

His hesitation was sweet, almost painfully so, but you guided his hands back to your head with deliberate pressure until his fingers curled tighter in your hair. "Like this," you urged, and then swallowed him down again, deeper this time, letting him set the pace as your tongue worked in slow, filthy circles. The first experimental thrust of his hips had you moaning around him, your nails digging into his thighs in encouragement.

"God, the way you take me—" Adrien’s voice was ragged, barely recognizable. His thrusts grew more confident, his grip on your hair firm but never cruel, just enough to guide you where he wanted. Every time he bottomed out, your throat fluttered around him, and the choked-off noises he made were better than any praise. When you pulled back to catch your breath, spit-slick and grinning, he cupped your cheek with trembling fingers. "You’re incredible," he managed.

You licked a stripe up his length, watching his stomach muscles clench. "Tell me what you want," you murmured, dragging your teeth lightly over the head. His hips jerked. "Just—just like this. Just you." His thumb traced your lower lip, smearing precum across it before you took him back into your mouth with a satisfied sigh. Above you, Adrien shuddered, his free hand fisting in the fabric of the couch as he lost himself in the wet heat of your mouth.

Adrien's breath came in ragged bursts, his fingers tightening reflexively in your hair as you hollowed your cheeks around him. The taste of him—salt and heat and something uniquely his—flooded your senses, and you moaned around his cock, the vibration drawing a broken gasp from his lips. "Jesus—" His hips stuttered forward, then stilled, like he was fighting to hold back. You dug your nails into his thighs in protest, urging him on without words, and he groaned, surrendering to the push-pull rhythm you'd set between you.

The stretch of your lips around him, the way your tongue pressed insistently along his shaft every time he pulled back—it was deliberate, practiced, and you reveled in the way his control unraveled with every pass. When you swirled your tongue around the head, teasing the slit, his grip on your hair went almost painfully tight. "Fuck, fuck—" he choked out, his other hand scrambling to brace against the armrest. You glanced up through your lashes, meeting his hazy gaze, and let your lips curl into a smirk before taking him deep again, your throat fluttering as you swallowed around him.

His hips jerked forward involuntarily, and you let him, relaxing your jaw until his cock hit the back of your throat. The sound he made was raw, unfiltered, and you moaned in response, the vibrations dragging another helpless thrust from him. "You feel so good," he panted, his voice wrecked. "God, the way you—shit—" His words dissolved into a groan as you dragged your lips slowly up his length, then sank back down, your fingers teasing the base of his cock where your mouth couldn’t reach.

You pulled off just long enough to catch your breath, wiping your chin with the back of your hand. "You’re so pretty like this," you murmured, stroking him lazily. His cock twitched in your grip, smearing precum across your fingers. "All wound up and mine." Adrien’s breath hitched at the possessiveness in your voice, his hips lifting off the couch as if chasing your touch. You chuckled, low and throaty, before ducking back down to lick a broad stripe from root to tip. "Tell me," you prompted, nipping at the sensitive skin just below the head. "Tell me how bad you want to come."

His fingers trembled where they carded through your hair. "So bad," he admitted, his voice rough. "But I don’t—I don’t wanna finish yet." The confession was sweet, almost shy, and you nuzzled into his thigh, pressing a kiss to the inside before meeting his eyes. "Then don’t," you said simply, and took him back into your mouth, this time slow and syrupy, your tongue dragging along his length in a way you knew drove him wild.

Adrien whimpered, his thighs tensing beneath your palms as you worked him over with agonizing patience. Every flick of your tongue, every deliberate swallow—you drew it out, savoring the way his breathing turned erratic, the way his stomach muscles jumped under your teasing touches. When you finally pulled back, his cock glistened with spit, and you pressed a kiss to the tip before looking up at him. "You’re doing so good," you murmured, your voice thick with approval. His chest rose and fell rapidly, his gaze locked on your mouth like he was hypnotized.

With a slow, deliberate blink, you licked your lips—his taste still clinging to them—and watched his pupils dilate further. "Now," you said, your fingers tracing idle circles on his thighs, "tell me what you need."

Adrien exhaled sharply, his hand sliding from your hair to cup your jaw. "You," he said, thumb brushing your bottom lip. "Just you. Always you." His voice cracked on the last word, and something warm and possessive curled in your chest. You smiled, slow and wicked, before parting your lips for him again—ready, willing, hungry. His groan was muffled by the press of his own hand over his mouth as you took him deep, your fingers tightening on his hips to hold him steady. Above you, Adrien trembled, his control fraying at the edges, and you knew—knew—he wouldn’t last much longer.

And you couldn’t wait to watch him come undone.

Adrien's thighs trembled beneath your palms as you hollowed your cheeks around him, the rhythm of your mouth deliberate and filthy. His fingers tightened in your hair—not pulling, not guiding, just holding on like you were the only solid thing in the world. You moaned around him, the vibration wringing a punched-out groan from his chest, and his hips jerked forward instinctively, his cock hitting the back of your throat. You swallowed reflexively, your throat fluttering around him, and the sound he made was half-whimper, half-curse.

"God, your mouth—" His voice was wrecked, syllables crumbling into nothing as you dragged your lips up his length, swirling your tongue around the head before sinking back down. Precum slicked your lips, the salt-bitter taste of him flooding your senses, and you hummed in satisfaction, your fingers digging into the muscle of his thighs to keep him from bucking up too hard. His breath came in ragged gasps, his free hand fisting in the couch cushions like he needed something to anchor him.

You pulled off just long enough to catch your breath, your lips spit-slick and swollen. "You feel so good," you murmured, stroking him lazily, your thumb brushing over the leaking head. His hips twitched, chasing the contact, and you chuckled, low and throaty. "So eager." Adrien whined, his fingers flexing in your hair, and you grinned before ducking back down to lick a broad stripe from base to tip, savoring the way his stomach muscles clenched.

His grip on your hair tightened as you took him deep again, your nose brushing the coarse curls at his base. You held there for a heartbeat, your throat working around him, and the noise he made was broken, like you’d punched the air from his lungs. When you pulled back, his cock slid wetly from your lips, and you pressed a kiss to the tip, watching his abdomen jump. "You’re close," you observed, your voice husky. His answering groan was answer enough.

Adrien's fingers trembled where they carded through your hair. "I—I can’t—" His words dissolved into a gasp as you swallowed him down again, your tongue pressing insistently along the underside of his shaft. His hips stuttered, his thighs tensing beneath your hands, and you moaned around him, the vibration dragging another broken sound from his lips. "Fuck, fuck, I’m gonna—" His warning was cut off by a sharp inhale, his whole body going rigid as pleasure crested.

You kept your lips sealed around him, swallowing every pulse, every twitch, your tongue milking him through it until he shuddered, oversensitive. His grip on your hair loosened, his fingers sliding down to cradle your jaw instead, his thumb brushing your cheekbone. "Jesus," he breathed, his voice raw. "Jesus Christ." You licked your lips, catching the last traces of him, and grinned up at him, your chin glistening.

Adrien exhaled sharply, his chest rising and falling rapidly. "Come here," he murmured, tugging you up by your shoulders until you were straddling his lap. His hands slid down to your hips, pulling you flush against him, and he kissed you—deep and messy, tasting himself on your tongue. When he pulled back, his pupils were still blown wide, his lips kiss-swollen. "You’re insane," he said, voice rough with awe.

You nipped at his lower lip, your fingers threading through his hair. "You loved it."

He groaned, dropping his forehead to your shoulder. "Yeah," he admitted, his breath warm against your skin. "Yeah, I really fucking did."

You laughed, pressing a kiss to his temple as his arms tightened around you. His heartbeat thudded against your chest, steady and strong, and you closed your eyes, savoring the weight of him against you.

And then his fingers trailed up your spine, slow and deliberate, and you shivered.

"Now," he murmured, his lips brushing your ear, "what do you want?"

You grinned against his neck.

He was your first. There have been others since, but they’ve never captured you like he did and still does even if it is true that you’ve never seen what lies beneath his helmet. The day he came through the village, you knew right then that there'd never be anyone else like him. Whilst your community was enthralled by the tiny yet powerful companion he brought with him, you were stuck on him. The way he walked, the way he held himself tall, strong, experienced, and you couldn't help but blush any time he lifted his head in your direction.

Din had one rule that you had tried so many times to understand; he'd give himself to you, but you could never see his face. Initially, even though you never showed it, it played on your mind that you were giving yourself to somebody so intimately, yet he never allowed you to see his true self, not without that goddamn barrier. But if you wanted him, and fuck, you definitely wanted him, that was the one small price you'd always have to pay, so you accepted it. 

It became a sort of routine. Whenever he felt like it, after good days and after worse days, he'd arrive at your hut in the dead of night when only you would be aware of his presence. Whilst your village slept cast under a peaceful darkness, you’d wait for him, hoping that you'd hear those familiar gentle creaks of the floorboards letting you know that he was here for you. 

Whenever he calls, you follow his instructions precisely. Standing facing the wall, you'll listen to the sound of his heavy armor approaching you from behind. He'll pull out the silver silk scarf from his suit and bring it over your head, over your eyes, until it's tied to block your vision. You always sense his silent hesitation before he reaches up to remove his helmet. Once he's naked, he'll undress you slowly, his large palms brushing against your skin, never failing to leave a trail of goosebumps everywhere he touches. Once he has you ready, he'll ask you to surrender your body to him in whatever way he desires: up against the wall, sprawled bare for him on the bed, in his lap, anyway he desires as long as that silver silk remains in place over your eyes.

He claims the blindfold heightens your senses, and he's right. But the more he calls, the more he worships every inch of your body under the darkness, the harder it’s becoming not to defy his rule and remove the barrier between you. The pull to cast your eyes over the man who consumes your entire body and all your thoughts every second of the day is starting to drive you insane.

Tonight should have been no different, except it was. He hadn’t shown for weeks, and the ache inside of you to be with him again was starting to mess with you. You were agitated and irritable, and you knew your friends had noticed. So when the creak of the floorboards came a few hours after the sun had dipped, it woke you from your light slumber, an excitement running through your being. The silhouette of his armor, the soft glimmer of it reflecting under the moonlight as he waited for you to notice him, made your tummy flip. He looks big in the doorway, and his size always has always intimidated you in the best possible way.

Following the pattern without a word exchanged, you stand, padding on bare feet towards the wall opposite him. You listen to his slow steps behind you as he steps inside your room. Like always, you wait for the silk blindfold, but it doesn't come. Instead, in the corner of your eye, you notice his helmet being placed down and hear the gentle clink of his suit as he undresses. His breathing deepens as he steps forward and slips the thin straps of your nightgown off your shoulders, letting the fabric slide down your body like a feather until it lands on the wood beneath you. With his palm snaking around your front, it rests low on your stomach as he pulls you back into him, his soft wet lips laying delicate kisses up your neck before they hover beside your ear. You push your naked ass back into his raging erection, aching to feel him again. God, how you've missed this. 

“Please.” You beg.

“Missed me, huh?” 

You nod with a bite of your lip. “You know I did. Didn’t know if you were coming back.” Your hands reach up to entangle in those curls you don’t even know the true color of. Fuck, how you wish you could turn and see the man who knows your body and your needs so well.

“Always coming back to you…” He murmurs, and for a moment you know he’s overthinking that comment; he has a frustrating habit of seizing up any time a glimmer of serious affection slips from his mouth.

“What about-”

“Be a good girl for me; promise you won't turn around.” 

You nod in agreement, but you're not sure if you can truly keep such a promise. 

“Get on the bed, want you on all fours, head down.” 

There’s a vulnerability that washes over you when he watches you do this, but every time it excites you, the anticipation, the curiosity of how exactly he’ll take you tonight. Sometimes he’s slow, gentle and caring. Sometimes he feels distant, the pain or sadness radiating from his body. Other times when he tells you he’s had a successful mission, he’s rougher, more daring, and more dominant because the confidence oozes from him as it courses through his veins. 

Sensing the dip of the bed behind you, your heart begins to race at the way you feel so exposed yet so fucking good bared open to him like this. As you wait, you notice the coldness of the night air softly blowing through the window landing on your skin. In contrast, his hot breath tickles against your ass makes your tummy flip as you anticipate his next move. The tip of his nose brushes against your lower back, trailing down slowly between the curves of your ass cheeks, his tongue instantly darting out as it reaches its destination to taste your pooling desire. Jolting forward from his actions as your breath hitches, his palms instantly grip onto your waist, holding you tightly in place as his mouth explores your drenched cunt, his hums of satisfaction making you even more horny.

“Always taste fucking divine, my love.” My love. You can't help but latch onto those words the second they escape him. He's never called you that; always a man of few words and you can’t help but wonder if he means it.

You can feel your juices coating his chin as he laps at your folds, his wet facial hair against your thighs. He gets lost in the sounds of your moans while he tastes you, his erection twitching at the sounds. When he stops, you whimper in protest, needing more. His hand smoothes up to the top of your back, pushing hard on your shoulders until your head rests down on the sheets beneath you, your ass still high in the air. 

“Please, I need you," you whisper, your ass wriggling, trying to move back into him, but he holds you tightly in place. He parts your ass cheeks with his hands looking down at your glistening folds.

"Shit, it’s been too long. I've missed this view, you all open for me like this, begging for it, baby. Don't think you know what it does to me, d’you?”

His hand comes to your mouth, inserting two fingers deep against your tongue. Pushing them further inside, he gently thrusts them, making you gag around his digits, the vulgar sound making his cock even harder. When he draws them out, the wet pop of your lips makes him groan deeply.

“Gonna kill me one day with the sounds you make. You’re fuckin’ perfect.” He takes himself in hand, his fingers wet with your spit now coating his rock-hard dick before he lines himself up with your soaked entrance. You push back, eager to have his veiny shaft fill you up once again. When he finally stops teasing, the sudden instruction of his thrust pushes your head further into the bed, making you gasp at how perfectly he stretches you. It's like your body forgets just how thick he is. 

"Fuuuuck," he groans, reaching down to grab a handful of your hair, “Always so tight for me.”

In the quietness of the night, there’s only the sound of his hips slapping against yours, his animalistic grunts as he drives into you over and over again, mixed with your desperate whimpers muffled in the sheets. You both know you should be quieter; if anyone found you, you know your dad would probably start a war with Din, but when he’s sheathed so deep inside of you like this, it’s hard to care about what anyone else would think. His free hand lightly scratches down your spine before curving underneath you to your tits. His thumb flicks over your hard nipple before he squeezes the flesh hard, maybe a little too hard, but you don't protest because you enjoy being completely at his mercy, willing to give him whatever he needs.

He pulls tightly, wrapping your hair around his fist as his thrusts start to turn ragged and messy. When he starts to feel your walls fluttering around his thick erection, he releases his grip on your hair, reaching underneath your body to pleasure your sensitive bud, desperate to send you racing over the edge before he spills his load. “Yeahhh fuck, that’s it, darling; almost there.”

As he works you, your body begins to shudder against the mattress as he fucks you even harder through your orgasm. “Just like that, let me feel you.”

Your nails dig into the sheets, desperate for grip as you ride out your high around him. When it passes, your body feels weightless as the energy drains from you. It’s only his strong grip on your waist that’s keeping you in place as he chases his own release, his thrusts getting harder each time. When his pants become too quick, he withdraws, releasing a loud, guttural groan into the darkness as he spurts his hot, thick cum onto your ass, breathing heavy like a feral animal. 

Utterly spent, he drops down onto you. Your damp, sticky bodies joined together as they recover from your mutual highs. He never stays long afterwards; once he’s sure you're okay, he pulls his armor back on too quickly, rushing away before he could be in any danger of being persuaded to stay, leaving you cold and lonely and wishing for more. But tonight it isn’t going unnoticed how he isn’t itching to flee your bed.

“Am I too heavy?” He hums against your hot skin.

“Hmm, but I like it.” Your voice is soft but tired.

“Need me to move?” 

“No, stay… a while longer.” You mumble into the pillow, never wanting to leave this very moment. 

You know you need to clean up, but this is the longest you’ve had him like this, thoroughly fucked, not wanting to leave your side, so you refuse to spoil this yet. For once you sense he’s relaxed, his guard down as he allows himself to get lost in the bliss of the intimate moment you just shared together.

As you lift your head slightly from the mattress, the thin slither of moonlight reflecting into your room allows you to see his body. The rise and fall of his bare chest is starting to slow. You watch as he pulls the sheet up over you both until it lies lows on his waist. He takes your hand, bringing it to his mouth to place a soft kiss on your palm before holding it against his chest. While you lie there not saying a word, getting lost in his soft breathing as he falls into a deep sleep, you don’t realize the time passing.

You still haven’t looked up, scared to lift your eyes, to move up his huge form beside you and land on the one thing you’ve never been allowed to see. But with him sleeping right next to you, the temptation, the desperation to flick your pupils up, becomes all too overwhelming. 

So when you do finally give in, you’re sure your heat skips a beat. His face is cast softly under the white moonlight, and you can’t help but admire the beauty of it. You’d created an image in your mind from his voice and what you’d felt against your skin over the time you’ve spent with him, and of course you knew he’d be striking, but it was nothing compared to the reality of seeing his face beside you now.

His skin looks a little aged, like his experiences as a bounty hunter are finally catching up with him. His brows are knitted ever so slightly as he dreams, revealing the lines across his forehead, and his eyelids flicker gently as he fights his demons within his sleep. You reach up to examine the soft curls on his head before your eyes drop slowly down over the outline of his face, moving over the patchy facial hair that has brushed against your neck and your thighs a hundred times before. He has a jaw so sharp and rigid, and you wonder how one man could possibly be so handsome, even in such low light. There's a flutter of butterflies building within your stomach as you analyze every single detail and scar on his face. You can tell he’s seen more than anyone should, and you can know he’s still holding onto so much hurt. Jesus, there's so much you would like to ask him; you almost wish you could climb inside his mind yourself to make all his pain disappear.

As you watch him, his head begins to move, left to right and back again. His breathing suddenly becomes faster and more desperate, and you feel his entire body beside you tense against the bed beneath you. Lifting your hand, you cup his face as you look down at him. 

You call for him. Nothing. As his nightmare worsens and his body starts to move more vigorously, you refuse to be scared, instead calling his name louder repeatedly until his eyes finally open, landing straight on yours, startled.

For the first time, you're finally looking directly into the eyes of the man you spend your days longing for, the only man you will ever want. In this very moment as you trace a finger along the outline of his face, it feels a thousand times more intimate than anything you’ve done together.

He whispers your name; the sound of it coming from his lips as he searches your eyes makes it sound different than any time before. All his barriers have vanished, if only for a second. He blinks, swallows, and speaks again, his voice louder and more serious. “What are you doing?”

“You were having a nightmare… you were thrashing-” 

“Don’t have nightmares.” He cuts you off.

"Din-" 

“Have to get back to the kid.” 

You shift, moving your head closer to his on the pillow as you stroke the far side of his face with your thumb. “Wait, please... let me in. You don’t have to hide from me.” you search his face, trying to take as much of him in before he inevitably runs away. He reaches up, taking your hand from his cheek with a gentle shake of his head. With a heavy sigh, he sits up looking away so his broad, scarred back hides the view of his face.

You had never been more aware of your own bladder in your entire life as you shuffled down the bunker hallway in Dean’s, well no, technically your flannel. Everything between your hips felt… wrong. Stretched and sore, like you’d done a hundred squats and then lost a fistfight with gravity.

The bathroom light was way too bright when you flicked it on. You squinted at yourself in the mirror for half a second: hair in a tangled knot, faint pillow crease still on your cheek and skin pale except for the flush over your nose. You had one of Dean’s old t-shirts on under the flannel, stretched over the soft swell of your still-not-quite-flat stomach.

“Supermodel”, you muttered to your reflection and dropped onto the toilet with a hissed, “Ow”. Peeing after birth, they said. Magical experience.

While you handled that mess and tried not to overthink the fact that your body had literally pushed a person out less than twenty-four hours ago, you heard the sound. Faint at first, a soft whimper, then a sharper cry, echoing down the hall. Luna. Your chest tightened. It was ridiculous how fast that little sound lit you up inside, nerves and something warm tangling together. You finished as quickly as your protesting muscles allowed, did the whole careful-wipe-try-not-to-curse routine, then washed your hands, fingers moving fast under the water. Her cries picked up, not frantic yet, but definitely unhappy. “I’m coming, kiddo”, you said under your breath, drying your hands on a towel that had seen better days.

Luna’s cries grew clearer as you turned into the hallway that led to your room. Well, your and Dean’s room. That was still new enough to feel like trying on someone else’s clothes.

You pushed the door open with your shoulder. She lay in the middle of the big bed, in a little nest of blankets Dean had made, tucked into the dip where his body usually rested. One tiny pink face scrunched up, eyes squeezed shut, fists like knots by her ears as she yelled her opinion about being awake.

Your heart did that weird stutter-step it kept doing every time you looked at her. Like it couldn’t quite believe she was real. “Hey, hey”, you murmured, crossing the room. “I was gone for two minutes. Drama queen already, huh?”. You slid your hands carefully beneath her, mindful of her floppy head like the nurse had shown Dean five times until he’d snapped, “I got it” and then proceeded to handle her like a bomb with a smiley face drawn on it.

Luna was so warm. That was the first thing you always noticed. Warm and impossibly small. Her cries dropped from siren to wounded kitten as you lifted her against your chest, her face smooshing against your shirt. “There you are”, you breathed, swaying a little without thinking. “Didn’t like waking up alone, huh? Yeah. Me neither”. Her tiny fingers flexed against you, catching in the fabric. You could feel her breath, quick little puffs through her nose. There was that newborn smell clinging to her, milk and baby shampoo and something that just meant new.

“I swear I didn’t leave her there alone crying. She was asleep when I went to get food. I’m not neglectful, I’m just… hungry”.

You turned to find Dean standing in the doorway, balancing a plate in one hand and looking only slightly defensive. “I left her for, like, three minutes”, he said, voice pitched low, eyes darting from you to Luna and back. “I checked, like, twice. She was out. I swear”.

“She’s a Winchester”, you said, shifting Luna so her cheek pressed against your shoulder. “She can sense when someone tries to eat without her present. Survival instinct”.

Dean’s mouth twitched, but his shoulders dropped a little. “Yeah, well, you missed out. I made you a sandwich. Heavy on the good stuff, light on the—”. He broke off, glancing down at the plate, then back up, as if remembering he was supposed to be chill about this. “Sam’s healthy crap. The stuff he tries to sneak in”.

“You took it off, right? Because if there’s kale in there, I’m filing for full custody”.

He grinned, crooked and soft. “All the kale’s in Sam’s sandwich. Yours is pure. Might’ve even put extra bacon on it. For… health”.

You made your way to the bed again, Luna’s little body pressed against you, making snuffles that said she was mostly just mad about being alone. Dean set the plate on the nightstand, eyeing you like you might tip over. “Need a hand?”, he asked quieter now.

You shook your head, shifting to sit on the edge of the mattress. “I got it. Unless you’re volunteering to handle this”, you said, nodding at Luna, who was now working up another cry, tiny mouth searching for something to latch onto.

Dean hovered with his hands stuffed in the pockets of his jeans. “I would, but…”. He shrugged. “Not really equipped. You want the water?”.

You nodded, glancing at the glass he’d left by the bed. He passed it to you, careful not to jostle Luna. His fingers were so warm where they brushed yours. Just like Luna´s body. “Thanks”, you said and tried to sound casual about it, like this was normal. Like this was always going to be normal. Dean Winchester bringing you water, making you sandwiches, being here.

Luna’s face screwed up again, so you cradled her with one arm and awkwardly maneuvered your shirt with the other, grateful that the hospital had made you practice this about twenty times. She latched on quick, hungry and serious about it, like she’d never eaten before in her life. Dean turned away a little, trying not to watch and failing.

You cleared your throat. “You don’t have to look away, you know. You were there for the birth. You saw, like, everything”. He snorted, but you caught the faint pink creeping up his neck. “Yeah, you almost broke my hand. Still got the marks”. You smirked, holding Luna with one hand, the other massaging your wrist absently. “You should’ve thought of that before knocking me up”.

Dean’s face went soft. He didn’t say anything for a second, just looked at you and Luna, the sarcasm slipping away like it always did when he thought you weren’t looking. For a guy who could walk into a room full of monsters and crack a joke, he sure struggled with emotions that didn’t involve bravado. He cleared his throat, looking down at his feet. “You know… I still can’t believe it. That she’s real. That you’re here”.

You smiled, because you felt the same… like the floor might drop out at any second. You and Dean. An actual relationship, not just a one-night thing that you both pretended didn’t mean anything for months after. Luna, all cheeks and tiny fists, a day old and already bossing you both around. The bunker, never really home until now.

“She’s got your attitude”, you said. “And your appetite. Congratulations”.

Dean looked up, grinning wide, eyes all crinkled at the corners. “Yeah, but she’s got your stubbornness. You try to put her down, she acts like it’s the end of the world”.

“She learned from the best”, you shot back, but it was gentle, affectionate. Your chest felt too full, in that scary, good way.

Dean stayed perched by the bed, hands still buried deep in his pockets like he was afraid they might accidentally do something wrong if he let them loose. Luna’s hungry noises filled the space. The silence stretched, full of things unsaid. Dean fidgeted, eyes flicking from your face to the baby, to the wall, to anywhere but the actual operation you were running on his bed. You cocked an eyebrow at him. “You know, for a guy who once stitched a knife wound in a moving car, you’re surprisingly squeamish around some boobs”.

He let out a breathy laugh, glancing at you with a sheepish grin. “Yeah, well, usually when boobs are out, it’s for a whole different reason, and there’s a lot less crying involved. Usually”. You smirked. “Wow. Real mature”. Dean shrugged, his lips twitching. “You’re the one who picked me, sweetheart. You want mature, you should’ve stuck with Sam”.

You snorted, trying to shift Luna to the other aching boob without completely flashing Dean. You failed. Spectacularly. Your shirt got caught halfway, Luna slid an inch, you overcorrected, and for a solid two seconds you were just… out there. Full National Geographic.

Dean choked on absolutely nothing. “Jesus”, he coughed, whipping his head toward the wall so fast you were surprised it didn’t spin. “Little warning, sweetheart”.

You huffed, getting Luna latched on the other side with a wince. “Relax. You’ve seen them before. Extensively”.

“Yeah, when they weren’t being used for—”, he gestured vaguely, still pointed firmly away from you “—baby fuel”. You rolled your eyes. “Same hardware, different purpose. Calm down, Winchester”.

He risked a glance back, careful, like you’d explode if he looked straight on. His gaze flicked from your face to Luna, then very deliberately stayed above your collarbone.

Eventually, you shifted, wincing as you eased Luna off your breast. She made a sleepy noise of protest, mouth working on air, then slumped against you, milk-drunk and limp. You adjusted your shirt one-handed, the other arm wrapped around her little body, already moving to settle her higher on your shoulder when Dean’s hand shot out halfway, then paused in midair. “I can—uh”. He cleared his throat, eyes flicking from Luna to you and back. “I can take her. If you want. Y’know. Burp her. Or… whatever the technical term is”.

You blinked at him. He looked ridiculous and kind of adorable. Big, tough hunter suddenly nervous about asking to hold his own kid. And under that, something else, sharper: the way his shoulders squared a little with Sam standing there, like he wanted it very clear whose job this was now.

“Technical term is ‘burp,’ Einstein”, you said. “But sure. Be my guest”. You leaned forward carefully, passing Luna over. Dean’s hands were there instantly, bigger than they had any right to be, palms steady even if you could see the faint tremor in his fingers. He gathered her against his chest with a care you’d never seen him use on anything that wasn’t a weapon or the Impala.

“Okay”, he said, mostly to himself. “So I just… pat her? Or is it more of a… tap thing?”.

Your mouth twitched. “Do you want me to—”.

“I got it”, Dean cut in, a little too quick. His jaw clenched, shoulders squaring. “I can burp my own kid. I know how gravity works”.

You bit back a grin. “He’s trying to impress you”, you stage-whispered to Luna. “Prove he’s not just a pretty face and questionable life choices”.

Dean ignored you, focused entirely on Luna. He started with the gentlest little tap on her back, like he was afraid she might crumble.

“Dean”, you said. “She’s not made of glass. You pat me harder when I steal your fries”.

“She’s tiny”, he argued, eyes darting down. “I’m not gonna… I dunno. Knock something loose”.

You watched his face soften as he found a rhythm. Firmer pats, slow rubs in between. His whole body swayed instinctively, that unconscious rock you’d already caught him doing every time she was in his arms. Luna scrunched her nose against his shoulder, hands twitching, then relaxed again. One of her feet kicked out, sock brushing his wrist. “Hey there, peanut”, he murmured, voice dropping into that soft register he only used with her. “C’mon. Work with me here. Give Dad a little something. Don’t make me look bad in front of your mom”. You huffed under your breath and Dean kept patting, just on the edge of anxious, mouth pressed into a line. “She’s supposed to burp, right?”, he asked after a second, glancing at you. “They said if she doesn’t, I’m not, like, killing her with air or something?”.

You smiled, the exhaustion sitting warm behind your eyes now instead of cold. “Relax. She’ll get there. She just likes to keep you sweating”.

“Yeah, that tracks”, he muttered, looking back at her. “Takes after her mom”.

You smirked and just then Luna let out a tiny, surprisingly loud belch, right against Dean’s shoulder. Dean’s face lit up like someone had turned on a switch inside him. “Did you hear that?”, he demanded, looking like he’d just won a trophy. “You hear that? That was me”.

You laughed outright. “Congrats. You successfully helped a six-pound human expel gas”.

Dean beamed anyway, absolutely unbothered. “Fuck yeah I did”. He turned his head, pressing his cheek very gently against the top of Luna’s head. “That’s my girl. Look at you, showing off”.

You swallowed around the stupid lump in your throat. “Careful”, you said. “Keep talking like that and she’s gonna expect applause every time she farts”.

“Fine by me”, Dean said. “I’ll buy her a damn marching band if she wants one”. He kept grinning down at his daughter.

“Hey, Dean?”, you murmured.

“Yeah?”.

“You look good like that”, you said. “You know. All… dad”.

He glanced at you, a slow, almost shy smile tugging at his mouth. “Yeah?”.

“Yeah”, you said. “Kinda hot, actually”.

The grin turned wicked for half a second before he caught himself, eyes dropping pointedly to Luna. “Careful, sweetheart. I’m holding the kid”.

You laughed, tired and full and a little wrecked in the best way. “Relax. Overachiever. You already proved your point”. He huffed a soft laugh, then leaned down and, very carefully, pressed his lips to the top of Luna’s head.

-

One week later, the bunker felt almost like a real home, or as close as it ever would. You could walk without wincing, the mesh underwear was gone and you’d started to believe you might survive this whole parenthood thing, especially with Dean at your side.

Dean had gone from nervous rookie to absolute baby whisperer in record time. He could change a diaper one-handed, soothe Luna with a song (badly off-key, but she didn’t seem to mind), and he’d even figured out how to heat a bottle without setting off the fire alarm. You had no idea where he’d picked up half of it. Maybe it was all instinct, or maybe all those years of keeping Sam alive had finally paid off.

Tonight, the bunker was blessedly quiet. Sam was out running “errands”. It was probably an excuse to give you and Dean space. Luna was finally asleep in her little bassinet next to the bed, bundled up like a glow worm, her tiny fist curled beside her cheek. You lay on your side facing her for a long moment, just… watching. Her lips twitched in her sleep, like she was arguing with someone in a dream. It still blew your mind that she existed at all, let alone here, in this ridiculous underground library with two emotionally stunted hunters for parents.

The mattress dipped behind you, springs creaking softly. Dean’s familiar weight slid in, the faint smell of whiskey and whatever body wash he’d bought last time wafting over you. He pressed in close, chest to your back, arm snaking around your waist without hesitation, palm spreading over your stomach like it had every right to be there. “You staring at her again?”, he murmured against your nape, breath warm. “You know she’s not gonna do any tricks, right?”.

You smiled with your eyes still on Luna. “She’s very busy being adorable. It’s a full-time job”.

You felt his chuckle rumble against your spine. “Yeah, well… guess she gets that from her dad”. You snorted. “Bold”.

He hummed, then his lips brushed the side of your neck. Just a soft, testing touch. You went still for a heartbeat, then melted, your hand coming up to curl around his forearm where it banded across your middle.

“You okay?”, he asked quietly, nose nudging behind your ear. “We can just sleep. Or pretend to. I know you’re still… healing and all that”.

You rolled over slowly to face him, knees bumping under the blanket. His hair was still damp from the shower, sticking up in soft spikes, freckles dusting his nose in a way you tried not to stare at.

“I’m okay”, you said. “And I don’t want to sleep yet”.

One corner of his mouth tugged up. “No?”.

You shook your head. “No. I want you to kiss me like I’m your girlfriend, not just the chick whose name is on the birth certificate next to yours”.

Something flickered in his eyes. Hurt, guilt, determination all tangled together. He reached up, fingers brushing your cheekbone. “You are my girlfriend”, he said steady. “Been trying to show you that for a week now without… pushing”. His thumb skimmed your lower lip. “But if you’re asking…”. You didn’t get the rest, because he leaned in and kissed you. It wasn’t the frantic, half-desperate way he’d kissed you that night months ago, when everything between you had finally snapped. This was slower. Careful. Like he was taking his time proving you’d done the right thing picking him. His mouth moved against yours, warm and sure, his hand sliding back into your hair, cradling your head. You sighed into him, your fingers fisting in the fabric of his t-shirt, tugging him closer until your chest was flush with his.

He shifted, bracing himself on his elbow so he didn’t crush you, thumb stroking the curve of your jaw. Every time he pulled back, he only went far enough to breathe your air, to steal another look at you before dipping back in, kisses trailing softer, then deeper, then soft again.

You lost track of how long you spent like that. The only clock in the room was Luna’s little huffing baby breaths and the way Dean’s thumb traced lazy circles against your cheek, over and over, like he had to remind himself you were really there. Eventually, his hand slid down to your waist, fingers splayed wide and steady. He didn’t press and didn’t pull, he just held you as you let yourself sink into the safe, warm weight of him.

You nipped at his bottom lip, just to hear that little sound he always made in the back of his throat, and Dean smiled into your mouth, tugging you closer. His nose bumped yours. “Careful”, he murmured, his voice low and teasing. “Keep that up and I’ll forget all about taking it slow”.

You grinned, catching your breath, your forehead pressed to his. “Promises, promises”.

He laughed, softer than you’d ever heard, eyes so open it made your chest ache. He brushed a strand of hair back from your face, taking his time. “You really have no idea how crazy you make me, do you?”.

Your grin widened as you felt the solid press of him against your hip. Dean didn’t pull away, didn’t even try to hide it, just looked at you like he was seeing the best kind of trouble coming his way. You shifted just enough to make sure he knew you felt it too. His breath caught quiet but unmistakable. “Oh, I have some idea”, you murmured, the words coming out breathy.

His eyes darkened, that slow, hungry look you’d seen a hundred times in a hundred crappy motel rooms. But it was softer now. Less take what you can get before the world ends, more I can’t believe I get to have this. “Yeah?”, he rasped. “What gave it away?”.

You shifted your leg deliberately, brushing your thigh along the length of him again. His jaw clenched, eyes fluttering half-shut. “Wild guess”, you said, fighting a smug little smile. “You’re kind of… obvious”.

He huffed a shaky laugh. “Not my fault my girlfriend’s making out with me like I’m not on strict doctor-ordered ‘hands off the goods’ probation”. You snorted. “Pretty sure the doctor didn’t say no kissing”.

“Yeah, well, she also didn’t see you in my bed”, he muttered, thumb stroking your hip through the thin fabric of your sleep shorts. “Different level of difficulty”.

You slid your hand up under his shirt, palm flattening against his stomach, feeling the muscles jump under your touch. “Big bad Winchester can’t handle a little PG-13 action?”.

He gave you a look. “Sweetheart, there’s nothing PG about the things I’m thinking right now”.

Heat crawled up your neck, settling somewhere low and heavy. “Yeah?”.

“Yeah”, he said, voice rough, forehead tipping against yours. “But I’m not gonna screw this up by rushing you. So I’m gonna be a gentleman and just… suffer”.

You grinned, heart twisting painfully around how earnest he was about it. “Your self-control is kinda hot, actually”.

He barked out a quiet laugh and you just laughed with him, then tugged him back down by the collar, kissing him again. Deeper this time, a little messier, your tongue brushing his. His hand tightened on your hip, pulling you closer until there was no space between you at all. You rolled your hips, just once, slow and unhurried, but there was no mistaking the way he sucked in a breath against your mouth.

“Careful”, he warned again, but it came out more like a plea than anything else.

“What?”, you whispered, lips ghosting over his. “Thought you were being a gentleman”.

“I am. I’m just not a saint”. His fingers slid up your side, stopping just under your ribs, warm through the thin cotton of your shirt. He didn’t go higher, didn’t push his luck, just held you there, steady, like he was memorizing every inch of you all over again. He dipped his head, lips trailing slow, deliberate kisses along your jaw, then under your ear, one of those sweet spots that always made your breath catch. You closed your eyes, letting yourself melt into the careful press of his mouth, the steady anchor of his hand on your waist.

“God, you smell good”, he mumbled, lips brushing the hinge of your jaw. “Missed this. Missed you”.

You smiled, tilting your head to give him more room. “You’ve had me all week, Winchester”.

“Not like this”. His voice was rough and so full of want it nearly undid you.

You slid your fingers through his hair, tugging him back up for another kiss, just as his hips pressed more firmly against you. Everything about him was warm and hungry and reverent, a careful balancing act between wanting you and wanting to do right by you. It made you ache in the best way. He kissed the corner of your mouth, then your jaw again, lingering there, breathing you in.

And that was when Luna let out a noise so loud and wet it sounded like someone had stepped on a ketchup packet.

Dean froze. You froze. Your lips were barely a breath apart, both of you blinking at each other as the sound echoed in the quiet room, followed by a small, satisfied grunt from the bassinet.

You tried to keep a straight face, but failed miserably. Laughter bubbled up and you pressed your fist to your mouth, eyes watering. Dean’s eyes went wide. “No way”, he whispered, completely scandalized. “That did not just come out of her”. You shook with silent laughter, the whole bed trembling beneath you. Dean was still frozen, pressed against you, utterly aghast. He looked back and forth between you and the bassinet, mouth working soundlessly.

You wiped a tear from your cheek. “I mean, you have to respect the comedic timing. She gets it from you”.

Dean let out a long, suffering groan and dropped his forehead to your collarbone. “Unbelievable". He pressed a quick, desperate kiss to your throat, then sighed, the heat of him now a little less insistent against your hip. You could feel the way his body shifted, arousal draining away as reality set in. “That was a perfectly good hard-on. Gone. Murdered in its prime”, he muttered.

You grinned, sliding your hand down his back teasingly, fingers dipping just beneath the waistband of his boxers. “Don’t worry, Winchester. You make more”.

He huffed, mouth quirked, but still dramatically put-upon. “Yeah, but that one was special. We were getting somewhere. I had momentum. There were plans”.

You pressed a soft, almost chaste kiss to his cheek. “Your stamina’s legendary. Besides, aren’t you supposed to be good under pressure?”.

He shot you a look, incredulous but not unamused. “I’ve hunted shapeshifters in a meat locker with a broken toe. I can handle pressure. But that…”. He jerked his chin toward the bassinet. “That’s just cruel”.

You bit your lip, eyes twinkling. “If you hurry, maybe I’ll let you try again after you survive Diapergeddon”.

He gave you the most tragic puppy-dog eyes he could muster. “You promise?”.

You reached up, thumb tracing his lower lip. “Promise. But only if you don’t puke”.

He groaned again, but this time he pushed himself up, grabbing a clean diaper and wipes from the nightstand. “You know, I used to have a reputation, sweetheart. Now I get cockblocked by a six-pound poop machine”.

You couldn’t help it, you burst out laughing again, shaking your head as Dean stalked across the room with the air of a man heading for the gallows. He leaned over the bassinet, steeling himself, muttering a steady stream of complaints. “Okay, Luna, let’s see what fresh hell you’ve cooked up… Oh, God”. He gagged, actually gagged, while peeling back the diaper, making you laugh so hard your sides hurt. “How is this even possible? This should be illegal”.

You caught your breath long enough to call, “You’re doing great, babe! Real hero’s work!”.

Dean shot you a look over his shoulder, eyes squinting. “You just want to see if I’ll faint”.

You grinned, propping yourself up on your elbows. “Not if you finish before round two, I don’t”.

He shook his head, lips twitching, fighting a smile even as he gagged again. “Unbelievable”, he grumbled, but you could hear the affection, the love, the utterly resigned joy of being right here, right now.

You watched Dean as he worked through the disaster Luna had so proudly delivered. He muttered curses under his breath, nothing too creative, just the kind of exasperated grumbling that said he’d lost to a worthy adversary. But his hands were gentle. He wiped her down, humming a nonsense tune, the same one he’d started singing to her during late-night diaper changes, part Zeppelin, part “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star”.

Luna kicked, her tiny legs churning, face scrunching with the beginnings of a wail. Dean didn’t even flinch, just leaned in closer, pressing his lips to her round, soft belly.

“Hey, hey, none of that”, he soothed. “You’re okay, kiddo. Just a little cleanup, then you can go back to dreaming about… whatever babies dream about. Milk, probably. Or new ways to sabotage me”. She blinked up at him, lip quivering. He reached for her fist, wrapping his big fingers gently around it. “I know. Tough life, huh? Born into the weirdest family in North America”.

He finished the diaper change, then scooped Luna up into his arms. She snuggled in against his chest, her head tucked under his chin, her little fingers curling into the collar of his shirt. Dean sat down on the edge of the bed, holding her close, swaying just slightly. You could see the way his body relaxed the moment she settled in. “See?”, he said, voice rumbling against her. “Much better. You got me wrapped, you know that? Totally whipped, and you’re not even out of diapers yet”. Luna blinked up at him, and Dean smiled, soft and small, just for her.

You saw something shift in him, something you’d always hoped he’d find. A sense of being enough, of being wanted, not for what he could do, but just for being himself.

He stroked her back, still swaying, his head bowed over her. “You and your mom… best damn thing that ever happened to me”, he said quietly, as if he was sharing a secret with her and no one else.

You watched from the bed, your heart aching in the gentlest, happiest way. Dean Winchester, holding his daughter like she was both treasure and miracle, humming off-key and whispering his love into the soft hair at her crown. No monsters, no darkness, just this. His world, in his arms.

———————————

A/N: Please let me know what you think.🥰 

-

You roll your eyes every time he makes the joke, but he sees the way the corner of your mouth quirks up. And you’ll draw him in for a long, messy kiss that tells him—yes, I love you, even though you’re an idiot, and you smile against his mouth, and he feels light and happy and fulfilled in a way that he’s never felt before.

The first year of business, Adrian feels like he’s riding a high that never ends. He wakes up in bed with you, he walks into work with his fingers laced in yours, he does a job that gives him purpose with friends that care about him.

When he goes out into the field, guns blazing, he does it with you watching his back, laughing alongside him while the bullets fly and blood sprays. You cover each other’s weak spots, you patch each other up when you get hurt, and when you get back from a mission too buzzed from adrenaline, you burn off the excess energy by fucking it out of your systems, which Adrian has decided is the most fun way to celebrate a job well done.

Most importantly, though, he goes home every night with someone who loves him in a way he never thought he would ever be loved. And when he wakes up every morning, wrapped up in your arms, and gets to do it all over again, he feels like the luckiest man alive.

Then business picks up. The jobs they start booking get bigger and bigger, and longer and longer, the clients more important and widespread. They start travelling further for missions, sometimes working a full forty-eight hours straight. Suddenly, Adrian finds himself hopping on planes instead of in the back of a white van driven by Economos. The shitty motel beds and turbulent flights are bearable, though, because you’re there, holding his hand, calming his anxieties, making everything better, like you always do.

But things keep getting busier. It doesn’t happen all at once, so he doesn’t realize it immediately. Big missions that were happening every other month start happening monthly, then twice a month. The team dynamic shifts significantly, because they have to start hiring more staff to handle the workload, and the more people they hire, the more the original team gets split up. Though Adrian tries to pretend it doesn’t affect him, it does. A lot. 

Because he soon comes to realize the one major downside to having a badass assassin girlfriend. You have all the same skills that he has. So when the 11th Street Kids are split up onto separate teams—he’s not fighting by your side anymore. He’s still got Chris and Harcourt, but you, Ads, and John are working on separate assignments.

Suddenly, Adrian doesn’t love his job at Checkmate like he used to.

“What’s wrong, baby?”

Your voice draws Adrian out of his dark train of thought as he sits at his desk, brooding, looking at an old team photo taken out in the field. Back in the days before everything got this…complicated. As your hand lands in his hair, your fingernails tracing over his scalp, he smiles up at you, shaking off the negative thought.

“Everything’s fine,” he says. Because it is fine, as long as he gets to go home with you at the end of each day. “You’re good for your lunch break?”

“Yeah, we just wrapped up our martial arts session,” you tell him. “Rip has been putting us all through the ringer this week.”

Lately, your team has been spending more time in the training room working with the new agents than out in the field. Honestly, Adrian doesn’t mind it. If he has to be on a different team than you—well. He knows you’re capable and good at your job, but he’s also used to fighting by your side, to covering your back, the same way you cover his.

Now he can’t do that anymore, and while his working relationship with Judomaster is not as strained as it used to be—he does not trust him with you. You’re too important. He doesn’t like it, not one bit. But at least if you’re stuck in the training room with him and the new hires, then Adrian doesn’t have to deal with his terrible, spiraling worries that something will go wrong in the field. That you’ll come home broken or bloodied, or worse, not come home at all.

“I saw you, through the window,” Adrian says. He’d taken a peek when he got back from his own training session. “You looked badass, babe. You’re so fucking hot.”

“Thank you, baby.” He loves the way you get all shy when he says something nice to you. He doesn’t care how sweaty and gross you are from your training session. He wants to pull you into the break room and lock the door and lick your face.

But you scolded him the last time he tried to do that, so instead, he says, “Did you know that some animals have to show off their fighting skills to attract a mate?”

“Oh?”

“If we were animals, I absolutely would choose you for your badass fighting skills. Even if we were like, snails. But I don’t think they’re one of the animals that do that. Do you think snails can even fight? It would probably look weird. They move so slow.”

You laugh. “I don’t know. But I would choose you, too, baby. No matter what species we were.” Then you lean down to kiss him, and he strains his neck up eagerly, arms wrapping around your waist and tugging you down into his lap. You yelp as his rolling desk chair goes spinning.

“Adrian,” you say, trying to sound reprimanding, but you’re giggling against his neck. “What did I say? Not at work!”

“How about in my car?” he asks, waggling his eyebrows.

“What? You want to spend your lunch hour making out in the Vigilante-mobile like we’re teenagers?”

“Why not? I barely get to see you the rest of the day,” Adrian whines.

“We live together,” you remind him. “We literally spend the majority of the day together. We sleep in the same bed—”

“Unconscious time doesn’t count.”

You tilt your head and consider his argument.

“Okay,” you give in. “We can go make out in your car.”

“Yes!” Adrian says, pumping his fist in the air.

“But no more going overboard in the office! Normal kisses only.”

“You can’t just—kiss me and not expect me to kiss you back,” he says plainly.

“You can kiss me back. Just—little kisses.”

“No such thing,” Adrian says. “My love for you is not little, so my kisses are not little. You take what you get.”

Your expression softens. “I love you too.” You smile. “Now come on, before you waste our entire hour away arguing about the size of your kisses. We’ve got a major company debrief this afternoon, Ads said.”

Adrian drags you to his car and makes the most of his hour with you in the backseat.

That afternoon, the main team sits around the conference table for the monthly Checkmate mission assignments. Even though individual groups split off to do different jobs and tackle separate missions, Bordeaux, Ads, and Harcourt like to have everyone report together, to keep everyone on the same page and encourage collaboration.

Adrian sits in his usual spot toward the end of the table, chair scooted up right next to yours so he can put his arm on the back of your chair and play with your hair. You always take really detailed notes, and you’ll share with him later. They’re lucky they can get him to sit quietly at the table for an hour. Actually paying attention is another task entirely.

Ads is your team leader, and she talks first, asking you and Judomaster for updates about how training the new hires is going.

“I’d say they’re ready enough to field-test,” you say. “If we’ve got some small-scale, local missions, they can probably handle them, with supervision, from me or Rip.”

“They don’t suck as much as they used to,” Judomaster agrees.

“We can definitely get the ball rolling on that,” Bordeaux says. “I’ve got a queue of job requests sitting in my email, I’ll forward them all to you three, and you can decide on and supervise the assignments. What’s going on with your team, Harcourt?”

Adrian’s ears perk up, because—this information actually does apply to him. Him, Chris, Harcourt, and one of the newer tech guys. Who isn’t as cool as Economos, because he won’t quiz Adrian on animal facts, so he hasn’t bothered to learn the guy’s name.

“We’re going to be taking on a really big job,” Harcourt says. “The biggest one we’ve ever had. We’ll be travelling to Central City for two weeks—”

“Two weeks?” Adrian interrupts. His hand, which has been playing absentmindedly with the ends of your hair, freezes and lands on your shoulder instead, and his heart pounds a little harder. His grip tightens, and you cover his hand with yours. “That’s a long fucking time.”

“And we are being paid very well for that time,” Harcourt says pointedly. “It’s a delicate operation which is going to take more time than just going in and assassinating people in the middle of the night—”

“So why the fuck are you bringing me?” Adrian asks, confused. “That’s like, my thing. Assassinating people in the middle of the night. Boom. Headshot. Done. We go home.”

“If you would let me finish,” Harcourt snaps, “it’s going to require some undercover infiltration, and most of our other team members are significantly recognizable. Me and Chris were both in the news after the Task Force X shit, and I don’t trust the newbies with this yet. Nobody knows what you look like, Mr. Secret Identity, so unfortunately, we need you to pull your weight on this one.”

Adrian pouts.

“It’ll be fun, Ade,” you say, nudging him in the side. “Like a real spy mission.”

“I guess so,” he grumbles. “Do I at least get to wear a fancy suit and go to a dinner party and ask the bartender for a martini shaken, not stirred?”

“You’re a fucking dork,” mutters the nameless tech guy who is Not Economos.

“You don’t even like martinis,” you remind Adrian, giggling. “Your favorite drink is a dirty Shirley.”

“He would make the sacrifice,” Chris says, “for the spy aesthetic. He’s a nerd like that.”

“When are you guys leaving?” Economos asks. “I can help you with your initial research on the targets, putting together the dossiers.”

“That would be great,” Harcourt says. “We’re leaving in two days.”

“Two days?” Adrian blurts. “That’s—that’s soon!” Even you frown at that.

“Yeah,” Harcourt acknowledges. “Like I said. We’re being paid well for this one, so we’re putting a rush on it. Start packing when you head home tonight.”

Adrian swallows and turns his head to meet your concerned gaze. He knows you can read it in his expression. How much this is throwing him off. How much he doesn’t want to go.

A year and a half ago, a two-week mission would have been a blast. Like a mini vacation. The two of you would have spent your spare time exploring Central City, doing cute touristy shit.

But now, his heart sinks in his chest, because all he can think about is the fact that a two week mission means two weeks without you.

For the next two days, before he leaves, Adrian doesn’t leave your side for a moment. He’s clingy in every sense of the word, following you around like a lost baby animal. At the office, at home. If your hand is in his vicinity, he’s holding it. You entertain his antics, and he’s grateful. He thinks it’s because you know exactly what’s going on in his brain.

He tries to keep it under wraps. He’s a professional assassin, for god’s sake. But you know him, better than anyone, and he can’t hide it from you, the strange pre-separation anxiety he’s feeling. He gets more jittery with every hour that passes; he’s never been this nervous about a mission before, and he doesn’t even really understand it. Maybe part of it is that he won’t have the Vigilante suit to hide behind. Undercover work is out of his comfort zone.

But it’s definitely more the fact that he’ll be leaving the one person that comforts him the most behind in a different time zone.

The night before he leaves, it really starts to hit him, a cold sense of dread even when he should be warm and comfortable, cuddled up with you on the couch. He feels ridiculous. 

Adrian kills people for a living. He can survive for two weeks without his girlfriend.

“What are you thinking about?” you ask him, fingers playing with the hair at the nape of his neck. There’s a movie playing on the tv, but he’s not paying even a speck of attention to it, because you’re straddled on top of him, leaning in close, teasing him with soft kisses, nipping at his bottom lip. He’s trying, so hard, to be in the moment with you, but he’s distracted, his mind elsewhere.

“I miss you,” he says, a soft, sad murmur against your mouth.

“I’m right here, baby,” you say, confused, pausing and sitting up to look at him more fully.

“I just mean,” he says, hesitantly. “At work. We used to be together all day. And now—they’re sending me all the way to Central City, and I’m not going to see you for two whole weeks—”

You cut him off with a kiss, and he returns it with desperate fervor, pulling you in closer to him like if he tries hard enough he could make you a part of himself, one that he wouldn’t ever have to leave behind. After only a moment, you break away, pulling back when he tries to chase after your lips with a whine.

“Listen to me,” you say softly. “You are going to be okay. I am going to be okay. We are going to be okay. It’s just two weeks. Fourteen days.”

“I’ve never been without you that long,” he says hoarsely. “Not since the day I met you.” He touches your face, calloused fingers tracing over your features, subconsciously trying to commit you to memory.

“I know,” you say. “But—this is the job, baby. Your job, and mine. And we both have jobs that we love, but unfortunately, they are sometimes going to get in the way of other things in life. This is just one of those times. I know you’re nervous. But I will call you and text you every day. I’ll send you pictures and stupid memes like I always do. And it will be over before you know it, okay?”

“Promise?”

“Promise,” you whisper, and when you finally lean in to kiss him again, he picks you up and carries you to the bedroom.

Usually it would be light and fun. Nights in bed with Adrian are full of laughter. He’s a goofball. It’s part of what you love about him.

Tonight, though, he’s desperate, and it shows. In the way he strips off your clothes and his with shaking hands. In the way he touches you, marks you up with his teeth and his lips and his fingertips. He wants to leave bruises, deep marks that won’t fade until he gets back in two weeks to make new ones. He wishes you could mark him up in return, that the harsh, stinging lines from your fingernails digging into his back would linger beyond the morning.

His glasses start sliding down the bridge of his nose as he looks down at you, naked and wanting beneath him. When you move to take them off for him, he bats your hand away.

“No,” he says, pushing them up quickly before bringing his hands right back to your body. “Want to see you.”

He only has so much time left with you, and he wants to take in every detail—your hair sticking to your sweaty face, your mouth falling open when he pushes into you, your chest hitching as he fucks into you, fast and relentless, leaving you writing and gasping and begging.

At the end of it all, when you’re both sweaty and spent, he just—holds you. Lays his head right on your chest while you run your fingers through his hair. You fall asleep quickly, but he stays awake as long as he can, in the dark, until the soothing rhythm of your heartbeat against his ear lulls him into sleep.

He leaves early the next morning for his 6 a.m. flight, and though he insists you don’t have to wake up with him, you do anyway, and he’s grateful for the extra few minutes he gets with you, no matter how sleepy and slow. He kisses you thoroughly before he heads out, standing at the threshold of your front door with his packed bag, reluctant to go.

“I love you,” you murmur against his mouth. “I’ll see you soon. Be safe.”

“I love you, too,” he says. “I’ll see you in two weeks.”

He walks backwards until he reaches his car, until he physically can’t look at you any longer.

“Two weeks,” he says to himself quietly in the car. “I can do this. Two weeks.”

He will not see you in two weeks.

He’s apologized fifty times. He apologized when you left that old, moldy house and he started staring at you and palming himself in the car. Apologized when you’d been walking inside, and he’d doubled over in pain on the side walk. He’d grabbed your hip for support, and while you’d been trying to figure out if he was okay, his hand had slipped up to your inner thigh. Apologized when you went to get him some ice—he’d said he was warm, you’ d been worrying about a fever—and you had to come back to find him lying in your bed, head thrown back, eyes squeezed shut and groans slipping from his lips.

At least he hadn’t been touching himself. He’s managed not to do that at all, which you’d be impressed by if you weren’t so worried.

Sam says it’s a pretty basic sex curse. Maybe a pollen, from that mold. Nothing you need to worry about finding a magical cure for.

“We’ve seen these before.” Sam had said. “It’s run-of-the-mill. Dean knows what to do.”

Run of the mill.

Simple.

Sam had said it like you’d be clear in an hour. Nothing fancy required.

Dean gets laid, the fever goes down, everyone’s good.

And it might’ve been simple. You might’ve been done an hour ago, if Dean just got it over with and left when he was clear. You would’ve sat in your bed, running the sheets between your fingers while you read. Trying desperately not to think about Dean only a door over, about the sounds creaking through the wall as he railed someone else into oblivion, about how he’d look.

Probably just like this. Wrecked and hungry, his eyes blown out and skin slick with sweat. Every muscle in his body straining, hair stuck to his brow, mouth hanging open as he’d hover over some lucky girl, showing her a heaven even angels didn’t get to experience.

Your heart would’ve silently ached, a wound you’ve been letting fester opening wider and wider. Your hands would’ve tugged nervously at the sheets, trying to gather whatever he’d left over like a twisted little souvenir for your perverse brain.

The brain that won’t stop being in love with him, no matter how much logic you offer to counter it. You’ve spent nights staring at the ceiling, acting like love was a debate. Like if you reasoned with yourself enough, all the blood in your body would simply stop flowing in a song of his name. Your heart would shift into a new rhythm, no longer a war drum trying to call for him. Your eyes would stop looking for tiny bits of evidence he loved you too, in just as much silence as you love him.

He’s about ten years older than you. He opens doors for you, and that can be a secret desire thing. He’s not emotionally available. He talks to you, about his dad and complicated fights with Sammy and his past, and that has to mean something. He’s got anger issues. He’s stubborn, he’s reserved. You have issues too, and you’re more stubborn. He’s fucked up- You’re fucked up, and he’s also sweet and loyal and handsome and the best kind of stupid a man can be, where he’s a dumbass that never pretends to be incompetent. He’d probably be possessive. You’d like to be possessed. There’s no future there. Yet.

You’ve always lost the debate. You stay in love with Dean, because your heart wasn’t even kind enough to give you a crush. A brief and intense high of adoration and lust would’ve been manageable. You would’ve recovered.

Instead, it’s love. Not even love with a half-life, weaning off with just a little time. Deep, long love.

The kind of love that has you looking at him now, and crudely thinking that he’s being a bit of a pussy. It’s not a fair thought. He’s cursed, has a fever of a hundred and two, and his body is probably trying to convince him to do things that he’s not on board with.

But you live like that every day, and you don’t whine about it. You’ve felt like if he didn’t touch you now you’d die, you’ve gone sick with your own perverse thoughts about what you’d let him do to you, you’ve been delirious with adoration until Sam clears his throat, and mutters that you’re staring again. Maybe the mold should’ve crawled into you, or however this works.

You wouldn’t have been such a massive bitch about it.

You would’ve had nasty motel sex with a stranger an hour ago.

You wouldn’t have made Dean sit in a room with you while you pillow humped, forcing him to look for a sex partner to break your back.

You would’ve been home by now.

But Dean wants to be a little fucking bitch.

“You’re being a bitch.” You say it plainly, because maybe it will snap him out of whatever the fuck this is.

Instead he just chuckles, twisting to give you an amused look. “Ouch, sweetheart- Shit-“

The movement looks like it made his dick brush against something, and now he’s back to cowering in the sheets. Jaw clenched and eyes squeezed shut, visibly pained, and what’s wrong with you that he’s never looked so hot-

“You’d be a bitch too.” He mutters, groaning as he rolls back onto his stomach. “I feel like I’m dying-“

“You’d stop feeling like that, if you’d just pick someone to fuck.”

“I’m tryin’-“

“Not hard enough.”

“Trust me, I’m plenty hard enough- Fuck-“

You throw one of his pillows at his face, and he makes a strangled noise like you hit him with a bullet.

“You’re gonna attack a dying man-“

“I can do whatever I want, when I’m helping you find a fuck buddy.” You stick your tongue out at his back, then return your attention to his phone. “How about Miranda? She’s thirty-six, she’s got really nice hair, and- Oo-“ You scroll a little further down the page. “She likes boats! Those are like water cars, you guys could bond over that.”

Dean laughs again, shaking his head. “Boats aren’t water cars.”

“They are. Think about it.“

“They don’t have a big engineering overlap, I don’t know shit about boats-“

“Then you can just fuck her stupid, you nerd.”

Dean’s silent for a long moment, and you hover your thumb over the screen, fully ready to subject yourself to the worst torture possible for Dean’s stupid, cursed sake.

“She looks nice.” You mumble, praying he doesn’t hear the exhausted, hopeless pain in your voice. “I think you’d like her.”

Dean grunts. “No. Next name.”

You sigh, and swipe left. Adding Miranda to the long, long pile of rejected applicants.

It’s been like this for two fucking hours. Dean lying in your bed, you cross-legged in his, absolutely no progress on curing the curse. He barely even looks at you anymore. He’s been facing the opposite wall since you sat down, burying his face in your pillow every time he moans, trying to hide the roll of his hips under the sheets and failing miserably.

The tingling pain between your legs is almost unbearable now. You’d call Sam and ask if the pollen was transferable, if you weren’t terrified of the answer being no. There’s no way it’s not just Dean anyway. His thick arms stretching up to grip the pillow, his broad, muscled shoulders and back bare, the fact that sometimes when he humps fast and rough, the sheets ride up and you swear you see the tip of his cock. It’s wrong. So fucking wrong, to be getting off to him like this.

But it’s your own personal hell, to have this responsibility. To have him right there, and not be allowed to touch him.

You’ll deal with your shame later in the shower, where you can wash it off and maybe cry from a few different places over your body.

Later. When he’s not dying, and doing absolutely nothing to help you save him.

“Hannah.” You read out the next profile, pulling your knees to your chest. “She’s got curly hair, really nice brown eyes. Looks like she’s a nail artist. That could be nice.”

Dean snorts. “What, you think I’m gonna have her get me a manicure after?”

“No, I just-“ You take a long breath. You’d rather have a living Dean that doesn’t love you, than a dead Dean, who also doesn’t love you.

Dean starts to twist—he’s going to try and look at you again—and you clear your throat.

“It might be nice to look at. Aesthetically. Or- arousing.”

He mutters your name, but you push on.

“For a handjob. Nice nails, going- Up and down your- Um- Your dick-“

Dean lets out the loudest moan yet, and your jaw snaps shut. That sounded like your name. He was probably just trying to warn you to shut up, but that still sounded like your name-

“Sorry-“

“Stop talking.” He snaps, and you nod.

Without him asking, you swipe left on Hannah. He seems to have forgotten about her, and you have no desire to let her and her perfect nails anywhere near his dick.

It takes a while for Dean to request the next candidate. Long minutes of him just panting and grunting, burying his face in the pillow and thrashing in the sheets like he’s having a nightmare.

You see the head of his cock again. It’s thick looking and red and shining with pre-cum. Angry and hard and Jesus fucking Christ-

“Emma!” You shout to the room. You need this to be done. “She’s a nurse, that can be a kink thing-“

“Stop.”

You sigh, turning down the phone screen. “Dean-“

“No. Don’t want Ella-“

“Emma-“

“Don’t fuckin’ care. We’re not doing more of this- Shit.”

“Are you just swearing, or is that an adjective-“

“Sweetheart.” He’s almost growling, a hand slipping out from the sheets to fist the mattress. “Stop. Talking.”

You close your mouth, bowing your head as shame floods your body. You’re trying to help. You’ve given your whole night just to help the man you’re hopelessly in love with have sex with someone else, and you’re tired. Tired of doing this to yourself, tired of him shooting everyone down like suddenly he’s got the highest sexual standard in the world, tired of acting like it’s not killing you and tired of watching him like this.

He’s in so much pain. You can hear it straining in every word, tensed in every movement. You’re not allowed to touch him, but the last time you made him check his own temperature, it had gone up again. With how he’s looking, how he’s muttering to himself under his breath, you’re willing to bet it’s gone up another handful of degrees.

Dean’s going to die, if he doesn’t deal with this. And if he dies, you’re not going to deal with it.

You don’t want to think about what you’ll become, if he goes. You might be the one that turns into a ghost, haunting this goddamn hotel room and growing up the walls like that mold. A shell of a person, caught in a million what-ifs, her heart ash in the wind with his body.

Dean wants to be done with this.

You’re not done with him.

You swipe right on Emma.

For an hour, you let him keep moping and groaning. You flirt with Emma for him, because you’re the best friend in the world, and pretend you can’t see him trying to move a pillow between his legs to offer extra pressure.

“Dean.” You say softly, and he grunts.

“Baby, I need you not to talk-“

“You can take it out.” You mutter, keeping your focus on Emma’s texts. “If you need that. I’m a big girl, I- I won’t mind.”

That’s a lie through more than just your teeth. If he starts touching himself in front of you, all the poetic fawning about how your love is killing you won’t be dramatic anymore. Your heart will beat right out of your ribs, your head will get so light you’ll float away, your need for him will become so consuming you’ll either fall to your knees and open your mouth for him to use, or simply just explode.

But if it helps him. You’ll do anything to help him, even if it’s searing the most sinful, impossible image into your head for the rest of your life.

Dean with his cock in his hand, head thrown back, beating himself right next to you. Maybe moaning under his breath, thrusting up into his fist, accidentally looking at you as he cums, mouth hanging open and eyes hooded as thick white ropes paint the sheets-

“No.” He grunts, and you blink.

“It’s okay-“

“No. I‘m not doin’ that to you.”

You swallow, heated shame rushing through you. “I- I could leave the room-“

“No, don’t-“ He almost shouts your name, flipping over suddenly.

Looking at you.

His eyes are almost black with lust, his face red and slack, expression desperate. He hisses—the movement likely too much—but still reaches out a shaking hand, like he’s going to try and grab you.

“Don’t go, just- Fuckin’-“ His words trail off, eyes locked on your face, and another moan escapes his lips.

You push up on your knees, fear clenching at your heart. “Dean-“

“’m fine-“

“You’re not fine-“

“I’m- Son of a bitch-“ His eyes widen on yours then slam shut. His hand curls into a taut fist, face pulling in pain, and that’s enough.

“Fine. Don’t masturbate, see if I care.”

He says your name, low and rough, and you shake your head. 

“You’re not fine, you fucking idiot. You’re dying.” You push to your feet, grabbing his phone from the bed.

Emma’s very nice. Nice in the kind of way that’s going to make you hate her, and you feel sort of bad. She was doomed to your loathing from the moment she swiped right.

But she’s going to help. She’s going to save Dean, and you’ll offer her grace for that.

Dean’s eyes had opened, when he heard you moving. He’s looking at you like a lost street dog, opening his mouth to say something that only comes out in a panting groan of your name.

Whatever protests he has, you won’t hear them. He’s not allowed to die.

“Get up.” You snap, tossing his clothing onto his face. “Get dressed. I’m starting the car in ten minutes, and if you’re not there, I’m coming back and you’re having sex with me.”

You don’t look over your shoulder to see his reaction. The sounds of torment leaving his chest are bad enough.

It hurts. It cuts deeper than a blade, the idea that he detests the idea of sex with you that much. You’re good at sex. You’ve gotten raving reviews, you’re batting a hundred, flawless reports and a hundred percent customer satisfaction rate, even if you don’t really enjoy most of it yourself. Most people you have sex with don’t manage to make you cum, and when they do it’s a tiny little shudder through your body that you forget about in five minutes.

Dean witDean would be lucky to have sex with you. You’d worship him. You’d get on your knees and let him use you until he was leaking out of every hole. You’d let him fuck himself back into you, you’d let him throw you around, you’d do anything-

It’s probably a good thing your threat works. Dean stumbles out of the motel right at the nine-minute mark, pallid and flushed all at once, hunched in pain and wearing a massive raincoat over his jacket to hide the boner.

You never would’ve forgiven yourself, for taking advantage of him like that. It’s better like this, no matter how much it hurts.

You smile when he gets into the car. “Nice fashion statement-“

“Shut up.” He grumbles, glaring out at the road. “Where’re we goin’.”

“A bar.”

He makes a sour expression. “Why.”

“Because you have a date. With Emma the nurse.”

Dean goes dead quiet. He tenses next to you—your elbows brushing for a split second, before he recoils like your skin is coated in toxins—works his jaw, then shakes his head.

You sigh. ‘Dean-“

“No. I told you, I’m not doin’ that.“

“Yes, you are.”

“No-“

“Yes!” You slam the brakes harder than you mean to, as you approach a stop sign.

You expect Dean to snap about you being careful with his baby. Maybe try to make a joke about how maybe the frustration is rubbing off on you, or argue about how this is his dumb choice to make.

And it is. But he made the wrong choice, and you are not letting him die.

He mutters your name, and it’s the same way he said it earlier. Soft. Almost pleading.

You take a deep breath, and twist to look him in his pretty, glazed and dilated eyes.

“You’re going into that bar. You’re going to flirt with Emma. If she asks if you have a fever, you tell her you work construction or something, and you’d just been at a shift. You run hot. Nothing for her to worry about.” You drum your fingers on the wheel, forcing down the lump in your throat. “You’re going to tell her she’s pretty. You’re going to call a fake uber, and I’m going to drive you to the motel. You’re going to fuck Emma until you’re cured, and then we can go home. Understand?”

Dean’s throat bobs. He opens his mouth, a glint in his eyes like he’s going to argue. You don’t give him the chance.

“No. You’re doing this. If you don’t, you’ll-“ You cut yourself off, pressing your lips in a tight line. You won’t cry. You won’t.

Dean says your name, and he has to stop doing that. It’s too gentle. Too close to something real.

“You’re not allowed to- To go.” You look out at the empty road, praying the night is hiding the glossy tears, pricking at your eyes. “I can’t- I won’t- You’re not allowed to.”

You raise your chin, your breathing too shaky to speak for a moment. The silence hangs in the car, even the sound of Baby’s engine not enough to drown out your thoughts.

“Okay?” You snap, trying to sound stronger than you are.

Dean lets out a low sound, but nods. “Okay.” Then, under his breath. “For you.”

You pretend you don’t hear. There’s too much weight in those words, and you don’t have the time to pick them apart, don’t have the energy to ask him what the fuck that means.

Instead, you just give yourself the easiest out. Dean does love you as a friend. You’ve never doubted that for a second. He’s doing it for you because you’re the one demanding he go have sex.

What a horrible friend you are, making him get laid so he doesn’t die.

You huff a dry, pitiful, laugh to yourself. Your drink swirls in its glass, untouched and mocking. You ordered it when you got here, about thirty minutes ago. Made Dean take a possibly dangerous dose of Advil and Tylenol to make him lucid, then hidden yourself in a booth on the other side of the bar. Where you can see Dean and Emma, but only Dean can see you. He’s supposed to give you a thumbs up, when he’s about to call the ride. Right now, he seems so engrossed in her that you’re worried he’s going to forget.

Emma’s pretty. Just as pretty as her pictures. She lit up, when she spotted Dean, and you’d felt a sickening, loud hatred take root in your chest.

Everyone should be happy to see Dean, but none of them are happy like you’re happy. You know him. He’s the love of your life, and your joy is born of that, not just seeing a pretty man. You love seeing him because you know you’re going to be safe. Because he’s going to smile and the world is going to be alright, you’re going to talk and he’ll listen and look at you like there’s no one else in the world, he’s going to make jokes and you’re going to laugh.

But he’s making Emma laugh right now. She’s got one of those high, insufferable giggles, and you’re being needlessly mean but you hate her. You have a giggle like that. It comes out for Dean all the time, and it has a little snort on the end that you hated until Dean casually mentioned that he liked it, and you’ve felt like the most beautiful thing in the world.

It doesn’t really matter though, whose laugh Dean likes more.

Emma’s the one going home with him. You’re being left here.

You focus on ignoring their laughter and voices from the bar. You can’t drink, but you sulk and focus on the music floating through the bar. Your fingers drum on the table, pull at your sleeves, shred three napkins before gripping the cold of the glass like a lifeline. Your vision is going unfocused with envy. Every second you feel the wound in your heart tearing open, an infection of jealousy taking root, and you might actually be about to throw up-

Dean grunts your name, and your eyes shoot up.

He’s standing outside your both, hands in his pockets and a deep scowl on his face. Emma’s not with him. Or at the bar.  

“Where-“

“She left.”

Your mouth falls open. “She left? I- What the fuck happened-“

“I told her to. Wasn’t gonna work out.”

“Dean, you-“ Your voice cracks, every thought in your head getting louder. He’s dying, he’s dying, he’s dying. “You promised-“

“I know.” He’s jaw tics, eyes darting away from yours. “Just couldn’t.”

“Couldn’t what? Couldn’t fuck her? What the hell was wrong with her that somehow doesn’t meet Dean Winchester’s if it’s got a hole standards?”

Dean flinches, and it was a low blow, but right now you don’t care. He’s going to die. Why doesn’t he fucking care that he’s going to die and leave you.

“Come on.” You snap, slamming a few bills on the table and shooting up. “We’re chasing her. You’re apologizing.”

He frowns. “No, I’m not-“

“Then we’re going back on the dating app, and finding someone else.”

“I don’t want someone else.”

You roll your eyes, shoving the bar door open and marching to the car. You have Emma’s number. You’ll do the apology yourself if you have to.

Dean’s stumbling after you into the parking lot, and you can’t stop yourself from looking over your shoulder every few seconds. Just to be sure he hasn’t hurt himself. He calls your name, voice pained, and you freeze. Turn slowly, your arms crossed over your chest.

“I’m not doin’ this.” He snaps, stalking towards you in uneven steps. “You can bitch and whine about it all you want, sweetheart, I’m not fucking that girl.”

“I’m bitching and whining?” You laugh, the sound crude even to your ears. “I’m not the one who decided the best time to become a fucking celibate was when he got hit with a sex curse. You’re the one acting like a fucking child here-“

“I’m not acting like a child-“

“Then you’re acting like an idiot!” You scream, taking a large step forward.

Dean goes rigid. Takes a long step back, like you’re poisonous. It just fuels the burning, exhausted fire, kindled by every bit of fear, of love, of fury that he’s putting you through this with almost no remorse.

“It’s not like you have to marry her!” You shout, barbed wire tightening around your throat. “It’s just sex! Fuck, you don’t even have to look at her, it’s- I don’t understand why this is so fucking hard for you all of a sudden, it’s not like you’re some virgin fucking pussy-“

He mutters your name, a low warning, and you ignore it.

“I’ve spent all day trying to save you, Dean! I was going to be your- Your fucking sex chauffer, and I haven’t been complaining, but you can’t do me one fucking favor and have sex with a pretty girl?”

You take another step forward, and this time he isn’t fast enough. You jab his chest, and he stumbles back like you shot him, eyes panicked and wide on yours.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?!” You shriek, shoving him again. “Do you want to die? Are you trying to fucking kill me? Do you hate me, Dean? Is that what this is?”

He rasps your name, and you shake your head.

“I’ve been trying so- So hard to save you. I- I told you that I can’t- If you-“ Your words are getting choked, and the pain is too heavy to just shake off. “You’re not allowed to go! I told you, I won’t let you, but you- You fucking hate me-“

You try to shove him again, hot tears burning down your face, but this time Dean’s ready. He catches your wrist, and you try to pull back but he’s got more strength left than you thought.

He squeezes his hold on you, stalking forward. A fire lights in your core, at the intensity of his gaze. Unyielding and hot, searing into you as your back hits the Impala. He towers over you, jaw clenched, nostrils flaring as he takes in your open mouth and slack expression. You don’t know how you expected him to react, but it wasn’t this. This makes your knees weak, your heart hitting a dangerous pace at the top of your chest.

You can smell his cologne, smell his. A salt, deep musk that’s just Dean, that might as well be a drug for how it’s making you freeze. Your free hand moves to press flat against his chest, but you don’t push.

He grunts, his muscles rippling like you just threw a rock into water. He seizes up, head bowing, and there’s nowhere for you to hide from him.

Dean’s tongue darts over his lips, and your breath hitches.

“Don’t do that.” He grunts, and you just nod.

Lean a little closer, until the heat of your breath is fanning over your cheeks. Your eyes flutter, and when you risk meeting his gaze he looks almost predatory. The hunger in his eyes sends a pleasant shiver down your spine, your thighs pressing together, and it’s hot, so hot-

“I don’t hate you.”

You blink at him. You’d forgotten about that. “Dean-“

“I don’t.” He snaps. “Don’t fuckin’- Never think that, alright? I don’t hate you.”

“Then why are you doing this to me?” You whisper desperately. “Why couldn’t you just go have sex with Emma-“

He shakes his head. “I don’t want Emma.”

“Then let me find you someone you want, please-“

“No.”

“Why-“

“Cause I don’t want any of them.” He hisses, your foreheads bumping as he leans further down. “I don’t want some random fuckin’ chick you pull for me, I don’t want to fuck her, don’t wanna touch her, hell, I don’t even want to goddamn look at her.”

You take a shaking breath, a haze overtaking your head. “Dean, you need someone-“

“You think I don’t know that?” He pushes his hips forward, and you can feel it.

His cock, straining through his jeans, pressing against your thigh. You bite down a moan, completely still in his arms, trying to make him understand with just your eyes. It’s not fair for him to do this to you. He doesn’t understand, this is all you’ve ever wanted and he’s just taunting you with it-

“I can feel it, sweetheart.” He mutters, rolling slightly against you, making that fire in your core threaten to sweep you away. “I feel myself dyin’. My muscles are hurting like I ran a mile, I’m sweating through ten damn layers, think the fever is getting me so bad I might be about to go fucking crazy. But I didn’t even notice ‘till you started getting all worried. You know why?”

It takes you a second to realize you’re supposed to answer. You barely shake your head, before he’s squeezing your wrist, leaning down to whisper in your ear.

“’Cause of you.” He breathes, voice soft and dangerous. “I always feel like an animal when I see you. Spent the whole car ride back from that damn house wanting to hump your leg and didn’t think twice. You just do that to me, and you got no fuckin’ idea.”

You gasp slightly, turning your head to look him in the eyes. They’re hooded, almost feral on yours. You’re so dizzy, you’re worried you might be walking through a dream.

“De- Dean-“

“You can keep looking for some random girl for me, if it’s gonna make you feel better. But I won’t fuck ‘em. I can’t.” His lips ghost over yours, and you lean forward.

“Dean-“

“Sex barely even works for me anymore, baby.” He mutters, tongue flicking over his lips. “Nothin’ does. I get kicked out of bed ‘cause I call your name. So just fuckin’-“ He squeezes your wrist again, drawing slowly back. “Stop. If you wanna give me a dying wish, cut it out and let me go in some damn peace.”

You gape at him as he pulls away, his grip going slack on your wrist.

Dying wish.

He still thinks he’s allowed to die.

“What- What if you fuck me?” You say, so quiet you barely even hear yourself.

Dean’s head jerks up, and he says your name with a harsh, unforgiving snap. “No. I’m not askin’ you to do that just because I’m some perv who can’t get it up-“

“You’ve got it up.” You smile at up, pressing your knee up into his crotch.

He groans, doubling back down so you’re caged against the Impala again. “Baby, don’t fuckin’- I’m not bending on this shit, alright. I’m not gonna be some pity fuck-“

“It’s not a pity fuck, I’m saving your life-“

“I told you, no-“

“Do you not want to have sex with me?” You challenge, and Dean gives you a pleading, wrathfully frustrated look.

“Don’t ask stupid questions, course I wanna have- Fuck-“ He groans, eyes fluttering as his brow presses against yours. “Yeah. Yeah I want to. But- I won’t ask you to. So no.”

You swallow. It’s probably the fever making his tongue so loose. He’s so hot it almost burns to be this close, but that might just be Dean.

It’s always just Dean. And he has to know that.

“What if I want to have sex with you?”

Dean grunts, shaking his head. “Don’t say that if you don’t mean it-“

“I mean it.” You fist your hand in his shirt, dragging him a little closer. “Do you?”

He stares at you again. Scans over your face like he’s looking for one clue that you’re just indulging him, that there’s a single doubt running through your head.

There isn’t. Your breathing is uneven, but your heart is going too fast for it to be anything else. You’re flushed with an unending, arduous hunger to just have him, however he needs you.

Slowly, testing the waters, Dean slides a hand onto your neck. You raise your chin, holding his gaze. He squeezes slightly, and you lean into him, tugging on his shirt for more.

His thumb moves up, dragging over your lower lip. You part your lips, and his nostrils flare.

Dean pushes his thumb slowly between your lips, and you close them obediently around him. Your eyes flutter as you suck, letting your tongue circle around the thick finger, tilting your head and letting your eyes flutter. He pushes a little deeper and you moan. Your hand flies up to grab his wrist, holding him against you, and Dean groans. His eyes are clearer than they’ve been all night, shining with something like awe.

You smile, grinding up into his torso and humming with pleasure.

Dean mouth hangs slack.

“Jesus fuckin’-“

He cuts himself off, pulling his thumb out with a pop and grabbing your jaw. You giggle happily for a second, and Dean swallows the sound, crashing his mouth against yours.

You’ve pictured this kiss a million times, a million ways, almost every night since you met him. Somehow, this is better than any slow, fairytale kiss with swelling music and sunlight hitting both your faces like a spotlight.

Dean’s not taking his time. He’s kissing you like you’re the last thing he knows, the only thing he’s ever wanted. Like a man who’s been starving himself, finally allowed a feast and wasting no precious seconds on manners. It’s urgent and forceful, words he can’t say being pushed down your throat with his tongue and spit. You kiss him back with everything you have, your fingers digging into his chest through his shirts, your head spinning as you neglect breath just to taste a little bit more whiskey and salt on his tongue. But nothing you throw at him Dean can’t seem to double.

You yank at his shirt, and he pulls your hair back. You try to grind up again, and he grabs your leg, hiking it over his hip. You grab his face, trying to kiss harsher, give more, and Dean slams down like a tidal wave, dominating your mouth with unforgiving need.

A moan escapes your throat, your body going limp in his arms, and he grunts. Ruts up into your core once, making your legs spread in a shameless invitation.

Dean grunts, yanking back like someone pulled him on a leash.

He stares at you for a long moment, his thumb finding its way back to your cheek. He smears a bit of spit over your cheek, and you tilt your head into the touch.

“You’re sure-“

“Yes.”

He nods tightly, takes a heavy breath, and leans away. “Get in the car.”

It’s a short, curt order. You don’t think twice before you obey.

You scramble into the driver’s seat, fumbling with the keys and slamming them into the port like you’re about to enter a car chase. Dean’s barely in the car before the engine is rumbling and you’re reversing out of the spot, gripping the wheel with white knuckles. It’s happening. It’s happening.

“Easy, baby.” He chuckles, the sound raspy and sending more shivers through your body. “You that eager-“

“Yes.” You snap, and Dean hums.

A light, almost taunting hand lands on your thigh. You glance over and find him palming at his crotch, his eyes wholly black and mouth hanging open. It’s an animalistic expression, his chest rising and falling at a rapid pace, and when you murmur his name he barely seems to hear.

His fingers dance up the inside of your leg, and you take an unsteady breath, spreading your legs wider. A deep, rumbling sound leaves Dean’s chest, those infernal fingers curling on the sensitive spot where your leg meets your core. Little electric shock rush through your body, and that’s just through the jeans.

“Dean.” You whisper, not even managing to make your voice firm. “I- I’m driving-“

“So look at the road.” He growls, knuckles brushing against your groin.

You bite your lower lip, and nod. It’s not worth arguing with him, and if you don’t think you can focus, you’ll just pull over. You told him you were sure. Told yourself that whatever he gave you, you’d be happy.

You just didn’t expect him to be borderline feral. The palming you could deal with. You expected.

This is different.

Dean scoots further, and you’re about to mumble something about a seatbelt when his lips brush the curve of your neck. You inhale sharply, gripping the wheel for dear life. Dean hums, his tongue flicking over a pulse point. His fingers start to crawl up to your abdomen, his mouth getting more insistent on your neck.

He nips at a pulse point before sucking on his, his tongue flat on your skin and a low sound leaving his chest when you lean back to grant him further access. He kisses a sloppy line up your throat as his fingers dance on your stomach, and you’re starting to get a little dizzy.

“De, be- Be careful-“

You cut yourself off with a breathy gasp, as his mouth latches behind your ear and he pulls down your zipper. He bites softly before sucking another bruise, popping the button open and slipping his hand into your pants.

“I- Fuck-” You tip your head back, hopelessly trying to keep your eyes on the road, and this is not a safe way to drive. You really should be shoving him away, but there’s no one on the road.

And with how he’s barely even speaking—just touching—you’re a little worried it might take extra effort to drag him out of the haze of the curse and push him away. He seems to be blinded to anything that isn’t you. His mouth drags back down your jaw as his fingers brush over your clothed pussy, and your whole body shakes.

He hums, leaving open kisses on your cheek and hairline. “Sensitive, sweetheart. Been a long time?”

You flush, and Dean starts to gather the fabric of your panties best he can through your pants. He drags it up, bunching it around your pussy, and another moan slips out from the pressure.

“Answer me-“

“Maybe.” You mumble, forcing yourself not to grind into his hand. “You- You know I don’t do that-“

“Do what?” He presses the fabric deeper between your pussy lips. “Don’t fuck?”

“Dean-“

“How long’s it been.” His words are hot against your neck, demanding and possessive. “Who touched you last, baby, who shoved their fingers in this pussy-“

“I- I don’t remember-“

“That’s fuckin’ right.” He pulls your panties tighter against your clit. “’Cause they don’t’ fuckin’ matter, sweet girl. No one else is ever gonna touch you like this. I’m gonna make you soak my fingers, my face, my cock, and it’s gonna feel so good in that smart, pretty mouth,” he kisses the corner of your lips, and only the wheel in your hands stops you from turning and claiming his mouth again. “That’s always fucking teasing me, it ain’t gonna remember a single word but my name. You want that, baby? Wanna be my perfect fuckin’ slut?”

Jesus Christ, this is worse than the not speaking. If this is a dream—because you’ve had them like this before—you never want to wake up.

He yanks his hand away, leaving your underwear bunched up in your cunt, and slaps your pussy over the jeans. Your mouth falls open and you lean forward, lightning surging through your whole body.

“Oh my- Dean-“

“I told you, answer-“

“Yes, I- Yes, please-“ Your words fall off into a moan, as Dean shoves his hand back against you, this time dragging the panties away and plunging two fingers deep into your pussy. “Dean-“

“That’s right.” He mutters, crooking them deep against a sensitive spot. “That’s my girl, you’re so fuckin’ wet- This all for me?”

“Mmm- Mhm-“

“Fuck yeah it is.” He starts his attack on your neck again, only speaking between kisses, his fingers scissoring inside your pussy. “So damn tight, know you’re gonna take my cock so good, bet you taste like heaven- Fuck, I wanna taste this pussy, wanted to taste it for years-“

His own words fall into a moan, and for a second you think he’s just out of dirty talk, but he’s still mumbling incoherently against your skin.

Then you risk another look at his body, and the hand that isn’t in your pants has pulled out his cock.

And fuck, if it isn’t the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen. Thick and long, but not painful looking. Throbbing and twitching as he jerks himself, the tip leaking and slick with pre-cum. It takes effort to look at the road and not just stare at the rock-hard, veiny marvel of a specimen between his legs.

You don’t know why you’re surprised. Dean’s a specimen himself.

He’s somehow already figured out how to finger you in such a confining position. His wrist has twisted, letting his thumb drag lazy circles around your clit, his fingers giving shallow, rough thrusts that make his fingers taunt your g-spot. Never really fully touching it, but sending shivers through your whole body.

“Oh- Oh-“ You have to take deep breaths to keep your head clear, your whole body winding tight with the arousal he’s pulling out of you, more and more every second. “Dean-“

“Shh.” He grunts, biting right under your jaw, and you squeak. “Just feel it. Sweet fuckin’ pussy, gushing around my fingers-“

You moan, loud and lewd, his deep voice not doing anything to help you keep it together.

It’s a miracle you make it to the motel. It’s a shit parking job—you’re definitely over the lines—but you’re both alive.

You barely shift the gears before Dean’s pouncing on you like an animal. Whatever the ride was, he still seemed to be showing restraint. Now that you’re safe, all bets are off. 

A squeal leaves you, as he flips your body. Pressing your back to the window and prowling over your body, slamming his mouth over yours and kissing until you’re slumping against the glass. Your hand flies up to grab the back of his neck, your hips rolling up to where his knee is pressed between your thighs. Your eyes dart down when you pull apart for a single, ragged breath—Dean pulling your lip between his teeth, and kissing your nose and cheek like breathing is really no longer his concern—and you whimper at the sight of him, still erect and hanging out of his pants.

Dean drags your chin back up, searing his lips over yours, and you melt. He’s a good kisser. And you knew that, but it’s not like anything you’ve felt before. It’s like you’re trading souls, like he’s trying to brand you with wandering hands and lips.

When you pull away again, your dizzy from the pleasure and force of him. You whine at the loss as he leans away, but Dean just squeezes your waist and smirks.

You hear a rip, as he claws your pants and underwear down your legs. You don’t get a chance to adjust before he’s shoving your knee up against the bench, dragging the other one over his shoulder as he ducks between your legs.

“Dean- Shit-“ Your breathing gets shallow as his breath fans over your pussy. “We- We’re supposed to be doing things that are- Like blowjobs-“

It’s so hard to argue with him when he’s between your legs. The sight alone is almost enough to tip you into a frenzy. His shining eyes looking up at you, his full lips grazing your inner thigh, leaving teasing kisses everywhere but where you’re aching for him. You run your fingers through his short, soft hair, trying to get his attention. He just makes a low sound like a purr, and presses his mouth over your clit.

You almost fly out of your skin. He’s making out with the sensitive nerve like they’re your mouth, his tongue dragging and pressing, his hands on your thighs kneading with every suck and graze of his teeth. All you can do is cover your mouth and try to stifle your moan.

Dean withdraws, and you make a strangled sound of frustration. He can’t just do that, it’s not fair-

“No doin’ that.” He grunts, dragging your hand from your mouth. “Wanna hear it.”

You nod weakly, but still try one more time to remind him who this is about. “Dean, it- it’s supposed to be stuff that’s good for you-“

“This is good for me.” He mutters, letting go of your thigh over his shoulder to let his fingers drag back over your fluttering pussy. “Look at you.” He mutters with pure awe. “Responsive, wet little pussy. Bet you’d like it when I do this.”

He pushes one finger knuckle-deep inside you, and you yank on his hair with delight.

“Yeah, you do. How about,” he drags it out, then shoves it back in, and your head tips back against the window, eyes screwing shut.

“Dean, Dean, please-“

He groans, adding a second finger and repeating the slamming motion. Once, twice, a third time. His tongue flicks against your clit on that last one, and your eyes roll back in your head.

“Dean-“

Another deep sound, another flick, and you’re seconds from begging like a whore when he snaps.

Dean wraps his mouth back around your clit, resuming his ministrations from before with twice the fervor. His fingers pick up their pace, wet sounds filling the car as he finger-fucks you into oblivion.

The curse seems to have it’s full hold on him. He’s borderline feral. You’ve never had a man who eats pussy like he’s having a five-star meal, like it really is good for him. Sometimes he just pulls his fingers out and drags his tongue down your cunt, angling his head to press his tongue deep inside you and working his jaw until your toes are curling. His nose bumps your clit and his stubble scrapes your thighs, his free hand squeezing your thigh as he devours.

“Oh- Oh fuck-“ You let out a vulgar, lustful sound as he drags you further forward against his mouth, the pleasure rushing through your body. “Dean- God, just like that-“

He drags his mouth back up to your swollen, neglected clit, and those two fingers pump back into your hole. It’s somehow better and worse, and a shriek rips from your mouth as he spanks your pussy, then resumes his rhythm.

“Dean, please- Please, fuck- please-“

You’re already babbling, the tension in your lower abdomen so tight it’s almost painful. Your body is shaking with the stimulation, and Dean’s working you like an instrument. He finds every hyper-needy spot that makes you moan his name and playing it like a professional. You’re kept right on the edge for what feels like a million years, his fingers and mouth switching in and out, begging and begging as he turns you into an empty-headed, drooling wound-up mess.

Then he finally lets you over the edge.

Dean pushes his fingers right against your g-spot, and rubs. Your body seizes up, eyes crossing as his tongue flicks against your clit, and the heat built up in your gut explodes.

You shake as your orgasm rips through your pussy, your spine, every nerve in your body glowing with a deep, sex-addled bliss. Your clit is swollen between Dean’s lip as he drags you through it, your pussy gushing around his fingers and fingers yanking at his hair.

“Fuck, yes- Yes-“ You moan, legs locking around Dean’s head, and he groans against your pussy.

When it pulls another lewd sound from your chest, he does it again, slowly easing his fingers out and starting to clean up the mess between your thighs. He licks and hums, the sensation making your oversensitive body spasm every time he finds one of those spots.

It’s not certain you’re going to be able to walk to the motel room, when he finally pulls away.

But there’s a gleaming light in his eyes, that makes you think it’s really not going to matter.

Dean’s a wreck. His face is flushed, chest heaving, cock still hard but coated in a white stain that tells you he’s not close to working off the curse.

“Oh, you’re gonna be so mad about that when you’re better.” You mumble, seeing the stains on his precious bench, and Dean chuckles.

“I’ll get over it.”

You giggle, and Dean leans over you again, kissing you slow and deep. One orgasm seems to have cleared his head for a seconds, enough that he’s gently rubbing your bare, tender pussy, a soothing touch that’s really only working you up more.

“Love that sound.” He mutters, and you frown against his lips.

“Wha-“

“Your laugh.” He sucks on your upper lip, wrapping an arm around your waist. “Love it so much. Don’t think I’ve told you that before.”

He hasn’t. It somehow makes you flush more than any of the dirty things he’d been hissing in your ear before.

“You’re telling me a lot of new things.” You manage to mumble, and he huffs in amusement.

“Blame it on the curse.”

You giggle again, and his face shines like he won a prize.

“Son of a bitch,” his eyes are already darkening again, voice getting thick with the curse-driven hunger. “I love you, you know that?”

You can only gape at him. He must not have said what you thought  he said. “What?”

“You heard me.” He presses his brow against yours, reaching up to cup your cheek. “I love you.”

He rasps your name, and you blink away tears.

“Dean, if it’s just the curse-“

“It’s not. It’s-“

He slides his mouth against yours and this is the romantic kiss you always pictured. Slow and devoted as he takes the time to memorize you, to bask in the glow of your heart as you shine with love beneath him.

“You know it, right?” His voice is gravelly, his body pressing firmer over yours. He’s going back under. He can probably feel it. “That I mean it?”

He’s still asking—almost begging—you to tell him that you know.

“I know.” You mumble. “I- I love you too.”

Dean goes rigid over your body, and you blink up at him, as nervous as a doe in headlights. Just like the kiss, you’ve dreamed of saying it. Pictured it somewhere romantic, your makeup perfect and the breeze running through your hair. Dean falling to his knees after, kissing your hands before sweeping you off your feet.

Instead you’re lying in the car, cum staining your tangled legs, everything in you ruined from being eaten out by the sinful mouth that haunts your dreams. Dean’s hovering over you, tongue darting over those same lips—shining with your arousal, making your thighs rub together under him—and your holding onto his flannel, both your clothing stuck to your skin from sweat.

He doesn’t fall to his knees. He just looks at you like he’s not sure it’s a dream either.

At least he still sweeps you off your feet.

Dean moves like a machine. You’re not even sure what’s happening until you’re being hit by the wind, dragged down the bench by your ankles and wrapped in one of his jackets to preserve your modesty. His dick has been hastily shoved back into his pants—the fly still fucking down—and you’re about to tell him you’d at least like your underwear before he’s picking it up and shoving it into his pocket.

“Dean!” You gasp, and he just grunts, sweeping you fully into his arms.

“Mine.” He mutters under his breath, looking around the parking lot like he’s still trying to orient himself. “I- I gotta, fuck-“

Gently, you reach up and turn his chin in the direction of your motel room. “Over there, De.” You mumble, and he nods tightly.

He’s fully back under. You don’t bother to struggle or try and convince him that you can walk, because you’re not even sure you could. It’s not worth distressing Dean over anyway.

Despite his fever soaring and gaze being fogged by the curse, he manages you gently. When you get into the room you’re tossed on the bed and pinned back down for his mouth to work you open again, but the brusing grip is full of care, his mouth worshipful on your pussy. After that he’s rising over your body, ripping clothing like it’s a personal offense on his sensibilities and descending over you with another feral growl.

Your legs are shoved apart, but he rubs a hand over your calves almost reverently. Staring at your glistening, abused pussy with a look of pride and affection, gaze slowly dragging up your flushed breasts and thoroughly marked neck to meet yours.

You give him a honeyed, coaxing smile. You’re his to take, if he wants it.

He makes a low sound from his chest, and starts to kiss up your body. You gasp when his lips wrap around one of your peaked nipples, sucking gently until your grinding up into him. His hand splays over your stomach, gently guiding you back down, and you whine desperately.

“Patience.” He hums, kissing over your breast before switching to the other nipple. “Gonna take care of you. Fuck- You’re so beautiful, so fuckin’-“

Dean moans to himself, and you whimper his name, yanking on his hair.

But there’s no rushing him. He plays with your tits until he’s had his fill—when they’re swollen and you’re arching into every touch—then works back down to your pussy. Tasting your arousal, soaked and messy and almost shamefully dripping down his hand when he touches you.

He doesn’t seem to mind it at all though. 

“Messy girl.” He grunts, twisting one finger inside of you. “Think you’re ready for some cock, aren’t you. Gonna take me, princess? Show me how much you love me?”

You blink at him through tears, on the brink of screaming his he doesn’t let you cum again soon. When you nod it’s like a bobblehead, and you only remember his orders from before at the last second.

“Yes.” You gasp. “Yes, Dean, please-“

Again, he moves.

You’re almost a ragdoll in his arms. A ragdoll that he moves like you’re threaded from gold, tossing you around and gripping your hips so hard you’ll have a handprint in the morning, but kissing over every hickey on your neck and muttering words of low, tender praise every second.

“Good girl.” He mutters as he drags his cock between your pussy lips. “Good fuckin’ girl, already cockdrunk and stupid for me, aren’t you. Love taking you like this, looking at you all pretty and dumb-“

You whine, head lolling to the side. Dean slides two fingers into your mouth and you suck on them like candy, taking anything he’ll offer.

He growls, dick catching on your entrance, and you shiver, looking up at him under fluttering eyes.

Dean drags you up like you weigh nothing, slowly sitting you down on his massive cock, and every thought but his name is driven from your head.

He’s thick. So think you almost don’t think you can take it, but your whine of protest is only met by cooing, filthy praise in your ears and careful circles around your clit. You don’t know how he can still be so far into the curse and able to restrain himself from rutting you like a beast.

Probably because it’s Dean. That feels like explanation enough.

It takes a moment for him to bottom out, and when he does you’re sure you’ve never been this full. He’s hitting places inside of you that you hadn’t known existed, dropping you into a pool of pleasure that makes your breathing stuttered, your nails scratching over his shoulders as you try to keep yourself from floating away.

Dean kisses you, hot and deep. You moan against him and he grabs your hips, starting to roll you up and down on his cock. You can tell he’s experimenting again, trying to figure out where he hits the deepest, working you open until you’re riding his cock smoothly your head falling back as pants of his name leave your mouth.

It’s paradise. Your toes are curling with every twitch of his cock inside you, every rush of heat when he slams extra hard and hits your cervix. It takes him takes him some time to decide how he wants you , and you’d laugh at what he settles on if the air wasn’t being fucked from your lungs.

Dean cums while holding you in his lap, his thrusts getting short and a groan of your name falling from his mouth when he ruts up, his cock pumping hot release inside of you and your own orgasm rolling through your body like an electrical storm. But then you’re being picked up and flipped around so your back is pressed to his chest, his arm locking around your neck and his hand returning to your clit as his fucks up into you. Then you’re moved forward onto the mattress, Dean turning your face so he can hear your moans and keeping your ass into the air as he slams from behind, his balls slapping against your clit and bringing you back up to the edge.

You’re in his lap again, folded under him with your knees to your chest, rolled on top of him so he can play with your tits and watch you ride.

Every time he cums, you’re thrown into a new position and held there until you both fall back over the edge. You’ve never been wrecked like this before, your head empty, pussy drenching his cock as he spills and claims every spot on your body.

“Dirty fuckin’ girl,” he growls into your ear from below you, dragging his fingers down your inner thigh, gathering his release on his fingers. “So pretty, bouncing on this cock, my pretty fuckin’ baby-“

“Dean.” You whine, scraping at his chest. “Dean, feels so good, so fucking good-“

“I know.” He coos. “Made for me, getting so fucking stupid on my cock- Open.”

He slaps your cheek lightly, and your lips part. Dean feeds you his cum, other hand rubbing up and down your spine, and you grind down onto him with need.

“Good girl, fuckin’- Christ you’re so good-“ His thrusts get shorter, brutal and uneven. “You’re mine, this sweet pussy is mine, gonna- Gonna fuckin’ worship you, fuck-“

He drills up into you, taking his hand away to bounce you how he likes.

You both cum, Dean calling your name and throwing his head back, watching you under hooded, still hungry eyes.

There’s a second to catch your breath, as he palms your breast. Pinches a nipple, rolling it between his fingers, watching how you arch into his touch.

“You like that?” He grunts, and you hum.

“Feels good.”

“Damn right it does.” He grabs the other one, working them in tandem.

You whine his name, looking at him under pleading lashes.

Dean groans. “Fuck, baby…”

He’s hard again, and you’re being moved into another position.

By the time he finds one he wants to keep, you’re a disaster of a woman. Making sounds that are supposed to be his name, boneless below him and still trying to chase more, even as your body turns into a raw, live nerve.

Dean’s got you under him again, his body pressed over yours, cock plunging in and out of your pussy at a lazy, torturous pace. You’ve been like this for what must be an hour, maybe a day, maybe fifty years. Tears of pleasure are stained on your cheeks, there’s a wet sound with every thrust as his cum leaks out of your stuffed hole, and Dean’s praise is becoming more and more lucid.

“I love you.” He mutters, and you moan, turning your head to try and kiss him.

“Dean…”

“I know.” He mutters. “I know, baby, but you’re doin’ so good. Feeling better, almost done, just gotta-“

He kisses over your face, finally capturing your lips as he starts to rut, pounding into your swollen g-spot over and over.

You barely have the energy to arch up, when you cum. You breathe out his name, pussy clenching as you feel that last bit of his cum squirt into you, and a wet, hot feeling floods your pussy as your vision goes white.

“Love you.” Dean’s still muttering as you float through the haze, his lips pressed over yours. “Loved you forever, never- Never thought-“

His voice cracks, and you know the curse is over. He’s not getting hard again inside of you, not trying to chase more.

Just pressing his face into the crook of your neck and holding you tight, words muffled against your skin.

“Thank you.” He mutters. “Thank you for- For sayin’ it back, even if that wasn’t-“

“It was,” you breathe out. He needs to know. “I love you, Dean. Have for longer.”

He chuckles, squeezing your body, and you smile into the air.

You find the strength to thread your fingers through his hair, and he hums, pressing a sweet kiss to your sensitive skin. You shiver, whining softly, and he chuckles again. Both of you too fucked out to move. You’re not sure you’re going to be able to walk in a straight line for a month.

But it was worth it.

Holding Dean here, so peacefully, was more than worth it.

...

You’ve been on Nevarro for about a week now, and you’re pretty sure this was a bad idea.

You’d avoided the planet for years. Not that it was hard – you weren’t exactly planet hopping, after you left Takodana. You’d ended up on Birren, and you knew why. It was Inner Rim and it was about as far away from Takodana as you could get at the time.

And Birren had been fine. You’d found another cantina job and some friends and distracted yourself pretty well. Distracted yourself from what you had refused to call heartbreak.

Because he had broken your heart. This many years later you knew it to be true. He’d walked out and you’d felt a hole open up inside your chest that you hadn’t even realized he’d filled. He snuck inside of your heart and took up residence without you even noticing.

You’d known, immediately, that he wasn’t coming back.

So you left. Grabbed a transport out, headed coreward, where you knew he rarely went. Eventually you’d made a friend on another transport and followed them home to Birren. You liked it there well enough. 

It wasn’t until years later, when you’d started to think maybe you should think about moving on again, that you realized what you’d done. 

You finally got a good look at a chart – something you’d studiously avoided – and realized that when you ran, you ran closer to the planet you’d never forget the name of, even though you’d never been there yourself.

Nevarro.

It wasn’t exactly next door, but you were far closer to it than you had been on Takodana. You could only laugh. You’d run from him and everything that could possibly remind you of him, and now here you were, light years closer. 

What were the odds?

You very carefully did not notice just how far he’d had to go out of his way to get to Takodana. Nothing good would come from letting yourself think about that.

Anyway, you hadn’t hopped the next ship to Nevarro. You’d traveled a bit after saving money for years and deciding to actually use it. Your old friend, the same one you’d followed to Birren, was heading to Coruscant, and you figured you might as well see it once. From there you actually planet-hopped a bit until one day you found yourself on a transport headed down the Hydian Way.

And you knew what planet was on the Hydian Way. 

Should I bother? You worried over it constantly during the trip, as the planet itself got closer and closer. He’s probably not there anymore, if he ever was. He never actually said. You sighed to yourself. And we never made each other any promises. 

In the end, you couldn’t help yourself. You had to see it just once. But when you stepped off the ship and onto Nevarro’s ashy soil, you grimaced. Black and grey soil, lava, no greenery in sight – it wasn’t exactly what you’d pictured.

As you’d walked towards the town, you’d wondered what you were even doing there. What if you did see him? He didn’t want to see you, that much was clear. He had made that more than clear.

What am I doing here?

It was a question you’d asked yourself more than a few times since you arrived on Nevarro, and you ask it again now as you stand in the market.

You turn towards your temporary dwelling and bite your lip. It’s been a week, and the town is not that big. He’s clearly not here. Why did I even come?

You reach inside your pocket for your comm, wondering if you’ve received any messages that might distract you. But you realize when you do, that it’s not in your pocket.

Groaning, you let your head fall back for a moment and look up at Nevarro’s sky. You sigh and you turn to retrace your steps.

And that’s when you see him.

It has to be him. His armor is different now, but the helmet alone is so familiar it freezes you in place. The light glints off of it, catching your eye, and you can’t help but trace the outline of his body.

Those are his shoulders, alright.

You stare for much longer than you’d care to admit before you realize he’s staring right back at you.

That he was already looking at you when you turned around.

He’s already seen you.

I can’t…

You gasp, comm forgotten, and spin, speed walking out of the market.

How long was he looking? 

The shape of his helmet burns in your mind and you feel tears well up, tears that you haven’t cried for this man in years.

You’re almost there, only feet from the doorway, when a voice rings out that stops you in your tracks.

“Cyar’ika.”

…

Din turns into the market, on his way to see Karga, and is brought up short when a glint of light catches his attention. He looks closer and realizes it’s the bright light of Nevarro’s sun reflecting off of a bronze clasp on a bag strapped around a very familiar shape.

Before he can stop himself, he’s staring. 

Distantly he knows he’s in the middle of the path, blocking everyone and everything, but he can’t do anything about it. He can’t do anything but stare. He’s frozen, rooted to the spot, incapable of turning away.

Din hasn’t seen her in years. 

Years.

And all it takes is a glimpse of her profile, the corner of her smile, the curve of her hips, and he’s thrown years into the past.

He’d know her anywhere, anytime. Any place. He drinks her in now like a man who spent every second of every day since he last saw her stranded in the desert, dying of thirst.

He doesn’t often let himself remember that moment, that pain. He knows now that he’d panicked. He’d heard her ask about where he was from, heard her say there were bounty hunters on Takodana. And then the word “Nevarro” had crossed her lips and from that moment his mind was nothing but static. He was all adrenalin, all flight response, nothing but his training driving him.

He had to leave, he had to run, what if they knew he was here? What if they connected him to her? 

What if she was in danger because of him? 

The covert. He remembers now how he’d kicked himself, at the time. How that had made it worse – his first thought hadn’t been his duty, his responsibility. No, the thought that drove him to jump off the bed and reach for his armor was her. It was only after she stood to follow that he thought of the people he was supposed to protect. 

It had to stay secret. What is he doing here? “This was a bad idea,” he remembers saying, and won’t let himself remember the way her face had looked when he’d said it. No, he sees it enough in his dreams. “I shouldn’t be here” – he knows he’d said something like that, but all he remembers of that moment is the way his entire body had been alert with panic, the way his mind was racing. How could he have put the covert in danger like this? What was he thinking?

When he’d looked at her again, the emotion on her face had struck him like a knife to the chest. But he had to go back home – had to stop letting himself get lost in useless dreams. You have a duty, he remembers telling himself. This is the way.

All he could do to protect her was make her promise to never tell anyone she knew him. Even as he said it, even as he ruined whatever it was he’d found, he’d known. He’d known then that he would never stop thinking about her for the rest of his days.

He stands there, now, in the middle of the market, looking at her smile, and remembers how her face had crumpled, then, when he said he should never have done it. 

All he’d wanted was to touch her. But that was impossible, and all he could do was apologize. 

Din remembers cursing himself and his carelessness when he realized he couldn’t even explain it to her. Couldn’t even tell her why. All he could do to keep her safe was to leave.

He didn’t want to leave.

But it didn’t matter what he wanted. It didn’t matter that he only realized how much he cared the moment he turned away, that he knew he’d somehow fallen in love the moment the door shut behind him. He wonders sometimes if it had been selfish, to let himself admit it aloud – if only to himself – in the moment he left her forever. He figured he’d never know. Even when he couldn’t stand it any longer and went back to Takodana, months later, only to find her gone; he supposes he couldn’t regret it. Even if he’d only gotten to say it once, he’d still gotten to say it. To tell her what she meant to him in the only way he could allow himself.

Cyar’ika. 

He closed himself off after that. Why bother looking, when he’d already found her and couldn’t have her? When he’d never see her again?

But watching her now in the market on Nevarro, Din feels something in that corner of his heart that even Grogu can't touch – he feels it shake off years of dust and crack open in his chest.

…

You can’t breathe. Your entire body is frozen, chest and lungs unmoving, as his voice washes over you. That word. 

You don’t turn around, but you feel him step closer. You look down when a hand appears in your peripheral. It’s wearing a familiar glove and it’s holding your comm.

“You dropped this,” he says, and suddenly, you’re furious.

Spinning around, you barely notice you’ve dropped your bag of purchases on the ground as you snatch your comm from his hand. He leans away and almost takes a step back at your glare, clearly startled.

“That’s it?” you demand, hands finding your hips. You stand tall in front of him and watch as he tilts his head at you.

“... what?” he sounds genuinely confused, and that pisses you off more.

“Nothing for years and all you’ve got for me is my comm?” It’s pulsing through you now, this indignation that took root the last time he walked out your door but hasn’t had reason to flower until now.

Mando’s shoulders hunch up around his ears, and you watch as his hand makes a fist and then releases. “I–”

You shake your head. “No, actually. I don’t want to hear it.” You spin again in place, head shaking, hand trembling, and reach for your fob to your apartment.

A large, warm hand gently catches your elbow.

“Wait,” he says, and you shiver despite yourself. That voice. “Wait, please. That’s not… that’s not all.”

He’s almost pleading, and you feel the anger start to leach out of you. “It’s not?” you ask, and you can’t help the hope that bleeds into your voice. Even after all this time, you can’t help but hope there’s a reason to hear him out.

You look over your shoulder and realize he’s standing right behind you. You look up and meet his visor. His hand is still cupping your arm.

“Can we… can we talk?” He asks, voice low. You can’t tell for certain, but it feels like he’s watching your face.

You let your eyes dance over his helmet, the only face of his you’ve ever known, and then look down to his shoulders. They’re tense, and you can tell he’s nervous. Maybe not, you think. Maybe I can’t read him anymore. You frown at the thought.

“If we talk,” you say, slowly turning to face him, “is it going to end with you walking out the door…" he lets go of your arm but doesn’t lift his hand – his fingertips slide softly along your upper back as you turn, making you shiver, before finding a grip on your opposite arm as you face him, “never to be heard from again?” His hand tightens on your arm, not painfully, but you can feel the tremor behind it. You swallow roughly. “Because I can’t do that again, Mando. I won’t do that again.”

He’s shaking his head before you’ve finished speaking. “I– I won’t. I pr–” he’s tripping over his words, and you blink, startled. You’ve never heard him this unraveled, but then, it’s been years since you’ve heard from him at all. He takes a deep, slow breath, and then lifts his visor to look in your eyes again. “My name is Din.”

Your mouth drops open. You stare at him, mind blank, nothing but the word Din echoing inside of you. His name? 

“What?” you breathe, shocked.

“Din Djarin,” he says again, and you suck in a sharp breath. “I should have told you that before.”

You stare at him for a moment. He shifts his weight, clearly uncomfortable under your silent gaze. You nod and spin on your heel, breaking his grip on your arm.

“Well, Din,” you say, and you hear him trip over the step in front of your door. “Let’s talk.”

…

Din follows you inside, and you move to put the table between the two of you without consciously thinking about it. Your mind spins into the past when he touches you and you need some space to think.

Looking at him now, in what has been your home of just a couple of weeks, you find yourself speechless. What do I say? you wonder, at a loss.

Din might still be able to read you, too, because he steps into the gap. “Where did you go after Takodana?”

You blink. “How do you know I left?” You regret the question instantly, because obviously you’d left, you were here, on Nevarro. But he speaks before you can take it back. 

“I went back.”

His words slam into you like blows and you gape at him. “You… what?”

Din seems to shrink a bit before sighing and squaring his shoulders. “I went back. About…” he trails off, maybe doing some mental calculations. “Three seasons later.”

Your mouth drops open, and then you close it. You shake your head. “That’s not long after I Ieft.”

Din seems to take that truth like a blow, too, taking a step back and shaking his head. “Not long?” he says, repeating your words back to you, voice strained.

You shake your head again. “No. And from there, I wandered. Birren, Coruscant… some other places.” You swallow and straighten your shoulders. “I… couldn’t stay.”

He’s silent for a moment, and you wonder what he’s thinking about. The silence stretches, long enough that you shift your weight. You’re about to open your mouth, wondering if you should fill it, when he speaks again.

“I’m sorry.” His voice is stilted but you’re certain it’s sincere, you remember enough to know that. You blink in surprise. Despite everything, you hadn’t expected an apology. Not after this long.

You search for something to say in response – too late? Why now? Are you, really? – but the truth is something you’ve fought long and hard to come to terms with over many sleepless nights, and it’s what you settle on now. “You don’t have to apologize, Mando. We didn’t make each other any promises. Remember?”

He lifts his hand towards you but clenches it into a fist, and lets it drop back by his side. He takes a careful step towards the end of the table and says, “maybe not out loud. I know what we said. But I made you promises in other ways. I’m sorry I didn’t realize that until after I left.”

You tilt your head, confused, thinking over his words. “In other ways?”

He nods and takes another step around the table. “With my body. And my actions.” A shiver runs up your spine, lightning quick, and you inhale sharply. “And please. Call me Din.”

You’re starting to feel like you’re not really present in your body. It’s all so much. Mando – Din – is here, real, in front of you, and he’s apologizing. You blink, dazed. 

“Mando–” you say it without thinking, barely able to form thoughts in the face of his sincerity.

“Din. Please, cyar’ika.” 

“D– Din.” You pause, considering the way his name feels on your tongue as you watch him. He steps closer and you realize that you’re suddenly standing on the same side of the table. You reach out to one of your chairs to steady yourself. “I… ok. Thank you for apologizing.” You swallow with difficulty. He’s standing so close now. “It’s nice to–- I thought…” you trail off, looking at him, and admit something you thought for sure you wouldn’t. “I thought I’d never see you again.” 

He steps closer until he’s standing within arm’s reach. Your heart is racing, but not out of fear. Never out of fear of this man.

“How long are you here?” he asks, voice low. The air between you feels tense.

“As long as I want, really,” you say, a bit thrown at the change in topic, and you try to smile. “I’m a bit of a wanderer, these days. I’d need a job eventually.” You stop yourself before you can do something wild like promise to stay for a long time. You have no idea where this conversation is going and you’re starting to feel overwhelmed.

He’s still looking at you, and you can’t help but wonder what he’s thinking.

“Can I see you again?” he asks. He sounds tense, but he’s completely focused on you and your answer. You can feel it.

You nod, but then you can’t help but say, “Yes but I… I can’t do that again, M– Din.”

He shakes his head. “What if I..” he reaches out and grasps the back of the chair, hand only a few inches from your own. You stare down at it. “What if I said it wouldn’t be like that again?”

You keep your gaze on your hands that are almost touching. His familiar glove threatens to draw up memories you’ve avoided for years. “What?” 

“Cyar’ika, everything… it’s different, now.” He takes a deep breath and tightens his grip on the chair. You still don’t look at him. “I wanted to stay.” The words sound like they’re being pulled from somewhere deep inside of him, somewhere you’d seen before but never touched. “I wanted to stay so badly. I couldn’t… and I thought I had put you in danger. I couldn’t let myself–”

You blink. Wait. You furrow your brow and look up at him, finally, and find his visor still trained on you. “Wait. Din. None of those bounty hunters even glanced at me, they didn’t– they weren’t after me.” 

He shakes his head again. “It’s not… I’ll explain. I’ll explain everything. But please, it won’t be like that this time. I promise.” 

You’re silent for a long moment. You can’t tell what he’s asking for – for what you had before? The pretense of “just sex”? To talk, to explain? Something else? Something more? As you look at him, taking your time to study him, he shifts his weight again, nervous. It makes you smile. You might still know this man, the man under all of that new, shiny armor, after all.

“We go slow,” you say, voice firm. 

He stares at you for a moment and then leans closer. “What?”

“If– if we do this.” You gesture between the two of you with the hand that isn’t holding onto your chair for dear life. “We take it slow. I can’t.. We can’t start where we left off, Din.” 

“I know, cyar’ika, I–” he interrupts, but you keep going.

“Not even if I, ah, if…” you trail off and bite your lip. You look down at his hand again and see that it’s almost touching yours. 

You feel a sudden touch to your chin and realize it’s his other hand, gloved, oh-so-lightly brushing against your chin to lift your gaze. His touch brings you back to yourself, back to your body, and you’re suddenly more present, more real than you have been for this entire conversation. You let him move you and look at the visor again. “Not even if what, cyar’ika?” he murmurs, and you know you’re caught.

“Not even if I want to, still,” you admit. He freezes in place, and then you gasp when his fingers lightly cover yours on the back of the chair.

“That’s probably smart,” he agrees, voice low. You know that voice, that pitch… and it makes you shiver now, just like it did then. “Slow,” he says, and you realize his finger is still under your chin when he extends it to lightly trace along your jaw. “We can do this however you want, cyar’ika. I’ll do anything you want.”

You blink, dazed again. “Ok. Then I have a question.”

“Anything,” he promises, and you smile.

“What’s that mean? Cyar-ika?”

He freezes, and you can’t help but grin. His finger brushes over your cheek, like he can’t help but touch. “I’ll tell you next time,” he says, a bit strangled, and you laugh.

“Promise?”

“I promise.”

…

Din agreed to meet her the next day, in the afternoon, for a walk. 

The idea alone makes him smile behind his helmet, where no one could see it. A walk? When was the last time he’d gone for a walk?

He spent the entire night tossing and turning, unable to believe his luck in finding her again. Finding her here, on Nevarro. Finding her willing to give him some kind of chance.

He’s there on time, right in the spot she pointed out the day before, leaning casually (or so he hoped) against the wall when she appears.

“Ready?” she asks, smiling at him. For a moment Din can’t speak, can’t breathe, can only trace the shape of her smile with his eyes and resist the urge to reach out and touch. 

When it starts to fade, he realizes he’s been quiet for too long. “Ready,” he agrees, voice rough. He smiles when he sees her shiver. 

“I thought we could walk towards the shipyard,” she suggests, falling into step next to him. “I haven’t really seen the lava flats much. Thought I might get a closer look.”

He nods. He’ll go anywhere she wants. “Alright.”

They start walking, and Din starts to look for something to say. The entire conversation yesterday felt like it had happened to him, like a wave that crashed over him, rather than something he took an active part in. He remembers everything he said – and kriff, had he really said all of that? – and while it had all been true, he can’t believe he actually said it.

Before he can berate himself more for the deepening silence, she speaks. “Do you still have the Crest?”

Din grimaces and shakes his head. “No.”

“Oh no,” she turns towards him, eyes wide, and reaches out to touch his arm. He stops walking, halting at her touch. She starts to pull away but he reaches over and closes his free hand over hers atop his forearm before she can pull back. “Did something happen?”

He stretches his neck from side to side and then nods. “It… got blown up.”

“What?!” she cries, squeezing his arm, and he can’t help but smile, knowing she can’t see it. She looks so torn, so upset, and he knows it’s on his behalf. He hadn’t wanted to see it back then, but she knows him so well. 

“It’s a long story,” he says, turning and starting to walk again but with her arm looped through his. 

She throws him a wry look and he grins under the helmet where she can’t see. “Well, we have time,” she says.

Din nods. They do, and so he tells her about all of it – finding Grogu, losing the Crest, losing him, getting him back, their new life here on Nevarro. It takes them out to the shipyard, in a wide arc around the parked ships, and the beginning of the walk back, with plenty of questions and reactions that make him smile along the way.

“You have a son?” she exclaims when he tells her about Grogu, and the joy he feels when he nods must be visible to her somehow because she smiles softly. “I can see it,” she murmurs. 

“Yeah?” he asks, suddenly needing reassurance. She knew him when he was young and not exactly at his best, so if she thinks so…

She nods. “Yes, definitely. I know we stayed away from… personal topics, but you were the kids’ favorite, you know? The ones who used to hang around the square outside of the cantina. They talked about you for weeks after every visit.”

He blinks, startled. Kids usually like him, that much is true – they don’t know to be afraid. But he had no idea. “Really?”

She laughs. “Really. But wait, Din, I’m so sorry, I can’t believe you lost the Crest! That must have been so horrible. For you and for Grogu.” She reaches over and squeezes his arm again. At some point during his story they unlinked their arms, just for practicality’s sake, and he feels warmed again at her touch. 

“It…” he trails off. No one has outright said it to him, not like that. He knew he missed her, but kriff. “It was. Horrible.”

She nods. “I haven’t had a home like that, well.” She laughs, but it doesn’t sound happy. He is realizing that he still remembers everything he learned about how she talked and moved and gestured – everything about her. “Maybe not ever. Losing it must have been so hard.”

Somehow her sincere sympathy makes him feel able to talk about something he normally avoids even thinking about. “I have to apologize for something. Again.”

“Oh?” she says, looking at him expectantly.

“I, um,” he shakes his head. “I might have taken one of your bracelets… before. But I don’t have it – it was on the Crest, when…”

“Oh!” she says, and her hand flies to her wrist where he can see a few new bracelets, still colorful, clearly recently made. They’re lovely, as always. “I forgot! I remember, after you left, I noticed one was missing.” She gasps and reaches over to shove him lightly. He lets himself stumble and she laughs. “You thief!” He laughs, too, smiling as she does. “I can’t believe you.”

“I, um,” he says, reaching for whatever courage he had the day before that allowed him to talk so much about all of this. “I didn’t admit it to myself, not for a bit, but I didn’t want to leave. I wanted…” he sighs. “I went back with no plan, no idea what I was going to say, just knowing I wanted… you. But–”

“But I was gone,” she says, furrowing her brow. He doesn’t like the crestfallen look on her face and reaches out to take her hand. 

“You were, but I’m the one who left first.” She still looks upset, and he suddenly wishes he hadn’t brought it up. “And we’re here now.”

The corner of her mouth quirks upwards, just a bit, and Din feels his shoulders relax in response.

“What brought you to Nevarro, anyway?” He realizes she never said, and he can’t help but ask. To his delight, she drops her eyes and bites her lip. He knows that tell. Whatever it is, now he has to know. 

“Well,” she starts, and peeks up at him without raising her chin. He grins and squeezes her hand. “I’ve been traveling, like I said.”

“Mm,” Din agrees, leaning closer. 

“And for a long time I maybe avoided this… corner of the galaxy. But last year I found myself on a ship that traded along the Hydian Way.”

He tilts his head. “On purpose?”

She shrugs. “Sort of. I wasn’t admitting it to myself yet, but I never stopped wondering.”

Din steps just a bit closer. He’s close enough now that he could lean forward and touch his forehead to hers. Slow, he reminds himself. He doesn’t. “Wondering? Did you come here to find me, cyar’ika?”

She tilts her head back and forth and he smiles at the familiar gesture. He’d seen her do that so many times when she was telling him stories about her coworkers, lounging around in her apartment. “Not completely? I had no idea if you’d still be here. It was more that…” she trails off and he brings his free hand up to trace his fingertips over her cheek. He wishes he wasn’t wearing gloves. The memory of her skin under his hands is so distant, so worn at the edges in his mind. “More that I was maybe ok with the possibility of seeing you again. And I really never stopped being curious about this place.”

When she speaks, her lips brush against his glove, and he has to bite back the sound that threatens to leap from his mouth. “I’m glad. I might have been able to find you, if I’d tried. But I didn’t think you’d want me to.”

She studies him. He could always tell when she was doing this, looking at him like she was looking for something. Whatever it is this time, it seems like she finds it, because she smiles. “I might have yelled at you if you did.”

“More than you did here?”

She laughs and he can’t tear his eyes away. “Much more. You can only tell me your name once, you know. And I was way angrier back then.”

He smiles sheepishly and ducks his head. “I missed you, cyar’ika. I would have let you yell at me as much as you wanted.”

She’s silent for a moment, long enough that he looks up. Her eyes are narrowed. “It’s next time, Din.”

“What?”

“You said you’d tell me next time. What that word means.”

He feels himself flush under the helmet, glad as always no one can see it. “Oh. Well. I know we said slow.”

Her eyebrows fly upwards. “Oh, well now you have to tell me.”

Din sighs and leans forward, so close their foreheads almost touch. “Cyar’ika…” he murmurs, and watches a shiver travel across her shoulders. “Means sweetheart. Or something close to it. But… more.”

Her jaw drops, and she stares. “Sweetheart?”

He nods. 

Suddenly her hand tugs free of his, but before he can protest she grabs him by both shoulders. “Din. Djarin.”

“Yes?” He loves the way his name sounds on her tongue. 

“Are you telling me,” she asks, squeezing his arms, “that right when you walked out of my life,” he winces at the look on her face, “when I was standing naked in my apartment,” he tries to shrink, but she won’t let him, “you called me something more than sweetheart?”

He clears his throat. “Yes.”

She gapes at him, clearly incredulous, before laughing. She lets her head fall forward lightly until it rests against his own. He sucks in a sharp breath at the gesture. She doesn’t— she can’t know—

“Din,” she says, interrupting his panicked thoughts, and her voice is warm again. He takes a deep breath. 

“Cyar’ika,” he says, and he means it. He means it every time.

She laughs weakly. “You are very bad at this.” 

It’s his turn to laugh. “I know. I’m sorry.”

She shakes her head, still touching his, and he feels something like a tremble in his knees. He shifts his weight without breaking contact with her.

“Back then… I couldn’t. I wasn’t allowed to choose things. For myself.”

She draws back and he misses her instantly. “What?”

“I had… responsibilities. I’ll tell you about it. But I wasn’t free to choose. And I wasn’t a good man.”

She frowns at him. “No.”

“No?” He realizes that at some point in the last few minutes his hands have come to rest on her hips, and it felt so natural he didn’t notice. He resists the urge to squeeze. 

“The good man I know was always in there, Din. You’ve always been good.”

He’s speechless, split open by her words. She knew him. She knew him better than anyone, really, even without all the details he still owed her. 

And she thought he was good. 

“Will you come to dinner? I want you to meet Grogu.”

She smiles, so wide he can’t help but squeeze her hips lightly after all. He never wants to let go. “I’d like that.”

…

Two days later you follow Din’s directions, walking through the town and then into the outskirts where most of the new houses have been built. You’re taking deep breaths, trying not to be too nervous, but you’ve been thinking about it all day – meeting Grogu. Seeing where Din lives.

You’d dreamed about that sometimes, before. Couldn’t stop yourself from imagining him in a home, some kind of home, on some other planet you’d never seen.

This house is new, of course, so it’s not where he lived back then. But something about going to Din, instead of him coming to you… it’s making you feel excited and anxious and overwhelmed. You’ve barely known what to do with yourself.

And there it is.

You take a moment to study it. It’s charming, with little touches that show a family lives inside. You look over the windchimes hanging from the roof, the little frog figurine by the bench on the porch, the curtains you can see through the window. All of it makes you smile.

You take a deep breath before walking up to the door, blue cookies in hand. You knock.

When the door flies open, Din isn’t standing behind it.

Confused, you look around and then down. When you see who opened the door, you grin. 

“You must be Grogu!” you say, kneeling down. The small, green, adorable child smiles back at you and makes a cooing noise. “It’s so nice to meet you!” You reach out tentatively with your hand, unsure of how to say hello. Grogu squeals and touches his claw lightly to your fingertip. 

“I see you’ve already met,” a deep voice says from above you, sounding very amused. You look up to find Din standing over both of you in the doorway. 

“Hi,” you say, smiling. Grogu chirps a greeting and you look back down at him. He’s stepped closer to you, still smiling, and reaches out to poke the box of cookies with his claws. “I see you’ve found dessert.”

Din laughs and reaches down to scoop up his son. “He loves those things. Of course that’s the first thing he sees.” He looks down at Grogu, who looks back at him and giggles.

You stand slowly, absolutely charmed by seeing Din with his son. “I’m glad I brought them.”

“Come in,” Din says, and steps back to invite you inside.

As you step into their home, you can’t help but look around. There’s a living area to your left with a low couch – you smile at the very fluffy green blanket thrown over the back. The kitchen area appears to be straight ahead, and then a short hallway to your right must lead to the sleeping quarters. You can see little personal touches everywhere, and your smile only grows as you notice them. Some drawings that must be Grogu’s tacked to the wall by the back door, some of his toys on the floor by the couch and on the windowsill. A large silver cabinet you presume must be full of Din’s things, probably weapons, as you can tell even from far away how well secured it is. There’s a rack by the door for shoes and you quickly toe yours off.

As you turn to look around again you realize Din is standing by the couch, where he placed Grogu, and looking at you. Your face turns hot as you realize you’ve been quiet for… you don’t know how long, gawking around his home.

“I’m sorry–” 

“Do you–”

You start to speak at the same time, and then both of you pause. 

“Sorry? Cyar’ika–”

“Sorry I was just gawking at all your stuff, Din–”

He cuts you off. “No, it’s fine. I want you to look.”

You step forward, not taking your eyes off of him. “It’s really nice, Din.” You smile and reach out to squeeze his hand. “It’s very you.”

“Me?” he asks, and starts looking around his own home. “What do you mean?”

“Well,” you say, and gesture downwards, “I can tell you set this area up to be as accessible for Grogu as possible. He’s pretty short,” you tease, looking down at the child. He grins back at you and makes a little noise that sounds like blub. “See, he agrees! And of course you locked up all of your stuff in that intense looking cabinet over there, out of the way.” You look back at Din. He’s feeling self conscious, you can tell by his shoulders. “It’s just obvious how much you care.”

He ducks his head. “You can see all of that? Just looking around?”

It’s your turn to feel self conscious. You shrug. “Guess so. And, um…” you trail off, not sure if you should say it.

He steps towards you and reaches out to lightly grip your upper arm. “Well, don’t stop now. And what?” He’s clearly teasing you and it helps you relax.

“And…” you look up at his visor and he squeezes your arm lightly. “And I guess I’m used to reading in between the lines, with you.”

Din tilts his head to the side, considering. “Because of the helmet?” he asks, sounding a bit resigned.

You tilt your head from side to side. “Only sort of. It’s really because you hate talking about yourself.” You grin at him. “And you know it.”

He shakes his head and sighs. “I don’t… hate it. As much. Now.”

You raise your eyebrows at him. “Oh yeah?”

He laughs, and you lean towards him, smiling. “I’ve… had to do a lot of new things, since I found Grogu.”

“I bet,” you say, still smiling. 

Before either of you can say anything else, Grogu squeals, loudly. You both look down to find him tugging at Din’s pants with one hand and pointing towards the kitchen with the other. . 

“Seems like Grogu’s telling us it’s dinner time,” you say, charmed.

Din nods. “If there’s one thing you can count on, it’s this kid being ready for dinner.” He scoops him up again, and again you feel a little squeeze around your heart, watching Din with his son.

Get a grip. You squeeze your hands together as you follow them. Not for the first time, you wonder why Din had invited you to dinner, given that he can’t eat with you. You settle around the table and see that there are only two place settings, which doesn’t surprise you, but does make you feel a bit bad.

“Din, what about–”

He sets two steaming bowls down in front of you and Grogu. “I ate just before you got here.” He settles in across from you and seems to realize it might be weird just to stare at you while you eat, because he looks towards Grogu. “I hope it’s good. I’m still, ah, learning.”

“How to cook?” you ask, before starting to eat. It’s some kind of stew, and the smell alone is mouth watering.

“Yes, I–”

“Din,” you can’t help but interrupt. “This is good.” You look up at him and find him frozen, one hand reaching towards Grogu.

“It is?”

You nod, taking another bite. “Really good, Din. Thank you.”

He ducks his head again and you smile. “I’m glad. I’m trying to learn more for Grogu. Didn’t cook much before.”

“Makes sense.” You watch as he helps Grogu manage his spoon. “Did the Crest even have a kitchen?”

Din laughs. “No, nothing like that. Ate a lot of rations.” You make a noise, and he laughs again. “I know. This is better.”

After that, your conversation is easy. Grogu chimes in from time to time, and you marvel at how good he is at making himself understood. 

When you’re both done eating, Din produces the blue cookies he’d taken at the door, and Grogu squeals. “Yeah, buddy, you can have two, ok? We’ll save the rest.” He looks over at you. “If that’s alright.”

“Of course. They’re for you.”

As soon as Grogu swallows the second cookie, he starts to droop. It’s adorable.

“Looks like someone’s ready for bed,” Din says, reaching for him. You stand when he does. “Hey, no, let me put him down, I’ll be right back. Stay?”

You nod, glad you don’t have to leave quite yet. “I’ll be here.” 

Din turns the corner, and you turn towards the dishes. You smile as you start to clean up. It feels… domestic. Strange, because nothing with him before had ever felt this way. 

You like it.

You finish up and turn to look over the table and jump, hand flying to your chest. 

Din is leaning up against the doorframe of the kitchen, arms crossed, looking completely at ease.

“Kark!” you say, breath coming fast. “Din! How do you do that?”

He laughs and moves towards you. “Bounty hunter, cyar’ika. You didn’t have to clean up.”

You smile and shrug. “You cooked, right? I clean.”

He shakes his head, but you can tell he’s amused. “I’m glad you came,” he says, stepping closer. He’s only a few inches away from you now, and you’re pinned against the counter. “There’s something I want to talk to you about.”

You nod. “Alright.” 

He surprises you by leaning forward and gently resting his helmet against your forehead. “Come sit with me?”

“Of course.”

He takes your hand and leads you to the low couch. When you sit, he sits right next to you and keeps your hand held between his. “It’s… difficult. To talk about this.”

“Take your time,” you say, turning towards him a bit more on the couch. You tangle your fingers with his and squeeze. 

“Thank you,” he says. He’s silent for a moment, but you don’t push. You remember his silences and this one is comfortable, just like it was then, even though you know he’s going to tell you something important.

He sighs. “I said before, how I had responsibilities.” You nod. “I was raised by Mandalorians, in a covert. Here on Nevarro, after we left Mandalore. I’ll… tell you about that another time.” You squeeze his hand and he takes a breath. “We lived in secrecy, in hiding. And once I was old enough I was sent out to earn money. For the tribe. As a bounty hunter.”

A picture is starting to grow in your mind, as he speaks, filling in the gaps you always wondered about but never understood before. The details of his life that you had hoped to one day learn. You think about all of the jobs he’d done, when you knew him, and how he was always on a deadline, traveling home. Traveling here.

“We lived in the tunnels here,” he continues, “because our secrecy was our safety. I had… responsibilities. To the tribe. I couldn’t let anyone know about them. About us.” He squeezes your hand again. “I had to be so careful, cyar’ika. None of the other bounty hunters knew anything about me, even though the guild was here. And that… that was how we survived. The whole tribe, the adults, the children, all of them.”

You remember, suddenly, what you’d said to him that day. That the other bounty hunters had mentioned Nevarro. “Oh, Din. And I said–”

He shakes his head. “No, you didn’t do anything wrong, cyar’ika. I overreacted. Because I…” he sighs. “I wasn’t supposed to be doing what I was doing, with you.”

“What, you weren’t allowed to have sex?” You can’t help the words that spill out of you. What?

“No, that wasn’t the problem. It was… well. The feelings. The connection. I knew it wasn’t allowed, that’s why I said–”

“Just sex,” you say, the memories of your first time together echoing in your mind. 

He nods. “Pretty good sex,” he says, echoing your words from long ago. His tone is wry, and you laugh. “But I was breaking the rules every time I came back, even if I never admitted it to myself. So when you said Nevarro, I panicked. I suddenly understood what I’d been doing and I ran.” He looks down at your hands. “We weren’t supposed to have… connections. Outside the tribe. And the moment I left, I knew I had broken that rule just about every way I could have. With you.”

Your heart feels like it’s swelling inside your chest. Connected. You had been connected, you weren’t imagining it then, and hearing him say it now… you feel pressure behind your eyes and try to blink it away. 

“Cyar’ika? Are you–” He reaches one hand towards you, brushing away a tear from under your eye with his thumb. 

You lean into his hand. “I’m fine, Din. It’s just… nice. To hear you say it.”

“Say what?” he sounds concerned, still. And you can’t help but smile, turning your face into his palm.

“That you felt it too.”

He scoots closer on the couch, somehow, one hand cupping your face and the other clutching your hand between you. “I told you. I wanted to go back. I went back, because I wanted you, cyar’ika.”

You close your eyes and breathe in shakily. “I know.” It feels like your heart is trying to burst from your chest. 

Din clears his throat. “There’s more. Just… when Grogu, when I went back for him. The other bounty hunters tried to stop me. And my tribe… they saved us.”

You furrow your brow. “Wait, you mean–”

He nods. “They came out of hiding, for us. And for a long time I thought… I thought they’d died. All of them.” His voice wavers, and you squeeze his hand. You bring your free hand up to hold his, to press it to your face. 

“Din–”

“Some died, but not all of them. They’re actually here on Nevarro again. They still live a bit apart, but they’re safe.”

“That’s great, Din!” you say, and you mean it, but… They’re here. Something about that isn’t sitting well with you. You’re worried, suddenly, and you know he must be able to see it when he leans closer.

“What’s wrong?”

You can’t help but smile. He can still read you. “Nothing, it’s just… they’re here. And you said, about the rules–”

He shakes his head. “No, it’s not… It’s like I told you, it’s different now. It’s different for me and for them. It’s not like it was.”

You nod, taking that in. You have a feeling there’s more to it, but that’s enough to set you at ease. “Alright.”

Din’s thumb rubs gently across your cheek, and you realize you’re still tangled together. You tug on his hand lightly and pull it down to your lap. He sighs, sounding relieved. “Thank you for… for listening. I know you had no reason to–”

You shake your head. “You said it was different this time, Din, but more than that… so far you’ve shown me that’s true. I…” you trail off. “I mean, I already told you I still want...” You bite your lip. You suddenly feel like you’re out on a limb, all by yourself, even though he’s been pretty clear since you found him again.

But it doesn’t last long, because he nods. “I want you, cyar’ika.”

You feel your face start to heat up. “You said that, um. But what exactly do you want?”

Din gently disentangles his hands from yours and cups your jaw, smoothing his thumbs against your cheeks. “Not just sex. I do want sex,” he says, and you both laugh. “But I want everything with you. We can take our time and figure it out. But that’s what I want.”

You couldn’t stop the smile that takes over your face if you tried. The feeling welling up inside you is unfamiliar but so welcome. “I want that too, Din.” You laugh. “That’s not very slow of us, is it?” 

He leans forward and presses his forehead to yours again. “Slow is getting harder by the day, cyar’ika.”

You nudge his head with yours. “What’s this mean? And don’t try to avoid the question, Din, I can tell it means something.”

He sighs. “You know me too well. It’s… it’s how we kiss. With helmets.”

Your jaw drops. “Din Djarin, you kissed me two days ago!”

He laughs. “Couldn’t help it, I’m sorry.”

“You’re so bad at this,” you laugh, “and even worse at going slow.”

He leans back again and you just know he’s grinning at you, unrepentant. “I know.”

“I wish you’d told me, back then – I always wanted to kiss you so bad, you know, and there was a way we could have been kissing the whole time?”

He shakes his head. “That would have meant acknowledging feelings I was pretending not to have.” He lets his hands drop and travel slowly down your arms. You shiver. “I always wanted to kiss you, too.”

You lean forward. “Well, now we can.” You touch your forehead to the helmet and you feel him take a deep breath. 

“Cyar’ika…” he cups the back of your neck with his hand. It feels so good. “Thank you. For coming over.”

“Thank you for inviting me.”

…

After that, you see him and Grogu almost every day. Slow, you tell yourself, over and over again, but it’s getting harder by the day. When he brings you lunch, when he introduces you to his friends, when he invites you to dinner, when his hand falls to the small of your back as you walk, when he kisses you goodbye every time, nudging his helmet against yours… you see, in everything he does, that it’s different now.

And you want it to be different so, so badly.

Two weeks after the first night you had dinner at his home, you’re in your own home alone. Your brand new home. Din introduced you to Greef Karga, who introduced you to Marta at the local cantina, who gave you a job, and who told you about this apartment… and here you are. 

You look around, smiling. It’s small, with a little kitchenette and a bed that hides away and transforms into a couch during the day, but it’s all yours. You haven’t had something that’s all yours like this since… since Takodana. The idea of staying is daunting, but it also feels right. You move towards the bags you’d dropped on your small table, ready to unpack your purchases from the market, when you’re interrupted by a knock at the door.

When you open it, you’re surprised to find Din on the other side. “Din? Aren’t we meeting for dinner?”

He nods. “We are. But I had to– can I come in?”

“Of course,” you say, moving aside so he can come inside. He walks towards your living area, stops, and turns and walks towards you again, and then he’s pacing. You frown, watching him move back and forth. “Din? Is everything–”

“Karga told me. You… the cantina?”

You grin. “Yes, I got a job, and look at this apartment, it’s so cute–” He turns again and stops right in front of you. He gathers your hands in his and you can feel that he’s shaking. “Din? Are you alright–”

“Cyar’ika,” he says, and squeezes your hands. “Karga told me that you found a job, that you found a place to stay, and I… I ran here. Does this mean, are you–” He paused. “Are you staying?”

You step forwards and lean into him until your forehead nudges against his helmet. “Yes, Din. I’m staying.”

He takes a deep breath. “And you… with me?” he asks, and you can hear how difficult it is for him to ask.

“Yes. With you.”

Something inside of him seems to release, and his shoulders relax. “Cyar’ika,” he breathes, and you smile. “Are we still going slow?”

You shake your head against his helmet without losing contact. “No more slow, Din. Just us.”

For a moment he’s silent. And then he leans back from you, releases your hands, and grasps the bottom of his helmet on both sides. 

The panic flashes through you, traveling like lightning from your chest down your spine. “Din? What–”

Without even pausing, he lifts it off his head. Or you assume he must, because your hands fly to cover your eyes even as you squeeze them shut. “Din! What are you doing?”

He laughs. And you can hear it, just him, no modulator. You gasp. 

“Are you laughing? Din, what–”

“I’m happy. Cyar’ika,” he says, and you feel his hands – his bare hands, no gloves – wrap gently around your wrists. “It’s ok. You can look.” His voice is so deep and so real.

Your whole body is tingling, you can’t understand the words he’s saying. “I can’t, no, Din, what do you mean I can look? Of course I can’t–”

“Shhh,” he shushes you softly, and you feel him step closer until you’re almost pressed together. “Listen to me. It’s ok. You can look. I want you to. I promise, it’s ok. I’ll explain everything.” You’re breathing fast, and you feel him let go of one of your wrists to wrap an arm around your back. “Please, cyar’ika. Trust me. Just look.”

You take a deep, slow breath. “Ok, Din. I trust you.” You let him tug your hand away from your eyes and you drop both of your arms, resting your hands on his chest. Your eyes are still closed, but he cups your face in his palm. You feel his thumb run gently under your eye. 

“Please,” he repeats, and you give in.

You open your eyes, slowly, and for a moment you don’t know where to look. Your eyes dart over his strong jaw, his nose, his brows, his mustache – you start to smile when you see it – until they come to rest on his eyes, warm and brown, and looking right at you.

“Din?” you whisper, and he smiles. You watch the way it changes his face and your breath catches in your throat. 

“Hi, cyar’ika,” he says, voice low, and you shiver. His arm tightens around your waist and you wrap your own around his chest.

“Din,” you say, voice full of wonder. “You’re beautiful.”

He ducks his head, and you marvel at the way you can see him blush. “Not as beautiful as you,” he murmurs, and you lean forward to press your forehead against his. 

“Din, why? Why now?”

He leans back from you and begins to tug you towards your couch. You follow easily and find yourself in his lap after he guides you down. You can’t take your eyes off of his face.

“I haven’t told you about this, yet,” he says, and tightens his arms around your waist. You reach up to trace his cheek with your fingertips and he leans into it like a cat. “But I’ve taken my helmet off before, for Grogu. And now…” he frowns, and you can’t help but trace the shape of it. It makes him laugh and press a soft kiss to your fingertips. “It doesn’t mean the same thing to me, not anymore. I’ll tell you all about it. But it’s ok. With you, it’s ok. Because you’re… we’re…”

“Are you sure? It hasn’t been that long, I–”

“I’m sure,” he says, interrupting your nervous words, voice firm. “I never thought I’d get another chance. And now, we’re—”

You smile as he speaks and lean forward to press a kiss to his cheek. He falls silent, blinking at you. “We’re figuring it out,” you say, “but I’m yours, Din. If you still want me.”

He grins. It’s beautiful. You’ll never get enough of just looking at him. “I’ll always want you, cyar’ika. I’m so glad I found you again.”

“Hmm,” you hum, wrapping your arms around his neck. “I think I found you, Mr. Bounty Hunter.”

He laughs. He laughs, and you can see it happen. It’s wonderful. 

“You did,” he agrees. “And I’ve been yours since the moment I saw you, you know.”

“What, here on Nevarro?”

Din shakes his head. “No. On Takodana.” 

You raise your eyebrows. “When you carried that guy out of the cantina like a sack of polystarch?”

He smiles. “You have no idea how beautiful you are. And how fearless.”

You shake your head. “I’m plenty afraid, Din. I was afraid I’d never see you again. That we’d never figure this out.”

“And you tried anyway.” He cups your face with his hand again and you shiver at the feeling of his skin on yours. “Cyar’ika,” he murmurs, pulling you closer. “I’ve never done this before, but… can I kiss you?”

You feel heat crash over you and tingle down your spine at the idea of kissing this man. “Din, you can kiss me whenever you want.” You nudge your nose against his and feel his arms tighten around you.

Softly, so softly it steals your breath away, you feel his lips press against yours. 

It’s overwhelming, the feelings that rise up inside you. You used to dream of kissing this man, and then for so long you pretended you forgot those dreams, and now here he is, kissing you.

It’s better than anything you imagined before.

His lips are soft, but firm, and when you tease his bottom lip with your tongue he gasps. He catches on quick and teases you right back, teases you until you’re breathing fast and writhing in his lap.

You break away for air as he presses warm kisses across your jaw and down your neck. “How are you so good at this already?” you gasp, and he chuckles. 

“I haven’t kissed anyone before,” he says again, “but I’ve seen plenty of other people kiss.” He looks up at you suddenly and winces. “Um, I mean. I’ve just spent a lot of time sitting in cantinas over the years.”

You laugh and tug him into another kiss. “Sure,” you tease, and he groans. “Din,” you say, playing with the hair at the nape of his neck. He shivers. “We’re not going slow anymore, right?”

“Right,” he breathes, and you can’t help but grin at the effect you’re having on him.

“Like having your hair played with?”

“I guess so,” he says, sounding surprised.

You press another kiss to the corner of his mouth. “You’ve got great hair, you know.”

He smiles, pleased. 

“Anyway,” you say, “we’re not going slow… so…”

He freezes and then whips his head up to meet your gaze. “So?”

You grin, knowing exactly how your words are going to affect him. “So take me to bed, Din Djarin. I seem to remember you were pretty good at sex, and that was without using your mouth.”

Din lets his head fall back as he laughs and you lean in to press soft kisses against his throat. He hums. “I can’t promise being good at it, but I’d love to put my mouth on you, cyar’ika.”

You shiver. 

He lifts his head back up, smirking at your reaction. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you breathe, and then laugh when he pushes you up off his lap. He follows and guides you gently towards the bedroom. 

Grinning, you strip off your top as you move backwards, watching as Din’s eyes fall to your chest. “Karking hell, cyar’ika, you are so beautiful.” His hands move towards you and then away as he begins tugging at his armor. 

He must notice when your attention is caught, because he says, “I’ll teach you all about it later. Lie down.” HIs voice is deep and he nods towards the bed behind you.

You realize you can’t concentrate on his armor right now anyway, can’t take your eyes off his face as you strip off your leggings. When you’re bare in front of him you bite your lip and lean backwards on your forearms. “Like this?”

He’s almost done with his armor, and as he releases his chestplate he hums. “Spread your legs,” he commands softly, and you suck in a sharp breath. You let your knees fall apart and watch, mouth falling open, as he falls to his knees in between them. 

Din looks you in the eye for a long moment. “You have no idea how badly I’ve wanted to taste you. Since the first time.” 

A wave of heat washes over your body as you remember that day, the first time he made you come. How he’d expertly brought you to the ledge so quickly, and how you’d thought you felt his helmet press against your pussy when you came.

You watch as he leans closer now. “I’m going to make you come on my tongue, cyar’ika,” he says, voice low. “And then I’m going to watch you come on my cock.” He presses a soft kiss to the inside of your thigh, and you feel his tongue dart out between his lips to tease at your skin.

“Din,” you breathe, and you can see the effect it still has on him, when you say his name. His eyes close for just a moment, and when he meets your gaze again, the look in his eyes makes you shiver.

Without any more hesitation, he leans forward and licks a wide stripe, tongue flattened against your pussy. You gasp and fall backwards, arms unable to hold you up. “Kark, Din, oh–”

You feel his hands glide along the inside of your thighs from your knees to your hips, and as he licks again, his thumbs come to rest against the lips of your pussy. He gently pulls them apart as he teases his tongue towards your entrance. You feel the tip of his tongue lightly circle there before he moves upwards, finding your clit easily and pressing against it softly. 

Suddenly you realize that your hands are tangled in his hair, though you can’t remember when you moved them. You lift your head and look down, tugging lightly, asking, “is this–”

He nods against you, flicking his gaze up to meet yours, and hums.

You fall back down, head thrown against the bed, as he circles your clit with his tongue. “Din, what, how are you so good at this–” you cut yourself off with another sharp breath as you feel his tongue move back towards your entrance. This time, you feel him tease inside and you resist the urge to lock your thighs around his head.

His finger joins his tongue and gently teases at your entrance before slipping inside. The feeling of him, inside you after so long, sends sparks down your spine. He pulls back slightly and murmurs, “I know what you like, cyar’ika. And I’ve dreamed of learning how you taste.”

Din leans back in as his finger curls inside of you, and from there, you’re lost to his tongue and his fingers and the warmth of his body between your thighs. He hasn’t forgotten anything, you quickly realize, and you can already feel it building inside of you. He fucks you with his fingers and teases you with his tongue, and you feel it coming like a wave rushing from your feet to the tips of your fingers. You rock your hips down against his face, unable to keep yourself from moving, and moan when he only presses closer. He tugs on your hip gently, and you realize he wants you to move. You look down at him again, just to check as you thrust your hips again, and find him looking at you. He nods and you clutch at his hair as you thrust forward again.

“Din, fuck, it’s so fucking good, Din–” you sigh as he twists his fingers inside of you and tense your thighs against his shoulders. His mouth is open against your pussy and you cry out when his teeth brush gently against your clit. “Din, I’m close,” you say, tugging on his hair, but he doesn’t move away, he moves closer, humming.

It’s coming, climbing up your spine, like sparks across metal. You’re warm, so warm, but shivering all over, thrusting your hips forward in time with his fingers. You hear the sounds you’re making but it feels like they’re coming from somewhere else. Your awareness is narrowed to the softness of his hair between your fingers and the warmth of his mouth, everywhere.

On his next thrust he curls his fingers upwards again and presses his tongue flat against your clit, and it pushes you over the edge. You fall, head spinning, as the orgasm lifts you up and slams you against the shore of your bed. You float through it, gasping for air.

When you blink your eyes open after, you realize he’s pressing soft kisses all over your pussy as he slowly slips his fingers free. 

“Din,” you breathe, and tug his hair again. This time he follows, and you look down to meet his eye. He looks as wrecked as you feel, face red, mouth wide open and glistening, breathing hard. “What the fuck, Din.” 

He smirks. “Told you, cyar’ika. I’ve been dreaming of it.”

You laugh, suddenly overwhelmed with just how happy you feel. Din, your Mando, is smirking up at you from between your legs, where he’s just shown without a doubt that he remembers everything about you. You can see his face. You release his hair and bring your hands up to cover your own.

“Cyar’ika?” he asks, and you feel him move upwards, pressing soft kisses all over your torso. You feel his weight settle over you before he gently grasps your wrists and moves your hands. “Are you ok?”

He’s so close, his lovely face so concerned, and you can’t help but grin widely at him. “I’m great,” you tell him, wrapping your arm around his neck. “And I’ll be even better when you fuck me.”

Din laughs and you watch, entranced, as it plays across his face. He has laugh lines, you realize, around his mouth and near his eyes, and it feels like your heart stutters in your chest. 

“Whatever you want,” he murmurs, leaning down to kiss you. You can taste yourself on his lips. “

You feel his cock hard against your thigh and twist your hips under his. He smiles against your lips. “‘S that what you want?” His voice is so deep it rumbles through you. “Tell me.”

Nodding, you tangle your fingers in his hair again. “Yes. Your cock, Din. Want it.” He teases across your bottom lip with his tongue, and then you’re kissing, soft and messy and like you never could have dreamed of before. He moves his body against yours until your legs are wrapped around his waist and his cock is pressed firmly against your pussy. 

“You feel so kriffing good, cyar’ika,” he breathes against your mouth. “Missed you so fucking much.” He thrusts, slow, and the head of his cock moves between your folds. 

You gasp when it brushes against your entrance. “Yes, Din,” you say, voice strained. “Please.”

He nods and pushes forwards with his hips. His tongue licks inside your mouth at the same time as his cock pushes inside of you and you lose yourself in it, in all the ways he’s touching you. You realize how different it is, without the helmet, but also how familiar it is as his cock fills you again.

“You take me so well,” Din says, pressing soft kisses along your jaw before nipping at your neck with his teeth. “You always have, fuck, you feel so good.” You can hear the tension in his voice as he slowly moves his hips, pulling out before slowly thrusting back in. 

You grip his shoulders and move him gently until his face is above yours again, until you can catch his eye. “Din,” you breathe, and let your eyes drink in the look on his face. He wants you, as much as you want him, and you can actually see it. “I want you to fuck me.”

He raises an eyebrow, and you grin. “Is that not what I’m doing?”

You slip your hands down, running along his sides until you can grip his hips. “I’ve missed your cock so much, Din Djarin. Now put your back into it.”

He laughs, and he looks so happy that it takes your breath away. “Whatever you say, mesh’la.” And then he puts his back into it.

You’ve never forgotten what your “pretty good sex” with Din was like, but you realize as he fucks into you again that the memories have faded. They must have, at least somewhat, because the feelings that run through you as he finds a rhythm take your breath away. His cock is thick and he tilts his hips just right, hitting all of the places inside of you that send sparks and shivers running down your spine. You let your head fall back as you thrust your hips up to meet his. When you moan, you almost startle yourself with how loud it is.

“You feel so good,” he says, and he’s breathing just as hard as you are. “You sound so good, fuck.”

You move your hands again, wrapping one around his back and tangling the other in his hair, tugging him back into place so you can kiss him. 

“Din,” you breathe, and he shivers. You nip at his lip and grin when he does the same in return. 

He must feel it, the way it’s building inside of you, the cliff you’re hurtling towards together, because he slips one of his hands between you to tease at your clit. He pulls away, breaking your kiss, and you whine.

“I want to watch,” he says, and you open your eyes to find him drinking you in with his gaze. “I need to see it, like this. Are you going to come for me, cyar’ika?”

You nod, breathless, as he somehow picks up the pace with his hips. You open your mouth, but no sound comes out.

He smiles at you. “I can feel it,” he says, and his fingers begin circling your clit in time with his thrusts. “Come. Please, come for me.” You feel him drop to his elbow as his palm finds the back of your neck. He squeezes.

It takes you, then, on his next thrust, sends you hurtling forward as your hips meet his and his cock moves inside you just right. It lights you up from the inside and you gasp his name as he holds your gaze. 

“Din,” you say again, and squeeze his cock inside of you. “Please.” 

He squeezes your neck again as he thrusts forward once, twice, and on the third time, he comes.

You’ve never seen it happen before and you can’t tear your eyes away as it happens now, in front of you. His brow furrows and his mouth falls open and you watch as the wave of pleasure breaks over his face.

Din slumps over on top of you, and for a moment you both just breathe. You squeeze your legs around him and hug him to you where his face is buried in your neck. You take a slow, deep breath, before murmuring, “that was–”

“Pretty good?” he cuts you off, and you can hear the wry smile in his voice. You laugh, overwhelmed again at the happiness coursing through you.

“Pretty fucking good,” you agree, and you grin at the ceiling when he huffs a laugh against your shoulder. 

“I missed you so much, cyar’ika,” he says, and presses soft kisses along your neck. “Fuck, I missed you.” 

You run your fingers through his hair and across the broad expanse of his naked back, hoping to soothe him. “Me too, Din. So much.” You press a kiss to his temple. “But I found you.”

You feel him smile against your neck. “You did,” he agrees. 

“Stay?” you ask, hoping he can but knowing he might need to go home to Grogu. 

To your surprise, he nods. “He’s with Karga. I’m all yours.”

“All mine,” you muse, and run your fingers through his hair again. “I like the sound of that.”

…

Din wakes with the sun and feels her wrapped around him, right where she belongs. He smooths his hand along her side and tilts his head towards hers, lips brushing against her forehead. 

When he slowly blinks his eyes open, he can’t help but smile at what he sees, as the memories flash through his mind, as that feeling, the one that seems to fill his chest whenever he sees her, spreads through his chest.

Her bracelet – the newest one made of braided white leather, woven with green and black thread – is lying on the bedside table, right next to his gloves.

It feels right.

Din turns and burrows into her, hiding his smile in her neck, happier than he’s been in years.

...

The 11th Street Kids were a fun bunch, they occasionally dropped by to get their hair done but not nearly with the same frequency as Adrian.

However one morning Chris wandered in just a week before Adrian's scheduled appointment.

"Hey there! Sorry Chris did we have an appointment booked? I don't have it in the ledger..." You greeted him brightly and checked over the day sheet.

His name was nowhere to be seen on the blank sheet of paper till midday. It was planning out to be an unusually slow day!

Not that you were overly complaining...

"Yeah sorry I was hoping to get a quick trim and talk something over with you?" Chris asked.

"I can take a walk-in sure!"

When you got him seated and a black cape over his insanely broad shoulders, Chris cracked a smirk.

"So you got a boyfriend, girlfriend, significant other?" Chris had all the subtlety of a brick flung through a car window.

"Uh no, why?" You laughed, knowing all too well that he and Emilia were an item.

Maybe this was a we saw your vibe across the bar type of deal? Which honestly, you wouldn't be opposed too, they were both insanely attractive. But Emilia was nowhere to be seen.

"My buddy Adrian is totally interested in you." Chris informed you with a shit eating grin.

"Really?" You found yourself blushing at the prospect. "Wow that's amazing, I'm interested in him too I just..."

While you were definitely interested, every time Adrian showed up it was always with his mother which didn't really allow for any flirting. Also he kept the conversation strictly platonic, facts and hobbies only.

"Yup, big time. He doesn't shut up about you." Chris laughed.

"When is he in next?" Counting on your fingers you figured it out.

"Oh in a week or so." Wait a second...you doubled checked your math.

Had he booked it on Valentine's Day?

Must be a coincidence.

"I'll tell Mrs. Chase to take a raincheck and reschedule. Give you two kids some alone time." Chris decided.

"Great, well thanks for the wingman assist!" You chuckled, finishing up the trim with your scissors.

Chris left you a handsome tip and a wink, sauntering off to go give his inept best friend a pep talk for his next hair cut.

Adrian never missed one of his scheduled hair appointments. They soon became the highlight of his entire month.

Not only because he got a fresh cut and everyone complimented him for days afterwards, but mainly it was due to getting to see one of his favorite people on the planet.

You.

Yes indeed, you had quickly risen through the ranks of friendship, kicking out Harcourt and Adebayo from fifth and fourth place, stealing third from Eagly and after John told him to stop badgering him about owl facts, you were now securely in second place.

Which considering he only saw you once every four weeks said a lot!

"Dude, ask her out already." Chris rolled his eyes as Adrian scrolled through your salon Instagram again.

Like all small businesses these days you were online to promote your brand and made fun reels with clients that wanted to be filmed and show off their new looks.

While Adrian always declined because he refused to do social media outside of reddit from his fears of becoming hacked and exposed as Vigilante somehow, he made an anon account to exclusively follow your page.

"What are you taking about...I don't want to date her." Adrian shook his head profusely, the notion was ridiculous.

Adrian didn't date people, that wasn't something on the table for him to expect.

How could he even begin to think you would want to do such a thing?

"But you do want to bang her?" Chris laughed.

"Uh yeah I want to bond with her in all sorts of ways...it's friendship stuff just like me and you when we used to do threesomes." Adrian said a little more defensively this time.

Sure he could see that happening, maybe.

Even if the idea of him having sex with you only as bonding made him feel a bit lonely for some reason.

"Invite her to the next threesome then. We can do it at my place." He retorted.

"Wait what?" Adrian nearly dropped his phone. "Yeah it's been ages since we've 'bonded' as bros right?" Chris continued his teasing game of chicken and Adrian frowned.

"Aren't you and Harcourt bumping uglies now on the reg?" Adrian sniped and crossed his arms firmly.

"Don't call it it that." Chris warned him.

"And just ask her out on a date already dude, it's been months."

"Maybe...my next haircut does happen to land on Valentine's Day." Adrian supposed and shifted uncomfortably in his chair.

"There you go! No excuses dude, let her know how you feel." Chris told him firmly.

The morning of Valentines Day a sea of glass shards awaited you upon opening the salon.

A security guard had fallen asleep on the job last night and left the main doors unlocked.

Some enterprising vandals took notice and had smashed up every store in the Evergreen Mall the night before and stolen anything that seemed valuable.

For your paltry hair salon that meant all of the petty cash you had locked up and products were gone. But mostly they'd torn up the place, ransacked it for more and when they didn't find anything worth their time, smashed anything else in sight as retribution.

The mirrors were completely shattered, ceramic basins cracked and leather chairs all slashed with box cutters.

"Woah what in the fuck happened here?" Adrian said as he turned the corner to the chaotic scene.

"Idiots ruined my store. The lease covers the windows and fittings but I don't have the contents insured it was way too expensive..."

Sadly looking around you added, "At least I took my scissors and kit belt home last night." You sighed a deep exhale, this had already exhausted you and it wasn't even 10 am yet.

"Want to get a coffee? It's on me. Then I can help you clean up." Adrian offered.

"That sounds great, thank you so much Adrian. Where's Mrs. Chase?" You peered behind his shoulder but there was no sweetie or dearie to be heard.

"At some church group thing. It's probably best she's not here to be honest. She'd be freaking out and making it all way worse."

Setting your drink down, Adrian grinned as he sat beside you. "Your hair is super pretty by the way. Love the teal!"

You smiled back, cupping the warm ceramic mug with your palms. "Oh thanks, it was a good recommendation!"

He watched entranced as you idly played with the teal locks, wishing his hands were firmly in yours, grasping a handful and wrenching it back.

Would you moan out sweetly for him if he pulled your hair?

These thoughts about you pervaded his mind every time Adrian went to the salon lately.

Today it was just the two of you, his mother had a last minute change of plans to go play tennis with her church group.

Usually Adrian took his mother along to all of his hair appointments, for a couple reasons. It saved time if they got a haircut together, but also his mother's voice was annoying as fuck and her presence was the perfect boner killer so he wouldn't make a repeat of last time in the chair.

He was grateful that you didn't seem offended by that or bring it up and make fun of him.

Now that Adrian told his best buddy Chris about the whole incident, whenever they went to the urinal instead of being called thimble his dick was now dubbed flat iron.

Which was great, he had grown a few inches since high school!

While he'd been distracted in his own little world, Adrian blinked to see you were softly crying a little, trying to hide it all behind a brave smile.

"Those assholes should pay for what they did to your salon. I fucking hate criminals who think they can just get away with this shit!" Adrian said as way of comfort, slamming a fist down on the table and you gave him a small shaky nod.

"Yeah, and I don't have the money to repair or replace everything. I might have to close the salon because of them." You stared into the abyss of your coffee, trying to will your tears back up.

It didn't work too well, so instead you used a napkin to dab at your eyes.

Adrian shifted uncomfortably, not the greatest at helping out his friends when they cried. All he could really do was awkwardly pat down your shoulder like he was conducting a search at the airport.

With a frown as you kept sobbing, Adrian thought on what he liked to do when he was feeling down, "How about after we tidy up a little, I take you to the arcade? Or the movies? Might help cheer you up!" He gave you an awkward pat on the shoulder.

"That's so sweet of you Adrian, I should really go tidy up and call the police and insurance company now, then for sure we can do that!"

"Awesome! But don't worry about the cops they won't do jack shit about it." Adrian grinned at you, jumping up to his feet.

Sweeping away cheerfully, Adrian helped you with most of the clean up while you called the insurance company.

After a long arduous phone call, you needed something fun to get your mind off things.

"I'll show you my Frogger score!" He grinned, jittery with excitement.

You couldn't help but smile back at him, noting that he grasped you by the hand and held it the entire way to the arcade.

Only when you got to the tokens booth and Adrian needed his wallet did he realise that your hand was in his, cheeks going bright pink and pupils dilating.

"Uh, I'm sorry, I was just..." He fumbled his words and wallet to the ground.

"For what? I didn't mind." You grinned down at him and Adrian grinned back.

"Cool beans!" Adrian laughed nervously, slapping down a 20 to get you both enough tokens to play every game in the arcade.

"Holy shit, you're really good at DDR!" Adrian panted, watching your score easily surpass his with surprise.

"Yep, I was a scene kid. And addicted to anime in high school. Still kinda am to be honest." You giggled back at him.

"I used to play Yu-Gi-Oh behind the bleachers instead of kissing or dropping acid."

"That's awesome!" Adrian had no trace of teasing in his voice, he really thought that was great. "I did the same but played Pokemon!"

"What prize would you like? I've got a shit ton of tokens." Adrian offered by the time you were both all done.

"You sure?" You knew how much of a scam these things were.

"Of course! I already got the golden nunchucks and throwing stars, nothing else really appeals to me." Adrian insisted.

"Hm...well how about this?" You decided on the cute pair of owls, holding up a heart in a gold necklace.

"That's super cute!" Adrian loved your choice and quickly pointed it out to the clerk.

"E-excellent choice my lady, can I uh help put it on you?" His voice and hands quivered.

"Sure, thanks Adrian!" You blushed as his fingers brushed up against your neck.

"Oh shit it's broken! Hey what fucking gives!" Adrian snapped at the clerk, holding up the owls on separate chains, the heart in two pieces.

"No it's not broken! It's for two people to wear." You explained, waving off the poor teenager by the register.

"Oh...cool two for one! Want to wear both?' Adrian suggested, mood set back to goofy.

"How about you keep one?" You gently laid it round his neck and did up the clasp.

"Me?" Adrian looked down dumbfounded at the owl and back to yours.

"Yeah, it looks good on you!" You beamed.

"It's like a BFF necklace!" Adrian grinned, getting those cute dimples you wanted to pinch.

That sort of diminished the romantic vibe you were trying to impart but it still made you smile.

"But kinda different..." He mumbled, anxiously rubbing the back of his neck.

"Yeah it's kinda different. I like different though." You agreed, getting bold you took his hand into yours to exit the arcade.

Adrian had basically short circuited, he didn't say too much back on the way to the salon.

His hand was sweating in yours and his heart was pounding.

All that would leave his lips were disjointed owl facts.

"Owls have tube eyes...they uh also can move their heads 270 degrees exorcist style...they have asymmetrical ears which helps them locate sounds...uh they have three eyelids...they have zygodactyl feet...and they mate for life!" He concluded when you got to the doors of the salon.

"I like that idea of mating for life. It's very romantic isn't it?" You smiled up at him and Adrian nodded.

"Um yeah, owls really do have it all figured out!" He agreed shyly.

"You know what day it is you booked your haircut for right?" You asked him.

It was Valentine's Day.

"I uh might have picked today knowing that..." Adrian replied with a slight gulp.

"This might be presumptive of me but were you going to ask me out if my salon wasn't wrecked?" You watched the colour rise in his cheeks to a brick red.

"Uh yeah I was but I thought it'd be rude to now with everything going on and..." Adrian explained nervously.

"That's so sweet of you! Just so you know I totally would've said yes." You grinned and Adrian was absolutely floored.

"Holy shit? Really? No way!" He pumped the air with his fists like he'd won the super bowl.

"Yes way, how about we count the arcade as our first date and take it back to my place? I could really use some comfort..." You trailed a finger up his shoulder.

"If you're interested?" All Adrian could think to do in return was sloppily peck you on the cheek.

"Yeah...I can try to, uh will comfort you, sure!" He whispered against your cheek.

"Great let's go!" That the was the end of the preamble and Adrian drove you back to your place in the Sebring, his expression a blend of excited, horny and utter disbelief.

"Take a seat, I'm going to slip into something a bit more fun..." You motioned to the couch and Adrian practically launched himself onto the cushions, seated back straight.

"Yeah cool! I'll wait here sure thing!" Adrian's voice cracked a bit, holding one of your throw pillows suspiciously over his crotch.

When you walked out he was not prepared for the majesty of what he was about to receive. Your tattoos were everywhere, only a couple of spots were bare of ink, you were like a beautiful canvas and all kinds of art styles and hobbies, memories were etched forever alongside your supple form.

Over the top was another marvel, a dark purple black silk set of lingerie with silver spider webs running along the fabric.

Adrian was absolutely lost for words, mouth hanging wide open.

"Thought you'd appreciate this...it's based around Lolth..."

"The spider queen..." Adrian finished for you, face blazing red hot.

"Ohh you're so perfect. Holy fuck. You should be in a museum..."

"You're such a sweetie!" You giggled, sitting on his lap, Adrian didn't know where to put his hands.

"It's so nice to be appreciated." You helped him out and placed his hands at your waist.

There was a nice bulge poking you from his jeans and you ground at it eliciting a sweet moan from his parted lips.

"W-who wouldn't..." Adrian groaned, his green eyes drawing you up and down.

"Some guys have said they didn't like the tats, they think it's too much..." You admitted and Adrian's jaw fell to the ground.

"Fucking troglodytes! They don't deserve to walk the same earth as you." He snapped, making you throw your head back in laughter.

"So I'm Lolth, queen of the demon web...mother of lusts..." You set the scene with a sultry whisper in his ear and Adrian shuddered.

"And you're one of my soul spiders, a male drow allowed to be worthy to fight for me in the crusades of the under dark...whom I've considered handsome enough to be my new consort..." You committed to the bit, rolling your hips and getting grinding on his erection.

"Until I tire of him!" Taking a fistful of his hair, that elicited a harsh gasp from Adrian's lips.

"Damn you're sexy...you even got the d&d lore down to a tee I think I'm in love!" Adrian moaned, rutting himself against your thighs.

"Bah Lolth has no need for love!" You scoffed, but then broke character.

"Meanwhile I do. And I think I love you too." You gently kissed his forehead and Adrian grinned.

"Also you're sexy...like it when I play with your hair handsome?" You cooed, gripping his curls a little tighter.

"Ahh yeah I really do...oh shit you're so hot!" He grunted, keening into your touch.

Letting your sharp manicured nails ensnare his hair, scalp, and neck, Adrian could feel his eyes roll to the back of his head.

"Ohh fuuck it's so good..." He whimpered. "Love when you do that..."

"Mmm yeah it is baby..." You grinned, letting your hips roll back again in tandem with threading your hands through his curly hair.

"Uhh wait, this- it's too much...I'm ahh oh my God-!" Adrian whined loudly, biting down on his lip so hard it broke skin and bled.

His hips violently bucked upward, nearly jolting you off like a mechanical bull and then...stilled.

You felt the dampness in his jeans hit against your thighs.

When you looked up, Adrian's face was cherry tomato red and tears were already brimming behind his large wire framed glasses.

"I-I'm sorry! This hasn't happened to me before, fuck!" He stared down bitterly at the mess in his pants, unable to make eye contact with you.

"Aww it's all right Adrian, hey you're okay." You tried to soothe him but Adrian shook his head.

"I'm so fucking lame! I gotta go...I'm really fucking sorry..." He sniffled, wiping his nose with a sleeve.

"You're not lame!" You wrapped your arms around him and Adrian sobbed.

"Hey it's okay, you're okay, if anything I feel really flattered that my lap dance head massage really did it for you!" Eventually he nodded ever so slightly and didn't try to leave, whimpering into your shoulder.

"T-this wasn't about me though. It was to comfort you...and I fucking ruined it." Adrian replied tearfully.

"Nothing is ruined silly! You can still comfort me, let's go lie down and cuddle on my bed."

"Okay but only if you're sure you still want me..." He said, following you over the bedroom with a slight pout.

"Of course I'm sure!" You reassured him as many times as he needed with a gentle kiss on the forehead, lips, cheeks and nose.

"Can I help get you there now?" He asked after a nice cuddle and he'd gotten to calm down. "I want to make you cum."

You were stroking his hair and Adrian had been basically purring like a kitten on your stomach for the last hour or so.

"Ooh I'd love you to! What do you have in mind cutie?" You smiled down at him.

"I want to eat you out." Adrian said instantly, sitting up with a big puppy dog grin.

"Mmm I really like the sound of that." You grinned back at him.

"I'll pleasure you my lady of shadows as well as a lowly male as myself can..." Adrian got back into character, grovelling at your feet.

"Hm I'll allow it. You're one of my subjects then a lolthite I take it worm?" You similarly slipped back into your best dominatrix voice.

"Mm-hmm, also known as a spider kisser!" Adrian agreed with an impish grin, using his teeth to drag down your panties.

Taking ahold of his hair to steer him in the right direction you needed him to go, Adrian was great at taking instructions.

"Ohh fuck Adrian..." Your back arched immediately when he began to fervently suck at your clit.

Your thighs were the altar and he was sacrificing his head in-between them, plunging his tongue within your folds and devouring any moan he could get from you.

"You're so good at this...ohh fuck!" You were coming undone, nobody had gotten close to eating you out this good before.

His throat and lips vibrated whenever he groaned, somehow still just as vocal while drowning in your pussy.

"Adrian, seriously...oh my fucking God!" You mumbled, feeling embarrassed at how loud you were crying out for him so early in.

This wasn't usual for you, guys didn't generally put this much effort in.

The sensation of his five o'clock shadow rubbed against you like coarse sand just right, while his soft curls knocked gently with his nose and glasses.

"I'm stupidly close...you're such a good boy for me!" You told him again and again.

Watching as Adrian locked eyes with you, there was a deeply seeded desire to get you there embedded within them.

"Good boy Adrian...that's it, your spider queen is nearly there baby..." Trembling, you raked your fingernails through his hair and felt his whole body shake, with a new vigour erupt as Adrian sucked down on your clit hard.

That did it, you were sent through a shockwave of an orgasm, bright and dazzling as Adrian moaned loudly beside you, hands reaching up to hold your hips down.

"Adrian...that was amazing." You sighed.

"Happy Valentine's Day..." He sighed beside you, looking very content.

"Happy Valentine's Day!" You giggled, getting him some tissues to clean up.

While the two of you cuddled and fell asleep, Adrian knew he still had to take care of something.

Your almost even looked like a real adult, dressed to impress in your least wrinkled button down.

The meeting was a cafe, neutral territory where you ordered a very respectable Americano (instead of your usual vanilla latte with an extra shot of espresso) so he knew you were worldly and mature.

A comment about how you'd be happy to help him find an office space, a cheeky promise that it could be your first task if he hired you.

You shared personal anecdotes, even got him to tell you an old Captain America story (which would be a hit with your friends, even if you didn’t get the job). You were confident, one more perfect answer away from cocky.

Then your composure slipped.

But in your defense, he took off his jacket.

“Warm in here, yeah?” Bucky asks, and before you can answer the snake slips his arms out of the sleeves, shedding his second skin.

You were going to say yes, blame it on the hot coffee, or the sun pounding through the window next to you. Instead, you stare. Utterly useless as he reveals the boring, completely unremarkable henley underneath.

Where you had dressed for success, Bucky had apparently dressed with the intention to fucking kill you.

Not true, he told you that it was casual. You had just taken upon yourself to dress up anyway, first impressions are everything, you’d thought.

Now you wished you had worn a large woolly sweater that could swallow you whole.

“I ummm- a.” You mumble, mouth suddenly very very dry. It clings around his biceps, fabric pulled taut around biceps the size of your fucking head. You clear your throat, take a sip of your (so fucking bitter, seriously how do people drink these?) Americano. “Yeah it’s warm.” You squeak.

When you look back him, it’s like he’s forgotten the conversation completely.

He’s focused, brows pulled tight while he stares at the paper in his hand. You can almost see what it is through the light of the window, small text, bullet points, pink header- 

Your fucking resume.

Your heart rate spikes, anxiety flooding your system like a tsunami. His jaw is tense in concentration, stubble rolling as he flexes it.

It’s as if all at once you’ve become aware of him, aware of just how much there is of him. His stature is huge, his hand is nearly half the length of the paper he’s holding, something you’re startled to realize.

What is he looking at? You wonder. You’ll be honest you don’t have much on it, some leadership positions from school. Then there’s post-grad, littered with volunteer work, a handful of internships with your local government back home, four years working retail, and oh, your picture.

Fuck, your picture.

You’ve been job hunting for months. The city hasn’t been kind and ink isn’t cheap, so you haven’t bothered to update it in… too long.

“It’s an old photo.” You blurt out. It's grainy, something a friend had taken one day. You were outside, wearing something that screamed Instagram, not Linked-In and smiling with all of your teeth. It wasn’t bad per se, but it made you look so young.

Something you were suddenly afraid of him thinking.

Bucky doesn’t answer, and so without thinking, in a moment of total, libido-driven panic you reach across the table to grab it.

In your haste all you manage to do is knock what’s left in your mug straight down the front of your shirt.

It’s cold, so at least it doesn’t sting. But it is dark, and because you just had to dress up, your white button down has quickly become as transparent as the window, which you are now sure is cooking you alive.

Your eyes burn with humiliation. “Shit, shit, shit sorry.” You mutter, quickly standing and using the only napkin to try and mop up some of the spill because of course it hadn’t just gotten on you, it had spread across the entire table and drenched the bottom half of Bucky’s stupid-fucking-Henley.

God has a sense of humor, so your resume is untouched.

If you thought it was distracting without the jacket, it might as well have turned into a disco ball when wet. Dear god it’s clinging, each muscle defined with gorgeous clarity.

Your eyes lock on one spot in particular, the notch of his abdomen where it sticks out over the band of his jeans. You want to touch it so bad your fingers twitch, just hook your thumb between denim and skin so you can pull-

Table! Think about the table, looking for more napkins on the table. Table table table table-

Bucky stands, rising to his full height for the first time since the meeting started and shit.

You’re right at eye level with it.

The picture draws itself, building a framework of what’s underneath. A solid chest, not too overdeveloped, but muscular. He looks like he doesn’t skip meals but has also never skipped a workout.

He pulls down on the hem, unsticking it from his skin (good) and revealing the tiniest bit of chest hair between the top buttons (fuck).

You spiral.

In a matter of seconds, staring at that skin becomes staring at his pecs. Which evolves to thinking about sleeping on his pecs. Which naturally Thinking about how they would feel pressed against your chest as he-

Bucky’s mind is clearer than yours, gone and back with paper towels before you even realize he’s moving. You reach out your hands to them, but he ignores you. Instead of wiping the table or trying to save what you’re sure is a stack of important papers, he starts to dry your shirt.

Your drink was almost full (you really hated it), so it trails all the way from your collar to the waist band of your skirt. You’re sure it’s on there too, but it’s black so thankfully you don’t have to worry about him trying to dry you there too.

He’s dabbing at your collar, telling you something about pre-treating and bleach and how it should come out in the wash.

You’re stuck. Standing there, with your arms dangling limp at your sides while this absolute unit of a man towers over you and gives you tips about laundry.

You wonder what he must think of you now, maybe that if the first half of the interview was all a hallucination and this is actually your first day outside. It’s how you’re acting anyway.

You’re a grown woman, you’ve talked to attractive men before. You’ve had sex with attractive men and bumbled less than this. You need to pull yourself together, if you lose interview because you haven’t gotten laid in a year, you could never forgive yourself.

Then Bucky’s eyes dip and his hands, which had been slowly working their way down, freeze.

Suddenly you remember, you’re wearing white.

To make matters worse, it’s laundry day which meant you had been left with two options for bras. A nursing bra you bought on accident at a Victoria’s Secret bin sale, or the light blue lace push up bra you had bought in a moment of optimism (at the same Victoria’s Secret bin sale).

You didn’t wear the nursing bra, and based on Bucky’s flushed cheeks, he also knows you didn’t wear the nursing bra.

His hands are hovering over your chest, paper towel clutched uselessly in his hand. His mouth opens then closes, then does it again. Finally he clears his throat and just hands it to you.

“Thanks.” You say, voice small and quiet as you begin to dab. The endeavor is useless however, the stain is cemented and your blouse is getting clingier by the second.

Then there’s a jacket in your face, leather offered close enough for you to smell it.

A choice, drown in his cologne and the warmth of his body heat still lingering inside, or take the subway looking like the victim of a surprise wet t-shirt contest.

He waits until you zip it (up to your chin, if you could go higher you would) to finally look at you again. “Good?” He asks, voice steady, as if he didn’t just do his best impression of a goldfish.

“Good.” You agree, mustering a grateful smile. “Thank you.”

“No problem.” He answers. Clearing his files (both damp and dry) from the table. One of the baristas has walked over by now, armed with a mop, some towels and a mean glare.

Quiet apologies are murmured while you grab your bag, then again as you follow Bucky outside.

Here it comes, you think, the thank you for your time, but unfortunately we’re going to move forward with another candidate talk. You’ve gotten that talk four times this month and those were the after you didn’t spill an entire large coffee.

“As far as the interview, you had a lot of great answers.” He starts and you brace. “Would you be able to start on Monday?”

You’re already coaching yourself through the denial. Smile, nod, be gracious, say thank you so much for you time-

Wait.

“Start Monday?” You ask, reeling.

Bucky nods, “I know it’s last minute, but I’m jumping in on this whole campaign thing a little late. If you need more time-“

“No!” You interrupt, probably a little too loud, “No, that's fine I can start Monday.” You assure him.

He smiles, nods  and reaches out his hand. You take it, doing your best impression of a professional. You force yourself to ignore the way his hand dwarfs yours. “I’m borrowing some space down at the VA until we get a more permanent set up, meet there at nine?” He asks.

“No coffee.” You promise and give him a little mock salute. He laughs, it’s more of a sigh than a true laugh, but it sends tingles up your spine all the same. “I will also have this-“ you gesture to his jacket which is still draped over your shoulders. It smells so good you think you might be getting lightheaded. “-dry cleaned.”

“Not necessary.” He says. “Keep it.” Then he’s gone.

You watch him walk away while you’re left in his coat with and absolutely no idea where the VA is. Forcing your legs to move, you begin the trek back to your apartment.

His smile is still behind your eyes, lingering like a bright light every time you blink.

You’re so fucked.

The second time it happens is at an ungodly hour. Eight A.M. on a Saturday.

It had been a last minute call to arms. A frantic text from Bucky’s campaign manager, insisting that everyone (which includes you unfortunately) come into the office for an emergency meeting.

You had planned to ignore it, feign sleep or a faulty ringer, but then your phone pinged with a text from Bucky saying he’d grab you a coffee and a bagel on his way in.

So you dragged your ass to Brooklyn, with the drawstring on your sweats pulled tight and last nights mascara still under your eyes.

The room was already buzzing when you got there, everyone else in a similar state of disarray as you. Across the room you can see the intern cluster, all of whom had gone out with you last night, and seemingly none of them had managed to rally either. The past few weeks had already built a strong camaraderie, apparently late nights, shared take out orders, and a common goal does wonders for team bonding.

Plus having a real office was helping too. It wasn’t much, some shitty rolling chairs and those old desks they have in schools. The ones with the Formica tops and a metal shells. There’s one conference table (two folding tables with one extra long blue table cloth thrown over them, it has no chairs), it’s where you all gather now.

Then Bucky walked in.

Two coffees, and a brown bag in his hand. Eyes meet across the room, his almost smile and a your mouthed ‘thank you.’ You’re still twenty feet away when Candace (your fearless leader and right now, the thing keeping you from bread) starts.

“I’m sure you’re all wondering why I sent out the S.O.S. message, we have a problem.” She begins, “An old video of Mr. Barnes stealing a motorcycle has resurfaced and gone viral.” She scans the room as if to make sure she has everyone’s attention. “It’s largely positive attention, but many people are sharing the videos with lewd comments that I don’t feel comfortable repeating.”

You can imagine, you’d seen the video after about three tequila shots last night and made some lewd comments yourself. In your opinion, She was underselling it. Sure, it was nabbed from a grainy security camera, but it was clear as day that it was Bucky.

Bucky, wrapped in leather and kevlar and stepping directly in front of the bike, (which had to have been going seventy maybe eighty miles an hour) before stopping it with one hand.

She also didn’t mention how he immediately climbed onto it one of the most cunt clenching ways possible.

She continues, blah blah blah capitalizing on momentum, blah blah blah engaging with voters, blah blah blah Mr. Barnes’ has thighs as thick as tree trunks.

Okay maybe she didn’t say that last bit.

Honestly Candace had fallen into the background as soon as you realized you’d be called because the internet was, well being the internet.

Your attention pivots to better things.

Big mistake.

Like you, everyone came casual today, Bucky is no exception. He’s in a pair of joggers and a tight black workout shirt. If you thought the Henley was bad, this is so much worse. It’s so tight it almost looks like it was painted onto him. He’s shiny and not just because of the arm, but with sweat. He looks dewey, like he ran here. You analyze his hair, taking note of how it’s just a little damp and beginning to curl at the ends.

He definitely ran here.

After seeing the video, (and wearing his jacket) you were almost immune to this combination. A credit to several hours spent off the clock doing what you call exposure therapy. Scrolling through blogs and histories of his life, watching videos, analyzing photos. You almost have a handle on this stupid, barely there, hardly even worth mentioning crush. Then you notice it, the nail in your coffin.

He has on his dog tags, pulled out from their normal hiding spot behind his collar. They were draped down his chest instead, falling in between his pecs and rising with each breath.

Distinctly, as if a spectator in your own body,  you wonder if they would hit your face while he fucks you.

Would they swing back and forth? Over and over and over again, hit your chin, your cheek, fall over your lips until you have no choice but to bite them? Would he let you touch them? Could you grab him by the chain and pull him down on top of you? That thought is almost as dizzying as the first.

Would he leave them sandwiched between you? Press them into your skin until he leaves their indentation behind.

Then you’re spinning out of control, his metal arm is bared to you for the first time too you realize. You’d seen a sliver of it during your interview, but most days he wore gloves and long sleeves.

You almost forgot it was there.

You wonder how it would feel under your hands, is it a seamless, or does each plate have its own ridge you can run your fingers over? Would he touch you with it? Let it send chills down your spine while he teases you. Or would he use it to hold himself, plant it beside your head like a solid pillar.

Is it cold or does it run hot like him? You’ve sat next to him half a dozen of times, pressed into his side in the back seat of a black SUV. His body heat is intense, like a furnace thats constantly running. Does the arms absorb that heat or could he cup the back of your neck and whisper sweet nothings while the cool helps you come back to earth.

You wonder if you should tell your therapist about these thoughts. It’s probably wrong and immoral to fetishize a soldiers dog tags. They’re probably carving out a special place in hell just for you, the man had been through so much. The last thing he deserves is to star in your dirty day dreams.

He also doesn’t deserve the abysmal existence of living inside American politics, so maybe yours is the lesser of two evils.

The meeting ends abruptly, before you can even try to pretend you were listening.

Finally, Bucky finds you.

“Pretty sure I should be the one bringing you coffee.” You joke, taking your cup from him with a grateful smile.

He chuckles, “I was on a run anyway, no big deal.”

Ten points for female intuition.

He reaches into the brown bag and passes you a foil wrapped bagel, you don’t know when he learned your order but it’s exactly how you like it.

“Thank you.” You hum, taking a bite too big to be polite. “Best hangover cure.”

Bucky bites into his own, “I can’t remember the last time I was hungover.” He says.

“Not a big drinker?” You ask, taking a sip of your latte (you came clean about the Americano after your first week).

He shakes his head, “Couldn’t if I wanted to. My body metabolizes it too fast.”

“Damn.” You say through a mouthful.

He shrugs, “It’s not so bad, I’ve taught myself other ways to unwind.”

There’s something about the way he says it, a double entendre has an offer to help on the tip of your tongue. Instead you ask “Like what?”

“This is my second run of the day.” He admits.

Your eyes widen, “It’s eight in the morning.”

He shrugs again, like it’s not the most unnatural thing you’ve ever heard. “Couldn’t sleep.”

He was probably up all night with this stupid video thing. It makes you wonder if the footage was of him, or of him.

“Don’t let everyone stress you out about the video”. You tell him, trying your best to sound reassuring. “I think Candace is making a bigger deal of it that she needs to, I mean I get where she’s coming from, but the reaction is more positive than anything else.”

Bucky nods, giving you a half-tight lipped smile that tells you he doesn’t really believe you.

“Thank you for breakfast Mr. Barnes.” The name feels foreign on your tongue even though you never call him anything else.

“For the love of god, please call me Bucky.” He begs, for the umpteenth time.

You've been refusing to call him Bucky since your first day. A small barrier of professionalism that you could still manage. In it a way it separates him from the Bucky in your head. Bucky is yours, fictional, brooding, and handsome. Mr. Barnes is your boss.

“I’m trying to be professional here.” You defend, smiling as you take a sip of your coffee.

“I’ll take back the bagel.” He threatens.

You gasp in mock horror. “You wouldn’t!”

“Call me Bucky.” He insists. “I feel old enough already, I’m pretty sure you take a year off my life every time you call Mr. Barnes.”

That makes you laugh, and think about him with grey hair. An image you tuck away carefully for later.

“Fine,” you relent, “Thank you for breakfast, Bucky.”

He smiles so wide you can see his dimples and you feel something crack inside of your chest. Like a ball of light appearing inside of your lungs and sucking all of the air out of them. Something about that smile, knowing it’s there just for you, it turns this lusty, immature thing living inside you into something much deeper. Something real and much more scary.

He takes a bite of his bagel, cream cheese catching on the edge of lips. He nods, pleased and proud. Then, just before he turns to leave, he drops a nuclear bomb in your lap.

"Good girl.”

The third time it happens, you really can’t be blamed.

Lawn signs, the bane of your existence and something you would think is obsolete when campaigning somewhere called the concrete jungle.

You’re surrounded by them, selling them over Instagram DMs (that part of the website still isn’t up) and delivering them by hand.

You assemble them when you have nothing better to do, fussing with metal frames and cursing every-time you break a nail. You go back over them with sharpie, fixing printing errors manually because the money is quickly running out.

You dream about them when you go home at night, more often than you dream about Bucky these days.

You’ve been tasked with spreading them all over the city, throwing them in the windows of any businesses that’ll say yes or stomping them into any of the rare patches of grass.

The least weird part is actually carrying them on the subway.

You had joked to Bucky one day, after you’d spent the afternoon taping, stomping, and selling, that they were going to kill you.

You should’ve known better than to speak it into existence.

The uber drops you outside, waving off your tip with a sympathetic smile and one last offer to take you to the hospital instead.

Determined, you shake your head and hobble inside.

Everyone’s gone thankfully, the lights dimmed and monitors dark. You just need to get your bag, and then you can go home, take three ibuprofen and call it a night.

You curse as you walk, ‘Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.’ muttered with every step.

Your ankle screams, already swollen to the size of a softball. It protests with every step, nearly buckling when you threaten to put your full weight on it.

“What are you doing kid?” Bucky’s voice cuts the quite like a knife, stopping you in your tracks.

Your bum leg is bent at the knee, hovering above the ground while your good leg holds your weight.

Your desk sits just out of reach, only five feet away. You were so close.

But, there he is, tall and devastating as he fills out his door frame. Yellow light spills from his office, casting his face in a dark shadow.

“Mr. Barnes, what are you still doing here so late?” You ask, taking another hop forward, hoping that maybe he’ll just think you forgot how to walk.

“Bucky.” He corrects, his eyes locked on your leg (fuck) eyebrows pulling together. “And it’s only six.”

You smile, slowly putting your bad leg down until your foot lays flat on the floor. You keep your weight off it, listing ever so slightly as you try not to crumble under his gaze.

“Oh.” You fumble, faux smile still painted on. “Well, I’m sorry to interrupt. I just need to grab my bag and I’ll be out of your hair.”

Bucky doesn’t move, doesn’t nod and go back to his office the way you want him too. No, instead he leans against the wall and waits. “Go ahead.” He says, jutting his chin towards your desk.

Motherfucking fuck.

You bring your leg back up, ready to commit to the jumping bit when Bucky clicks his tongue.

“Walk.” He insists.

You take a deep breath, and then as slowly as you can manage, take a step forward.

The reaction is immediate, your whole body jolting with the pain. You can’t help the cry that escapes your lips, high pitched like a wounded animal.

Bucky’s there in an instant, and before you can protest, he’s everywhere.

One arm beneath your knees pulling your legs out from under you and the other against your back, cradling you against his chest.

Half a dozen objections fall from your lips before you even register that he’s moving, legs kicking in his grip while you try to wiggle your arm free from where it’s pinned against his (very firm) chest.

“Stop.” He says, adjusting his grip. “Gonna hurt yourself more if you make me drop you.”

You grunt, somewhere between pissed off and flustered.

It’s only about twenty steps into his office, but it might as well be a lifetime. His cologne wafts over you, sandalwood and musk. Subtle and masculine, just like him. You can feel his heart beat like this, steady and rhythmic. It’s slow, calm and grounding, the complete antithesis to your own, which is pounding so hard in your chest you think your ribs might be vibrating.

Shit, if you can feel his, can he feel yours?

He sits you on his desk before you spiral any further.

“Bucky really I’m fine.” You try assure him, swallowing around the he-just-had-his-arms-around-me sized lump in your throat.

Bucky does answer, instead he fixes you with a look, or should you say the look.

The one that made your first IT guy admit he had never actually coded before and was just trying to meet the Hulk.

You shrink under it, back curving as if you could escape by making yourself smaller. Your legs hang limp over the side, heels tapping against the hollow tin of his desk.

“Show me.” He says, nodding to your ankle.

You shake your head, convinced you can still get out of this.

“I didn’t know you were into feet Bucky, honestly you should have said something sooner Candace is gonna kill you when she-“

Bucky grabs a chair, pulling it until he’s in-front of you with an exasperated sigh. He looks up at you from his new position, raising his eyebrows in a way that clearly signals it’s your last chance to come clean.

Some reason, you choose to die on the hill.

Bucky shakes his head and grabs your calf in one of his large hands. He holds it still, lifting it just enough for him to get a better angle on the zipper of your boot.

He pulls it down slowly. You’re not sure if it’s because of the closeness or his fear of hurting you, but it’s agonizing nonetheless.

It slides it down your heel, exposing your silly socks and the giant bruise decorating your ankle. It’s damning.

Wordlessly, Bucky gets up and leaves the room.

You half think he’s left you there, too frustrated with your stubbornness to bother with you anyway.

You get no such escape though, moments later he returns holding an ace bandage.

“What happened?” He asks, and before you can even open your mouth he adds on, “No bullshit.”

You hum, and then as quietly as possible you admit the truth. “Fell down a subway entrance.”

Bucky begins unspooling the bandage, straightening any kinks in his lap. He gives you that cocked eyebrow.

“I tripped over a sign post and fell down the subway stairs at the twenty third street entrance.”  You sigh, embarrassed by your own clumsiness and quite frankly the rookie mistake of trying to carry six signs at once.

“And then?” Bucky asks, making the first full loop around the arch of your foot.

“And then someone stepped on my ankle.” You finish.

“That wasn’t so hard was it?” He teases, another loop, this time around the back of your heel.

You groan, face hot and ears even hotter.

He wants to talk about hard?

Something about this angle stirs a fire in your belly, the beast roars to life with no 'Vote for Barnes' signs to distract it.

As Bucky wraps your ankle, another picture takes form. You’re still on the edge of the desk, but Bucky has moved. He kneels on the floor between your legs, a thigh in each of his hands and he holds them over his shoulders.

His mouth, those pretty lips are too busy making out with your cunt to press into that disappointed line he’s giving you right now.

His eyes, they stay the same, unwavering eye contact as he looks up at you.

Dark lashes flutter as he works, careful and meticulous just like he is with your ankle. He watches each expression, only instead of checking for pain, he’s tracking your pleasure.

You remember what his arms felt like, you can still feel them burning against your skin, an outline of where he supported your back.

He had lifted you like it wasn’t even a question, no preparing himself, no jokes about your weight. Just a simple show of strength.

The vision fills out and the desk disappears from beneath you, instead your back presses to the wall. He holds all of your weight on his shoulders now, the hands that had held your thighs now occupy your ass.

Is he an ass man?

Add it to the list of questions you’ll never be able to ask.

You imagine how it would feel, the way his muscles would flex as he works you over. The way you would be able to feel them, under your calves as they pressed against his back. The way they'd ripple between your thighs as he cranes his neck.

“That feel okay?” Bucky asks. His voice is softer than usual, a warmer undertone that you’ve never heard before. It almost sounds like fondness. You melt a little, a soft sigh leaving your lips are you tilt your head back into the wall-

“Hello?” He asks, the warmth is gone. So is your delusion.

You’re back on the desk, knuckles gripping the edge so tight they’re starting to hurt.

“Sorry,” You try to shake it off, literally turning your head from side to side as if it shooing a fly.

You look down at your ankle, at him. Your heel is still on his knee, but the entire thing is wrapped in an ace bandage, it’s tight but not enough to be uncomfortable.

Tentatively, you roll it.

It hurts, but not nearly as bad as before. More like a dull ache than the stabbing from earlier. The compression soothes as much as it supports, gently quieting the sensation as quickly as it started.

“Feels good.” You promise him. “Thank you Bucky.”

He nods, lips twitching with his usual smile. You haven’t seen it in a few weeks, deadlines and events getting to him little by little. You can see it, all the reasons why he decided to do this getting further and further away, weighed down by bureaucracy and minutiae.

“Next time you’re putting signs up, you call me.” He says, like it’s the simplest thing in the world.

You laugh, short and breathy, more in disbelief than anything else. “That’s so not necessary, I promise I’ll be more careful.”

Bucky grabs your boot, putting it back on as gently as he took it off. He pulls up the zipper with firm tug and pats your calf. “Not asking.” He says. “I don’t want you-“ he stops, clearing his throat. “-or anyone else getting hurt for the sake of this campaign.”

It’s hard to tell under the yellow lamps, but you swear you see pink on his cheeks.

“It’s my name on the sign, I should be out there helping anyway.” He finishes, standing up and pushing his chair back into place.

He comes to stand in front of you, holding each of his hands out, palms up.

Hoping your own isn't too sweaty, you take them.

He helps you down, letting you use him as a brace while you lower yourself off the desk, good leg first, bad leg second.

“See?” You asks, pulling your hands away and pretending to dust yourself off. “Good as new!” You smile, trying your best to seem unaffected by him, by his touch, his kindness, his gentle hands and gentler soul.

Bucky makes a noise of approval deep in the back of his throat. It sends a lightning bolt up your spine.

“You’re still taking tomorrow off.” He says, walking back out to the bullpen.

Still limping, you follow him out and thankfully find the air a little less thick in the open area. “Bucky c’mon, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you right away but don’t you think that’s a little over dramatic?”

That gets you the look again.

“It’s not a punishment.” He explains, “I need my number one at a hundred percent for when we start hitting the fundraiser circuit and that means you need rest and to elevate that ankle.” Bucky grabs your bag, and then your water bottle off your desk.

Number one.

“Thank you.” You tell him as he passes you the items, carefully adjusting the strap on your shoulder. “I promise I will rest.” You acquiesce

Bucky nods, finally appeased. “Don’t forget to ice it too.” He adds, “Fifteen minutes on and fifteen minutes off.”

You nod, straightening your back and giving him your best mock salute. “Yes Sargent!”

Something darkens in his eyes, nearly imperceptible for anyone who doesn’t study them as much as you do.

The conversation dies with a whimper after that, with Bucky walking you to the door and insisting his driver take you home.

He takes you to the car himself, opening the door and watching as you buckle yourself in.

When you turn as give him a big goofy thumbs up he gives you that chest aching smile again.

He sends you off with that and a quiet murmur of “Be careful kid.” That leaves you even more confused than before.

The thing between your ribs grows a little more that night, curling around your lungs and squeezing just enough to leave you breathless as you pull away.

The fourth time, you didn’t even meant to text him.

You 1:42 A.M.

106 Greene st

Bossman Barnes 1:45 A.M.

?

You 1:47 A.M.

oh shit sorry sarg trying to uber

Bossman Barnes 1:48 A.M.

Where are you?

You 1:50 A.M.

queenz 👑

Bossman Barnes 1:51 A.M.

Where in queens?

You 1:55 A.M.

it has bricks and a green shade thingy

Bossman Barnes 1:55 A.M.

Awning?

You 1:56 A.M.

yes!!!!!!!

Bossman Barnes 1:56 A.M.

What’s the name?

You 1:59 A.M.

Irish you started sharing your location with Bossman Barnes

Bossman Barnes 2:01 A.M.

Be there in ten. Wait inside.

You’ve never been a good listener.

You pushed your limits tonight, further than usual. You recognized that. You’d gone so far you managed to do a full circle, the very reason why you were out drinking was now on its way to pick you up.

It had been a rough week. Your ankle has long healed, but Bucky the shaped tumor growing in your chest has only spread. Since that night at the office it’s crept in your bones and infiltrated your bloodstream. Like a fever, you needed to flush him out.

You rallied your messiest friends, cleared your entire weekend for recovery, and headed out.

You’d even stopped at Duane Read and picked up some liquid I.V. for tomorrow.

Now here you were, sitting on the curb outside of some dive (Smith’s? Sully’s? Stu’s? You stopped paying attention when you realized they didn’t have Touch Tunes).

You can still taste the vodka-cran and green tea shots on your tongue. You drank so much it turned bitter, the liquor betraying as if to say ‘hey it really is time to stop.’

So you came outside, got the 'b' and the 'u' switched when trying to call a ride and now your boss is picking you up.

You were starting to loose the happy drunk buzz, instead simmering into a puddle of self-pity and exhaustion.

When a black sedan pulls up. Your first instinct is to reach for your pepper spray, a hand halfway to your purse when you recognize his voice.

“Sullivan’s.” Bucky says, approaching you slowly, like you're a feral kitten that might run away if he moves too fast. He looks like a vision, emerging from red fog in sweatpants and henley. You wonder if he has stock in them. Or maybe it's the only cut that fits his broad shoulders? He’s not smiling, but not scowling either, you wonder if you woke him up.

You can’t help but beam when you realize it’s him.  “Bucky!” You squeal, standing up on very unsteady legs- made worse by the heels that had seemed like a good idea six drinks ago. “What’s Sullivan’s?” You ask, voice slurring on the ‘s’ sound.

He huffs, a noise somewhere between a laugh and frustration. “The bar.” He gestures behind you to the very large neon sign hanging above the awning.

“Oh,” That's where the red light is coming from.

Bucky’s in-front of you now, wrapping an arm around your middle as he guides you into his side for support. “C’mon let’s get you to the car kid.”

You cringe, “No, please don’t call me that.” You whine.

Bucky opens the passenger door, “Kid?” He asks.

“Yes.” You tell him, “Not a kid, wo-man.” You enunciate the first half on purpose, really making your point. “Not that much younger than you.”

Bucky laughs for real this time. “I’m over a hundred.”

You huff, crossing your arms as you settle into the plush leather seat. “I have an old soul.” You refute.

“I’m sure you do sweetheart.” He tries to placate.

As far as you’re concerned Bucky just called you too young for him, which right now- in this moment feels worse than death.

“It’s just important to me you know I’m a grown up. Mature woman with a big girl job and everything!”

Bucky already knows this, he is after all, your boss. “I know.” He sighs like he’s in pain. Then he closes your door. When he gets in on the other side he’s still quiet, settling in but still not turning the car on. “S'bout me, not you.”

Then Bucky procures a cold water bottle, you’re not sure where it came from (it was in the cup holder). He breaks the seal on the cap and passes it over to you. “Noticed you’re wearing a wrist brace at work.” He explains, effectively ending the conversation.

He had noticed that?

“Thank you.” You answer, voice softer now. The weight of having been perceived, and taken note of making your voice a little smaller. He was right too, opening water bottles hurts like a bitch.

You take a few small, slow sips as Bucky begins to drive. The low hum of an oldies station buzzing like white noise.

“No motorcycle?” You ask. He’d taken to riding it more since the video, something about how if people were going to connect him with it he might as well get to drive one. He shows up to work in that stupidly handsome leather jacket (a new one since he gave you the other one at your interview) ((it’s carefully folded on your dresser- you haven’t washed it yet, it still smells like his cologne)) (((There's only been a handful of nights where you fuck yourself on your fingers imaging he's fucking you while you wear it))).

He shakes his head, both palms on the steering wheel, ten and two like the good soldier he is. His right hand twitches, like he’s fighting to keep it there. “Didn’t think it was a good idea given your current state.” He explains, voice teasing.

You pout, but nod. “Probably for the best.” Then you look down at the dress that just barely covers your thighs. “Couldn’t in this dress anyway.”

You see his eyes look over- briefly. They quickly snap back onto the road, his hands tightening ever so slightly on the wheel.

You wish he could just take you back to his apartment, you’re dying to see it. Is it all black and minimalist? A fortress of brooding.

Or is it soft, warm yellows, a worn lived on couch. Which Bucky decorates- the one on the security footage or the one who brings you bagels?

“No,” Bucky mutters. “You couldn’t.”

He turns up the radio.

The song is old- sixties or maybe even fifties. It’s one of those slow ones that sound bittersweet, hopelessly romantic, but sexy all at once. You kind of recognize it, like maybe you’ve heard your grandmother hum it while cooking. You don’t know a single lyric but it makes you feel warm all over anyway.

It’s a radio station, not aux or car play. Something with ads and a traffic read every hour. You haven’t listened to the radio since you were kid, it’s almost obsolete, like a living time capsule. 

Like Bucky.

Another thought dances across your kinda distracting you like a shiny object. What kind of music does he listen to when he has sex?

The image refreshes. Bucky fiddling with the knobs on a radio only this time he’s disheveled. His lips are swollen from kisses, and his belt is undone at his waist. What station would he pick? Would it still be the oldies, soft and sensual? Or would he choose something heavier, something with bass and loud drums.

Would he even want music? Or does he not mind the noise, mature enough to embrace the natural rhythm of skin on skin.

Maybe he even likes it, wants to hear every wet slide and soft gasp. He doesn’t want the distraction of the radio.

Besides, what would he do if a traffic report came on halfway through?

You once dated a guy who refused to pay for Spotify premium, and was too proud use your account. He had a special playlist he’d put on every time you had sex. When an ad played he’d stop mid-thrust, insisting he had to wait for it to start again because he ‘needs the rhythm.’

Eventually you added him to your account.

Shit, you should make sure you changed that password.

Your brain slides back to the moment, hazy from the liquor as you speak. “I’ve always wanted to dance to one of these songs.” You admit without thinking. “I wish people still slow danced.”

“They don’t anymore?” He asks, it sounds likes genuinely curious too. You wonder if he has someone he can those kinds of questions, or does it have to swallow them and hope the answer reveals itself naturally.

You shake your head, “If they do, then no one told me.” You sigh. “Even at prom, I ended up hiding by the snack table because I was so embarrassed no one asked me to dance.”

You’re approaching your corner now, at least your sober self left the stoop light on.

“I used to dance.” He says.

“Not anymore?” You ask.

Bucky shrugs, “Not in a very long time.”

You hum, and he comes to a stop in front of your unit. “That’s a shame.” You tell him, far too earnest. “I bet you were a good dancer.”

You grab the water bottle too, and try not to think about how easy it would be to lean over the center console and kiss him. To put a hand on his thigh and see if he explodes. He’s wound so tight these days you think he just might.

Instead, you smile and say “Thank you Bucky. I will apologize profusely for this tomorrow.”

He cracks a smile at that, nodding his head. “Nothing to apologize for.”

“I woke you up.” You push.

Bucky shakes his head, “I was up. You can always call me.” He tells you, voice more serious and pretty than it has any right to be. “You need to get some sleep.”

You think about inviting him up, picture an alternate universe where he’s dropping you off after dinner and instead of worry, he looks at you with want. You picture him in your apartment.

Would he laugh at your silly pillows and threadbare blankets?

You wonder how far you’d make it inside before he’d make a move. Does he act quick? Would he kiss you outside the door and press your back against it until you’re keening into his mouth?

Or would he wait, let you pour a nightcap that you used as an excuse to invite him up. Would he drink from your mismatched cups and then ask to see your bedroom (probably not, it’s a one room studio, but for the sake of romance).

Worse, would he spread you out there on your shitty little couch?

You don’t offer, you feed the beast with something else.

You lean over the center console, just like you thought about doing before, and press a soft, chaste kiss to his cheek.

“Good night Bucky.” You whispered close enough for your lips to still brush his skin. He doesn’t move, doesn’t breathe, he stares straight ahead as if you’ve frozen him in place.

Still drunk, you ignore this, pulling back with a lazy smile and then you get out of the car. By some miracle, you manage to make it inside without stumbling or turning back around to look at him, even though you can feel his eyes on you the whole time.

When you finally make it into bed you check your phone. A series of texts, some from your friends making sure you made it home safe. One from an unknown contact that just says “josh met at sullys.”

You send him a quick “wrong number.” In return and block the number.

The last text is from Bucky.

Bossman Barnes 2:45 A.M.

Take two Tylenol, and drink lots of water. And for the record, I was a great dancer.

The fifth time, he seeks you out.

“Not your scene?” Bucky asks. He saddles up next to you, not looking at you. He matches your gaze, straight ahead studying the expanse of the city.

You smile, tight lipped and tired. “Just needed a minute away from people.” You explain.

You saw a video a few months ago talking about Imposter Syndrome.

At the time, you rolled your eyes. It sounded like people too afraid of their own success, and since you’d yet to taste any, it really sounded stupid.

Then you found yourself working on one of the most talked about congressional campaigns in the last ten years despite the fact that the ink on your degree still hasn’t dried.

Hours of mindless small talk, proposals above your pay grade, watered down drinks and lukewarm small bites had driven you into the fresh air.

A fundraiser, the third one you’ve been too since this all began. Despite the professional shoes, sensible hairstyle, and the fact that you’ve only drank water, you still feel completely out of place.

You just needed a few minutes, a chance to catch your breath and recalibrate. A moment to remind yourself you belong in the room.

That’s where Bucky found you.

He hasn’t mentioned the night he picked you up from the bar, something you are beyond grateful for, especially considering you don’t remember most of it. Given the state you were in, you believe ignorance may just be bliss.

“I can go-“ He offers, “-didn’t mean to intrude.” He’s stiff, more than usual. Or maybe just more than he usually is with you. His shoulders look perfectly straight beneath the tailored jacket, his neck is tense too, making an exact ninety degree angle.

“No, it’s okay!” You answer too quickly. Your body pivots, turning to face him instead of the blinking lights.

You haven’t seen him up close all night. He’s spent his time in conversations with all the right people, any one with influence and a voice loud enough to matter. Which means you haven’t spoken once.

He looks handsome, freshly shaved (so only two days of stubble), his hair is combed back and actually staying in place. He must have used gel.

“You’re different.” You assure him.

Bucky smiles, “I’m not people?” He teases, delivery dry and monotone. If you didn’t know him as well as you do, if you weren’t familiar with the twinkle in his eye you’d think he was serious.

“You know what I mean.”

You fall into quiet, car horns blare below and mix with the music humming from inside. He’s warm beside you, body heat radiating through the layers of his suit and the foot of space between you.

“You look beautiful tonight.” He says it with the same honesty he says everything, no shyness, no polite smile like he thinks it’s what he’s supposed to say.

“Thank you.” It’s hard to say it much louder than a whisper.

You finally turn in, body shifting so you’re facing him instead of the city. You try not to jump when you realize he’s already looking at you.

Calm the fuck down.

You nod to his suit, navy, no tie. “You clean up nice too y’know.” A forced smile, no eye contact. “You look the part.”

Bucky grimaces at that, shrugging his shoulders. “I look like a puppet.”

“A handsome puppet.” You assure. It’s too easy, you like making his face flush.

“Feel like I’ve barely seen you lately.” He says, almost sounding sad.

Your skin buzzes. Proximity like this, it feels more vulnerable than anything else. You feel exposed by his gaze, biting your tongue to stop yourself from saying something else stupid. It’s worse than sitting on his desk with a bum leg, or drunk in his passenger seat.

It’s how you know it’s all out of your control now. The feelings, the wanting, the way your body seems to seek him out. You can’t stop it, can’t distract yourself from it. It’s like you’re in free fall, losing your composure at the drop of a hat. Your nights have been changing too. It’s not just sex that your brain imagines anymore, no it’s going deeper.

You picture his eyes lighting up when he walks through the door and sees you. You imagine dates, nights spent seeing all his favorite parts of the city. You wake up from dreams of a shared apartment and a little white cat. Dreams where he assembles furniture you picked out together. Then it’s the waking hours, he’s everywhere then too. He’s in recipes you see on TikTok, ones you save because you think he might like them. He’s in old movies you find late at night, the way you have to resist the temptation to text and ask him if he ever saw it.

You want to learn him from the inside out and it scares the shit out of you.

You only have a few more weeks until the election, but there’s an email with your resignation sitting on your laptop anyway. Scheduled send for Monday morning.

Distance. It’s the only way to save yourself now.

You want to tell him, give him the respect of looking him in the eyes and hearing it from your lips. Would he ask you to stay?

Worse, would he tell you it’s the right thing to do? That he understands and wishes you the best of luck on future endeavors.

You can’t face either.

“My job keeps me busy.” You joke.

Bucky hums, unconvinced. “If I didn’t know better I’d think you’re avoiding me.”

You don’t answer because he’s right.

But Bucky doesn’t push, because he’s good, and he’s kind, and he knows better.

The song inside changes, it slows down and the chatter dies with it. You peek inside and realize everyone’s sitting down to eat. You can see his empty chair, the one at the largest table in the center of the room. Yours is somewhere in a corner, probably by the bathrooms.

“We should do back in.” You say, already taking a step towards the door.

You’re stopped immediately, a warm hand around your wrist.

“Wait.” Bucky says, he tugs you back. There’s no force behind it, but you move anyway, letting him guide you back in front of him. He lets go of your wrist, leaving your pulse thrumming where he touched. He raises his left hand in front of you, offering it palm up. “Let me give you that dance.”

It’s like the moment freezes, one of those scenes in a video game where your path diverges and you’re suddenly faced with two options.

A. Take his hand, let him hold you to his chest and enjoy being close to him one more time.

B. Walk away, save yourself the pain of knowing what it would feel like to be in his arms. Go inside and eat cold, mediocre catering, then disappear before dessert.

Glutton for punishment, you take his hand.

Bucky smiles. A real one, with teeth and shiny eyes. He pulls you to him, this time hard enough to make you move.

It brings you closer than ever before only inches between you now. His right palm falls to your hip. Unsure, your own lands on his chest, resting on the lapel of his jacket. Then he starts to move.

It’s gentle, a side step back and forth, more of a swaying motion than anything else. He’s still smiling, looking down at you like you’ve hung the moon and you have no idea what to do with it.

He doesn’t look at you like that, or at least he’s not supposed to. A look like that breeds something even more dangerous than wanting, it breeds hope. The glimmer of a chance that shit, he might actually want you too.

“Y’know,” Bucky starts, clearing his throat. “I don’t think I’d have gotten this far without you.”

You laugh, unexpected like it was punched out of you. “I think you’re giving me way too much credit Bucky.”

His hand flexes on your hip, quickly squeezing and then letting go, as if he didn’t even realize he was doing it. “No, I’m not.”

Bucky sighs, you watch as his expression morphs. You can’t quite tell what emotions cross his face, but you think he’s trying to decide something. It’s the same focus he gave your resume that first day, brows pulled tight, that little line between forming between them. You wish you could flatten it with your thumb.

“You make me better.” He says, “You keep it all straight so I don’t have too, I still use those flash cards you gave me of important people.”

That’s was a joke, something you made your first week to try and warm him up.

“They’ve kept me from making a total ass of myself, even tonight.”

Your neck feels hot, your ears too. Why is he saying this now? Your stomach twists with guilt, you can feel your palm getting clammy against his. You still can’t seem to pull back.

Deflect, deflect, deflect, the panic inside you screams.

“You’re good at this on your own Bucky, you don’t need me, I just gave you the right tools.” You don’t mean to minimize his words, his honesty, you just don’t know how to match it. You have no idea what to say that wouldn’t give it all away.

Bucky shakes his head, huffing a breath of what almost sounds like frustration. “I’m not, that’s not what-“ he stops, voice tight as he tries to find the words.

He doesn’t find them, instead his leaves hand your hip, pushing you away slightly. He keeps his other hand holding yours though, lifting it up above your heads. It’s a silent instruction.

Spin.

You do, clumsy little steps in your heels until you’re back to his chest. This time his head goes past your hip, resting on your lower back, just above the curve of your ass.

It sends lighting up your spine, a white hot jolt of want.

The weight of his hand on your skin, it’s the most he’s ever touched you, the longest he’s ever touched you. The zipper of your dress is just a few inches higher, you imagine what it would be like for his hand to find it. How would he take it off? Would it be slow and teasing? Or would he break the seams and leave it a wrinkled mess on the floor.

Would you taste whiskey on his tongue? You saw him drinking it earlier. You’ve never liked it, never had much use for it. Expensive, bitter and deep. It suits Bucky though, worldly and mature (the alcoholic equivalent of an Americano). All your past experiences with the drink don’t matter, you’d try it again off of his lips.

“The other night, when you texted me?” He snaps you out of it, posing it like a question, as if you could forget.

“I really am so sorry about that Bucky, it was wildly unprofessional and I promise it won’t-“

“Stop,” he says, he starts to brush his thumb over the top of your hand, absentmindedly soothing you. “I don’t care about any of that.” He shakes his head, “It reminded me why I’m doing this.”

He’s not looking at you, his eyes are somewhere on the skyline, as if it might give him a cue card to read.

He finds the it somewhere to your left, “I like being needed, feels like good penance.”

He turns back to you, and suddenly your faces are somewhere much closer. You can feel his breath fanning your lips as he speaks. “I like being needed by you.” He admits.

You don’t know what to say, not sure there even is anything to say. Instead you look at his lips.

It’s unabashed, the first time you’ve allowed yourself such a luxury while he’s close enough to see.

They’re chapped, pink and irritated as he wets them with his tongue.

He knows.

It hits you like a ton of bricks.

He knows. He knows. He knows. He knows. He knows.

He knows and he’s baiting you.

Bucky doesn’t lean in, he doesn’t close the gap but he lets his words hang there. His eyes are hooded, nearly closed as he watches your reaction.

It’s be so easy to cross the bridge and to burn it behind you. Just lean in and kiss him, just once, to know what it feels like. If you’re quitting anyway-

Are you? Are you quitting?

That thing, the hope, it bubbles back up.

It’s doubled in size now, brimming with new-found-strength as it screams-

He wouldn’t be baiting you, if he didn’t want you back.

Except he’s not ready, it’s obvious now. His entire body is stiff and unsure. All his talking, is nervous rambling. He wants you and he’s afraid of it

So, with self restraint worthy of a gold medal, you pull back.

The email will be cancelled by morning. You’re not going anywhere, not where there’s a chance. Not when it’s a matter of waiting and not a matter of if.

You give him a smile, and for the first time all night it’s real, hell, it’s borderline flirty.

“Thank you for the dance Bucky.” You tell him, squeezing his hand one more time before you drop it.

You leave him on the balcony, heels clicking as you force yourself not to look back.

The fifth time is when you realize he wants you too, even if he hasn’t admitted it to himself yet.

It’s late when Bucky realizes he wants you.

He’s alone in the office, or at least he thinks he is. The lights turned off hours ago, his shut door meaning no one leaned into say goodbye as they left.

Not even you.

That makes his chest ache, just a little. He can see your smile now, the way you’d tap your nails on the door jam to get his attention as you’d tell him not to stay too late.

Maybe that’s why he’s ignored the clock, the way it ticked past five, then six, then seven, and all the way to now.

Ten, forty-three. It blinks at him, digital numbers reminding him that he really should just go home.

Home to his empty apartment, his empty fridge, and his king size bed and that the pile of blankets where he actually sleeps on the floor.

Hard pass.

He gets up for another cup or coffee instead, finally breaking the seal between his ass and his chair.

His back is tight when he gets up, knees clicking as he stands. Age. It’s creeping up on him with grey hairs and stiff joints. Something he thought he’d never be able to do, and something he dreads now that he can.

He cracks the door, but instead of the expected darkness, he finds you. The soft light of your desk lamp glowing from just a few feet away. Your back is to him, slouched, tired and unmoving. He’s pretty sure you didn’t hear him.

You’re doing a crossword, or at least trying too. More than half of it is empty.

Afraid to startle, Bucky clears his throat.

Your head jolts up, a sudden intake of breath as you spin to face him.

You were asleep, he realizes with no shortness of fondness.

“Hey boss.” You say through a yawn, stretching your arms above your head.

He nods, watching you blink the sleep from your eyes.

The monster, the one that lives behind his breastbone, roars to life.

What would it be like to wake up next to you?

As he looks at you now, sleep still in your face he can’t help but picture it. You in his bed, one of his shirts over your shoulders. Maybe he’d be able to sleep through the night if you’re next to him, it’s strange, how much calmer your presence alone makes him feel.

He’d pull you into his chest, greedy to touch and kiss the skin of your neck. Especially that spot under your ear, the one he watches you massage when you’re stressed.

Bucky shakes the thought off, something he’s gotten far too used to.

They’re never anything more than that, snapshots of domesticity. The dream of having you all to himself, all the time. He’s just taking what he sees of you during the day, the little things and putting them in a different context.

Like the time you made him tea with honey and he spent an five minutes staring at it, thinking about how you’d look in his kitchen, holding his kettle and wiping your lipstick stains off of his mugs.

Or that day you left a heating pad on his desk with the note, “for rainy days,” because he told you how the weather affects his shoulder. He blinked and saw you curled up next to him on the couch, thunder booming outside and the two of you untouched under a blanket.

It’s borderline pathetic just how vanilla it all is. Not only does he have a thing for his cute assistant, he wants her to take care of him.

He could puke.

“Tension.” Is how Bucky decides to answer you.

You cock your head

"Seven across.” He explains, nodding back to your screen.

You swivel back around, reading the clue yourself.

7. Something felt between two people, or an emotion held in your shoulders.

“Thanks.” You whisper as you type it in, the screen lighting up with an excited ‘correct!’

Bucky makes his way over to you, his mission for coffee long abandoned. “What are you still doing here?” He asks.

You shrug, “Had a lot to catch up on.”

His mug lands somewhere at the end of your desk. As he leans in over your shoulder to get a better look.

“Ah, important stuff.” He snarks.

Three tabs, the Washington post crossword, New York Times games, and the available cats section of pet finder.

He straightens, moving to lean against the edge of your desk. Your eyes follow him, chair tilting as you shift to look up at him.

“What are you still doing here?” You ask.

Bucky shrugs, “Keep forgetting to leave.” He takes you, closer this time. Your wrinkled blouse and smudged mascara. You look exhausted, like you’re hardly sitting up straight. “You should go home.”

You give him that smile. The one that convinces him to do damn near anything, “Only if you go too .”

Bucky Barnes has kept his want behind ice. Hard as stone and just as cold, it’s not something he’s sure he knows how to feel anyway, not something he’s sure he deserves. Nothing deeper than passing attraction or the occasional flirt. Excuses to feel with pressure of delivering.

Ever since he met you it’s been fracturing.

You give him an expectant look. You with your warm eyes, sweet smiles and soft skin.

Another cracks appears.

“I’ll give you a ride.” He says, no question in it.

Bucky watches you pack, tote bag, water-bottle, and sweater all tucked under your arm.

He reaches back into his office, pulls the chain on his lamp and grabs the keys.

His fingers pause as they hover over his options. The sedan, safe, appropriate and what he actually drove to work today.

The bike, still in the building garage from he tucked it off the street during a storm.

He remembers that night, your disappointment and short dress.

The crack widens, and his fingers curl around the latter.

You’re excited, he can see it bubbling under your skin as you wait for him to get on first.

You’d nearly squealed when he told you he only had the bike. Any sleep gone from you as you all but vibrate with anticipation.

Bucky had no idea you liked motorcycles so much.

“C’mon.” He says, holding his hand out to help you keep balance, “Climb on.”

You fill out the seat behind him, only a few inches of space between you. Your legs, brushing against the back of his knees as you slot into place.

He guides the hand you gave him onto his torso, a silent instruction to hold on there.

You listen, but poorly, a loose grip as your other hand comes down to mirror it.

His back straightens anyway, and it only gets tighter as he reaches down to pull your wrists further across his stomach. Bucky pulls until your chest is blush to his back, until he can feel your heat through the leather of his jacket.

Your fingers interlock in front of him and he turns the key.

The bike roars to life, and Bucky does his best to keep his mind on the road.

Three red lights. Three times where Bucky reaches back to massage your thigh. Three times where his hand stops just before making contact, as if remembering himself.

Two right turns. Two times where your grip tightens around him as the bike leans. Two times where your chest freezes as you hold your breath. Two times where he feels it fill back out, pressing yourself into him as you sigh with relief.

One offer to come up for a hot coffee. One joke about how he never got his cup at the office. One nod, as he smiles and follows you inside.

You turn on the drip pot and busy yourself long enough for Bucky to look around without feeling weird.

Your apartment is small, but it’s homey. A studio, basically a giant square room with a bathroom the size of a closet. Everything else is open, he can see your bedroom from the kitchen. He can look at your bedspread and think about how fitting it is that you’d pick something so fluffy.

He can stare at your dresser, at the pile of leather on the edge and think, is that-

Bucky can’t help but investigate, leaving you to the task of finding two clean mugs. Once he gets closer, he doesn’t even need to unfold it to know what it is.

Worn leather, a pulled thread on the left sleeve from where it got caught in a plate of his arm.

He picks it up, letting fall loose from its neat fold.

He’d almost forgotten he gave it you to.

That day is blurry for him, a mess of papers, a ruined shirt, and you.

The most potent memory is the way his blood ran cold when you first put it on, like a trigger he didn’t know he had.

He remembers turning back to watch you walk away, swallowed by it as you headed in the opposite direction.

He had shaken it off, refused to let it affect him as much as it did. Refused to picture you smelling like his cologne and stealing his shirts too. Refused to remember how the your blouse clung to your skin and left a disastrous outline of everything he shouldn’t want.

He turns back towards you, thumb rubbing over the collar where some of your makeup had gotten on it. A sign you’d worn it since.

“Oh, you found it.” You say.

The coffee starts to drip behind you. Between the jacket, the coffee smell, your pretty smile and his nerves. It’s like a mirror of your first meeting.

“You kept it?” He asks. His voice is softer than he expected, like disbelief.

“Of course I did.” You answer, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. Like it normal to take a piece of him home and keep it on your dresser. Like you’d do it again.

There’s no confetti, no explosions or fireworks. There’s no confession in the rain.

Instead there’s leather held in a metal hand and the sound of ice shattering somewhere in the distance.

Bucky doesn’t remember crossing the room, he doesn’t remember lifting his hand to hold your face or even leaning into kiss you.

Suddenly, his lips are just on yours, the jacket is on the floor and he’s all but stepping between your legs in an effort to get as close as possible. He cranes his neck, curling around you as he kisses with seventy years of want.

You melt. It’s the only word he can think of to describe it, like your entire body has no choice but to fold into him.

Your hands curl around his biceps like anchors. Your knees bend, nearly gone slack as he wraps an arm around your lower back.

Like a fire catching on dry leaves, Bucky kisses you like he couldn’t stop if he wanted to.

Your back hits the counter, pinning you between it and the hard wall of his body.

You break away then, a hand pushing at his chest when he tries to follow.

“Wait.” You tell him, nearly breathless.

Carefully you untangle yourself, your arms unlatching and reaching behind you to push up onto the counter top. A quick jump and then you’re seated, spreading your legs for him to step between.

Your hands pull him back, grabbing at his neck and whispering “Okay, keep going.”

Bucky obeys, hands falling to your hips and pulling you to the edge, until your chest presses tight against his.

The kiss is messier despite the better angle. A chaotic mix of spit, teeth, and tongue.

Bucky deepens it, tilting your head back so he can memorize your lips from every angle. You make a little noise, strangled from the back of your throat. Your pulse jumping under his thumb as he cradles your neck in his palm.

It’s all consuming in a way Bucky hasn’t felt before, not like this. He's used to being consumed by guilt, by grief, but this? Feeling like close isn’t close enough, like oxygen means nothing if he has to lose the feeling of your lips

His cock twitches his in slacks, making itself known as you lean even harder into him. One hand is on his neck still, but the other is on his hip. A finger pulled though one of his belt loops, tugging on it until he's pressed tight enough for you to lock your ankles behind his back. Giving him nowhere to go but flush against your cunt.

Heat blossoms over him, rushing up his chest and into his cheeks. Flushing his skin while he tries to catch his breath. 

He pulls back this time, not far, but enough distance to see your face. 

Your breathless, lips swollen and covered with his spit. Your chest heaves, a rapid rise and fall under your blouse that makes your buttons strain. It leaves him aching to touch you there too. Your eyes, smart as ever as you watch him drink you in. What shocks him is your pupils, blown wide and wild. 

You're hungrier than he is.

Bucky has to stop himself from leaning back in.

It doesn't matter how hungry you look, how well you kiss him back, how he can feel the warmth of your cunt through his pants. How it makes him twitch. He really shouldn't do this.

Slowly, he pulls his hands away, setting them down on either side of you, palms flat on the counter.

"You okay Bucky?" You ask, voice soft, silky and innocent like you're not putting it on for show.

Bucky swallows around the glass in his throat, "This is a bad idea." 

You nod, nonchalant. "It is." You agree, "Do you want to stop?"

"No." He admits. "But, look kid-"

"Don't call me kid," you interrupt, one of your hands finds itself in his hair, twisting it around your fingers. "Not when you just had your tongue down my throat."

"But you are, compared to me you're a-" A sharp tug and his sentence is lost again. "Young!" He corrects, "Boss thing aside, you're young."

You look at him, deadpan and bored. "Do you want to leave Mr. Barnes?" You ask, and despite the threat you make no effort to release him. 

"God don't call me that." Bucky groans, his head falling into your shoulder. 

Your fingers tap on his skin, as if to say 'see?'

"No." he says, finally touching you again, hands find your hips, curving around to hold the meat of your ass in his palms. 

"Do you want me?" 

Another, tortured groan. His cock twitching against you as an answer.

"I want you." You whisper, lips catching on his ear as you lean into the side of his head. "You have no idea how badly." 

His hips roll into you on their own accord, like a spring wound by your words. Your breath hitches, catching at the friction. Bucky's not much better, rolling them again by choice this time. Desperate to hear it again. 

"Fuck it."

His lips are on back, but this time he's lifting you off the counter. 

He's thankful your apartment is small, that he doesn't have to guess which door is the bedroom. He probably would have ended up fucking you on the counter if that was the case.

You land on the bed with a thump, back bouncing as Bucky drops you onto it. 

His shirts already off by the time you catch up, fingers hastily working your own buttons as he stands at the edge of the bed and watches. 

Blue lace that he had tried desperately to block out of his memory. A soft curve and a little bow in the center. "Shit." He breathes, rendered useless by the reveal. 

"Look familiar?" You joke, reaching back for the clasp when Bucky grabs your wrist. 

"Wait." He's gone, nearly running back to the kitchen to grab his jacket off the floor. He tosses it to you on the bed. "Put this on."

He doesn't have to convince you, doesn't have to explain himself. You smile so wide it's like you already know, shrugging your arms through the sleeves like you're more excited than he is. 

This time you leave it unzipped. 

"Good?" You cock your head to the side. 

Bucky nods, reaching for his belt as he takes it in. "Didn't get a good enough look last time." He says. 

"At the jacket or the bra?" You ask, pushing down your own waistband, elastic snapping all the way down your legs. 

"Both." He grunts. 

The second his pants hit the floor he's on you, crawling over top of your body and pressing it into the mattress.

You kiss him this time, a hand on either side of his face as you drag his lips down to you. Your nails dig into his skin, like you're afraid he'll pull away. Even going as far as to catch his bottom lip between your teeth, running your tongue over it like a soothing balm after.

Bucky's hands are greedy, one pushed under the cup of your bra, thumbing at your nipple until he feels it harden beneath his touch. 

The other is barely holding his weight off of you, the hard press of his hips as he slots himself between your legs once more. 

The friction is even better now, the lack of layers upping the ante. All that's left is cotton so thin Bucky swears he can feel your slick with ever grind against your cunt.

You moan into his mouth, a breathy little noise that acts like gasoline to the flame. Your knees bend, falling flat onto the mattress as if to give him more room. 

The drag of his hips is even longer this time, his bulge catching of your folds and highlighting the way your panties cling to you. 

Wishing he had more hands, Bucky abandons your tit. He slides it into your waistband now instead, feeling the material between his index and thumb and making an educated guess. 

"These need to go." He whispers.