A Place to be Horny, Silly, and Sad

Work is a welcome distraction. It’s hard to be lovelorn and shredded from it when there’s a six year old babbling about the dinosaur he drew this morning.

Hard.

Not impossible.

You, of course, somehow manage to remain torn apart.

It doesn’t help that Dean’s everywhere in your heart, and it leaks up into your brain like an oil spill. All consuming and lined with false little rainbows. Family’s pick up their children at the end of the day, and you picture yourself on Dean’s arm, smiling as easily as the couples. A mom says my husband with a shine of pride, and you bite down the urge to call Dean the same. A dad rambles about how his wife, quite brilliantly, suggested they start using a new system to help their daughter count.

You wonder if Dean would ever speak of you, as if the sun only shined so that you might feel its warmth.

In your dreams, he does. In your head, Dean speaks of you as if the world should be blessed to have you walking upon it.

In real life, Dean’s hand grazes your lower back when he reaches over you to grab something from the cabinet, and you spend the rest of the day touching the spot to try and press the feeling into your nerves forever. It’s tingly and warm, licking up your spine and pooling in your core.

From a single fucking touch.

You think you might be close to losing your mind.

It’s one of those weeks. Between the everything of Dean and crazy parents, you’re on the brink of snapping. The only solace you get is during nap time, when you crouch at one of the drawing tables.

Then you come home. And he’s just there, in all his glory.

“Long day at work?” He teases when you kick off your shoes, and you flip him off. “The tykes overtake you? Like Chicken Run?”

You grumble, flopping next to him on the couch. “I hate that movie.”

“I know. Makes it funnier.”

Dean’s arm goes around you. Around the couch.

Which has you on it. Basically around you.

“Come on, sweetheart.” He flicks your nose, and you pretend to bite his finger. “Jesus, they got you, made you feral-“

“Shut up.” You roll your eyes, sinking into the couch with a smile. “You’re not going to get your gift.”

That makes him perk up. Like waving a bone in front of a dog. Too easy.

“Hey, woah, I didn’t know there were gifts, I can be on good behavior for gifts.”

You snort. “You know, the five-year-olds do it because they like me and respect me.”

“I like you and respect you-“

“You poked me.”

“And,” he gestures to a bowl on the coffee table. “Made you dinner.”

You blink at the food. It had been such a long day. You hadn’t even seen it.

The small gesture makes you sniffle. Dean’s face falls, and you shake your head, batting off his concern.

“It’s fine- I’m fine-“

“Sweetheart.”

“Made this for you.” You mumble, shoving the gift into his hands before running to your room.

The drawing you made at naptime. It’s a crude scribble of some ducks in a little line, a bigger one at the front. Wearing his leather jacket.

It had been a joke. It doesn’t feel like one anymore.

And Dean doesn’t mention it, when he follows you. You don’t even know what he does with it.

You know he sits next to you until you stop crying.

“You wanna talk about it?” He mutters, and when you shake your head he doesn’t push it.

Morning comes—you don’t remember falling asleep—and the room smells like him. You can feel the phantom of his touch, on the back of your neck as he soothed you.

And neither of you speak about it again.

This girl Ellie like to sit with you during lunch. You’ve spoken to her parents about it, and they don’t mind. You’ve got a deal that she has to eat with the other kids once a week—it’s good for her to make friends her age—but otherwise she’s welcome to eat at your side.

She asks a lot of questions. You usually enjoy answering them. They’re rather funny, like what kind of dinosaur are you and why aren’t there sharks on land and look at me do this spin, isn’t it cool?

Today, though Ellie’s question is not funny at all.

She says your name, licking peanut butter off her fingers. “Do you have a husband?”

You sigh. Nice reminder. “No, I don’t.”

“Hm.” Ellie peers at you, as if you could be lying. “Do you have a boyfriend.”

You shake your head, and Ellie wrinkles her nose.

“Do you have a wife?”

“No. I’m single, El.”

Ellie recoils like you told her you eat babies.

“Why?”

“Because. Adult reasons.”

Ellie seems to deem this an acceptable—if not ridiculous—answer, and moves on to asking you what your favorite kind of jelly is. Hers is grape. She’s in a big everything purple is the best phase, and later that afternoon you end up with a drawing of a purple dinosaur shoved into your hands.

“That’s cute.” Dean says when you come home. “Ellie again?”

“Yep.” You add it to your corkboard, and Dean chuckles.

“That kid adores you.”

“I’m good at my job.”

“I know you are.”

You glance over your shoulder, and find him grinning at you. It’s rather unfair.

He’s staring, too. It makes you feel all prickly in a very unproductive way. In your head, you get on your knees and crawl towards him, showing him exactly what happens when he looks at you like that. In reality, you get antsy and snap.

“What?”

“Nothing.” He shrugs. “Just- It’s nice. That you’re so good at it.”

“At the thing I get paid for.”

“At, uh- Kids.”

“At kids?”

“Yeah. I mean- You’d be- It’s-“ Dean cuts himself off, running a hand over his face. “Never mind.”

He goes to take a twenty minute shower. Not that you mean to time it.

Your body just always seems to know exactly how long he’s away from you. It’s getting to be a problem.

You might need help.

“If you ever tell him we did this.” You hiss. “I’ll fucking throttle you.”

“Oooh.” Charlie beams. “Kinky.”

You snort, kicking her leg under the table.

Dean’s out for the night. Something about some old friends being in town.

Usually, you’re invited to meet his other friends. Tonight, you were not, and you’re trying not to think about it.

That’s never something you’ve been good at doing. You count yourself rather lucky, that Charlie declared you far more interesting than Dean and Benny, and decided to stay home.

You told her she didn’t have to.

“Yes, I do.” She’d shrugged. “Otherwise Dean would come home and find you Beautiful Minding about why you weren’t invited.”

You wish she wasn’t so completely correct. You’d been alone for ten minutes between Dean leaving and Charlie coming over, and started to pace like you were being kept in a prison cell.

But why wouldn’t he invite you? Why would Dean bring you everywhere, and call you his best friend, then not want you to meet his other friends? He must think Benny wouldn’t like you, but if he thinks that, Dean might not actually like that all that much. Or he wants to hookup with someone tonight, which he’s never had a problem telling you before, but a small, foolish part of you had been convinced he’d stopped sleeping around, and convinced that meant something, and if it’s not true then nothing means anything-

“He makes you spiral.” Charlie says, tapping the paper in front of you.

You frown. “He does not make me spiral.”

Charlie says your name, dry and bored. “I just watched your eyes get all crazy, and I’d bet all my swords you were thinking about Dean.”

“I- That’s not-“ You flush. “I spiral about everything, it just happened to be about Dean this time. He’s not special.”

“Uh huh. Write it down.”

You scowl, but scratch makes me spiral into the cons column. You don’t like it there. The words looks all jagged and ugly and unfair.

You add a little asterisk. But I spiral about everything.

Charlie sighs, but doesn’t argue. “Okay, now do a pro-“

She doesn’t finish speaking before you’re scrawling sweet. Then hot. Then funny, and thoughtful, and kind-

“Kind and sweet are the same-“

“No, they’re not. Kind is when he opens the door for me and helps random old ladies carry their bags.” You chew on your lower lip, tapping the pencil against the paper. “Sweet is when he holds my hair back and says I look nice.”

Charlie pretends to gag. You ignore her.

“You have to add two more cons.”

“I don’t have any more cons-“

“You have to have cons.” Charlie mutters. “I’m going to blow my brains out if you don’t have cons.”

That’s a little dramatic. You roll your eyes, and try to think of cons. Charlie suggests anger issues, and you write it down to appease her. You’re certain if you tell her he had PTSD, and he always walks away from me when he’s getting angry so he doesn’t take it out on me, you’re going to get punched in the face.

Pro, he’s in good shape from his job. Con, he’s in good shape despite his eating habits. Pro, he eats healthy when you bully him into it. Con, he whines like a little bitch about it. Pro, it’s very cute when he pouts like a toddler over a few carrots. His lips get all puckered and his nose scrunches. He grumbles and whines, glowering when you try to play here comes the air plane, then inhales everything like a human vacuum so he doesn’t have to taste it.

Pro. He listens to you.

By the time you’re done with the pros and cons list, there’s a gleam of horror in Charlie’s eyes. You’re not to happy with it either.

“There have to be more cons.” Charlie mutters, flipping the paper over like she might find some underneath. “Shit, I came up with like half of these, you were supposed to come up with them yourself.”

“Sorry.” You mumble, and Charlie snorts.

“No, you’re not. Jesus, you’re like so in love with him- Are you sure he hasn’t been drugging you-“

“If he has, he’s not being very proactive about it.”

Charlie snorts, but shakes her head, giving you an almost desperate look. “You can’t be this in love with Dean. It’s Dean.”

“I know.” You whine. “This was supposed to help, Charlie. You said it would help.”

“I didn’t know it was this bad!”

“Of course it’s this bad, he’s amazing-“

“I’ve known him for seven years! He’s a loser, and- And a dork, and- And once I saw him almost choke on marshmallows, you can’t be this in love with a man who chokes on marshmallows!”

“Was he playing chubby bunny?”

“Yeah, but-“

“We do that together sometimes.” You mumble, smiling at your hands. “He can fit so many in his mouth.”

Charlie groans, standing up to pace around the room. And you know how pathetic this is. If it was a switch you could just flip off, you would. But love for Dean has started to line itself over all your most vital organs, and you think ripping it out would just make your whole body unravel.

You burn the pros and cons paper. If you keep it and Dean finds it, you’d have to jump off the roof in ritual suicide.

“You should start saying no to him.” Charlie mutters, watching the ash crawl through the air. “When he asks you to do stuff or whatever. Maybe that’ll help.”

Maybe it will. You hum an agreement, but hug yourself tight because you already know.

It won’t. But you admire Charlie for having enough faith, to think that this is a disease you’d allow yourself to be cured of.

✦Chapter Seven✦

✦End note: sometimes you just need fluff y'know ✦

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

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

Work is a welcome distraction. It’s hard to be lovelorn and shredded from it when there’s a six year old babbling about the dinosaur he drew this morning.

Hard.

Not impossible.

You, of course, somehow manage to remain torn apart.

It doesn’t help that Dean’s everywhere in your heart, and it leaks up into your brain like an oil spill. All consuming and lined with false little rainbows. Family’s pick up their children at the end of the day, and you picture yourself on Dean’s arm, smiling as easily as the couples. A mom says my husband with a shine of pride, and you bite down the urge to call Dean the same. A dad rambles about how his wife, quite brilliantly, suggested they start using a new system to help their daughter count.

You wonder if Dean would ever speak of you, as if the sun only shined so that you might feel its warmth.

In your dreams, he does. In your head, Dean speaks of you as if the world should be blessed to have you walking upon it.

In real life, Dean’s hand grazes your lower back when he reaches over you to grab something from the cabinet, and you spend the rest of the day touching the spot to try and press the feeling into your nerves forever. It’s tingly and warm, licking up your spine and pooling in your core.

From a single fucking touch.

You think you might be close to losing your mind.

It’s one of those weeks. Between the everything of Dean and crazy parents, you’re on the brink of snapping. The only solace you get is during nap time, when you crouch at one of the drawing tables.

Then you come home. And he’s just there, in all his glory.

“Long day at work?” He teases when you kick off your shoes, and you flip him off. “The tykes overtake you? Like Chicken Run?”

You grumble, flopping next to him on the couch. “I hate that movie.”

“I know. Makes it funnier.”

Dean’s arm goes around you. Around the couch.

Which has you on it. Basically around you.

“Come on, sweetheart.” He flicks your nose, and you pretend to bite his finger. “Jesus, they got you, made you feral-“

“Shut up.” You roll your eyes, sinking into the couch with a smile. “You’re not going to get your gift.”

That makes him perk up. Like waving a bone in front of a dog. Too easy.

“Hey, woah, I didn’t know there were gifts, I can be on good behavior for gifts.”

You snort. “You know, the five-year-olds do it because they like me and respect me.”

“I like you and respect you-“

“You poked me.”

“And,” he gestures to a bowl on the coffee table. “Made you dinner.”

You blink at the food. It had been such a long day. You hadn’t even seen it.

The small gesture makes you sniffle. Dean’s face falls, and you shake your head, batting off his concern.

“It’s fine- I’m fine-“

“Sweetheart.”

“Made this for you.” You mumble, shoving the gift into his hands before running to your room.

The drawing you made at naptime. It’s a crude scribble of some ducks in a little line, a bigger one at the front. Wearing his leather jacket.

It had been a joke. It doesn’t feel like one anymore.

And Dean doesn’t mention it, when he follows you. You don’t even know what he does with it.

You know he sits next to you until you stop crying.

“You wanna talk about it?” He mutters, and when you shake your head he doesn’t push it.

Morning comes—you don’t remember falling asleep—and the room smells like him. You can feel the phantom of his touch, on the back of your neck as he soothed you.

And neither of you speak about it again.

This girl Ellie like to sit with you during lunch. You’ve spoken to her parents about it, and they don’t mind. You’ve got a deal that she has to eat with the other kids once a week—it’s good for her to make friends her age—but otherwise she’s welcome to eat at your side.

She asks a lot of questions. You usually enjoy answering them. They’re rather funny, like what kind of dinosaur are you and why aren’t there sharks on land and look at me do this spin, isn’t it cool?

Today, though Ellie’s question is not funny at all.

She says your name, licking peanut butter off her fingers. “Do you have a husband?”

You sigh. Nice reminder. “No, I don’t.”

“Hm.” Ellie peers at you, as if you could be lying. “Do you have a boyfriend.”

You shake your head, and Ellie wrinkles her nose.

“Do you have a wife?”

“No. I’m single, El.”

Ellie recoils like you told her you eat babies.

“Why?”

“Because. Adult reasons.”

Ellie seems to deem this an acceptable—if not ridiculous—answer, and moves on to asking you what your favorite kind of jelly is. Hers is grape. She’s in a big everything purple is the best phase, and later that afternoon you end up with a drawing of a purple dinosaur shoved into your hands.

“That’s cute.” Dean says when you come home. “Ellie again?”

“Yep.” You add it to your corkboard, and Dean chuckles.

“That kid adores you.”

“I’m good at my job.”

“I know you are.”

You glance over your shoulder, and find him grinning at you. It’s rather unfair.

He’s staring, too. It makes you feel all prickly in a very unproductive way. In your head, you get on your knees and crawl towards him, showing him exactly what happens when he looks at you like that. In reality, you get antsy and snap.

“What?”

“Nothing.” He shrugs. “Just- It’s nice. That you’re so good at it.”

“At the thing I get paid for.”

“At, uh- Kids.”

“At kids?”

“Yeah. I mean- You’d be- It’s-“ Dean cuts himself off, running a hand over his face. “Never mind.”

He goes to take a twenty minute shower. Not that you mean to time it.

Your body just always seems to know exactly how long he’s away from you. It’s getting to be a problem.

You might need help.

“If you ever tell him we did this.” You hiss. “I’ll fucking throttle you.”

“Oooh.” Charlie beams. “Kinky.”

You snort, kicking her leg under the table.

Dean’s out for the night. Something about some old friends being in town.

Usually, you’re invited to meet his other friends. Tonight, you were not, and you’re trying not to think about it.

That’s never something you’ve been good at doing. You count yourself rather lucky, that Charlie declared you far more interesting than Dean and Benny, and decided to stay home.

You told her she didn’t have to.

“Yes, I do.” She’d shrugged. “Otherwise Dean would come home and find you Beautiful Minding about why you weren’t invited.”

You wish she wasn’t so completely correct. You’d been alone for ten minutes between Dean leaving and Charlie coming over, and started to pace like you were being kept in a prison cell.

But why wouldn’t he invite you? Why would Dean bring you everywhere, and call you his best friend, then not want you to meet his other friends? He must think Benny wouldn’t like you, but if he thinks that, Dean might not actually like that all that much. Or he wants to hookup with someone tonight, which he’s never had a problem telling you before, but a small, foolish part of you had been convinced he’d stopped sleeping around, and convinced that meant something, and if it’s not true then nothing means anything-

“He makes you spiral.” Charlie says, tapping the paper in front of you.

You frown. “He does not make me spiral.”

Charlie says your name, dry and bored. “I just watched your eyes get all crazy, and I’d bet all my swords you were thinking about Dean.”

“I- That’s not-“ You flush. “I spiral about everything, it just happened to be about Dean this time. He’s not special.”

“Uh huh. Write it down.”

You scowl, but scratch makes me spiral into the cons column. You don’t like it there. The words looks all jagged and ugly and unfair.

You add a little asterisk. But I spiral about everything.

Charlie sighs, but doesn’t argue. “Okay, now do a pro-“

She doesn’t finish speaking before you’re scrawling sweet. Then hot. Then funny, and thoughtful, and kind-

“Kind and sweet are the same-“

“No, they’re not. Kind is when he opens the door for me and helps random old ladies carry their bags.” You chew on your lower lip, tapping the pencil against the paper. “Sweet is when he holds my hair back and says I look nice.”

Charlie pretends to gag. You ignore her.

“You have to add two more cons.”

“I don’t have any more cons-“

“You have to have cons.” Charlie mutters. “I’m going to blow my brains out if you don’t have cons.”

That’s a little dramatic. You roll your eyes, and try to think of cons. Charlie suggests anger issues, and you write it down to appease her. You’re certain if you tell her he had PTSD, and he always walks away from me when he’s getting angry so he doesn’t take it out on me, you’re going to get punched in the face.

Pro, he’s in good shape from his job. Con, he’s in good shape despite his eating habits. Pro, he eats healthy when you bully him into it. Con, he whines like a little bitch about it. Pro, it’s very cute when he pouts like a toddler over a few carrots. His lips get all puckered and his nose scrunches. He grumbles and whines, glowering when you try to play here comes the air plane, then inhales everything like a human vacuum so he doesn’t have to taste it.

Pro. He listens to you.

By the time you’re done with the pros and cons list, there’s a gleam of horror in Charlie’s eyes. You’re not to happy with it either.

“There have to be more cons.” Charlie mutters, flipping the paper over like she might find some underneath. “Shit, I came up with like half of these, you were supposed to come up with them yourself.”

“Sorry.” You mumble, and Charlie snorts.

“No, you’re not. Jesus, you’re like so in love with him- Are you sure he hasn’t been drugging you-“

“If he has, he’s not being very proactive about it.”

Charlie snorts, but shakes her head, giving you an almost desperate look. “You can’t be this in love with Dean. It’s Dean.”

“I know.” You whine. “This was supposed to help, Charlie. You said it would help.”

“I didn’t know it was this bad!”

“Of course it’s this bad, he’s amazing-“

“I’ve known him for seven years! He’s a loser, and- And a dork, and- And once I saw him almost choke on marshmallows, you can’t be this in love with a man who chokes on marshmallows!”

“Was he playing chubby bunny?”

“Yeah, but-“

“We do that together sometimes.” You mumble, smiling at your hands. “He can fit so many in his mouth.”

Charlie groans, standing up to pace around the room. And you know how pathetic this is. If it was a switch you could just flip off, you would. But love for Dean has started to line itself over all your most vital organs, and you think ripping it out would just make your whole body unravel.

You burn the pros and cons paper. If you keep it and Dean finds it, you’d have to jump off the roof in ritual suicide.

“You should start saying no to him.” Charlie mutters, watching the ash crawl through the air. “When he asks you to do stuff or whatever. Maybe that’ll help.”

Maybe it will. You hum an agreement, but hug yourself tight because you already know.

It won’t. But you admire Charlie for having enough faith, to think that this is a disease you’d allow yourself to be cured of.

✦Chapter Seven✦

✦End note: sometimes you just need fluff y'know ✦

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

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

Work is a welcome distraction. It’s hard to be lovelorn and shredded from it when there’s a six year old babbling about the dinosaur he drew this morning.

Hard.

Not impossible.

You, of course, somehow manage to remain torn apart.

It doesn’t help that Dean’s everywhere in your heart, and it leaks up into your brain like an oil spill. All consuming and lined with false little rainbows. Family’s pick up their children at the end of the day, and you picture yourself on Dean’s arm, smiling as easily as the couples. A mom says my husband with a shine of pride, and you bite down the urge to call Dean the same. A dad rambles about how his wife, quite brilliantly, suggested they start using a new system to help their daughter count.

You wonder if Dean would ever speak of you, as if the sun only shined so that you might feel its warmth.

In your dreams, he does. In your head, Dean speaks of you as if the world should be blessed to have you walking upon it.

In real life, Dean’s hand grazes your lower back when he reaches over you to grab something from the cabinet, and you spend the rest of the day touching the spot to try and press the feeling into your nerves forever. It’s tingly and warm, licking up your spine and pooling in your core.

From a single fucking touch.

You think you might be close to losing your mind.

It’s one of those weeks. Between the everything of Dean and crazy parents, you’re on the brink of snapping. The only solace you get is during nap time, when you crouch at one of the drawing tables.

Then you come home. And he’s just there, in all his glory.

“Long day at work?” He teases when you kick off your shoes, and you flip him off. “The tykes overtake you? Like Chicken Run?”

You grumble, flopping next to him on the couch. “I hate that movie.”

“I know. Makes it funnier.”

Dean’s arm goes around you. Around the couch.

Which has you on it. Basically around you.

“Come on, sweetheart.” He flicks your nose, and you pretend to bite his finger. “Jesus, they got you, made you feral-“

“Shut up.” You roll your eyes, sinking into the couch with a smile. “You’re not going to get your gift.”

That makes him perk up. Like waving a bone in front of a dog. Too easy.

“Hey, woah, I didn’t know there were gifts, I can be on good behavior for gifts.”

You snort. “You know, the five-year-olds do it because they like me and respect me.”

“I like you and respect you-“

“You poked me.”

“And,” he gestures to a bowl on the coffee table. “Made you dinner.”

You blink at the food. It had been such a long day. You hadn’t even seen it.

The small gesture makes you sniffle. Dean’s face falls, and you shake your head, batting off his concern.

“It’s fine- I’m fine-“

“Sweetheart.”

“Made this for you.” You mumble, shoving the gift into his hands before running to your room.

The drawing you made at naptime. It’s a crude scribble of some ducks in a little line, a bigger one at the front. Wearing his leather jacket.

It had been a joke. It doesn’t feel like one anymore.

And Dean doesn’t mention it, when he follows you. You don’t even know what he does with it.

You know he sits next to you until you stop crying.

“You wanna talk about it?” He mutters, and when you shake your head he doesn’t push it.

Morning comes—you don’t remember falling asleep—and the room smells like him. You can feel the phantom of his touch, on the back of your neck as he soothed you.

And neither of you speak about it again.

This girl Ellie like to sit with you during lunch. You’ve spoken to her parents about it, and they don’t mind. You’ve got a deal that she has to eat with the other kids once a week—it’s good for her to make friends her age—but otherwise she’s welcome to eat at your side.

She asks a lot of questions. You usually enjoy answering them. They’re rather funny, like what kind of dinosaur are you and why aren’t there sharks on land and look at me do this spin, isn’t it cool?

Today, though Ellie’s question is not funny at all.

She says your name, licking peanut butter off her fingers. “Do you have a husband?”

You sigh. Nice reminder. “No, I don’t.”

“Hm.” Ellie peers at you, as if you could be lying. “Do you have a boyfriend.”

You shake your head, and Ellie wrinkles her nose.

“Do you have a wife?”

“No. I’m single, El.”

Ellie recoils like you told her you eat babies.

“Why?”

“Because. Adult reasons.”

Ellie seems to deem this an acceptable—if not ridiculous—answer, and moves on to asking you what your favorite kind of jelly is. Hers is grape. She’s in a big everything purple is the best phase, and later that afternoon you end up with a drawing of a purple dinosaur shoved into your hands.

“That’s cute.” Dean says when you come home. “Ellie again?”

“Yep.” You add it to your corkboard, and Dean chuckles.

“That kid adores you.”

“I’m good at my job.”

“I know you are.”

You glance over your shoulder, and find him grinning at you. It’s rather unfair.

He’s staring, too. It makes you feel all prickly in a very unproductive way. In your head, you get on your knees and crawl towards him, showing him exactly what happens when he looks at you like that. In reality, you get antsy and snap.

“What?”

“Nothing.” He shrugs. “Just- It’s nice. That you’re so good at it.”

“At the thing I get paid for.”

“At, uh- Kids.”

“At kids?”

“Yeah. I mean- You’d be- It’s-“ Dean cuts himself off, running a hand over his face. “Never mind.”

He goes to take a twenty minute shower. Not that you mean to time it.

Your body just always seems to know exactly how long he’s away from you. It’s getting to be a problem.

You might need help.

“If you ever tell him we did this.” You hiss. “I’ll fucking throttle you.”

“Oooh.” Charlie beams. “Kinky.”

You snort, kicking her leg under the table.

Dean’s out for the night. Something about some old friends being in town.

Usually, you’re invited to meet his other friends. Tonight, you were not, and you’re trying not to think about it.

That’s never something you’ve been good at doing. You count yourself rather lucky, that Charlie declared you far more interesting than Dean and Benny, and decided to stay home.

You told her she didn’t have to.

“Yes, I do.” She’d shrugged. “Otherwise Dean would come home and find you Beautiful Minding about why you weren’t invited.”

You wish she wasn’t so completely correct. You’d been alone for ten minutes between Dean leaving and Charlie coming over, and started to pace like you were being kept in a prison cell.

But why wouldn’t he invite you? Why would Dean bring you everywhere, and call you his best friend, then not want you to meet his other friends? He must think Benny wouldn’t like you, but if he thinks that, Dean might not actually like that all that much. Or he wants to hookup with someone tonight, which he’s never had a problem telling you before, but a small, foolish part of you had been convinced he’d stopped sleeping around, and convinced that meant something, and if it’s not true then nothing means anything-

“He makes you spiral.” Charlie says, tapping the paper in front of you.

You frown. “He does not make me spiral.”

Charlie says your name, dry and bored. “I just watched your eyes get all crazy, and I’d bet all my swords you were thinking about Dean.”

“I- That’s not-“ You flush. “I spiral about everything, it just happened to be about Dean this time. He’s not special.”

“Uh huh. Write it down.”

You scowl, but scratch makes me spiral into the cons column. You don’t like it there. The words looks all jagged and ugly and unfair.

You add a little asterisk. But I spiral about everything.

Charlie sighs, but doesn’t argue. “Okay, now do a pro-“

She doesn’t finish speaking before you’re scrawling sweet. Then hot. Then funny, and thoughtful, and kind-

“Kind and sweet are the same-“

“No, they’re not. Kind is when he opens the door for me and helps random old ladies carry their bags.” You chew on your lower lip, tapping the pencil against the paper. “Sweet is when he holds my hair back and says I look nice.”

Charlie pretends to gag. You ignore her.

“You have to add two more cons.”

“I don’t have any more cons-“

“You have to have cons.” Charlie mutters. “I’m going to blow my brains out if you don’t have cons.”

That’s a little dramatic. You roll your eyes, and try to think of cons. Charlie suggests anger issues, and you write it down to appease her. You’re certain if you tell her he had PTSD, and he always walks away from me when he’s getting angry so he doesn’t take it out on me, you’re going to get punched in the face.

Pro, he’s in good shape from his job. Con, he’s in good shape despite his eating habits. Pro, he eats healthy when you bully him into it. Con, he whines like a little bitch about it. Pro, it’s very cute when he pouts like a toddler over a few carrots. His lips get all puckered and his nose scrunches. He grumbles and whines, glowering when you try to play here comes the air plane, then inhales everything like a human vacuum so he doesn’t have to taste it.

Pro. He listens to you.

By the time you’re done with the pros and cons list, there’s a gleam of horror in Charlie’s eyes. You’re not to happy with it either.

“There have to be more cons.” Charlie mutters, flipping the paper over like she might find some underneath. “Shit, I came up with like half of these, you were supposed to come up with them yourself.”

“Sorry.” You mumble, and Charlie snorts.

“No, you’re not. Jesus, you’re like so in love with him- Are you sure he hasn’t been drugging you-“

“If he has, he’s not being very proactive about it.”

Charlie snorts, but shakes her head, giving you an almost desperate look. “You can’t be this in love with Dean. It’s Dean.”

“I know.” You whine. “This was supposed to help, Charlie. You said it would help.”

“I didn’t know it was this bad!”

“Of course it’s this bad, he’s amazing-“

“I’ve known him for seven years! He’s a loser, and- And a dork, and- And once I saw him almost choke on marshmallows, you can’t be this in love with a man who chokes on marshmallows!”

“Was he playing chubby bunny?”

“Yeah, but-“

“We do that together sometimes.” You mumble, smiling at your hands. “He can fit so many in his mouth.”

Charlie groans, standing up to pace around the room. And you know how pathetic this is. If it was a switch you could just flip off, you would. But love for Dean has started to line itself over all your most vital organs, and you think ripping it out would just make your whole body unravel.

You burn the pros and cons paper. If you keep it and Dean finds it, you’d have to jump off the roof in ritual suicide.

“You should start saying no to him.” Charlie mutters, watching the ash crawl through the air. “When he asks you to do stuff or whatever. Maybe that’ll help.”

Maybe it will. You hum an agreement, but hug yourself tight because you already know.

It won’t. But you admire Charlie for having enough faith, to think that this is a disease you’d allow yourself to be cured of.

✦Chapter Seven✦

✦End note: sometimes you just need fluff y'know ✦

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

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

Work is a welcome distraction. It’s hard to be lovelorn and shredded from it when there’s a six year old babbling about the dinosaur he drew this morning.

Hard.

Not impossible.

You, of course, somehow manage to remain torn apart.

It doesn’t help that Dean’s everywhere in your heart, and it leaks up into your brain like an oil spill. All consuming and lined with false little rainbows. Family’s pick up their children at the end of the day, and you picture yourself on Dean’s arm, smiling as easily as the couples. A mom says my husband with a shine of pride, and you bite down the urge to call Dean the same. A dad rambles about how his wife, quite brilliantly, suggested they start using a new system to help their daughter count.

You wonder if Dean would ever speak of you, as if the sun only shined so that you might feel its warmth.

In your dreams, he does. In your head, Dean speaks of you as if the world should be blessed to have you walking upon it.

In real life, Dean’s hand grazes your lower back when he reaches over you to grab something from the cabinet, and you spend the rest of the day touching the spot to try and press the feeling into your nerves forever. It’s tingly and warm, licking up your spine and pooling in your core.

From a single fucking touch.

You think you might be close to losing your mind.

It’s one of those weeks. Between the everything of Dean and crazy parents, you’re on the brink of snapping. The only solace you get is during nap time, when you crouch at one of the drawing tables.

Then you come home. And he’s just there, in all his glory.

“Long day at work?” He teases when you kick off your shoes, and you flip him off. “The tykes overtake you? Like Chicken Run?”

You grumble, flopping next to him on the couch. “I hate that movie.”

“I know. Makes it funnier.”

Dean’s arm goes around you. Around the couch.

Which has you on it. Basically around you.

“Come on, sweetheart.” He flicks your nose, and you pretend to bite his finger. “Jesus, they got you, made you feral-“

“Shut up.” You roll your eyes, sinking into the couch with a smile. “You’re not going to get your gift.”

That makes him perk up. Like waving a bone in front of a dog. Too easy.

“Hey, woah, I didn’t know there were gifts, I can be on good behavior for gifts.”

You snort. “You know, the five-year-olds do it because they like me and respect me.”

“I like you and respect you-“

“You poked me.”

“And,” he gestures to a bowl on the coffee table. “Made you dinner.”

You blink at the food. It had been such a long day. You hadn’t even seen it.

The small gesture makes you sniffle. Dean’s face falls, and you shake your head, batting off his concern.

“It’s fine- I’m fine-“

“Sweetheart.”

“Made this for you.” You mumble, shoving the gift into his hands before running to your room.

The drawing you made at naptime. It’s a crude scribble of some ducks in a little line, a bigger one at the front. Wearing his leather jacket.

It had been a joke. It doesn’t feel like one anymore.

And Dean doesn’t mention it, when he follows you. You don’t even know what he does with it.

You know he sits next to you until you stop crying.

“You wanna talk about it?” He mutters, and when you shake your head he doesn’t push it.

Morning comes—you don’t remember falling asleep—and the room smells like him. You can feel the phantom of his touch, on the back of your neck as he soothed you.

And neither of you speak about it again.

This girl Ellie like to sit with you during lunch. You’ve spoken to her parents about it, and they don’t mind. You’ve got a deal that she has to eat with the other kids once a week—it’s good for her to make friends her age—but otherwise she’s welcome to eat at your side.

She asks a lot of questions. You usually enjoy answering them. They’re rather funny, like what kind of dinosaur are you and why aren’t there sharks on land and look at me do this spin, isn’t it cool?

Today, though Ellie’s question is not funny at all.

She says your name, licking peanut butter off her fingers. “Do you have a husband?”

You sigh. Nice reminder. “No, I don’t.”

“Hm.” Ellie peers at you, as if you could be lying. “Do you have a boyfriend.”

You shake your head, and Ellie wrinkles her nose.

“Do you have a wife?”

“No. I’m single, El.”

Ellie recoils like you told her you eat babies.

“Why?”

“Because. Adult reasons.”

Ellie seems to deem this an acceptable—if not ridiculous—answer, and moves on to asking you what your favorite kind of jelly is. Hers is grape. She’s in a big everything purple is the best phase, and later that afternoon you end up with a drawing of a purple dinosaur shoved into your hands.

“That’s cute.” Dean says when you come home. “Ellie again?”

“Yep.” You add it to your corkboard, and Dean chuckles.

“That kid adores you.”

“I’m good at my job.”

“I know you are.”

You glance over your shoulder, and find him grinning at you. It’s rather unfair.

He’s staring, too. It makes you feel all prickly in a very unproductive way. In your head, you get on your knees and crawl towards him, showing him exactly what happens when he looks at you like that. In reality, you get antsy and snap.

“What?”

“Nothing.” He shrugs. “Just- It’s nice. That you’re so good at it.”

“At the thing I get paid for.”

“At, uh- Kids.”

“At kids?”

“Yeah. I mean- You’d be- It’s-“ Dean cuts himself off, running a hand over his face. “Never mind.”

He goes to take a twenty minute shower. Not that you mean to time it.

Your body just always seems to know exactly how long he’s away from you. It’s getting to be a problem.

You might need help.

“If you ever tell him we did this.” You hiss. “I’ll fucking throttle you.”

“Oooh.” Charlie beams. “Kinky.”

You snort, kicking her leg under the table.

Dean’s out for the night. Something about some old friends being in town.

Usually, you’re invited to meet his other friends. Tonight, you were not, and you’re trying not to think about it.

That’s never something you’ve been good at doing. You count yourself rather lucky, that Charlie declared you far more interesting than Dean and Benny, and decided to stay home.

You told her she didn’t have to.

“Yes, I do.” She’d shrugged. “Otherwise Dean would come home and find you Beautiful Minding about why you weren’t invited.”

You wish she wasn’t so completely correct. You’d been alone for ten minutes between Dean leaving and Charlie coming over, and started to pace like you were being kept in a prison cell.

But why wouldn’t he invite you? Why would Dean bring you everywhere, and call you his best friend, then not want you to meet his other friends? He must think Benny wouldn’t like you, but if he thinks that, Dean might not actually like that all that much. Or he wants to hookup with someone tonight, which he’s never had a problem telling you before, but a small, foolish part of you had been convinced he’d stopped sleeping around, and convinced that meant something, and if it’s not true then nothing means anything-

“He makes you spiral.” Charlie says, tapping the paper in front of you.

You frown. “He does not make me spiral.”

Charlie says your name, dry and bored. “I just watched your eyes get all crazy, and I’d bet all my swords you were thinking about Dean.”

“I- That’s not-“ You flush. “I spiral about everything, it just happened to be about Dean this time. He’s not special.”

“Uh huh. Write it down.”

You scowl, but scratch makes me spiral into the cons column. You don’t like it there. The words looks all jagged and ugly and unfair.

You add a little asterisk. But I spiral about everything.

Charlie sighs, but doesn’t argue. “Okay, now do a pro-“

She doesn’t finish speaking before you’re scrawling sweet. Then hot. Then funny, and thoughtful, and kind-

“Kind and sweet are the same-“

“No, they’re not. Kind is when he opens the door for me and helps random old ladies carry their bags.” You chew on your lower lip, tapping the pencil against the paper. “Sweet is when he holds my hair back and says I look nice.”

Charlie pretends to gag. You ignore her.

“You have to add two more cons.”

“I don’t have any more cons-“

“You have to have cons.” Charlie mutters. “I’m going to blow my brains out if you don’t have cons.”

That’s a little dramatic. You roll your eyes, and try to think of cons. Charlie suggests anger issues, and you write it down to appease her. You’re certain if you tell her he had PTSD, and he always walks away from me when he’s getting angry so he doesn’t take it out on me, you’re going to get punched in the face.

Pro, he’s in good shape from his job. Con, he’s in good shape despite his eating habits. Pro, he eats healthy when you bully him into it. Con, he whines like a little bitch about it. Pro, it’s very cute when he pouts like a toddler over a few carrots. His lips get all puckered and his nose scrunches. He grumbles and whines, glowering when you try to play here comes the air plane, then inhales everything like a human vacuum so he doesn’t have to taste it.

Pro. He listens to you.

By the time you’re done with the pros and cons list, there’s a gleam of horror in Charlie’s eyes. You’re not to happy with it either.

“There have to be more cons.” Charlie mutters, flipping the paper over like she might find some underneath. “Shit, I came up with like half of these, you were supposed to come up with them yourself.”

“Sorry.” You mumble, and Charlie snorts.

“No, you’re not. Jesus, you’re like so in love with him- Are you sure he hasn’t been drugging you-“

“If he has, he’s not being very proactive about it.”

Charlie snorts, but shakes her head, giving you an almost desperate look. “You can’t be this in love with Dean. It’s Dean.”

“I know.” You whine. “This was supposed to help, Charlie. You said it would help.”

“I didn’t know it was this bad!”

“Of course it’s this bad, he’s amazing-“

“I’ve known him for seven years! He’s a loser, and- And a dork, and- And once I saw him almost choke on marshmallows, you can’t be this in love with a man who chokes on marshmallows!”

“Was he playing chubby bunny?”

“Yeah, but-“

“We do that together sometimes.” You mumble, smiling at your hands. “He can fit so many in his mouth.”

Charlie groans, standing up to pace around the room. And you know how pathetic this is. If it was a switch you could just flip off, you would. But love for Dean has started to line itself over all your most vital organs, and you think ripping it out would just make your whole body unravel.

You burn the pros and cons paper. If you keep it and Dean finds it, you’d have to jump off the roof in ritual suicide.

“You should start saying no to him.” Charlie mutters, watching the ash crawl through the air. “When he asks you to do stuff or whatever. Maybe that’ll help.”

Maybe it will. You hum an agreement, but hug yourself tight because you already know.

It won’t. But you admire Charlie for having enough faith, to think that this is a disease you’d allow yourself to be cured of.

✦Chapter Seven✦

✦End note: sometimes you just need fluff y'know ✦

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

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

Almost none of you.

Steve’s is cleaner than a freshly waxed and plucked floor. Steve’s letter is perfect. He’s perfect. He’s the Golden Boy, designed in a bottle to be likable and confident and collected. Camera’s flash and his smile is whiter than the moon, and more blinding than the sun. He claps Tony on the back after a slightly mocking joke, clearly unfazed. He places his hand on Nat’s lower back in the most gentlemanly way possible, and everyone swoons like he’s some movie star.

He sits next to you on one of these panels you’re not allowed to skip—you tried to, and Clint dragged you to the helicopter like some misbehaving child—and ignores you all together. A tiny nod and smile for the cameras. Stiff shoulders that square away from you, like if he blocks you out, you’ll just vanish in the hazy lights.

He’d like it, if that happened. He’d probably throw a fucking party.

Because you don’t know why. You don’t know what you did. But Steve Rogers hates you, and no one even thought he was capable of that emotion.

It started the first time Nat dragged you in, spitting and weary like a feral cat. She’d given Steve and Tony the brief on your powers. Said that you had a good heart—although she hadn’t done an x-ray, so you have no idea how she was so sure—and asked to keep you.

Asked.

Natasha didn’t ask for anything. She said it like a question, and fixed Steve and Tony with the most terrifying glare in the world. Tony had shrugged, and Steve had tried to protest. Nat had crossed her arms and flicked her brows up in a silent challenge. Steve had swallowed, looked at you with a strange gleam in his eyes, and given up. He’d left the room with a grumble, not sparing you another glance. Tony would tell you later—after you annoyed it out of him—that he’d spent a month trying to talk Nat out of you. Like a toy he didn’t want her to be playing with.

You hadn’t said a single word. Natasha hadn’t told him anything about your past. And he still hadn’t wanted you there.

“Rogers,” you murmur, smiling at the flashing lights that—supposedly—have people behind them.

You’ve come to think of them more as vultures. They’d like to pick you apart and eat out whatever kind of black, charred thing you’re made of. You never give them the satisfaction.

Steve says your name, low and flat. His attention flits over, scanning you from the corner of his eye. You catch his gaze, and he looks away just as fast.

You roll your eyes and huff, slumping back in your seat. You drum your fingers on the smooth, deep blue cloth of the table. They gave you a water bottle. Maybe if you drink it fast enough, you can just go pee and skip this whole thing-

“Sit up.”

Steve speaks so low you almost don’t hear him. You frown at his profile—stupid clean jawline and strong features—and slump further in your seat. Just to test him. Just to make him twitch.

There aren’t a lot of things you find pride in. Being able to get under Steve’s skin is one of them.

He notices immediately, and shoots you a glare. You snort, and his eyes narrow.

“I told you to sit up-“

“I heard you.”

“And you didn’t listen?” Someone shouts his name. He turns to flash them that look at me, aren’t I perfect? Smile, and you try not to gag.

“You’re not my boss.” You hiss through your teeth, smiling at the people shouting your name.

Steve makes a low, rough sound in his throat. “I am your boss.”

“No. I work under Nat.”

“Who works for me-“

“Does she?”

Steve shoots you another look, and this time you giggle. He’s still smiling, through every single glare. It looks psychotic.

He doesn’t even try to reprimand you this time. He just sighs dramatically and looks back to the crowd. You sit up, but not because he told you to. You’re not another one of his dogs.

Because there’s one more rule about being an Avenger. About being an American.

No one hates Steve Rogers.

He’s an angel. A blessing. His pretty boy face and classy words and pure heart. He never falters, never gives up, never does anything selfish, never gets off his fucking high horse. He’s so handsome it hurts to look at, and he’s so innocent about it, like blushing virgin schoolgirl who can’t stand seeing a fucking ankle without getting red faced and sputtering. He’s all kind words to everyone, he carries twenties on him to give to homeless people, he donates most of his Avengers salary to charities, he handles every press question with tact and charm, and he looks at you like you’re sulfur coated gum, stuck to the bottom of his shoe.

No one tells you what to do when Steve Rogers hates you. He’s not supposed to hate anyone.

So you must be the fucking problem.

You try not to look at him, for most of the panel. It’s easy when he gets seated on the other end of the table, but whatever fucker was in charge of seating today must hate you. You can’t turn your head without seeing his lazy, kind smile, and you can’t turn out his deep laugh, and god, what if you just punched him in the face on live TV-

Someone says your name, and your head snaps over.

“Yeah?”

Steve tenses. You’re supposed to just nod, or say yes, not yeah. That’s not professional. Shame for him the media trainers gave up on you years ago. You don’t know why Steve still bothers. Everyone still loves you anyway.

And the person who said your name doesn’t deserve professionalism anyway. It’s a slimy man at the front of the question line, with slicked back hair and an expensive watch and teeth that look too big for his mouth. You know what kind of question this is going to be, before he even opens his mouth.

“Hi,” the man smirks at you, and you smile back. It’s the cold, bored smile that you wear like a shield. If the man feels the chill from it, he doesn’t even flinch.

“Hey.”

Steve’s jaw ticks. If he breaks a tooth, maybe you won’t have to deal with this question.

“Hey.” The man echoes back, his gaze dropping back to your tits. “I have to ask, what does it take to get you out of the Avengers compound and out on a date?”

You laugh, spinning your mic and leaning back in your chair. The audience laughs with you. They always do.

Steve doesn’t, and it stabs near your ribs for some useless reason. Sometimes you wonder if your powers just don’t work on him, which would make him even more annoying than he already is. 

“More than that,” you say, and the man stands a little taller.

“You wanna give me a step-by-step?” He winks. “I’m a good rule follower.”

“Hm.” You smirk. “I’m sure you are.”

A chorus of teasing jeers comes from the back of the crowd, where all the men always get shoved. They’re less insistent than the fangirls who want to see Steve and Thor’s muscles. The man at the front of the line looks back with a proud grin—he got you to talk, what a miracle—then returns his gaze to you.

“What about if I promise to be a gentleman?”

“Then I’d ask you to cross your fingers,” you say, smiling with so much honey you’re worried your face is going to get glued like this.

The oooooos are louder this time, and you laugh. The man at the front looks like he’s about to fall to his knees. He grabs at the mic stand like a lifeline, staring at you with wide, devout eyes, and you don’t even flinch when Steve rips your mic from your hands.

“She’ll be backstage after, buddy.” His tone is light, but firm. The man blinks at him, like he forgot he was there. “Remember, she’s got a whole panel to get through. Don’t want to distract her too early.”

He laughs. Everyone laughs with him, except for you.

You smile at him with enough venom to burn the super solider serum right out of his big, muscled body. Steve smiles back, with that strange gleam back in his eyes.

It’s only there for you. It’s been two years, and you never learned to read it. The questions move on, and your mic gets turned of while Bruce talks about his favorite kinds of tea. You lean to the side, hissing from the corner of your mouth.

“What the fuck is your problem.”

Steve doesn’t blink. He keeps his winning smile on his face, and you’re sure that to anyone looking on from the crowd, it seems like you’re exchanging friendly jokes.

“This isn’t a dating app.”

“I know that-“

“Didn’t seem like it.”

You scoff. Your smile is starting to hurt your face. “What was I supposed to do, tell him to piss off?”

Steve’s lips twitch down, ever so slightly. “You flirted back.”

“So? I was never going to go out with him, he looked like a fucking sewer rat.”

“That’s rude-“

“Oh, suck my dick.”

You look back to the crowd. Steve mutters your name, and you ignore him. He says it again, firmer this time, and you shoot him a shut the fuck up look.

His nostrils flare. His eyes are so blue, you think you could get lost in them if he wasn’t always trying to forcefully burn you out.

“You-“ He lets out a heavy breath through his nose, shakes his head, and look back out to the crowd. “You’re going to find yourself with a stalker one day. It happened to Nat.”

You almost snort. You’ve heard that story. Nat curb stomped him. “I’m sure I’d handle it.”

Steve’s lip curls. “You have no combat training,” he grunts, and you huff.

Not this again.

“If someone got the jump on you-“

“No one gets the jump on me.”

“Yet,” he gives you a pointed look, and you hold it, unimpressed and bored. “But one day-“

“One day what? I’m just going to lose all my powers? And need Captain America to protect me?” You laugh crudely, and Steve scowls.

 “I didn’t say that-“

“Then what were you going to say-“’

“That you need to be careful-“

“And why do you care-“

“I don’t-“

“Really?” You roll your eyes. “Could’ve fooled me.”

“You- You fucking-“

“Steve.” Sam leans over Steve’s shoulder, glaring between you. “People. Watching. Calm down.”

You and Steve both freeze, and glance out to the crowd. Sure enough, almost all the eyes are on you. Shining vultures. For one, at least, picking Steve apart with you.

You smile and wave. Steve sits so tall you think he might be trying to fly away.

“What were you talking about?” The next person asks, and Steve laughs.

Controlled. Always so fucking controlled.

“Nothing important-“

“It looked important.”

Steve shrugs. “We take everything we do here seriously. A conversation about dinner can look like a war meeting sometimes, with how much passion we have for- Everything.”

He waves at the air, and the crowd murmurs. You smirk, because Steve sees the light in that ripple. Only the rising relief. Not the dents it’s leaving in the water.

But you see them. You see them better than anyone. And you know why the people drop it. Tony’s glaring down the table, and Nat is rubbing her face, and you know they heard it too.

You love it when he fucks up. You’re beaming for the rest of the panel, because you know what the headline is going to be in the morning.

Passion, he said.

Idiot.

It happens so fast, and Steve’s the only one surprised by it.

“You two.” Tony points between you in the morning. “My office. Now.”

You smile, shoving your bagel in your mouth and following after him. Steve looks confused. You’re sure he’s never been called to an office before. You’re thrilled to have that first experience with him.

“Tony, what’s going on-“

“No.” Tony points at him with a scowl, and the door locks behind you. “Not a word from you, Cap. This is your fault.”

“My fault?” Steve almost recoils. “How is it my fault, I haven’t even done anything. It’s probably her fault-“

You snort, taking the bagel out of your mouth. “My fault? You don’t even know what we did yet!”

“Well, I know it’s your fault-“

“Because everything is my fault-“

“For stuff like this, yeah. It is.”

“Stuff like this- Like what, you getting in trouble-“

“I’m not in trouble-“

“Oh, you just got called to Daddy’s office because of your good behavior-“

“Can you both shut up?” Tony raises his voice, glaring between you with his nose pinched. “I swear, you’re going to give me a migraine that kills me. And you,” he shoots you a glower. “Never call me Daddy again.”

You smirk. “Why, does it turn you on too much?”

Steve looks at you like he wants to kill you. Tony just looks bored.

“Yeah, it does. Which is annoying.”

“Aw,” you beam at Steve. “He thinks I’m annoying.”

A vein is pushing out of Steve’s brow. If anyone is going to die right now, it’s going to be him, from bursting a vessel. You giggle, dropping in the seat in front of Tony’s desk. Steve just stands behind you, a soldier at attention against his greatest enemy. You tip your head backwards, looking at him under fluttering lashes.

“You should sit down, buddy.”

Something flickers over Steve’s face. “Don’t call me buddy.”

“Don’t stand there like a creep.”

His lip curls. You give him a challenging smile, and he lets out one of those heavy sighs that’s only reserved for you. He stomps over to the chair next to it, and drops down with a scowl at Tony.

“You want to tell us why we’re here, Tony?”

Tony frowns, and glances at you. “Does he not know?”

You shrug. “He’s a little stupid. You know that.”

Tony’s lips twitch despite himself. Steve scowls.

“I don’t know what you two are talking about, or- Planning-“

He cuts himself off, as Tony tosses the printed out article down on the desk. You hadn’t actually seen it yet, but you knew it was coming.  

From the look on Steve’s face, though, he really hadn’t realized at all.

“What.” It’s all he says. One clipped, dumbfounded word as he stares at the paper. You sort of want to laugh, but you bite it down. Tony’s looking at you like this is serious. Like he can’t make it go away with a wave of his hand.

Stever grabs the article. You lean over his shoulder, just to piss him off a little more. He doesn’t even bother to glare at you, his fingers digging so deep into the paper it tears. The headline gets crumpled, like he’s crushing it with just his gaze.

Secret Love In the Avengers.

It’s not very snappy. You think they could’ve tried harder, but at least the picture is good. You and Steve both look nice, and you’re staring at each other so intently you can’t even blame them for the minimum effort. With Sam looking bored on Steve’s other side, and you and Steve leaning so close together, there’s no mistaking in that photo who might be seconds from making out.

“Tony,” Steve mutters. “What’s this.”

Tony snorts. “What do you think this is, Cap? A news article about trades with China? No, because less people would be reading that than they’re reading this.”

“We’re hotter than trades with China,” you offer, and you think Tony would laugh if he wasn’t so pissed.

“Why is there a picture of us.” Steve mutters, and Tony rolls his eyes.

“Well, when two people look at each other like they want to fuck, everyone tends to notice.”

Steve’s jaw locks. You sigh, crossing your arms over your chest.

“So what, do you need us to do another release-“

“No.” Tony glares at you. “This is the third time something like this has happened with you two-“

“What?” You snort. “No, it isn’t-“

“Ah.” Tony raises a hand. “Don’t play stupid with me. I’m trying to be generous with third, and I’m not in the mood to hold your hands through feelings right now.”

“Feelings?” Steve spits, fumbling with the paper. “There are no- I don’t know what you think you’re talking about, Stark-“

“Steven.” Tony says flatly. “You. Shut up.”

Steve shakes his head. “You don’t know what you’re talking about-“

“Yes. I do. And you do too.”

You raise your hand, frowning between them. “Can I ask what the first and second time were, because I’d remember if this happened before-“

“No, you wouldn’t,” Tony snaps. “Because I have spent millions bribing people out of running these stories, and you never look online to see what people are saying.”

“What people are saying?” You look at Steve. “What are people saying?”

Steve coughs, ears turning red. “Nothing-“

“They think you’re fucking.” Tony says flatly, and your mouth falls open.

“They- What?!”

“You have chemistry, kid.” Tony shrugs. “Every second you’re next to each other, you’re eye fucking so much we all feel like we’re supposed to leave the room.”

You sputter, shaking your head. You can feel you flush, burning up your face. When you look at Steve, he won’t meet your eyes.

He never does.

“Did you know about this?” You hiss.

He sighs, running a hand over his face with a half-shrug. “Maybe.”

“Maybe?! What the fuck does that mean-“

“Means he knew.” Tony says flatly. “Everyone knew.”

“Everyone knew what?! That the whole country thinks I want to fuck Steve?!”

Tony snorts. “You do want to fuck Steve.”

Your face burns. Steve looks up with warning pinch in his brow. “Tony.”

“Don’t Tony me, pretty boy-“

“Just- Not now-“

“Yes, now.” Tony glares between you. “This has gotten out of hand. We get it. You’re both hot. You’d have hot sex. But if you don’t either fuck or cut bait and start acting like adults, you’re grounded.”

Steve scowls. “You can’t ground me, Stark, I’m your boss-“

“Well, I cut the checks.” Tony crosses his arms. “So I think I can do whatever I want.”

Steve and Tony keep glaring at each other. You stare off in the middle distance between them. Your hands don’t feel like they’re your hands. Your feet are planted on the carpet, but not on solid ground. Your head feels like it’s pressing into itself, yet also expanding to something bigger than you can hold onto.

You don’t want to fuck Steve. Sure, he’s all muscles and rugged yet soft features, but there are countless men like that.

There are very few men like that. Well, you could find one. You have one in front of you. But you don’t want to fuck him. He’s annoying. Impossibly annoying and bossy and always up your ass about something, and not in the fun way like you’d prefer-

No. You wouldn’t prefer. You don’t want to fuck Steve. You can have anyone else, you’d rather have anyone else. Steve’s just always there and always making you embarrassed and angry, and maybe you’re into that but it’s none of his business. It’s not like he’d be like that in bed, either way.

You think. Not that you’ve thought about it. He’s too perfect. Too boring. He’s not boring when he’s arguing with you. He just hates you that much. That you make him break. Or you let him show that side of himself. You don’t poke and prod at anyone like you poke and prod at Steve. He’s just fun to get a rise out of. He gets cute when he’s pissy. He sneers your name and it goes right between your legs, but that doesn’t mean you want to fuck him.

You don’t. You don’t. You don’t?  

He has big hands, but you don’t want them groping and squeezing all over your body. He’s got a strong nose, but you’ve never thought about it pushing against your clit, just like you’ve never thought about his huge biceps wrapping around your neck while he fingers you stupid. And you’d smile at him, dazed and long fucked out of protesting. And he’d feed those fingers to you while sitting you on his cock, and all that perfection would melt away into something raw. Something real, that’s open and refuses to be stitched close. Something that both of you want to drown in.

Something’s that’s just for you, and Steve, and no one else.

Oh, no.

You want to fuck him.

Tony says your name, and your gaze snaps back over. Your palms are sweating, your face burning, your skin suddenly itchy and your feet restless. You want to fuck Steve. You want to fuck Steve.

He looks at you weird, and you shift in your seat. He can’t know. Ever. This is going to get cleaned up, and Steve will never know that you might, kind of, really want him to just toss you over his shoulder and fuck you stupid. You glance at him from the corner of you eye, and his gaze sears into you. You have to look away.

There’s no way he can know. You’ve barely even known for a minute.  Tony only says he knows because he’s an ass. This will pass. It has to pass.

“Figure it out.” Tony tells you, before walking out of the office.

And you will. By never being in the same room as Steve again.

You shoot to your feet, and almost sprint out of the room. Steve calls your name, but you don’t look back. He’s faster, but he’s also respectful. He won’t manhandle you and force you to listen, like you want him to.

God, you really want him to. You’re going to kill Tony for making you realize that, then kill yourself, and no one will ever have to know that—for all your cool, bored smiles and teasing and flirting, for all your powers and siren-like smile—you just want to be fucked stupid by the most righteous, innocent sex-symbol in America.

But then Steve shouts your name again. He’s following you. Why is he following you.

“Fuck off, Steve!” You shout over your shoulder, and he scoffs.

“No, you heard Tony, we need to talk-“

“We really don’t-“

“Yes, we do- Will you slow down-“

You pick up the pace, just to piss him off. Steve groans, and you hear boots hitting the ground behind you. He’s giving chase, and you can barely outwalk him.

Steve grabs your arm before you can even break into a sprint. You thrash, but it’s useless. He’s too strong, and that’s so hot, and you’re going to throw yourself off a bridge about this.

“Let go-“

“No.” Steve drags you down the hall, into an empty conference room. “Not until we talk.”

“There’s nothing for us to talk about-“

“Will you just stop being such a fucking brat and listen?”

Steve raises his voice, stern and commanding. It’s deep, so deep it echoes through you, and your knees wobble. He sees it. His jaw ticks, his grip slackens, and you rip your hand away.

“Brat.” You mock. “What would America think, if they saw their Golden sun talking to a girl like that?”

Steve’s lips twitch. “You are not a girl.”

“Aw. I’m a woman-“

“You’re a problem.” He leans over you, voice dropping to a hiss.

And this is how he always looks at you, but magnified. With a sharper gleam in his eyes, his lips thin and white, like he’s trying to swallow every word. A vein in his brow ticks, and you smile.

“I’m a problem?”

Steve’s throat bobs. “Yes.”

“Hurtful,” you whisper, and he rolls his eyes.

“You’ll live.”

For a long moment, you just stare at each other. He wants to talk, he can talk. You’re not entertaining this. Not just for him to unravel you then keep being a fucking dick.

“You…” He shakes his head, a tiny motion as his tongue flicks over his lips. “You are impossible.”

“You’re impossible-“

“Because you make me impossible,” he sneers, and you lean back slightly.

“I- You-“ You try to scoff. It’s a weak sound. He’s too close, and he smells like pine trees and something spicy, and it’s not fair. “I don’t even do anything-“

“Yes. You do.”

“What, is my skirt too short? Are my shoulders distracting you-“

“You’re distracting me.” Steve presses forward, until your faces are only inches apart. “You always distract me, you fuckin’-“ He closes his eyes, shoulders heaving.

“Steve…” You breathe, and he chuckles.

“Don’t say my name like that,” he rasps. “You don’t fuckin’ mean it.”

You blink, trying to think over the desire, burning in your body. Of course you meant it. You didn’t even want to say it, but he’s so close. It’s intoxicating. You’d think he was drugging you, if that was possible.

Steve’s pressed you against the conference table. His arms are caging you in, giving you no escape from the electricity, almost crackling in the air. You open your mouth, then close it, lost for what to say. You’re worried you’ll just whisper his name again. He drags his eyes open after what feels like a million years, his voice dropping down to something hot and dangerous.

“You never push anyone,” he says. “Like you push me, doll. It’s not… It drives me crazy.”

You swallow, your voice smaller than you want. “You- You push me-“

“Because I can’t help it.” He presses closer. Your noses are almost bumping. “You are beautiful, and insolent, and infuriating-“

“Steve-“

“And you’re so sweet to everyone.” He grabs your jaw, and your hand flies to his wrist. “Everyone loves you, so they think I’m crazy when I say you’re tryin’ to kill me.”

“Everyone loves me because of my powers.” You try to remind him, because if he does this, you won’t be able to stop him. “You- You know that-“

“I do. Trust me,” he murmurs your name, gaze flicking to your lips. “I know. Spent so long blaming them too. All those daydreams had to be because you’re Nat’s honeypot. Thought it was the wrong thing to do, that I was some kind of monster to thinking about you like that, when everyone else already does. But no,” he looks back to you. “It’s just you, doll. I plugged my nose, avoided your pheromones, let Bruce experiment on me to make me immune, did fuckin’ everything, and I still wanted you.”

You take a deep, ragged breath. You have to lick your lips, to stop the spit, and Steve tracks the motion like a predator.

No one wants you. Everyone loves you, but no one wants you. You’re pretty but untouchable. No one can hurt you. If you ask someone for something, they’ll always do it, whether they really want to or not.

But Steve…

He says he wants you. And you really want to believe him.

“How long.” You breathe, and he sighs, bowing his head.

“Since the second I saw you.”

“You…” You scan over his face, looking for any hint that it’s not really him. That he doesn’t really, fully mean it. “You want to fuck me?”

His ears turn red. “I mean- Not just that-“

“But you do,” you breathe, and he sighs.

Stares for a second longer, then nods.

“Okay.” You whisper. Steve looks to your lips, then back to you again.

“Okay?”

 You nod. Steve’s grip on your jaw tightens, and your breath hitches. He leans down slowly. So torturously slowly.

Your lips meet, soft and chapped and nervous. You lean up, and he presses down. Your noses bump, and his tongue flicks over your lower lip. Your nails dig into his bicep, and he grunts, and-

Steve snaps.

His other hand flies to your face, and he presses over you, hot and demanding. Your breath hitches, you mouth falls open, and he shoves his tongue down your throat with a groan. You grab the collar of his shirt, yanking him so hard you both stumble back. Your knees hit the back of the table, but Steve’s fast. He ducks down without breaking the kiss, and scoops you up into his arms.

You squeal, but the sound is quickly muffled by Steve’s tongue down your throat. Your laugh is breathless and giddy. He chuckles, pushing further forward, and you pull at the collar of his shirt. He jerks forward, angling his head to deepen the kiss.

“Needy.” He mutters against your lips, and you shove his shoulder with weak hands.

“Shut up, I could still stop this-“

“But you won’t.” He taunts. “You like it, don’t you. Like gettin’ on my nerves, making me lose control.”

Steve pulls away, grabs your knees, shoving them apart with rough, firm hands. You gasp, grabbing at his neck. “Steve-“

“You’re wet under there.” He growls, running a big hand up your inner thigh. “I can smell it. Smell how much you want me, every damn time you’d mouth off.”

Your swallow, pressing your brows tight together. You watch him rub your legs, breathing through your nose like some wanton whore. Steve’s thumb grazes the place where you’re leg meets your core, and your whole body shivers.

He smirks, looking at you under pretty lashes. You try to glare, but you’re panting. His gaze just makes the fire in your core burn brighter, and your tongue flicks over your lips.

“You never said anything,” you whisper, and Steve gives you an amused look.

“You would’ve killed me.”

And you can laugh breathlessly. Ten minutes ago, you would’ve. But now he’s all over you, and you can’t even bring yourself to mock him.

“No,” you brush your lips over his. “I wouldn’t have.”

Steve works his jaw, that raw, strange look flashing over his face. The look that’s yours. That’s only ever been for you.

He leans in, and this kiss is softer than before. Steve massages your hips, settling himself between your legs. You spread them wide to accommodate him, and feel it poking against your thigh. His cock, thick and hard, somehow bigger than you imagined, and you hadn’t  been thinking small.

“You feel that.” He pulls your upper lip between his teeth, smiling slightly. “’S what you always do to me. Every day, I’d be walkin’ around so hard I was worried you’d see it. But no.” His kisses one corner of your mouth, then the other. “You’re oblivious, aren’t you honey.”

You hum, tipping your head back. Steve groans, dragging his lips over a pulse point, letting his tongue flick against sensitive skin. One hand slips under your shirt, careful fingers tracing up the line of your spine.

“Steve…” You whisper. “Don’t tease.”

“Oh, but you like it too much when I do.” He rasps. “You love it, love being a sweet little toy for me.”

You whimper, and he reaches around, grabbing a handful of your ass.

“So bossy ‘till I’m touchin’ you,” he sucks on your neck, grinding his bugle into your core. You gasp as the rough friction, and Steve chuckles.

“You- You’re such an ass-“

“You like that too.” He grunts, breath hot in your ear. “You like bein’ the one person that gets me going, that makes me lose it. No one else, doll.” He pushes your ass forward, so your clit is pushed against the thick hardness of him.

A long moan escapes your lips, and you drop your face into his shoulder. Steve grunts, rutting forward, and it’s so fucking hot you can’t think past it. The drawl of his voice in your ear, the strength of him around you, it’s intoxicating. The clothing adding extra friction, his fingers digging into your skin. His hand slips into your pants, deft fingers dragging down your ass to tease right against the drip of your pussy.

“Just you,” he thrusts forward, squeezing your ass. “Only you. So fuckin’ pretty and sassy, drivin’ me insane-“

You whimper, and Steve makes a low sound, taking a deep breath against your hair. The table creaks, with the force of his every thrust.

“So rude of you, sweetheart, to make me try and keep it together when you’re running around, beggin’ to be fucked- God-“

Steve moans, jerking his hips back suddenly. You stare at each other, panting and flushed. He swallows, and there’s a stain blooming on his pants. Your mouth falls open, and normally you’d make fun of him, but fuck. There’s so much of it. You can see white, leaking out of the cuffs of his pants and onto the floor. He came just from that. Just from holding and kissing you.

And he’s still so hard.

You lick your lips, and look back up. Steve’s throat bobs. You smile, fumbling with your pants, and he blinks.

“You’re- Uh-“

“In me.” You point at his dick, about to burst the seam of his slacks, then your core. “You- Do that in me.”

Steve’s hands curl into fists. You’ve never seen his face so red. It’s almost adorable. “Uh- Are you sure-“

“Do you want to fuck me stupid or not?”

He leans back, startled. You hold his gaze, pull down your pants, hike your legs up on the table, and spread them wide.

You could swear you see it twitch, as he takes you in. Head thrown back, your fingers rubbing between the swollen, dripping lips of your cunt. You breathe out his name, dipping one finger into your heat and pumping slowly. Steve takes a rough step forward, grabbing your knees like handles.

“Stop,” he grunts, and you obey.

Steve runs his fingers down your bare thigh, slowly guiding your hand away from your pussy. You grab his shoulder, holding his gaze as he rubs his thumb around your clit. You let out a slow, relaxed breath, and Steve smirks.

“You like that, doll?”

“As much as you did,” you breathe out, and Steve chuckles.

“Ah. Too late for that.” He presses a mocking kiss to your open lips. “You showed me what you want. How bad you want it.”

Steve flicks your clit, and your back arches. He presses back down on the little button, and a long moan rips from your lips.

“I came in my fuckin’ pants,” he whispers in your ear. “And you’re still beggin’ me to fuck you.”

“Wasn’t- Wasn’t begging-“

“But you would,” he coos. “If I asked you to. You’d say please, Stevie and cry for me to stuff this pretty little pussy.” He pushes down on your clit, and you whimper. “Like the good little slut you are.”

God, the hold he has on you should be crime. You choke out his name pathetically, and Steve starts to rub you in thick, unrelenting circles. His free arm wraps around your lower back, holding you in place when his fingers dip down, and start to explore the folds of you pussy.

“So wet,” he mutters, pushing one finger deep into your cunt. You clench around him, and a squelching sound fills the room as he pumps slowly. “Wet and tight.” Steve looks up at you with a smirk. “You think you’re gonna be able to take my cock, doll? Christ, you’re barely taking my finger.”

He pushes in a second one, just to prove his point, and your mouth falls open. He’s right. The burn of his two fingers, it feels like he’s stretching you open with a fist. He slides them in deeper and deeper, his thumb working your clit, and your nails sink into his neck.

“St- Steve,” you gape between your bodies, watching him disappear inside of you. “Steve-“

“Hm?” He gets up to the knuckle, and looks up at you with a smirk.

You try to take a second to catch your breath, and he scissors his fingers, twisting his wrist so it hits a gummy spot inside of you. You cry out, and he silences you with a deep, messy kiss.

“Feel it,” he mutters against your lips, pulling his fingers almost all the way out. “No talkin’ for once, doll. All you gotta do is feel it.”

He slams his fingers back in. You whimper, but nod. Steve hums in approval, and the sound shoots straight between your legs. You squeeze and gush around him, and he groans. You barely get a second to compose yourself before he starts to thrust his fingers, deep and hard, and you start to unravel.

Steve’s strong. This is him holding back, and he’s still so strong. You scramble to get a real, firm hold on something, because he’s pummeling your pussy into a drenched, slack oblivion. The pace is brutal, knuckles dragging right over your g-spot over and over, splitting you open in a way that makes you drool.

He makes his mouth busy, trailing kisses back down your throat, then over your shoulders. You moan, leaning your head against his, and he smiles against your skin. Steve draws back to meet your gaze, and through the daze of the pleasure he’s dragging out of you, you smile back.

Your body is rocking, from the brutality of how he’s touching you. Steve’s eyes flick down, but not to where his fingers are being swallowed by your pussy.

He’s looking at your tits.

He licks his lips, watching them bounce under his force. You think he might be hypnotized. Before you can say anything, he reaches up and rips your shirt clean off.

“Steve- Ooh-“

“Shhh.” He gives you a stern look, twisting his fingers in your cunt. “I’ve got you, doll. Just- Lemme-“

Steve looks back to your tits, and his eyes are almost black with desire. You’ve never seen anything hotter, than how he looks at you as he lowers himself down.

He mouths at the curve of your tits, sucking a tiny, dark bruise. You moan, starching at his bicep, but he just drags you closer. Forcing your back to arch, your tits to push into his face.

“Look at you,” he mutters, voice dripping with something close to reverence. “My girl.”

And you blink. Because that wasn’t discussed, but your pussy clenches all the same. His girl.

You don’t get more time to think about it before Steve’s lips wrap around your nipple, and you lose control.

He mouths at you like a starved man. Kissing and licking and sucking, sending tingling, electric sensations straight from your tits to your pussy. He moans every time you squeeze down on his fingers, which just feels like a vibrator right against your sensitive nipples, and makes you lose it all the more.

You’re grinding up into him, thrashing a little like an animal and whimpering in his ear. Steve bites down softly, his thumb staring to make quick, relentless swipes at your clit.

“Oh- Oh fuck-“ You moan, tugging at his short, soft hair. “St- Steve- Too much- I’m gonna- Fuuuck-“

You don’t know why you thought he was going to slow down. Steve switches nipples, biting down before sucking hard, right as his blunt fingertips hit that spot inside of you. You cry out as you cum, your body writhing against his stronger one. He keeps you in place, his hand working you through the orgasm. Pulling every last spasm of your cunt, and a few more after. He kisses your nipples and over your breasts before he draws up.

When it’s done, your eyes are lidded. Steve stares at you, slowly pulling his hand out. He smears your juices over your pussy, thumbing at your clit for a few more, light seconds. You squeak, and he smiles.

“You look pretty when you cum,” he mutters, and you flush.

You’ve been told that before, but this feels different.

This feels real.

You can’t think of anything to say. Steve doesn’t push you to try. He leans forward, cupping your cheek and giving you a smaller, softer look before he kisses you. You melt into him, too dazed from what might be strongest orgasm of your life to protest.

“’m gonna fuck you ‘till you can’t walk.” Steve mutters. “But- Not here.”

You hum in agreement. “Clean up later?”

“Later.” Steve grunts in agreement. “If I don’t get inside of you, think I’m gonna die.”

You giggle. It’s so stupid, but you giggle. Steve huffs out a low laugh, and drags your forward. You’re being carried like a koala in his arms. He kisses your cheek before drawing up to his whole height, and glancing at the door.

“I, uh-“ He gives you a sheepish expression. “I’m gonna have to run.”

You nod—you’re naked, you expected as much—and he clears his throat.

“You gotta hold on.”

“I am holding on.” You pat his neck, and he sighs.

“Doll, I’m gonna be running really fast-“

“I’m holding on tight.”

“Hold on tighter.”

You roll your eyes, and wrap him in the best chokehold you can manage. The asshole doesn’t even pretend to grunt.

“Your boobs are in my face.” He mumbles, and you snort.

“You were eating them like, five seconds ago-“

“Yeah, but- That was just us. What if someone sees-“

“That you’re carrying me naked? Probably that we’re fucking.”

He twists his neck to glare up at you. You smile innocently back, and he sighs.

His breath is warm, over your breasts. It makes you squirm a little, and Steve’s grip on your body tightens.

“You are such a brat,” he mutters, almost in awe. “I stop fucking you for ten seconds, and you’re already talking back again.”

“Oops.” You beam. “You should fix that.”

Steve chuckles. His tongue flicks over his lips. “Yeah,” his voice is dark. A promise. “Trust me. I’m gonna.”

And he runs. He runs so fast you squeal, because you forgot how fast he can be when he’s really trying. You press your face back into his neck to block the wind, and when he stops, you still don’t look up.

The smell hits you first. It’s deep and rich and-

Steve.

You poke your head up, and you’re in Steve’s room.

It’s not what you expected, a military cell where he sleeps and plans way to torture you. It’s… Cozy. There are books on a shelf that slightly poorly put together, and the bed is made but the sheets look thick and soft. There’s a mirror on the dresser, facing the bed, and so much paper you almost don’t know where to look. Drawings of flowers, and rivers, and sunsets. One of a bird, and a few of the landscape of the compound, and so, so many of-

“Is that me?”

Steve grunts, tossing you down onto his bed and starting to strip. You move to your knees, ready to scramble off the bed and get a better look at the drawings, but he gives you a stern look.

“Stay.”

You roll your eyes. “Shut up, I wanna see- Steve-“

He grabs you like you weigh nothing, and throws you right back onto the bed before you’re even on two feet. Your thighs press together, thrilled with the blatant manhandling. Steve notices it, and laughs.

“You like that, huh?”

“Shut up-“

“No, you liked that-“

“Maybe I did.” You stick your tongue out, and he smirks.

“You love bein’ a ragdoll, don’t you. Needy girl, you’re gonna let me do whatever I want to you-“

“You have drawings of me!” You blurt, because you really don’t need him to make you more horny.

Steve shrugs. “I do. So?”

“So?” You fumble, pulling at the sheets. “You- You like me-“

“That’s a shock to you?” Steve gives you an amused look. “I just fingered you in borderline public.”

“Well- You- You-“ You’re sputtering again. Only Steve does this to you. It drives you fucking insane. “You could’ve just wanted to fuck me-“

“Nope.” He shrugs. “I’ve been in love with you for a while. You just get on my last line sometimes, doll.”

And all your protests slip out of your head.

I love you.

He- He said-

“What?” You squeak, and Steve sighs.

“I love you.”

He said it again. “Wh- Why?”

“Why?” He gives you a tired, almost annoyed look. “Why wouldn’t I love you?”

“Because I’m annoying.” You answer immediately. “And mean, and bossy, and- I’m annoying-“

“You said that one already.” Steve starts to walk towards you, and you lean into his gravity, even as your heart beats in your ears.

“How do you know you love me.” You whisper. “It- It could just be my powers-“

“It’s not.”

“But-“

Steve takes your face between his hands, his thumb dragging over your lower lip. You fall silent, and you know you’re staring up at him like he’s the sun, but you’ve never been so warm. You’re afraid to move. To lose it.

“Steve…” You breathe, and he hums. “You- You can’t mean that-“

“I do.” He presses his thumb forward, and your lips wrap around it on instinct. You suck, and his eyes flash with more approval.

It’s embarrassing, how pliable that makes you. How he’d just need to give you one bit of praise after so much mocking, and you might just cum right here. Sucking on Steve’s thumb, naked on his bed, sheets bunched between your thighs.

“I love you because you’re smart,” he says, and useless, embarrassing tears prick at your eyes. “And funny, and kind. You never abuse what you can do to people. You work hard, you drive me crazy, you’re always ready to do anything for anyone else.”

You try to shy away. You’d been wrong. You’re not cumming, you’re getting so hot it feels like a fever, because having him degrade you is less embarrassing than this. Steve’s grip on you face tightens. He’s not letting you get away that easy.

“You’re gorgeous,” he murmurs. “And it’s got nothin’ to do with any powers. So I love you, doll. And you’re gonna feel it.”

There’s nothing you can say to that. Tears are pricking at your eyes, hopeless and confused and desperate. You need to see what that feels like. Steve’s love, painted all over you.

“You want that?” He mutters, and you nod. “Words-“

“Please,” you breathe out, the words muffled around his thumb. “Show me.”

Steve smiles. He pulls his thumb away with a pop, and taps your check gently.

“See?” He smirks. “Begging.”

Your eyes narrow, but Steve doesn’t let you spit out a response. He crashes down into a harsh, long kiss that makes your toes curl and thighs rub together. Steve gropes all over your body, pushing you down into the mattress before rolling over and forcing you to straddle his chest.

He’s naked. You don’t know how you missed it—probably the love confession—but the thick, hard curve of his cock slaps against your ass, and his bare chest flexes when you drag your nails over his pecs.

“You’re gonna ride my cock, doll,” he rubs your ass, smiling up at you. “Don’t need you to say anything back. Just show me,” he squeezes your ass. “How fuckin’ bad you need it.”

You look back at it, and your breath hitches. It’s huge. Bigger than any you’ve ever taken, bigger than any you’ve ever seen, even in porn.

“Did you take fucking drugs for that thing?” You breathe, and Steve snorts.

“Yes?”

You glare at him, and he raises his brows.

“You getting on, or not?” 

For a second, you think about being petulant. You cross your arms and pout, trying to test how far you can push him. But Steve just snorts, rolls his eyes, and picks you up. You don’t even get to wiggle before he’s forcing you down on his dick, and the air is knocked from your lungs.

Steve sits so deep in your, it might be pushing all the thoughts out of your brain. You gape down at him, making weak noises as your pussy pulses and stretches around him. His fingers dig into your hips, but it’s the only sign that he’s struggling to hold himself back.

“Much as I love you bein’ a brat,” he mutters, massaging your ass. “I’d rather see this.”

He reaches up slowly, tucking air behind your ear. You smile weakly, and he chuckles, settling fully into the pillows.

“Ride it, doll,” he orders, and god help you, you try.

You catch your breath after a long moment that feels like eternity, and start to roll your hips. Steve groans, eyelids fluttering, but doesn’t help you. His hands stay firm on your body, forcing you to use everything you have to grind down onto his dick.

He pushes against that gooey spot inside of you, and you falter with a long moan. You shift, forcing him right against it, and he lets out a sharp breath, but still doesn’t move.

“Feels good, doesn’t it,” he coos, cock throbbing inside of it. “Nice and big, fillin’ up your pussy so good.”

You moan, hips bucking. Steve grunts, thrusting up slightly, and you tip your head back. The friction is good. So good. For a second, back arched and thighs aching, you find a rhythm. It starts slow, rolling and pushing Steve’s cock right where you want it. You look down at him, sweaty and adoring beneath you. His hands wander, his breathing ragged and lips parted.

“That’s a good girl,” he mutters. “C’mon, baby, there you go.”

You keen, and move faster. Your knees are weak, but the need is stronger. You bounce on Steve dick, grabbing at his chest and gasping for air as he splits you open over and over again.

But it’s not enough. You don’t have extra stamina or strength, and he’s so big, and you’re so turned on your body is starting to forget how to move. Every wet, obscene sound makes you glance at where he’s disappearing inside of you, the way your slick is coating his cock when you pull up and his balls are heavy, pushed against your ass when you drop back down. You get hornier, and you want to just let go and allow your eyes to cross and toes to curl, but you can’t. You can’t find the pace.

You can’t cum. You can’t, and pathetic, fat tears stream down your cheeks because of it.

Steve reaches up, brushing them away with a tiny smirk. “Aw, babydoll. Don’t cry.”

You sob, shaking above him as your legs finally get to weak. You’re just squirming above him now, blinking under wet lashes at his teasing, lazy smile.

“Can’t get there all alone, can you,” he pushes you down, slamming his hips up, and you make a choked sound like his name. “Yeah, that’s right. Sweet girl, just a fuckin’ mess on my cock.”

“Ple- Please-“ You blubber, collapsing over Steve’s chest. “God, Steve- Please-“

“Aw. Begging so pretty.” He kisses your brow. “How could I ever tell you no?”

Steve grabs you off his cock, twisting you onto your stomach as he sits up. You’re shoved down into the mattress, your cheek pressed into the cushions by one of Steve’s hands on the back of your neck. The other stays on your hips, dragging your ass high up in the air to present to him.

“Such a mess.” Steve runs the head of his cock between the lips of you pussy, letting it press against your clit before he lines it up at your entrance. “You really needed this, didn’t you?”

He slides in slowly, and your eyes rolls back in your head. He’s impossibly deeper at this angle. You try to press your face into the mattress, to muffle your pathetic sounds, but Steve folds his body over yours, fisting a hand in your hair and yanking it back as he bottoms out.

“Look.” He bites your ear, dragging back before slamming forward, drilling his cock back into your abused, over sensitive pussy. “Look at us, babydoll. Fit so fuckin’ perfect.”

Your eyes dart up, and oh. Oh god.

It’s the most pornographic thing you’ve ever seen. Steve wrapped around you, his jaw tight and one hand resting on your hip. You can’t see where he’s fucking you, but you can see how his muscles flex with each thrust. You’re trapped under him, your gaze locked onto his black, fervorish one. There’s no blue left in his eyes, as he hits a pace like an animal. Only hunger and adoration.

“St- Steve-“

“That’s it,” he rasps. “That’s right, say my fuckin’ name- Scream it-“

“Steve!” You cry out, the tears streaming down your face as it becomes far too much. “Oh- Ooooh-“

 Steve lets go of your hair, wrapping his massive bicep around your neck. It keeps your head up, keeps your eyes on his. He kisses the side of your head, and you can feel arousal sliding down your thighs as he rolls his hips.

“So pretty,” he whispers. “Look at yourself. Look how fuckin’ perfect you are.”

Your eyes dart over, and an unbearable warmth prickles over your skin. You look more beautiful than you’ve ever felt in your life. Thoroughly wrecked, worshipped, fucked into a drooling mess with swollen lips and glazed eyes. Steve noses at you, smirking against your skin.

“Good, good girl.” His words are thick, his thrusts becoming erratic. “Feels nice, doesn’t it?”

You whimper an agreement, and Steve chuckles.

“You gonna cum for me? C’mon, show me how nice it feels, cum on my fucking cock-“ 

It’s like he has more control over your body than you do. The orgasm rips through you at his command, and you sob out his name as you fall apart in his arms. Steve grunts, pulling fully out for half a second to roll you on your back. You barely even feel the loss before he’s burying himself right to the hilt, and you can’t remember what being empty feels like.

There’s more than there looked to be. Steve pulls almost all the way out, to try and make more space, but it does next to nothing. Thick ropes of cum fill you up until you can almost taste it. There are wet, messy sounds as it starts to leak out, over your ass and thighs. You can see it in the mirror, dripping down onto the mattress. You’re stuffed up so well, you try to say Steve’s name, but it just comes out a pathetic moan.

He collapses over you with a grunt, and all the edge vanishes. He pulls fully out, cradling you in his arms and kissing over your neck.

“I made a mess.” He mutters, running light fingers over your inner thigh.

You giggle, kicking him away, and he smiles against your skin.

“You gonna talk to me?”

You shake your head, licking your lips. Your voice is gone, from screaming, and you can see him wince when he realizes it.

“I didn’t hurt you-“

You shake your head quickly, and his shoulders relax.

“Okay. Good. I- I’m gonna-“

He tries to get up. You grab him, and yank him back down. He grunts, giving you an incredulous look.

“Honey, it’s everywhere.”

You glare at him. He’s warm. He’s not getting away from you that easy. And you expect him to argue, like he always had before, but he just… gives in.

“Okay. Five minutes.”

He leans back over you, and you lay there. Cuddling.

Like a real couple.

You could be. Steve said he loves you, and he meant it, and that opens a door you’ve never thought about before. A door you never even let yourself think about.

A door you might want to see the other side of, more than you’ve ever let yourself admit.

But now-

You want it. You wanted this, and you want that, and you’re not going to spend another second pretending you don’t.

“About what I said,” Steve mutters, like he’s reading your mind. “Before we- Or- I guess during-“

 You roll over and grab his face. He blinks adorably, and you smile.

Steve murmurs your name, and you smile.

“I love you,” you croak out.

His jaw goes slack, and your smile widens. It’s the only thing you can think to say. The only thing you want to say.

And when Steve kisses you, it’s slow. Romantic and loving and deep. He really loves you. Everyone in the world, and the perfect man loves you. He holds you like you’re the only thing in his world. You feel like you’re the only thing in his world.

And he might really be the only thing in yours.

Almost none of you.

Steve’s is cleaner than a freshly waxed and plucked floor. Steve’s letter is perfect. He’s perfect. He’s the Golden Boy, designed in a bottle to be likable and confident and collected. Camera’s flash and his smile is whiter than the moon, and more blinding than the sun. He claps Tony on the back after a slightly mocking joke, clearly unfazed. He places his hand on Nat’s lower back in the most gentlemanly way possible, and everyone swoons like he’s some movie star.

He sits next to you on one of these panels you’re not allowed to skip—you tried to, and Clint dragged you to the helicopter like some misbehaving child—and ignores you all together. A tiny nod and smile for the cameras. Stiff shoulders that square away from you, like if he blocks you out, you’ll just vanish in the hazy lights.

He’d like it, if that happened. He’d probably throw a fucking party.

Because you don’t know why. You don’t know what you did. But Steve Rogers hates you, and no one even thought he was capable of that emotion.

It started the first time Nat dragged you in, spitting and weary like a feral cat. She’d given Steve and Tony the brief on your powers. Said that you had a good heart—although she hadn’t done an x-ray, so you have no idea how she was so sure—and asked to keep you.

Asked.

Natasha didn’t ask for anything. She said it like a question, and fixed Steve and Tony with the most terrifying glare in the world. Tony had shrugged, and Steve had tried to protest. Nat had crossed her arms and flicked her brows up in a silent challenge. Steve had swallowed, looked at you with a strange gleam in his eyes, and given up. He’d left the room with a grumble, not sparing you another glance. Tony would tell you later—after you annoyed it out of him—that he’d spent a month trying to talk Nat out of you. Like a toy he didn’t want her to be playing with.

You hadn’t said a single word. Natasha hadn’t told him anything about your past. And he still hadn’t wanted you there.

“Rogers,” you murmur, smiling at the flashing lights that—supposedly—have people behind them.

You’ve come to think of them more as vultures. They’d like to pick you apart and eat out whatever kind of black, charred thing you’re made of. You never give them the satisfaction.

Steve says your name, low and flat. His attention flits over, scanning you from the corner of his eye. You catch his gaze, and he looks away just as fast.

You roll your eyes and huff, slumping back in your seat. You drum your fingers on the smooth, deep blue cloth of the table. They gave you a water bottle. Maybe if you drink it fast enough, you can just go pee and skip this whole thing-

“Sit up.”

Steve speaks so low you almost don’t hear him. You frown at his profile—stupid clean jawline and strong features—and slump further in your seat. Just to test him. Just to make him twitch.

There aren’t a lot of things you find pride in. Being able to get under Steve’s skin is one of them.

He notices immediately, and shoots you a glare. You snort, and his eyes narrow.

“I told you to sit up-“

“I heard you.”

“And you didn’t listen?” Someone shouts his name. He turns to flash them that look at me, aren’t I perfect? Smile, and you try not to gag.

“You’re not my boss.” You hiss through your teeth, smiling at the people shouting your name.

Steve makes a low, rough sound in his throat. “I am your boss.”

“No. I work under Nat.”

“Who works for me-“

“Does she?”

Steve shoots you another look, and this time you giggle. He’s still smiling, through every single glare. It looks psychotic.

He doesn’t even try to reprimand you this time. He just sighs dramatically and looks back to the crowd. You sit up, but not because he told you to. You’re not another one of his dogs.

Because there’s one more rule about being an Avenger. About being an American.

No one hates Steve Rogers.

He’s an angel. A blessing. His pretty boy face and classy words and pure heart. He never falters, never gives up, never does anything selfish, never gets off his fucking high horse. He’s so handsome it hurts to look at, and he’s so innocent about it, like blushing virgin schoolgirl who can’t stand seeing a fucking ankle without getting red faced and sputtering. He’s all kind words to everyone, he carries twenties on him to give to homeless people, he donates most of his Avengers salary to charities, he handles every press question with tact and charm, and he looks at you like you’re sulfur coated gum, stuck to the bottom of his shoe.

No one tells you what to do when Steve Rogers hates you. He’s not supposed to hate anyone.

So you must be the fucking problem.

You try not to look at him, for most of the panel. It’s easy when he gets seated on the other end of the table, but whatever fucker was in charge of seating today must hate you. You can’t turn your head without seeing his lazy, kind smile, and you can’t turn out his deep laugh, and god, what if you just punched him in the face on live TV-

Someone says your name, and your head snaps over.

“Yeah?”

Steve tenses. You’re supposed to just nod, or say yes, not yeah. That’s not professional. Shame for him the media trainers gave up on you years ago. You don’t know why Steve still bothers. Everyone still loves you anyway.

And the person who said your name doesn’t deserve professionalism anyway. It’s a slimy man at the front of the question line, with slicked back hair and an expensive watch and teeth that look too big for his mouth. You know what kind of question this is going to be, before he even opens his mouth.

“Hi,” the man smirks at you, and you smile back. It’s the cold, bored smile that you wear like a shield. If the man feels the chill from it, he doesn’t even flinch.

“Hey.”

Steve’s jaw ticks. If he breaks a tooth, maybe you won’t have to deal with this question.

“Hey.” The man echoes back, his gaze dropping back to your tits. “I have to ask, what does it take to get you out of the Avengers compound and out on a date?”

You laugh, spinning your mic and leaning back in your chair. The audience laughs with you. They always do.

Steve doesn’t, and it stabs near your ribs for some useless reason. Sometimes you wonder if your powers just don’t work on him, which would make him even more annoying than he already is. 

“More than that,” you say, and the man stands a little taller.

“You wanna give me a step-by-step?” He winks. “I’m a good rule follower.”

“Hm.” You smirk. “I’m sure you are.”

A chorus of teasing jeers comes from the back of the crowd, where all the men always get shoved. They’re less insistent than the fangirls who want to see Steve and Thor’s muscles. The man at the front of the line looks back with a proud grin—he got you to talk, what a miracle—then returns his gaze to you.

“What about if I promise to be a gentleman?”

“Then I’d ask you to cross your fingers,” you say, smiling with so much honey you’re worried your face is going to get glued like this.

The oooooos are louder this time, and you laugh. The man at the front looks like he’s about to fall to his knees. He grabs at the mic stand like a lifeline, staring at you with wide, devout eyes, and you don’t even flinch when Steve rips your mic from your hands.

“She’ll be backstage after, buddy.” His tone is light, but firm. The man blinks at him, like he forgot he was there. “Remember, she’s got a whole panel to get through. Don’t want to distract her too early.”

He laughs. Everyone laughs with him, except for you.

You smile at him with enough venom to burn the super solider serum right out of his big, muscled body. Steve smiles back, with that strange gleam back in his eyes.

It’s only there for you. It’s been two years, and you never learned to read it. The questions move on, and your mic gets turned of while Bruce talks about his favorite kinds of tea. You lean to the side, hissing from the corner of your mouth.

“What the fuck is your problem.”

Steve doesn’t blink. He keeps his winning smile on his face, and you’re sure that to anyone looking on from the crowd, it seems like you’re exchanging friendly jokes.

“This isn’t a dating app.”

“I know that-“

“Didn’t seem like it.”

You scoff. Your smile is starting to hurt your face. “What was I supposed to do, tell him to piss off?”

Steve’s lips twitch down, ever so slightly. “You flirted back.”

“So? I was never going to go out with him, he looked like a fucking sewer rat.”

“That’s rude-“

“Oh, suck my dick.”

You look back to the crowd. Steve mutters your name, and you ignore him. He says it again, firmer this time, and you shoot him a shut the fuck up look.

His nostrils flare. His eyes are so blue, you think you could get lost in them if he wasn’t always trying to forcefully burn you out.

“You-“ He lets out a heavy breath through his nose, shakes his head, and look back out to the crowd. “You’re going to find yourself with a stalker one day. It happened to Nat.”

You almost snort. You’ve heard that story. Nat curb stomped him. “I’m sure I’d handle it.”

Steve’s lip curls. “You have no combat training,” he grunts, and you huff.

Not this again.

“If someone got the jump on you-“

“No one gets the jump on me.”

“Yet,” he gives you a pointed look, and you hold it, unimpressed and bored. “But one day-“

“One day what? I’m just going to lose all my powers? And need Captain America to protect me?” You laugh crudely, and Steve scowls.

 “I didn’t say that-“

“Then what were you going to say-“’

“That you need to be careful-“

“And why do you care-“

“I don’t-“

“Really?” You roll your eyes. “Could’ve fooled me.”

“You- You fucking-“

“Steve.” Sam leans over Steve’s shoulder, glaring between you. “People. Watching. Calm down.”

You and Steve both freeze, and glance out to the crowd. Sure enough, almost all the eyes are on you. Shining vultures. For one, at least, picking Steve apart with you.

You smile and wave. Steve sits so tall you think he might be trying to fly away.

“What were you talking about?” The next person asks, and Steve laughs.

Controlled. Always so fucking controlled.

“Nothing important-“

“It looked important.”

Steve shrugs. “We take everything we do here seriously. A conversation about dinner can look like a war meeting sometimes, with how much passion we have for- Everything.”

He waves at the air, and the crowd murmurs. You smirk, because Steve sees the light in that ripple. Only the rising relief. Not the dents it’s leaving in the water.

But you see them. You see them better than anyone. And you know why the people drop it. Tony’s glaring down the table, and Nat is rubbing her face, and you know they heard it too.

You love it when he fucks up. You’re beaming for the rest of the panel, because you know what the headline is going to be in the morning.

Passion, he said.

Idiot.

It happens so fast, and Steve’s the only one surprised by it.

“You two.” Tony points between you in the morning. “My office. Now.”

You smile, shoving your bagel in your mouth and following after him. Steve looks confused. You’re sure he’s never been called to an office before. You’re thrilled to have that first experience with him.

“Tony, what’s going on-“

“No.” Tony points at him with a scowl, and the door locks behind you. “Not a word from you, Cap. This is your fault.”

“My fault?” Steve almost recoils. “How is it my fault, I haven’t even done anything. It’s probably her fault-“

You snort, taking the bagel out of your mouth. “My fault? You don’t even know what we did yet!”

“Well, I know it’s your fault-“

“Because everything is my fault-“

“For stuff like this, yeah. It is.”

“Stuff like this- Like what, you getting in trouble-“

“I’m not in trouble-“

“Oh, you just got called to Daddy’s office because of your good behavior-“

“Can you both shut up?” Tony raises his voice, glaring between you with his nose pinched. “I swear, you’re going to give me a migraine that kills me. And you,” he shoots you a glower. “Never call me Daddy again.”

You smirk. “Why, does it turn you on too much?”

Steve looks at you like he wants to kill you. Tony just looks bored.

“Yeah, it does. Which is annoying.”

“Aw,” you beam at Steve. “He thinks I’m annoying.”

A vein is pushing out of Steve’s brow. If anyone is going to die right now, it’s going to be him, from bursting a vessel. You giggle, dropping in the seat in front of Tony’s desk. Steve just stands behind you, a soldier at attention against his greatest enemy. You tip your head backwards, looking at him under fluttering lashes.

“You should sit down, buddy.”

Something flickers over Steve’s face. “Don’t call me buddy.”

“Don’t stand there like a creep.”

His lip curls. You give him a challenging smile, and he lets out one of those heavy sighs that’s only reserved for you. He stomps over to the chair next to it, and drops down with a scowl at Tony.

“You want to tell us why we’re here, Tony?”

Tony frowns, and glances at you. “Does he not know?”

You shrug. “He’s a little stupid. You know that.”

Tony’s lips twitch despite himself. Steve scowls.

“I don’t know what you two are talking about, or- Planning-“

He cuts himself off, as Tony tosses the printed out article down on the desk. You hadn’t actually seen it yet, but you knew it was coming.  

From the look on Steve’s face, though, he really hadn’t realized at all.

“What.” It’s all he says. One clipped, dumbfounded word as he stares at the paper. You sort of want to laugh, but you bite it down. Tony’s looking at you like this is serious. Like he can’t make it go away with a wave of his hand.

Stever grabs the article. You lean over his shoulder, just to piss him off a little more. He doesn’t even bother to glare at you, his fingers digging so deep into the paper it tears. The headline gets crumpled, like he’s crushing it with just his gaze.

Secret Love In the Avengers.

It’s not very snappy. You think they could’ve tried harder, but at least the picture is good. You and Steve both look nice, and you’re staring at each other so intently you can’t even blame them for the minimum effort. With Sam looking bored on Steve’s other side, and you and Steve leaning so close together, there’s no mistaking in that photo who might be seconds from making out.

“Tony,” Steve mutters. “What’s this.”

Tony snorts. “What do you think this is, Cap? A news article about trades with China? No, because less people would be reading that than they’re reading this.”

“We’re hotter than trades with China,” you offer, and you think Tony would laugh if he wasn’t so pissed.

“Why is there a picture of us.” Steve mutters, and Tony rolls his eyes.

“Well, when two people look at each other like they want to fuck, everyone tends to notice.”

Steve’s jaw locks. You sigh, crossing your arms over your chest.

“So what, do you need us to do another release-“

“No.” Tony glares at you. “This is the third time something like this has happened with you two-“

“What?” You snort. “No, it isn’t-“

“Ah.” Tony raises a hand. “Don’t play stupid with me. I’m trying to be generous with third, and I’m not in the mood to hold your hands through feelings right now.”

“Feelings?” Steve spits, fumbling with the paper. “There are no- I don’t know what you think you’re talking about, Stark-“

“Steven.” Tony says flatly. “You. Shut up.”

Steve shakes his head. “You don’t know what you’re talking about-“

“Yes. I do. And you do too.”

You raise your hand, frowning between them. “Can I ask what the first and second time were, because I’d remember if this happened before-“

“No, you wouldn’t,” Tony snaps. “Because I have spent millions bribing people out of running these stories, and you never look online to see what people are saying.”

“What people are saying?” You look at Steve. “What are people saying?”

Steve coughs, ears turning red. “Nothing-“

“They think you’re fucking.” Tony says flatly, and your mouth falls open.

“They- What?!”

“You have chemistry, kid.” Tony shrugs. “Every second you’re next to each other, you’re eye fucking so much we all feel like we’re supposed to leave the room.”

You sputter, shaking your head. You can feel you flush, burning up your face. When you look at Steve, he won’t meet your eyes.

He never does.

“Did you know about this?” You hiss.

He sighs, running a hand over his face with a half-shrug. “Maybe.”

“Maybe?! What the fuck does that mean-“

“Means he knew.” Tony says flatly. “Everyone knew.”

“Everyone knew what?! That the whole country thinks I want to fuck Steve?!”

Tony snorts. “You do want to fuck Steve.”

Your face burns. Steve looks up with warning pinch in his brow. “Tony.”

“Don’t Tony me, pretty boy-“

“Just- Not now-“

“Yes, now.” Tony glares between you. “This has gotten out of hand. We get it. You’re both hot. You’d have hot sex. But if you don’t either fuck or cut bait and start acting like adults, you’re grounded.”

Steve scowls. “You can’t ground me, Stark, I’m your boss-“

“Well, I cut the checks.” Tony crosses his arms. “So I think I can do whatever I want.”

Steve and Tony keep glaring at each other. You stare off in the middle distance between them. Your hands don’t feel like they’re your hands. Your feet are planted on the carpet, but not on solid ground. Your head feels like it’s pressing into itself, yet also expanding to something bigger than you can hold onto.

You don’t want to fuck Steve. Sure, he’s all muscles and rugged yet soft features, but there are countless men like that.

There are very few men like that. Well, you could find one. You have one in front of you. But you don’t want to fuck him. He’s annoying. Impossibly annoying and bossy and always up your ass about something, and not in the fun way like you’d prefer-

No. You wouldn’t prefer. You don’t want to fuck Steve. You can have anyone else, you’d rather have anyone else. Steve’s just always there and always making you embarrassed and angry, and maybe you’re into that but it’s none of his business. It’s not like he’d be like that in bed, either way.

You think. Not that you’ve thought about it. He’s too perfect. Too boring. He’s not boring when he’s arguing with you. He just hates you that much. That you make him break. Or you let him show that side of himself. You don’t poke and prod at anyone like you poke and prod at Steve. He’s just fun to get a rise out of. He gets cute when he’s pissy. He sneers your name and it goes right between your legs, but that doesn’t mean you want to fuck him.

You don’t. You don’t. You don’t?  

He has big hands, but you don’t want them groping and squeezing all over your body. He’s got a strong nose, but you’ve never thought about it pushing against your clit, just like you’ve never thought about his huge biceps wrapping around your neck while he fingers you stupid. And you’d smile at him, dazed and long fucked out of protesting. And he’d feed those fingers to you while sitting you on his cock, and all that perfection would melt away into something raw. Something real, that’s open and refuses to be stitched close. Something that both of you want to drown in.

Something’s that’s just for you, and Steve, and no one else.

Oh, no.

You want to fuck him.

Tony says your name, and your gaze snaps back over. Your palms are sweating, your face burning, your skin suddenly itchy and your feet restless. You want to fuck Steve. You want to fuck Steve.

He looks at you weird, and you shift in your seat. He can’t know. Ever. This is going to get cleaned up, and Steve will never know that you might, kind of, really want him to just toss you over his shoulder and fuck you stupid. You glance at him from the corner of you eye, and his gaze sears into you. You have to look away.

There’s no way he can know. You’ve barely even known for a minute.  Tony only says he knows because he’s an ass. This will pass. It has to pass.

“Figure it out.” Tony tells you, before walking out of the office.

And you will. By never being in the same room as Steve again.

You shoot to your feet, and almost sprint out of the room. Steve calls your name, but you don’t look back. He’s faster, but he’s also respectful. He won’t manhandle you and force you to listen, like you want him to.

God, you really want him to. You’re going to kill Tony for making you realize that, then kill yourself, and no one will ever have to know that—for all your cool, bored smiles and teasing and flirting, for all your powers and siren-like smile—you just want to be fucked stupid by the most righteous, innocent sex-symbol in America.

But then Steve shouts your name again. He’s following you. Why is he following you.

“Fuck off, Steve!” You shout over your shoulder, and he scoffs.

“No, you heard Tony, we need to talk-“

“We really don’t-“

“Yes, we do- Will you slow down-“

You pick up the pace, just to piss him off. Steve groans, and you hear boots hitting the ground behind you. He’s giving chase, and you can barely outwalk him.

Steve grabs your arm before you can even break into a sprint. You thrash, but it’s useless. He’s too strong, and that’s so hot, and you’re going to throw yourself off a bridge about this.

“Let go-“

“No.” Steve drags you down the hall, into an empty conference room. “Not until we talk.”

“There’s nothing for us to talk about-“

“Will you just stop being such a fucking brat and listen?”

Steve raises his voice, stern and commanding. It’s deep, so deep it echoes through you, and your knees wobble. He sees it. His jaw ticks, his grip slackens, and you rip your hand away.

“Brat.” You mock. “What would America think, if they saw their Golden sun talking to a girl like that?”

Steve’s lips twitch. “You are not a girl.”

“Aw. I’m a woman-“

“You’re a problem.” He leans over you, voice dropping to a hiss.

And this is how he always looks at you, but magnified. With a sharper gleam in his eyes, his lips thin and white, like he’s trying to swallow every word. A vein in his brow ticks, and you smile.

“I’m a problem?”

Steve’s throat bobs. “Yes.”

“Hurtful,” you whisper, and he rolls his eyes.

“You’ll live.”

For a long moment, you just stare at each other. He wants to talk, he can talk. You’re not entertaining this. Not just for him to unravel you then keep being a fucking dick.

“You…” He shakes his head, a tiny motion as his tongue flicks over his lips. “You are impossible.”

“You’re impossible-“

“Because you make me impossible,” he sneers, and you lean back slightly.

“I- You-“ You try to scoff. It’s a weak sound. He’s too close, and he smells like pine trees and something spicy, and it’s not fair. “I don’t even do anything-“

“Yes. You do.”

“What, is my skirt too short? Are my shoulders distracting you-“

“You’re distracting me.” Steve presses forward, until your faces are only inches apart. “You always distract me, you fuckin’-“ He closes his eyes, shoulders heaving.

“Steve…” You breathe, and he chuckles.

“Don’t say my name like that,” he rasps. “You don’t fuckin’ mean it.”

You blink, trying to think over the desire, burning in your body. Of course you meant it. You didn’t even want to say it, but he’s so close. It’s intoxicating. You’d think he was drugging you, if that was possible.

Steve’s pressed you against the conference table. His arms are caging you in, giving you no escape from the electricity, almost crackling in the air. You open your mouth, then close it, lost for what to say. You’re worried you’ll just whisper his name again. He drags his eyes open after what feels like a million years, his voice dropping down to something hot and dangerous.

“You never push anyone,” he says. “Like you push me, doll. It’s not… It drives me crazy.”

You swallow, your voice smaller than you want. “You- You push me-“

“Because I can’t help it.” He presses closer. Your noses are almost bumping. “You are beautiful, and insolent, and infuriating-“

“Steve-“

“And you’re so sweet to everyone.” He grabs your jaw, and your hand flies to his wrist. “Everyone loves you, so they think I’m crazy when I say you’re tryin’ to kill me.”

“Everyone loves me because of my powers.” You try to remind him, because if he does this, you won’t be able to stop him. “You- You know that-“

“I do. Trust me,” he murmurs your name, gaze flicking to your lips. “I know. Spent so long blaming them too. All those daydreams had to be because you’re Nat’s honeypot. Thought it was the wrong thing to do, that I was some kind of monster to thinking about you like that, when everyone else already does. But no,” he looks back to you. “It’s just you, doll. I plugged my nose, avoided your pheromones, let Bruce experiment on me to make me immune, did fuckin’ everything, and I still wanted you.”

You take a deep, ragged breath. You have to lick your lips, to stop the spit, and Steve tracks the motion like a predator.

No one wants you. Everyone loves you, but no one wants you. You’re pretty but untouchable. No one can hurt you. If you ask someone for something, they’ll always do it, whether they really want to or not.

But Steve…

He says he wants you. And you really want to believe him.

“How long.” You breathe, and he sighs, bowing his head.

“Since the second I saw you.”

“You…” You scan over his face, looking for any hint that it’s not really him. That he doesn’t really, fully mean it. “You want to fuck me?”

His ears turn red. “I mean- Not just that-“

“But you do,” you breathe, and he sighs.

Stares for a second longer, then nods.

“Okay.” You whisper. Steve looks to your lips, then back to you again.

“Okay?”

 You nod. Steve’s grip on your jaw tightens, and your breath hitches. He leans down slowly. So torturously slowly.

Your lips meet, soft and chapped and nervous. You lean up, and he presses down. Your noses bump, and his tongue flicks over your lower lip. Your nails dig into his bicep, and he grunts, and-

Steve snaps.

His other hand flies to your face, and he presses over you, hot and demanding. Your breath hitches, you mouth falls open, and he shoves his tongue down your throat with a groan. You grab the collar of his shirt, yanking him so hard you both stumble back. Your knees hit the back of the table, but Steve’s fast. He ducks down without breaking the kiss, and scoops you up into his arms.

You squeal, but the sound is quickly muffled by Steve’s tongue down your throat. Your laugh is breathless and giddy. He chuckles, pushing further forward, and you pull at the collar of his shirt. He jerks forward, angling his head to deepen the kiss.

“Needy.” He mutters against your lips, and you shove his shoulder with weak hands.

“Shut up, I could still stop this-“

“But you won’t.” He taunts. “You like it, don’t you. Like gettin’ on my nerves, making me lose control.”

Steve pulls away, grabs your knees, shoving them apart with rough, firm hands. You gasp, grabbing at his neck. “Steve-“

“You’re wet under there.” He growls, running a big hand up your inner thigh. “I can smell it. Smell how much you want me, every damn time you’d mouth off.”

Your swallow, pressing your brows tight together. You watch him rub your legs, breathing through your nose like some wanton whore. Steve’s thumb grazes the place where you’re leg meets your core, and your whole body shivers.

He smirks, looking at you under pretty lashes. You try to glare, but you’re panting. His gaze just makes the fire in your core burn brighter, and your tongue flicks over your lips.

“You never said anything,” you whisper, and Steve gives you an amused look.

“You would’ve killed me.”

And you can laugh breathlessly. Ten minutes ago, you would’ve. But now he’s all over you, and you can’t even bring yourself to mock him.

“No,” you brush your lips over his. “I wouldn’t have.”

Steve works his jaw, that raw, strange look flashing over his face. The look that’s yours. That’s only ever been for you.

He leans in, and this kiss is softer than before. Steve massages your hips, settling himself between your legs. You spread them wide to accommodate him, and feel it poking against your thigh. His cock, thick and hard, somehow bigger than you imagined, and you hadn’t  been thinking small.

“You feel that.” He pulls your upper lip between his teeth, smiling slightly. “’S what you always do to me. Every day, I’d be walkin’ around so hard I was worried you’d see it. But no.” His kisses one corner of your mouth, then the other. “You’re oblivious, aren’t you honey.”

You hum, tipping your head back. Steve groans, dragging his lips over a pulse point, letting his tongue flick against sensitive skin. One hand slips under your shirt, careful fingers tracing up the line of your spine.

“Steve…” You whisper. “Don’t tease.”

“Oh, but you like it too much when I do.” He rasps. “You love it, love being a sweet little toy for me.”

You whimper, and he reaches around, grabbing a handful of your ass.

“So bossy ‘till I’m touchin’ you,” he sucks on your neck, grinding his bugle into your core. You gasp as the rough friction, and Steve chuckles.

“You- You’re such an ass-“

“You like that too.” He grunts, breath hot in your ear. “You like bein’ the one person that gets me going, that makes me lose it. No one else, doll.” He pushes your ass forward, so your clit is pushed against the thick hardness of him.

A long moan escapes your lips, and you drop your face into his shoulder. Steve grunts, rutting forward, and it’s so fucking hot you can’t think past it. The drawl of his voice in your ear, the strength of him around you, it’s intoxicating. The clothing adding extra friction, his fingers digging into your skin. His hand slips into your pants, deft fingers dragging down your ass to tease right against the drip of your pussy.

“Just you,” he thrusts forward, squeezing your ass. “Only you. So fuckin’ pretty and sassy, drivin’ me insane-“

You whimper, and Steve makes a low sound, taking a deep breath against your hair. The table creaks, with the force of his every thrust.

“So rude of you, sweetheart, to make me try and keep it together when you’re running around, beggin’ to be fucked- God-“

Steve moans, jerking his hips back suddenly. You stare at each other, panting and flushed. He swallows, and there’s a stain blooming on his pants. Your mouth falls open, and normally you’d make fun of him, but fuck. There’s so much of it. You can see white, leaking out of the cuffs of his pants and onto the floor. He came just from that. Just from holding and kissing you.

And he’s still so hard.

You lick your lips, and look back up. Steve’s throat bobs. You smile, fumbling with your pants, and he blinks.

“You’re- Uh-“

“In me.” You point at his dick, about to burst the seam of his slacks, then your core. “You- Do that in me.”

Steve’s hands curl into fists. You’ve never seen his face so red. It’s almost adorable. “Uh- Are you sure-“

“Do you want to fuck me stupid or not?”

He leans back, startled. You hold his gaze, pull down your pants, hike your legs up on the table, and spread them wide.

You could swear you see it twitch, as he takes you in. Head thrown back, your fingers rubbing between the swollen, dripping lips of your cunt. You breathe out his name, dipping one finger into your heat and pumping slowly. Steve takes a rough step forward, grabbing your knees like handles.

“Stop,” he grunts, and you obey.

Steve runs his fingers down your bare thigh, slowly guiding your hand away from your pussy. You grab his shoulder, holding his gaze as he rubs his thumb around your clit. You let out a slow, relaxed breath, and Steve smirks.

“You like that, doll?”

“As much as you did,” you breathe out, and Steve chuckles.

“Ah. Too late for that.” He presses a mocking kiss to your open lips. “You showed me what you want. How bad you want it.”

Steve flicks your clit, and your back arches. He presses back down on the little button, and a long moan rips from your lips.

“I came in my fuckin’ pants,” he whispers in your ear. “And you’re still beggin’ me to fuck you.”

“Wasn’t- Wasn’t begging-“

“But you would,” he coos. “If I asked you to. You’d say please, Stevie and cry for me to stuff this pretty little pussy.” He pushes down on your clit, and you whimper. “Like the good little slut you are.”

God, the hold he has on you should be crime. You choke out his name pathetically, and Steve starts to rub you in thick, unrelenting circles. His free arm wraps around your lower back, holding you in place when his fingers dip down, and start to explore the folds of you pussy.

“So wet,” he mutters, pushing one finger deep into your cunt. You clench around him, and a squelching sound fills the room as he pumps slowly. “Wet and tight.” Steve looks up at you with a smirk. “You think you’re gonna be able to take my cock, doll? Christ, you’re barely taking my finger.”

He pushes in a second one, just to prove his point, and your mouth falls open. He’s right. The burn of his two fingers, it feels like he’s stretching you open with a fist. He slides them in deeper and deeper, his thumb working your clit, and your nails sink into his neck.

“St- Steve,” you gape between your bodies, watching him disappear inside of you. “Steve-“

“Hm?” He gets up to the knuckle, and looks up at you with a smirk.

You try to take a second to catch your breath, and he scissors his fingers, twisting his wrist so it hits a gummy spot inside of you. You cry out, and he silences you with a deep, messy kiss.

“Feel it,” he mutters against your lips, pulling his fingers almost all the way out. “No talkin’ for once, doll. All you gotta do is feel it.”

He slams his fingers back in. You whimper, but nod. Steve hums in approval, and the sound shoots straight between your legs. You squeeze and gush around him, and he groans. You barely get a second to compose yourself before he starts to thrust his fingers, deep and hard, and you start to unravel.

Steve’s strong. This is him holding back, and he’s still so strong. You scramble to get a real, firm hold on something, because he’s pummeling your pussy into a drenched, slack oblivion. The pace is brutal, knuckles dragging right over your g-spot over and over, splitting you open in a way that makes you drool.

He makes his mouth busy, trailing kisses back down your throat, then over your shoulders. You moan, leaning your head against his, and he smiles against your skin. Steve draws back to meet your gaze, and through the daze of the pleasure he’s dragging out of you, you smile back.

Your body is rocking, from the brutality of how he’s touching you. Steve’s eyes flick down, but not to where his fingers are being swallowed by your pussy.

He’s looking at your tits.

He licks his lips, watching them bounce under his force. You think he might be hypnotized. Before you can say anything, he reaches up and rips your shirt clean off.

“Steve- Ooh-“

“Shhh.” He gives you a stern look, twisting his fingers in your cunt. “I’ve got you, doll. Just- Lemme-“

Steve looks back to your tits, and his eyes are almost black with desire. You’ve never seen anything hotter, than how he looks at you as he lowers himself down.

He mouths at the curve of your tits, sucking a tiny, dark bruise. You moan, starching at his bicep, but he just drags you closer. Forcing your back to arch, your tits to push into his face.

“Look at you,” he mutters, voice dripping with something close to reverence. “My girl.”

And you blink. Because that wasn’t discussed, but your pussy clenches all the same. His girl.

You don’t get more time to think about it before Steve’s lips wrap around your nipple, and you lose control.

He mouths at you like a starved man. Kissing and licking and sucking, sending tingling, electric sensations straight from your tits to your pussy. He moans every time you squeeze down on his fingers, which just feels like a vibrator right against your sensitive nipples, and makes you lose it all the more.

You’re grinding up into him, thrashing a little like an animal and whimpering in his ear. Steve bites down softly, his thumb staring to make quick, relentless swipes at your clit.

“Oh- Oh fuck-“ You moan, tugging at his short, soft hair. “St- Steve- Too much- I’m gonna- Fuuuck-“

You don’t know why you thought he was going to slow down. Steve switches nipples, biting down before sucking hard, right as his blunt fingertips hit that spot inside of you. You cry out as you cum, your body writhing against his stronger one. He keeps you in place, his hand working you through the orgasm. Pulling every last spasm of your cunt, and a few more after. He kisses your nipples and over your breasts before he draws up.

When it’s done, your eyes are lidded. Steve stares at you, slowly pulling his hand out. He smears your juices over your pussy, thumbing at your clit for a few more, light seconds. You squeak, and he smiles.

“You look pretty when you cum,” he mutters, and you flush.

You’ve been told that before, but this feels different.

This feels real.

You can’t think of anything to say. Steve doesn’t push you to try. He leans forward, cupping your cheek and giving you a smaller, softer look before he kisses you. You melt into him, too dazed from what might be strongest orgasm of your life to protest.

“’m gonna fuck you ‘till you can’t walk.” Steve mutters. “But- Not here.”

You hum in agreement. “Clean up later?”

“Later.” Steve grunts in agreement. “If I don’t get inside of you, think I’m gonna die.”

You giggle. It’s so stupid, but you giggle. Steve huffs out a low laugh, and drags your forward. You’re being carried like a koala in his arms. He kisses your cheek before drawing up to his whole height, and glancing at the door.

“I, uh-“ He gives you a sheepish expression. “I’m gonna have to run.”

You nod—you’re naked, you expected as much—and he clears his throat.

“You gotta hold on.”

“I am holding on.” You pat his neck, and he sighs.

“Doll, I’m gonna be running really fast-“

“I’m holding on tight.”

“Hold on tighter.”

You roll your eyes, and wrap him in the best chokehold you can manage. The asshole doesn’t even pretend to grunt.

“Your boobs are in my face.” He mumbles, and you snort.

“You were eating them like, five seconds ago-“

“Yeah, but- That was just us. What if someone sees-“

“That you’re carrying me naked? Probably that we’re fucking.”

He twists his neck to glare up at you. You smile innocently back, and he sighs.

His breath is warm, over your breasts. It makes you squirm a little, and Steve’s grip on your body tightens.

“You are such a brat,” he mutters, almost in awe. “I stop fucking you for ten seconds, and you’re already talking back again.”

“Oops.” You beam. “You should fix that.”

Steve chuckles. His tongue flicks over his lips. “Yeah,” his voice is dark. A promise. “Trust me. I’m gonna.”

And he runs. He runs so fast you squeal, because you forgot how fast he can be when he’s really trying. You press your face back into his neck to block the wind, and when he stops, you still don’t look up.

The smell hits you first. It’s deep and rich and-

Steve.

You poke your head up, and you’re in Steve’s room.

It’s not what you expected, a military cell where he sleeps and plans way to torture you. It’s… Cozy. There are books on a shelf that slightly poorly put together, and the bed is made but the sheets look thick and soft. There’s a mirror on the dresser, facing the bed, and so much paper you almost don’t know where to look. Drawings of flowers, and rivers, and sunsets. One of a bird, and a few of the landscape of the compound, and so, so many of-

“Is that me?”

Steve grunts, tossing you down onto his bed and starting to strip. You move to your knees, ready to scramble off the bed and get a better look at the drawings, but he gives you a stern look.

“Stay.”

You roll your eyes. “Shut up, I wanna see- Steve-“

He grabs you like you weigh nothing, and throws you right back onto the bed before you’re even on two feet. Your thighs press together, thrilled with the blatant manhandling. Steve notices it, and laughs.

“You like that, huh?”

“Shut up-“

“No, you liked that-“

“Maybe I did.” You stick your tongue out, and he smirks.

“You love bein’ a ragdoll, don’t you. Needy girl, you’re gonna let me do whatever I want to you-“

“You have drawings of me!” You blurt, because you really don’t need him to make you more horny.

Steve shrugs. “I do. So?”

“So?” You fumble, pulling at the sheets. “You- You like me-“

“That’s a shock to you?” Steve gives you an amused look. “I just fingered you in borderline public.”

“Well- You- You-“ You’re sputtering again. Only Steve does this to you. It drives you fucking insane. “You could’ve just wanted to fuck me-“

“Nope.” He shrugs. “I’ve been in love with you for a while. You just get on my last line sometimes, doll.”

And all your protests slip out of your head.

I love you.

He- He said-

“What?” You squeak, and Steve sighs.

“I love you.”

He said it again. “Wh- Why?”

“Why?” He gives you a tired, almost annoyed look. “Why wouldn’t I love you?”

“Because I’m annoying.” You answer immediately. “And mean, and bossy, and- I’m annoying-“

“You said that one already.” Steve starts to walk towards you, and you lean into his gravity, even as your heart beats in your ears.

“How do you know you love me.” You whisper. “It- It could just be my powers-“

“It’s not.”

“But-“

Steve takes your face between his hands, his thumb dragging over your lower lip. You fall silent, and you know you’re staring up at him like he’s the sun, but you’ve never been so warm. You’re afraid to move. To lose it.

“Steve…” You breathe, and he hums. “You- You can’t mean that-“

“I do.” He presses his thumb forward, and your lips wrap around it on instinct. You suck, and his eyes flash with more approval.

It’s embarrassing, how pliable that makes you. How he’d just need to give you one bit of praise after so much mocking, and you might just cum right here. Sucking on Steve’s thumb, naked on his bed, sheets bunched between your thighs.

“I love you because you’re smart,” he says, and useless, embarrassing tears prick at your eyes. “And funny, and kind. You never abuse what you can do to people. You work hard, you drive me crazy, you’re always ready to do anything for anyone else.”

You try to shy away. You’d been wrong. You’re not cumming, you’re getting so hot it feels like a fever, because having him degrade you is less embarrassing than this. Steve’s grip on you face tightens. He’s not letting you get away that easy.

“You’re gorgeous,” he murmurs. “And it’s got nothin’ to do with any powers. So I love you, doll. And you’re gonna feel it.”

There’s nothing you can say to that. Tears are pricking at your eyes, hopeless and confused and desperate. You need to see what that feels like. Steve’s love, painted all over you.

“You want that?” He mutters, and you nod. “Words-“

“Please,” you breathe out, the words muffled around his thumb. “Show me.”

Steve smiles. He pulls his thumb away with a pop, and taps your check gently.

“See?” He smirks. “Begging.”

Your eyes narrow, but Steve doesn’t let you spit out a response. He crashes down into a harsh, long kiss that makes your toes curl and thighs rub together. Steve gropes all over your body, pushing you down into the mattress before rolling over and forcing you to straddle his chest.

He’s naked. You don’t know how you missed it—probably the love confession—but the thick, hard curve of his cock slaps against your ass, and his bare chest flexes when you drag your nails over his pecs.

“You’re gonna ride my cock, doll,” he rubs your ass, smiling up at you. “Don’t need you to say anything back. Just show me,” he squeezes your ass. “How fuckin’ bad you need it.”

You look back at it, and your breath hitches. It’s huge. Bigger than any you’ve ever taken, bigger than any you’ve ever seen, even in porn.

“Did you take fucking drugs for that thing?” You breathe, and Steve snorts.

“Yes?”

You glare at him, and he raises his brows.

“You getting on, or not?” 

For a second, you think about being petulant. You cross your arms and pout, trying to test how far you can push him. But Steve just snorts, rolls his eyes, and picks you up. You don’t even get to wiggle before he’s forcing you down on his dick, and the air is knocked from your lungs.

Steve sits so deep in your, it might be pushing all the thoughts out of your brain. You gape down at him, making weak noises as your pussy pulses and stretches around him. His fingers dig into your hips, but it’s the only sign that he’s struggling to hold himself back.

“Much as I love you bein’ a brat,” he mutters, massaging your ass. “I’d rather see this.”

He reaches up slowly, tucking air behind your ear. You smile weakly, and he chuckles, settling fully into the pillows.

“Ride it, doll,” he orders, and god help you, you try.

You catch your breath after a long moment that feels like eternity, and start to roll your hips. Steve groans, eyelids fluttering, but doesn’t help you. His hands stay firm on your body, forcing you to use everything you have to grind down onto his dick.

He pushes against that gooey spot inside of you, and you falter with a long moan. You shift, forcing him right against it, and he lets out a sharp breath, but still doesn’t move.

“Feels good, doesn’t it,” he coos, cock throbbing inside of it. “Nice and big, fillin’ up your pussy so good.”

You moan, hips bucking. Steve grunts, thrusting up slightly, and you tip your head back. The friction is good. So good. For a second, back arched and thighs aching, you find a rhythm. It starts slow, rolling and pushing Steve’s cock right where you want it. You look down at him, sweaty and adoring beneath you. His hands wander, his breathing ragged and lips parted.

“That’s a good girl,” he mutters. “C’mon, baby, there you go.”

You keen, and move faster. Your knees are weak, but the need is stronger. You bounce on Steve dick, grabbing at his chest and gasping for air as he splits you open over and over again.

But it’s not enough. You don’t have extra stamina or strength, and he’s so big, and you’re so turned on your body is starting to forget how to move. Every wet, obscene sound makes you glance at where he’s disappearing inside of you, the way your slick is coating his cock when you pull up and his balls are heavy, pushed against your ass when you drop back down. You get hornier, and you want to just let go and allow your eyes to cross and toes to curl, but you can’t. You can’t find the pace.

You can’t cum. You can’t, and pathetic, fat tears stream down your cheeks because of it.

Steve reaches up, brushing them away with a tiny smirk. “Aw, babydoll. Don’t cry.”

You sob, shaking above him as your legs finally get to weak. You’re just squirming above him now, blinking under wet lashes at his teasing, lazy smile.

“Can’t get there all alone, can you,” he pushes you down, slamming his hips up, and you make a choked sound like his name. “Yeah, that’s right. Sweet girl, just a fuckin’ mess on my cock.”

“Ple- Please-“ You blubber, collapsing over Steve’s chest. “God, Steve- Please-“

“Aw. Begging so pretty.” He kisses your brow. “How could I ever tell you no?”

Steve grabs you off his cock, twisting you onto your stomach as he sits up. You’re shoved down into the mattress, your cheek pressed into the cushions by one of Steve’s hands on the back of your neck. The other stays on your hips, dragging your ass high up in the air to present to him.

“Such a mess.” Steve runs the head of his cock between the lips of you pussy, letting it press against your clit before he lines it up at your entrance. “You really needed this, didn’t you?”

He slides in slowly, and your eyes rolls back in your head. He’s impossibly deeper at this angle. You try to press your face into the mattress, to muffle your pathetic sounds, but Steve folds his body over yours, fisting a hand in your hair and yanking it back as he bottoms out.

“Look.” He bites your ear, dragging back before slamming forward, drilling his cock back into your abused, over sensitive pussy. “Look at us, babydoll. Fit so fuckin’ perfect.”

Your eyes dart up, and oh. Oh god.

It’s the most pornographic thing you’ve ever seen. Steve wrapped around you, his jaw tight and one hand resting on your hip. You can’t see where he’s fucking you, but you can see how his muscles flex with each thrust. You’re trapped under him, your gaze locked onto his black, fervorish one. There’s no blue left in his eyes, as he hits a pace like an animal. Only hunger and adoration.

“St- Steve-“

“That’s it,” he rasps. “That’s right, say my fuckin’ name- Scream it-“

“Steve!” You cry out, the tears streaming down your face as it becomes far too much. “Oh- Ooooh-“

 Steve lets go of your hair, wrapping his massive bicep around your neck. It keeps your head up, keeps your eyes on his. He kisses the side of your head, and you can feel arousal sliding down your thighs as he rolls his hips.

“So pretty,” he whispers. “Look at yourself. Look how fuckin’ perfect you are.”

Your eyes dart over, and an unbearable warmth prickles over your skin. You look more beautiful than you’ve ever felt in your life. Thoroughly wrecked, worshipped, fucked into a drooling mess with swollen lips and glazed eyes. Steve noses at you, smirking against your skin.

“Good, good girl.” His words are thick, his thrusts becoming erratic. “Feels nice, doesn’t it?”

You whimper an agreement, and Steve chuckles.

“You gonna cum for me? C’mon, show me how nice it feels, cum on my fucking cock-“ 

It’s like he has more control over your body than you do. The orgasm rips through you at his command, and you sob out his name as you fall apart in his arms. Steve grunts, pulling fully out for half a second to roll you on your back. You barely even feel the loss before he’s burying himself right to the hilt, and you can’t remember what being empty feels like.

There’s more than there looked to be. Steve pulls almost all the way out, to try and make more space, but it does next to nothing. Thick ropes of cum fill you up until you can almost taste it. There are wet, messy sounds as it starts to leak out, over your ass and thighs. You can see it in the mirror, dripping down onto the mattress. You’re stuffed up so well, you try to say Steve’s name, but it just comes out a pathetic moan.

He collapses over you with a grunt, and all the edge vanishes. He pulls fully out, cradling you in his arms and kissing over your neck.

“I made a mess.” He mutters, running light fingers over your inner thigh.

You giggle, kicking him away, and he smiles against your skin.

“You gonna talk to me?”

You shake your head, licking your lips. Your voice is gone, from screaming, and you can see him wince when he realizes it.

“I didn’t hurt you-“

You shake your head quickly, and his shoulders relax.

“Okay. Good. I- I’m gonna-“

He tries to get up. You grab him, and yank him back down. He grunts, giving you an incredulous look.

“Honey, it’s everywhere.”

You glare at him. He’s warm. He’s not getting away from you that easy. And you expect him to argue, like he always had before, but he just… gives in.

“Okay. Five minutes.”

He leans back over you, and you lay there. Cuddling.

Like a real couple.

You could be. Steve said he loves you, and he meant it, and that opens a door you’ve never thought about before. A door you never even let yourself think about.

A door you might want to see the other side of, more than you’ve ever let yourself admit.

But now-

You want it. You wanted this, and you want that, and you’re not going to spend another second pretending you don’t.

“About what I said,” Steve mutters, like he’s reading your mind. “Before we- Or- I guess during-“

 You roll over and grab his face. He blinks adorably, and you smile.

Steve murmurs your name, and you smile.

“I love you,” you croak out.

His jaw goes slack, and your smile widens. It’s the only thing you can think to say. The only thing you want to say.

And when Steve kisses you, it’s slow. Romantic and loving and deep. He really loves you. Everyone in the world, and the perfect man loves you. He holds you like you’re the only thing in his world. You feel like you’re the only thing in his world.

And he might really be the only thing in yours.

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.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No. No one likes trouble.”

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

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

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

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

“No. But you’re provin’ my point.”

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

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

“No.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re predictable.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It’s Trouble-“

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

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

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

You should’ve known better.

You didn’t.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“He wishes.”

No, he doesn’t.

That’s the problem.

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

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

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

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

“Okay.” You beam at him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No.”

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

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

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

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

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

“We can have fun back at the room-“

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

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

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

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

“You Dean?” The man asks.

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

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

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

He’s pissed.

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

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

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

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

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

The man yanks you back, and you yelp.

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

Dean scowls. “You stay out of this-“

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

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

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

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

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

Dean rasps your name. “Come here-“

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Huh?”

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

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

“He’s not even your type-“

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

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

“He wasn’t ugly-“

“Yeah, he was.”

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

“Only on the inside, sweetheart.”

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

Dean clears his throat. “Are you crying-“

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

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

“Shut up-“

“You’re fuckin’ crying-“

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

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

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

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

“I what? What the hell did I do-“

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dean sighs. His voice gets softer again.

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

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

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

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

“I’m trying to help-“

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

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

“Who the hell are you talking about.”

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

“You mean Katy?”

You grunt. “I hate her.”

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

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

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

“Mhm.” 

“You barely even talked to her-“

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

“Why-“

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I don’t want you to come with me.”

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

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

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

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

Even now, Dean makes everything easier.

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

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

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

“’Cause I-“

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

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

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

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

Dean hasn’t spoken to you since last night.

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

And you just told.

You ruined everything.

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

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

“Nothing-“

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

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

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

“He didn’t say anything.”

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

“Just drop it, okay?”

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

“Sam-“

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

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

Sam pleads with your name. You shake your head.

“Please. Drop it.”

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

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

It’s so much worse.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m fine, Sam-“

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

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

“I- Uh- I was hopin’ we could talk?”

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

“Can you look at me?”

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

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

“Go away, Dean.”

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

“I don’t care.”

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

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

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

Asshole.

“I-“

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He kissed you.

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

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

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

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

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

“I don’t-“

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Longing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then he almost melts.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Dean, please-“

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There’s a dangerous glint in his eyes.

You’re about to be fucked into next week.

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

You shake your head, and Dean chuckles.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Two. Just two-“

“They make you feel like this?”

“No- Never-“

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

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

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

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

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

“Fuck- Dean- You can’t just-“

You moan, and he chuckles.

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

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

“Open.”

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

“Swallow.” He grunts, and you obey.

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

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

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

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

“Fix what-“

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

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

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

“Dean-“

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I- I can’t-“

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Dean-“

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Dean, I’m serious-“

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Swear on your life.”

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

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

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

“I- I am-“

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

“I don’t want to crush you-“

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

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

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

“Of- Of course I trust you-“

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

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

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

And oh.

Oh god.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Dean- Deeaaan-“

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And you can’t hold it off.

“Dean- I- I’m gonna-“

He squeezes your ass, moaning against your pussy again.