day in the life of a fangirl

The cold started to bite into his palms as he pulled out another cigarette. It was the only thing keeping him remotely warm. He threw the butt of the old one onto the ground and put the new one in his mouth. As he tried to get his lighter to spark, he heard footsteps approaching. He looked to his left and a man in a backwards cap and hoodie followed by another in a jersey walked towards him, eyes never leaving his. 

“Can I borrow your light, buddy?” the one in the hoodie asked.

Ilya didn’t have time to answer before a punch slammed into his right cheek, knocking him to the ground. Great. Looks like I’m getting mugged again. Marcus was really going to kill him now. The kick to his ribs made him curl in on himself, a reflexive defense that did nothing against the second blow. Pain exploded through his abdomen. His lighter clattered across the pavement, disappearing into shadow.

"Fucking faggot," the guy in the jersey spat, delivering another kick that caught Ilya's shoulder. "You think we don't know what you do here?"

Ilya tasted blood. His mouth had hit the concrete when he fell. He tried to push himself up, but a boot pressed down on his back, pinning him to the cold ground.

"Empty your pockets," Hoodie demanded, crouching beside him. His breath reeked of cheap beer and cigarettes. "Now."

Ilya's heart hammered in his chest. The three hundred was tucked into his sock—a habit he'd learned after his first mugging. But his phone was in his back pocket. Marcus had given him that phone. Tracking, he called it. Making sure his investment was where it should be.

"I don't have money," Ilya said.

Jersey laughed, a harsh sound that echoed in the empty street. "Bullshit. We've been watching you. Three johns tonight." He pressed harder with his boot. "You think we're stupid?"

The cold bit into Ilya's cheek where it pressed against the pavement. He could feel a bruise forming where the first punch had landed. Blood trickled from his split lip.

"Check his pockets," Jersey ordered.

Rough hands patted him down, digging into his jeans. Hoodie pulled out his phone and the twenty dollars he kept in his front pocket as decoy money.

"This all you got?" Hoodie sounded disappointed, dangling the bill in front of Ilya's face. "Where's the rest?"

"That's all," Ilya lied. His ribs throbbed with each breath. "I swear."

Jersey crouched down, grabbing a fistful of Ilya's hair and yanking his head up. "You know what happens to lying whores?"

Ilya didn't answer. There was no right answer to that question. He'd learned that much in his time on the streets.

"I asked you a question," Jersey growled, twisting Ilya's hair harder.

Pain shot across Ilya's scalp. The taste of copper filled his mouth as his split lip continued to bleed. He tried to swallow, but his throat felt like sandpaper.

A crack of footsteps on pavement, then a voice cut through the night air.

"Hey! What the hell is going on over there?"

The grip on Ilya's hair loosened as Jersey's head snapped up. A tall figure approached from the street, silhouetted against the distant glow of a streetlamp.

"None of your business, man," Hoodie called back, but there was uncertainty in his voice now.

The newcomer stepped closer, and the dim light revealed an expensive wool coat, perfectly tailored to broad shoulders. He moved with the easy confidence of someone who’d never needed to fear walking alone at night.

“Three against one seems like poor odds,” the man said. "How about you take off before I call the police? I've already got dispatch on the line." He held up a phone, screen illuminated.

Jersey hesitated, then spat on the ground near Ilya's face. "Fuck this. Not worth it." He nudged Hoodie. "Come on."

"But we—" Hoodie started.

"I said let's go!" Jersey hissed, already backing away.

Ilya lay still, tasting blood and grit, as his attackers retreated down the alley, their footsteps fading into the night. His phone and twenty dollars went with them.

"Can you stand?" The stranger knelt beside him, close enough now that Ilya could see his face—young, maybe mid-twenties, with the kind of clean-cut good looks that belonged on magazine covers.

Ilya pushed himself up, wincing as pain shot through his ribs. "I'm fine." His accent thickened with pain.

"You don't look fine."

Ilya managed to get to his feet and wobbled. He held onto his side looking around to see if anyone was on the street. “I’m fine,” he said again, “You should go.”

"You need a hospital," the man said, his eyes scanning Ilya's face, lingering on the blood at his lip.

Ilya shook his head. "No hospitals." No insurance, no documentation, no way to explain to Marcus why he'd gone to an ER instead of making money. “Just go. Thank you.”

The man frowned. “What were you even doing out here? There are only deserted buildings on this block.”

Ilya tried to smirk, but it probably looked more like a grimace. “What do you think?”

The man's expression changed, understanding dawning in his eyes. He didn't look disgusted or pitying—just thoughtful. Ilya had seen enough reactions to last a lifetime. He didn't need this stranger's judgment too.

The man offered his hand—manicured nails, no calluses. "I'm Shane. Shane Hollander."

The name tickled something in Ilya's memory. He'd seen it in newspaper headlines, heard it mentioned on the business reports that played in the corner bodega. Hollander Industries. The tech conglomerate with headquarters downtown. Ilya hesitated before taking the outstretched hand. It was warm and firm, steadying him as another wave of pain radiated through his side.

"You need ice for that face," Shane said, his gaze lingering on Ilya's bruised cheek. "And probably those ribs too."

"I'll be fine," Ilya muttered, though the throbbing in his side suggested otherwise. He needed to get back to work. The night was still young, and Marcus expected a full take. "Thank you for help, but I go now."

Shane frowned, his eyebrows drawing together. "At least let me drive you somewhere safe. My car's just around the corner."

The offer hung between them in the cold night air. Ilya had learned the hard way not to trust strangers with nice clothes and kind words. They always wanted something. But he supposed he owed Shane for saving him. If he put more effort into the sex, Shane would probably pay a decent amount that would make Marcus happy.

"No hospitals," Ilya repeated, more firmly this time.

"No hospitals," Shane agreed, nodding. "Just somewhere to clean up. Maybe get some food?"

Ilya studied Shane's face for a moment, searching for deception, for the predatory gleam he'd learned to spot in his clients' eyes. He found nothing but genuine concern, which was somehow more unsettling than outright hunger would have been.

"Okay," he said finally, wincing as he straightened. "Food sounds good."

Shane nodded and gestured toward the street. "This way."

Each step sent fresh pain radiating through Ilya's ribs. He tried not to limp, not to show weakness, but his body betrayed him. The cold air stung his split lip, and he could feel his right eye beginning to swell. Those assholes had done a number on him.

Shane's car was not what Ilya expected. He'd assumed a luxury sedan, something sleek and German, but instead, a modest blue Volvo waited at the curb. Clean, well-maintained, but nothing flashy.

"Here," Shane said, opening the passenger door.

The interior smelled of leather and faint cologne—expensive, but not overpowering. Ilya lowered himself carefully onto the seat, trying not to get blood on the upholstery.

"There's tissues in the glove compartment," Shane said as he walked around to the driver's side.

Ilya found them and dabbed at his lip, the white paper coming away stained red. Shane slid into the driver's seat and started the engine. The heat kicked on almost immediately, blowing warm air that made Ilya's cold skin tingle.

"There's a diner about ten minutes from here," Shane said, pulling away from the curb. "Open all night. Good food, private booths."

Ilya nodded, not trusting himself to speak. His mind raced with calculations. How much time would this detour take? It would be easier if Shane just took him to his house and they fucked already. How angry would Marcus be? The three hundred dollars pressed against his ankle inside his sock, the only money he had left after those bastards took his decoy cash.

The car moved smoothly through nearly empty streets. Montreal after midnight was a different city—quieter, darker, with shadows that seemed to breathe. Ilya watched the buildings slide past, brick and concrete giving way to more populated areas as they left the warehouse district behind.

"You're Russian?" Shane asked, breaking the silence.

"Yes." Ilya kept his answer short. The less people knew about him, the better.

Shane nodded, not pushing for more. "I spent a semester in Moscow during college. Beautiful architecture."

Ilya almost laughed. His Moscow had nothing to do with beautiful architecture. His Moscow was cramped apartments and suspicious neighbors and his father's fists. But he just made a noncommittal sound and continued staring out the window.

***

The diner appeared ahead, a beacon of fluorescent light in the darkness. A neon sign buzzed above the entrance, letters spelling out "LUCKY'S" in electric blue. Shane pulled into the nearly empty parking lot and cut the engine.

"Wait here a second," he said, then exited the car before Ilya could respond.

Ilya watched through the windshield as Shane walked around to his side. The man opened the passenger door, offering his hand again. Ilya ignored it, pushing himself up with a grimace. His ribs protested the movement, sending a sharp pain through his side.

"I can walk," he muttered.

The diner’s warmth hit him as they entered, along with the smell of coffee and grease. A tired-looking waitress glanced up from behind the counter, her eyes widening slightly at Ilya’s battered face before smoothing into professional indifference.

"Booth in the back okay?" Shane asked.

Ilya nodded, following him to a corner booth far from the few other patrons. The vinyl seat squeaked as he slid in, trying to find a position that didn't aggravate his ribs.

"Coffee?" The waitress appeared beside them, coffeepot in hand.

"Please," Shane said. "Two cups." He looked at Ilya. "Unless you'd prefer something else?"

"Coffee is good," Ilya said, watching the steaming liquid pour into the white mug. His tongue probed his split lip, testing the damage.

The waitress set menus in front of them and left. Ilya stared at the laminated pages without really seeing them. The adrenaline was wearing off, and exhaustion was settling into his bones. His ribs throbbed with each breath.

"You should put some ice on that," Shane said, nodding toward Ilya's face. He flagged down the waitress. "Could we get some ice in a clean towel, please?"

The waitress nodded and disappeared into the kitchen. Ilya shifted uncomfortably. He wasn't used to being fussed over.

"Thank you," Ilya said quietly, wrapping his hands around the coffee mug. The heat seeped into his palms, a small comfort against the pain radiating through his body. He took a cautious sip, wincing as the hot liquid touched his split lip.

Shane watched him from across the table, his expression unreadable. "You should eat something. It'll help."

Ilya skimmed the menu, calculating prices against his needs. Even cheap diner food was an expense he couldn't afford tonight. "I'm not hungry."

"My treat," Shane said, as if reading his thoughts. "Order whatever you want."

The waitress returned with a towel-wrapped bundle of ice. Shane thanked her and slid it across the table. Ilya pressed it gingerly against his cheekbone, hissing slightly at the contact.

"Ready to order?" the waitress asked, pen poised over her notepad.

"I'll have the Denver omelet," Shane said. "And my friend will have..." He looked at Ilya expectantly.

"Cheeseburger," Ilya said. "Medium. With fries."

The waitress nodded and walked away. Silence settled between them, broken only by the clink of mugs and the distant sizzle of the grill.

"So," Shane finally said, "do you have somewhere to stay tonight?"

The question caught Ilya off guard. No one had asked him that in a long time. He adjusted the ice pack against his swelling cheek, buying time before answering.

"I have place," he lied. He had a room in the house Marcus kept for his "workers," but showing up empty-handed wasn't an option. Tonight he'd likely find a 24-hour café to hide in until morning, when he could try again.

Shane studied him with an intensity that made Ilya uncomfortable. Those eyes saw too much.

"You don't have to tell me anything you don't want to," Shane said. “But I don’t think you do. Plus those guys took your money, right? And your phone?”

Ilya's hand instinctively moved to his empty pocket. The loss of the phone was worse than the beating. Marcus tracked that phone.

"I have some left," Ilya said, his fingers finding the outline of the bills hidden in his sock. "It's enough."

Their food arrived before Shane could respond. The burger was massive, topped with melted cheese and accompanied by a mountain of fries. Ilya's stomach growled loudly, betraying him.

"Eat," Shane encouraged, gesturing toward the plate. "You need it."

Ilya didn't need to be told twice. He took a bite of the burger, the flavors exploding on his tongue. When was the last time he'd had a proper meal? Not the cheap ramen and expired sandwiches Marcus kept stocked in the house. He ate with controlled urgency, trying not to seem too desperate.

Shane picked at his omelet, watching Ilya with that same thoughtful expression. "How long have you been in Montreal?"

Ilya swallowed a mouthful of fries. "Eight months."

"And before that?"

"Toronto. For two weeks." Ilya took another bite of his burger. The meat was juicy, perfectly cooked. He could almost forget the pain in his ribs, the throbbing in his face.

Shane nodded, not pressing further. They ate in silence for a few minutes, the quiet punctuated only by the soft clatter of silverware and the murmur of conversation from the other diners.

"I have an extra room," Shane said suddenly. "In my apartment."

Ilya's hand froze halfway to his mouth, a fry dangling between his fingers. "What?"

"You need somewhere to stay tonight. I have space." Shane's voice was matter-of-fact, as if he were offering directions, not shelter.

Ilya thought for a moment. So this guy wanted an extended session? He could be fine with that. But only the first fuck with be free, as a thank you. He still needed the money. “Okay.”

Shane looked relieved, his shoulders relaxing as he set his fork down. "Great. I live downtown, about fifteen minutes from here."

Ilya nodded, wondering what kind of place a man like Shane Hollander would have. Probably one of those fancy high-rises with doormen and security cameras. The thought made him nervous. Places like that kept records, asked questions.

"I will need to leave early," Ilya said carefully, testing the waters. "In morning."

Shane shrugged. "That's fine. I have meetings tomorrow anyway." He took a sip of his coffee. "You can stay as long as you need to recover, though. The guest room has its own bathroom."

Guest room? Ilya's brow furrowed slightly. So Shane wanted to pretend this was just hospitality? Some clients liked to play games, act like they were just being nice before they expected payment. It was fine. Ilya could play along.

They finished their meals in companionable silence. The burger sat warm and heavy in Ilya's stomach, the best thing he'd eaten in weeks. When the waitress brought the check, Shane handed over a credit card without even looking at the total.

***

Shane’s apartment building rose like a gleaming monument to wealth, all glass and steel against the night sky. Ilya stood in the elevator, trying not to stare at his own reflection in the polished walls. His face looked worse than he'd expected—right eye swollen, lip split and crusted with dried blood, a bruise darkening his cheek. He kept his gaze fixed on the numbered buttons as they lit up one by one, climbing higher than he'd ever been in Montreal.

The elevator doors slid open on the twenty-third floor. Shane stepped out first, keys already in hand, and Ilya followed, his boots silent on the plush carpet of the hallway. Only two doors occupied this floor.

"Home sweet home," Shane said, unlocking the left one.

Ilya stepped inside and froze. The space that opened before him wasn't just an apartment—it was something from a magazine, all clean lines and soft lighting. Floor-to-ceiling windows displayed the city like a personal light show, Montreal's skyline glittering against the night.

"You can leave your shoes by the door," Shane said, already toeing off his own.

Ilya bent down carefully to unlace his boots, wincing as the movement sent pain shooting through his ribs. The hardwood floor felt warm beneath his sock-covered feet—heated floors, he realized. Of course.

"Let me show you to the guest room," Shane said, leading him past an open kitchen with marble countertops and stainless steel appliances that gleamed under recessed lighting.

The guest room was larger than Ilya's entire living space at Marcus's house. A queen-sized bed dominated the space, covered in what looked like actual linen, not the cheap polyester sheets he was used to. A door to the right revealed an en suite bathroom with gleaming tile and a glass-walled shower.

"Towels are in the cabinet under the sink," Shane said, leaning against the doorframe. "There should be new toothbrushes in there too."

Ilya stood awkwardly in the center of the room, still holding the side where his ribs ached. "This is... very nice."

"Make yourself comfortable. I'll get you something for the pain and some clean clothes." Shane disappeared down the hallway, his footsteps fading on the hardwood floor.

Ilya moved cautiously to the edge of the bed and sat down. The mattress gave beneath his weight, soft but supportive. He ran his hand over the duvet, feeling the smooth fabric against his palm. A clock on the bedside table read 1:37 AM. Marcus would be furious by now.

Shane returned with a small bottle of pills and a stack of folded clothes. "Ibuprofen," he said, setting the bottle on the nightstand. "And some sweatpants and a t-shirt. They'll probably be a bit small on you, but they should work for sleeping."

"Thanks." Ilya accepted the clothes, his fingers brushing against Shane's. "I'll just..." He gestured toward the bathroom.

"Take your time," Shane said, heading for the door. "I'll be down the hall if you need anything else."

Shane left. Ilya winced as he stood and made his way to the bathroom. Under the harsh fluorescent lights, his injuries looked even worse. The bruise on his cheekbone had darkened to a deep purple, and dried blood crusted around his split lip. He looked like shit, but he'd looked worse and still worked.

The shower was complicated—all chrome fixtures and multiple settings—but he figured it out after a minute of fiddling. Hot water cascaded over him, and he closed his eyes, letting it soothe his aching muscles. He found expensive-looking body wash and shampoo on a built-in shelf and used both liberally, watching dirt and dried blood spiral down the drain.

When he finally stepped out, steam had fogged the mirror. He wiped a clear spot with his palm and stared at his reflection. Clean now, but still battered. Still Ilya. Still a whore who owed Marcus money.

Ilya examined the clothes Shane had given him, running his fingers over the soft fabric. He set them on the counter, untouched. This was the transaction he understood—why pretend otherwise? The rich man had saved him, fed him, brought him home. Now came payment.

He dried himself carefully, wincing as the towel brushed against his bruised ribs.

Naked, Ilya padded silently down the hallway. The apartment was quiet except for soft sounds coming from what must be Shane's bedroom. The door was partially open, a slice of warm light spilling into the corridor. Ilya took a deep breath, squared his shoulders despite the pain, and pushed the door open.

Shane was sitting on the edge of his bed, dressed in pajama bottoms, a t-shirt in his hands. Ilya immediately noticed that Shane wasn’t just good looking with his dark hair and freckles, he also had a nice body. Sculpted torso that wasn’t too muscular but he definitely worked out, hard arm muscles, and a V-line that disappeared below his pajama bottoms. At least he’d have something nice to look at during the transaction, which was more than he usually got.

"I forgot to tell you—" Shane's words died as his eyes widened, taking in Ilya's naked form. "What are you doing?"

"I come to thank you," he said. "For helping me."

He swatted the T-shirt out of Shane’s hands and straddled him. He moved his hands down Shane’s torso tugging at the band of his pants as he started to kiss his neck.

Shane moaned despite himself. “N-no…stop. You don’t have to do this.”

Ilya forced his lips into what he hoped was a seductive smile. “That’s not what you want,” Ilya said. He could feel Shane getting hard underneath him. He continued to kiss up his neck. He let his tongue run over Shane’s earlobe making the other man shiver. He grew harder underneath Ilya.

Shane's hands clamped down on Ilya's hips, not pulling him closer but holding him in place. "Stop." His voice was firmer now, all traces of that earlier moan gone. "This isn't why I brought you here."

Ilya froze, confusion washing over him. The hardness he'd felt beneath him contradicted Shane's words. He'd done this dance countless times—knew when a man wanted him. And Shane definitely wanted him.

"I don't understand," Ilya said, not moving from Shane's lap. "You save me, feed me, bring me to your home..." He gestured to the luxurious bedroom around them. "What else you want?"

"I want you to get some rest and recover," Shane said, his voice gentler now but still firm. His hands remained on Ilya's hips, keeping a careful distance between their bodies. "Not this."

Shane steadied him, careful not to touch anywhere inappropriate. "Here," he said, reaching for a throw blanket at the foot of the bed and wrapping it around Ilya's shoulders. "Get dressed. Get some sleep. We can figure everything else out in the morning."

Ilya clutched the blanket around himself, suddenly feeling more exposed than he had in years of selling his body. This wasn't how things were supposed to go. Especially not with rich, handsome men who lived in penthouses.

Ilya backed away, clutching the blanket tighter. His foot hit something solid—the edge of the doorframe. He turned quickly, ignoring the sharp pain in his side, and made his way back to the guest room, the plush carpet soft beneath his feet.

Once inside the guest room, Ilya shut the door and leaned against it, his heart hammering in his chest. The blanket scratched against his skin as he slid down to the floor, his mind racing to make sense of what had just happened.

Shane had rejected him. Shane had been hard—Ilya hadn't imagined that—but he'd still said no. The confusion felt worse than the physical pain radiating from his ribs.

He sat there for several minutes, trying to understand. Maybe Shane was one of those guys who liked to pretend they were above paying for sex? Or maybe this was some kind of power play—make Ilya beg for it first?

The clothes Shane had given him lay where he'd left them on the bathroom counter. Ilya finally pushed himself up from the floor, wincing as his bruised body protested the movement. He pulled on the sweatpants and t-shirt, both slightly too small as Shane had predicted. The soft fabric clung to his still-damp skin.

His $300 was still safely tucked inside his discarded sock. He retrieved it, counting the bills twice before hiding them under the mattress. Not the most original hiding spot, but it would do for one night.

The bed looked impossibly inviting. When was the last time he'd slept on a real mattress, with clean sheets and a proper pillow? The beds at Marcus's house were cheap foam affairs that smelled of other men's sweat and cologne.

Ilya swallowed two ibuprofen tablets dry, then carefully lowered himself onto the bed. The mattress yielded beneath him, cradling his battered body. He stared up at the ceiling, tracing the subtle patterns in the white paint as his mind continued to work.

What did Shane want from him if not sex? Everyone wanted something. That was the one truth Ilya had learned since coming to America—nothing was free. Especially not for someone like him.

The quiet of the apartment pressed against his ears. No sirens, no shouting, no creaking floorboards as other workers brought clients back to their rooms. Just silence, broken only by the faint hum of the heating system.

His eyes grew heavy despite his racing thoughts. The combination of warm shower, full stomach, and pain medication was pulling him toward sleep. He tried to fight it—he needed to figure out what to do about Marcus, about the lost phone, about Shane's strange behavior—but exhaustion won out.

Ilya's last thought before drifting off was that he'd never felt sheets this soft against his skin.

***

The smell of coffee woke him. Ilya blinked into consciousness, momentarily disoriented by the unfamiliar surroundings. Sunlight streamed through a gap in heavy curtains he didn't remember closing. The digital clock on the nightstand read 9:17 AM.

He sat up too quickly and hissed as pain shot through his side. The events of the previous night came flooding back—his bruised ribs, his split lip, the mugging, the diner, Shane's rejection.

Ilya swung his legs over the side of the bed, moving gingerly to accommodate his injuries. The sweatpants had ridden up during the night, exposing his ankles. He tugged them down, then ran a hand through his sleep-mussed hair. His mouth tasted stale, and his stubble rasped against his palm.

The bathroom mirror revealed that his face looked marginally better in daylight. The swelling around his eye had gone down, though the bruise on his cheekbone had darkened to a deeper purple. His split lip had scabbed over during the night. He looked rough, but functional. He'd worked looking worse.

After brushing his teeth with one of the new toothbrushes Shane had mentioned, Ilya retrieved his money from under the mattress and tucked it into the pocket of the borrowed sweatpants. He'd need to get back to his own clothes soon—and figure out what to tell Marcus about the missing phone.

The smell of coffee grew stronger when he opened the bedroom door. He followed it down the hallway, his bare feet silent on the hardwood floor. The morning light transformed the apartment, revealing details he'd missed in the darkness—framed photographs on the walls, a collection of leather-bound books on built-in shelves, a sleek sound system in the corner of the living room.

Shane stood at the kitchen island, dressed in a crisp blue button-down and dark slacks, scrolling through something on a tablet while sipping from a mug. A laptop sat open beside him. He looked up when Ilya entered, his expression brightening.

"You're up," he said. "How are you feeling?"

Ilya shrugged, then regretted the movement as pain flared in his side. "Better."

"Coffee?" Shane gestured to a high-end coffee machine on the counter. "There's also orange juice in the fridge, and I was about to make some eggs."

Ilya nodded toward the coffee. "Coffee is good."

Shane reached for a mug from an overhead cabinet and filled it from the coffee machine. "Milk? Sugar?"

"Black is fine." Ilya accepted the mug, their fingers brushing briefly during the exchange. He remembered the feel of those hands on his hips last night, holding him in place rather than pulling him closer.

"Sit," Shane said, nodding toward the stools at the island. "You look better, but still like you got hit by a truck."

Ilya perched on one of the stools, cradling the mug between his palms. The coffee was strong and rich, nothing like the watery stuff Marcus kept in the house. “Do you not like to fuck?” he asked after his first sip.

Shane almost dropped the eggs he was about to crack into a bowl. “What?”

"I mean," Ilya clarified, taking another sip of his coffee, "last night. You didn't want..."

"That's not—" Shane set the eggs down and wiped his hands on a kitchen towel. “I didn’t bring you here for that.”

Ilya stared at him, searching for the lie. "But you were hard."

Shane's cheeks flushed pink beneath his freckles. He looked away, busying himself with cracking eggs into a bowl. "That's... not relevant.”

Ilya watched Shane whisk the eggs with quick, practiced movements. "So you do like to fuck," Ilya concluded, "just not with me."

Shane sighed, setting the whisk down. "That's not what I said. I just don't... look, I don't make a habit of sleeping with people who feel obligated to offer themselves as payment."

"Is not obligation," Ilya said, frowning. "Is transaction. Fair exchange."

"That's the thing," Shane replied, pouring the eggs into a heated pan. "I don't want a transaction with you."

Ilya's frown deepened. If Shane didn't want a transaction, what did he want? It didn't make sense.

"I should go," Ilya said abruptly. "Need to get back to... work."

Shane turned from the stove, spatula in hand. "You can't be serious. You're hurt, your phone's gone, and those guys might still be out there."

"Marcus will be angry about phone," Ilya muttered, more to himself than to Shane.

"Marcus?" Shane asked, his voice carefully neutral as he turned back to the eggs, folding them with the spatula.

Ilya cursed himself for the slip. "My... roommate."

"Your roommate," Shane repeated flatly. "The one who'll be angry about your phone."

The way Shane said it made it clear he didn't believe the lie. Ilya took another sip of coffee to avoid responding.

Shane divided the eggs between two plates and added toast to each. He slid one plate in front of Ilya. "Eat first, at least. Then we can figure out what to do next."

Ilya stared at the food. The eggs looked fluffy and perfect, the toast golden-brown. His stomach growled, betraying him again. He picked up the fork and took a bite. The eggs were perfectly seasoned, fluffy and warm. He couldn't remember the last time someone had cooked for him.

"Thank you," he said quietly, the words feeling strange on his tongue.

Shane leaned against the counter, eating his own breakfast. "You're welcome."

They ate in silence for a few moments. Ilya finished his eggs quickly, hunger overriding his confusion about the situation. The toast was crisp and buttery.

"I need my clothes," Ilya said when he'd emptied his plate. "And I need to go."

Shane set his fork down. "At least let me drive you. Wherever you need to go."

Ilya considered the offer. His side still ached with every movement, and the thought of walking across Montreal in this condition made him wince internally. But accepting more help felt dangerous, like sinking deeper into a debt he couldn't repay—especially since Shane had refused the only currency Ilya had to offer.

“No, I need to go.” He couldn’t be seen getting out of Shane’s car with no money to show for it. Marcus would only be more furious.

"Okay," Shane said after a moment, his voice tight. He pushed away from the counter. "I'll get your clothes from the dryer. I washed them last night while you were sleeping."

Ilya blinked. "You washed my clothes?"

"They had blood on them," Shane said simply, disappearing down a hallway.

Ilya sat there, stunned. No one had washed his clothes since... since his mother. He ran his finger along the edge of his empty plate, unsure what to make of this strange man who saved him, fed him, rejected him, and now had laundered his bloodstained clothes.

Shane returned with Ilya's jeans, t-shirt, and jacket, all folded neatly. They smelled like expensive detergent. "Bathroom's all yours if you want to change."

Ilya took the clothes and retreated to the guest bathroom. It made no sense. Nothing in his life had prepared him for this kind of... kindness? Was that what this was? He changed quickly, wincing as he pulled the t-shirt over his tender ribs. The clothes felt different somehow—softer, warmer. He folded Shane's borrowed sweatpants and t-shirt, leaving them on the bathroom counter.

When he emerged, Shane was standing by the front door, holding something in his hand. Ilya approached cautiously.

"Before you go," Shane said, "take this." He held out a sleek black smartphone. "It's my backup. I don't use it."

Ilya stared at the device. "I can't—"

"You can," Shane interrupted. "You need a phone. This one's just sitting in a drawer otherwise."

Ilya didn't move to take it. "Why are you doing this?"

Shane's expression softened. "Because I can. Because it might help." He pressed the phone into Ilya's palm. "I put my number in it. If those guys come back, or if you need... anything. Just call."

Ilya's fingers closed around the phone automatically. It felt expensive, heavy with technology he probably didn't understand. He tried to push it back. "No, I can't take this."

Shane stepped back, refusing to accept the return. "Please. It would make me feel better knowing you have it."

Ilya hesitated, then slipped the phone into his pocket. He'd figure out what to tell Marcus later. Maybe he could hide it, use it only when necessary.

"Thank you," he said, the words still awkward on his tongue.

Shane nodded, then paused, his brow furrowing. "I just realized—I never asked your name."

Ilya looked up, meeting those kind eyes that had somehow seen him as more than just a body for sale. "Ilya," he said quietly.

"Ilya," Shane repeated, as if testing the name.

Something warm stirred in Ilya's chest at the way Shane said his name—not mangled with an American accent, but with care, the syllables given proper weight. He pushed the feeling away. Getting attached to a kind stranger wouldn't help his situation.

"I should go," he said, reaching for the door handle.

Shane stepped back, giving him space. "The elevator code is 2398. You'll need it to get down."

Ilya nodded, committing the numbers to memory. He hesitated at the threshold, unsure what else to say. Thank you seemed inadequate for everything Shane had done, but he had nothing else to offer that Shane would accept.

"Take care of yourself, Ilya," Shane said softly.

toronto, canada. february.

“Are you almost done with machine?”

“There’s another one over there, use that one.”

“I want this one.”

“Ilya—“

“Shane.”

Shane puffs out a breath, letting the leg press slam back into place with a metallic clank. Ilya stands over him on the mat, hands on the slivers of his hipbones peeking out from beneath a dangerously cropped muscle shirt. An old Raiders tee, torn and ripped on a hot summer day at the beach. Ilya was so tan that summer. They were so in love.

And not that they’re not in love anymore—but things have been off. The cold winter days of training and playing and practicing were not as sunny and playful as those summers at the cottage.

Certainly not after what happened with Bunny.

Though not much has been said about the incident, Shane knew Ilya was upset for the way he acted.

“Is rude, Hollander. You left her—you had just fucked her. How would you feel?”

“I know! I know, okay, I’m sorry. I just freaked out.”

“I understand. But you should have talked.”

“I know.”

“She deserves apology.”

“…I know.”

Not much came after that. Shane planned the call to Bunny on various occasions the week after that night at his condo. He prepared texts in his notes app, tapping and deleting and starting all over again, only to delete the draft altogether without ever sending one. He watched her Instagram stories (dick move, he knows), tried to peek at the texts between her and Ilya.

But he knew those had grown scarce, too. She pulled away from even Ilya, who had done nothing wrong at all.

So yeah. Things were strange these days. There was an odd, tense ball in Shane’s chest at all times, and an odd, tense distance between him and Ilya most of the time.

Shane slides the lock on the leg press into place and swings free from the machine, pushing to stand with a grunt. His legs are deliciously sore, thighs on fire from what had already been an hour and a half at the gym. Ilya’s spent most of it between the treadmill and the bench press. He always manages to make hundreds of pounds look like light weight.

Ilya slides into the seat of the leg press and pushes the lock open, the Adidas sneakers on his feet pure white under the fluorescents.

It’s Shane’s turn to stand there with his hands on his hips while Ilya adjusts the weight and gets his legs moving. He glances at his boyfriend in his periphery, panting and sweating and a light shade of pink.

“What?”

“Are you almost done?”

Ilya grunts as he extends his legs. “I just got here.”

“No, I mean with your workout. I want to go home.”

Ilya huffs through his nose, a bead of sweat trickling from his hairline down to his temple.

“I just got here,” he repeats.

Shane huffs and turns sharply on his heel. “Fine.”

Ilya keeps his face blank and his tone cool despite the irritation fizzing in his chest. “Fine.”

Shane snatches the towel from the handle of the treadmill and stomps toward the door, throwing it open to the hall before the locker room. The door to the locker room bangs into the wall at the force Shane opens it, and he flinches at the echo that welcomes him.

Luckily it’s empty, though thick with steam and bleach. He runs the towel roughly down his face to wipe it free of sweat before collapsing on the bench between a row of lockers, pressing his elbows into his knees.

He knows what will fix the biting annoyance between himself and Ilya. He knows exactly how to fix what went wrong. It’s not that they have to have her back over again, or even back in bed. He just has to say sorry. He just has to make it right.

He tells this to himself, murmuring softly as he reaches up and flicks his locker open. He retrieves his phone and licks away the salty sweat pooling along his upper lip, swiping it open to the Montreal Metros logo on his home screen.

He scoffs at her contact, the number saved without a name. As if someone might take his phone, snoop around, and know instantly that the contact named Bunny was the lover he shared with the man only few knew as his boyfriend. He’s such a fucking idiot. Too careful, too cautious.

But he doesn’t know anything else.

Shane’s just about to tap on the call icon when the locker room door swings open. Ilya sniffles as he saunters in, out of breath and shining with a thin coat of sweat. He swings his locker open on the other side of Shane, taking a deep drink from the water bottle waiting inside.

“Okay, we can go now,” he announces.

Shane locks his phone and slips it in his gym bag, sighing softly. “Yeah. Let’s go.”

♡♡♡

Ilya insists on driving, holding his hand out expectantly in the gym parking lot until Shane slaps the keys in his palm. Shane doesn’t think much of it, settling in the passenger seat with exhaustion like a hard ball behind his eyes, thinking of all the rice and salmon he’s gonna make at home—until Ilya makes a turn away from the condo.

“Uh…it’s a right turn, Ilya,” Shane says, watching their exit disappear down the road.

Ilya continues in the opposite direction. “Yes?”

“So you’re going the wrong way.”

“Mm, yes.”

Shane shifts in his seat to look at Ilya, whose face is cool and clean. Shadowed by the visor of a faded Raiders cap, still a little pink from exercise, but completely free of worry.

“What’s going on?”

Ilya motions with his chin toward the road. “Bunny lives few blocks from here. Apartment, big high rise. City girl.”

Shane feels the color drain from his face, the heat literally slip out of his body. He shifts back until he’s facing the road again.

“Oh.”

They drive for a while in silence. Just the hum of the tires over the road and warm air blasting from the vents. Shane watches building after building go by, watches as the lilac evening turns to a deep violet sky. As the city lights turn blinding, and they feel a long way from the safety of his condo.

Ilya pulls up to the curb of, as he described it exactly, a tall high rise. A city girl apartment. All windows and a doorman that Shane worries will look right through him if he goes up to that door.

Ilya puts the car into park and rests his head against the seat, watching Shane stare into the glass door of the building. He reaches over and cups his cheek, rubs his thumb under his eye.

“We do not have to go, if you don’t want.”

Shane closes his eyes, leaning into Ilya’s hand. He exhales deeply through his nose. He’s grounding himself, as Ilya’s seen him do so many times.

“I do. I have to, you know?”

Ilya nods, waiting patiently. Shane reaches over and rubs his hand along his thigh, more a comfort for himself than anything.

“I want to make things right,” Shane says.

Ilya pats his cheek, smiling even though he cannot see. “I know. She wants that too.”

Shane opens his eyes. “She does? She said that?”

Ilya hums, tipping his head thoughtfully. “Mm…no. She has not been texting much. But I know her. And I know what it looks like to care about you.”

Shane flushes, letting the smile tugging at his mouth show its face. He turns and presses his mouth to Ilya’s palm, soap-scented and a little clammy. He wouldn’t stop sweating from the gym until he took a long, cold shower at home. Shane had an uncanny ability to be fine the moment he sat down.

But his smile slips almost as soon as it comes. He holds his hand over Ilya’s against his cheek, as though bracing him for what’s to come.

“I just…don’t think we can do this anymore, with her. It’s too complicated. I mean, it’s already bad enough with us. Only seeing each other every few weeks, not being able to tell anyone—it’s a lot.”

Ilya nods, glancing off at the door of the apartment over Shane’s shoulder. “Yes. Is a lot.”

“Do you think she’ll understand?”

Ilya forces a small smile, and it’s weak and wavering. “Yes. Bunny is tough girl, remember?”

Shane nods, but just barely. “Yeah. I remember.”

Maybe too tough. Maybe, like Shane, Bunny didn’t let herself feel very much. As much as they should, as much as one’s allowed. Almost like they gave themselves a limit, and anything past that was too much.

It made Shane difficult to love, he thought.

“Then we will break it to her nice, yes?”

Shane nods again, this time a bigger show. “Yes, of course. And we can be friends. I’d like to be her friend.”

Ilya smirks. “Yes, she is very good friend.”

Shane snickers, pulling Ilya’s hand from his face. “Not that kind of friend.”

Ilya turns the car off and takes the key out of the ignition, dropping it in his pocket. He pops the door open to the cold. “I know. She is fun to brunch with.”

“Since when do you go to brunch?”

“I was not always fucking you in hotel rooms, you know.”

♡♡♡

They stand outside of her door for a while. Shoulder to shoulder, the heels of their sneakers touching. The hallway is painted a deep navy, all the doors exactly alike. There’s a welcome mat before hers: that rough, brown material that hurts dog paws. She doesn’t have a dog then, Shane thinks.

A door down the hall slams shut and Shane jumps. He cranes his head back to follow the sound beyond Ilya’s wide shoulders. Ilya raises his brows at him.

“You are paranoid.”

Shane turns back to Bunny’s door. “I’m not.”

“Are you going to knock?”

“Yes.”

But almost a full minute ticks by and Shane still doesn’t knock. Ilya rolls his eyes and raises his hand, bringing it to the door with a harsh pound. Someone else’s dog barks from the door behind them, and this time Ilya tosses a look over his shoulder. Shane can’t bring himself to form a joke about it.

Ilya brings his fist up to knock again when the door swings open, welcoming a gust of cold air and the smell of cinnamon.

And standing in the doorway is a much softer, undone Bunny. A pair of grey sweatpants and a white sweater, so fuzzy and soft. Brown slippers cover her feet, embroidered lining around white fur. Her hair’s pulled away from her face, perfectly messy, and a pair of oversized glasses perch on her nose.

From behind them, her eyes bulge wide. “Ilya…Shane. Um—“

“We were in neighborhood, came to say hello,” Ilya explains.

The three of them stand there a moment, Shane and Bunny gaping and Ilya tapping his finger on his wrist, hands crossed over each other in front of him.

“Hello,” he says.

Bunny blinks, turning to him. “Um, hi. You were in the neighborhood?”

“Yes, just working out.”

She hums, glancing between them again. Shane looks at the collar of her t-shirt instead of her face, the faded material limp and wilting with age. Ilya keeps tapping his finger, irritation reddening his neck. He's standing too straight, like he's being inspected—and Shane's slumped like he's hiding.

It isn't entirely inaccurate.

Before anyone can say anything else, a ball of grey fur comes prancing into hall from between Bunny's legs. Shane steps back and Ilya coos, squatting to scoop the cat in his arms.

"Oh, Theodore, malen'kiy prints. Cannot believe he is still alive."

Bunny sighs, temple falling against the door. Ilya scratches at the cat, Theodore's chin. Shane can hear him purring even from here and he almost wants to roll his eyes. Even literal cats purr for him.

"Yeah."

Ilya pulls the cat back a little, held up toward the hall lights like The Lion King. He furrows his brows and screws his nose up at the animal. "He got fat."

Bunny laughs softly and Shane exhales for the first time since they reached her door. "Yeah to that, too. Well, come on."

She steps back, swinging the door open to the apartment. Ilya glances at Shane as he steps in, hoisting Theodore over his shoulder. As though sensing that he'll hesitate, Ilya reaches one hand back and tugs Shane forward by the hem of his sweatshirt. He stumbles in consequence, jostling Bunny back into her own apartment door.

"Sorry," he murmurs, hands instantly at her waist to steady her.

She holds herself still, avoiding his mouth angled at her own. She turns from him almost completely, glaring into the empty hall. "It's fine. Just come in."

He lets go immediately, stepping back, feeling like he's been physically burned. He turns for Ilya, who's tipped in half, letting the cat climb over his back to reach the post for him near the wall of windows.

Shane blows out a slow breath, wiping his hand over his face. Bunny shuts the door and hurries to the marble island where a laptop and an evening of mess awaits. A half empty water bottle, the last sips of an iced coffee, a wine glass, a journal and pen, and an empty bowl. Bunny snaps the laptop closed and gathers the other items in her arms.

Shane’s eyes roam over the apartment as she tinkers in the sink, the three of them quiet all the while aside from Ilya’s small murmurs to the cat.

A stainless steel fridge decorated with postcards and photos: Bunny and her friends, Bunny and a woman with the same eyes, Bunny and another Raiders player—wait. No. Bunny and Ilya, years younger. Ilya was still hard then, still disgruntled and creased. Bunny was just as soft, hair longer, cheeks chubbier. She was grinning at the camera and Ilya had his arm around her shoulders, staring the lens down like an enemy. He was in all his hockey gear and the ice was pure white behind them.

Her furniture doesn’t match but she clearly values comfort over style. A stack of magazines sits on the coffee table with a vase of flowers, dvds in their cases by the tv. All the lamps have a soft yellow glow—not the harsh, sterile white of fluorescents. There are blankets strewn over every chair or couch, more in a basket by the corner. She has a yellow toaster. Shane doesn’t know why that makes him smile.

Oh, but the smile slips at the Raiders pendant flag hung behind the tv, among the framed photographs and vintage mirrors.

Ilya seems to be all over this house, and suddenly Shane feels curdled and clustered with self doubt. Did Ilya want this all along? Did he just want Bunny to be a part of what they had? Did they ever end things, or were they together all along?

They’re silly, stupid thoughts, Shane knows. But they zip through his mind anyhow.

“I wasn’t expecting guests,” Bunny murmurs, turning with her head bowed to collect the last of her night from the island top.

Shane quickly averts his gaze from scrutinizing her apartment. “No, it’s nice.”

“You should have seen it back then,” Ilya chuckles, stepping away from the cat to lean on the counter. “Everything was pink.”

Bunny scoffs and rolls her eyes. “I had a pink couch.”

“Was enough.” Ilya makes a face of disgust. “What is that stomach medicine…”

“Pepto?”

“Yes! Was Pepto couch.”

She giggles despite herself, and Shane visibly relaxes. She can’t be that mad at him, right?

But her laughter fizzles, and Ilya’s smile turns painful. His eyes slide to Shane across the room, and Shane can only pretend he doesn’t notice for so long. Ilya has the nerve to clear his fucking throat.

Bunny looks between them as she comes back to the island. “Look, guys—“

“Hollander has something he’d like to say.”

“I can speak for myself.”

The men look at each other, and for the first time Bunny sees something other than love between them. Not rage, not hate, but certainly something toeing the line of anger. Frustration. Ilya’s jaw knots when he clenches it, and all the soft, boyish sweetness of Shane’s face is gone.

“Well—“

“I do want to say something,” Shane interrupts, turning to face her. “But I can say it myself.”

She raises her brows. “Okay.”

He sighs. “Can we…go sit?”

Bunny turns to Ilya, who whirls around mechanically and stomps to the living room. He collapses in an armchair under the glow of a floor lamp, pulling the white fur pillow resting there in his lap. Bunny follows slowly, and she tucks her legs up when she sits on the couch. Despite it being his request, Shane’s the only one who doesn’t sit.

Instead, he paces. He runs his fingers through his hair and tugs at the strands at the nape of his neck. He toys with the strings of his sweatshirt, avoids the watching gaze of Theodore from his window-front perch.

Ilya tips his head back against the chair and sighs. Shane shoots him a serrated look.

“Listen,” Bunny starts, and when she adjusts the glasses on her nose, Shane feels his resolve begin to crumble. “I get it, alright? You were scared, you were confused. It was shitty, but I don’t, like, hate you.”

Shane stops, standing before her on the other side of the coffee table. “You don’t?”

Her eyes round behind the glint of her lenses. “Of course not, Shane. Is that what you thought?”

His hands rise and fall in an empty gesture, slapping down on his thighs. “Well, I would.”

Bunny adjusts, sitting up on her knees on the couch. “Why should I hate you?”

Shane’s mouth opens and closes like a fish gasping for water. He looks to Ilya, but the man only shakes his head and shrugs. Is not my question, Shane can practically hear him grumbling. Sometimes he hates how he doesn’t help him out when he knows he can’t find the words. But why should Ilya speak for him?

When he can’t seem to find an answer, Bunny finds it for him with another tired sigh. And tired is the only word he can use to describe her, all bundled up and dopey-eyed. She falls back into the couch like she might curl up and sleep.

“I get it, guys. It was fun while it lasted, right? And we can be…friends. Like me and Ilya.”

She turns to the Russian, who nods with a small smile. He’s stroking the fur of her pillow like it’s another cat. “Yes, friends.”

Bunny nods, looking back up at Shane. “Friends then?”

He looks at her. Really looks at her, for longer than he’d like. Longer than what’s comfortable for any of them. She looks to Ilya again, who sits forward in her fluffy chair that she uses for reading. He tips his head to watch Shane, whose face is so blank it almost scares him.

They’re all in a deep state of unrest when Shane finally nods. Numbly. Stiffly. Just once. He puts his hands on his hips and looks at the empty couch cushion next to her.

“Yeah. Friends.”

Bunny nods back and stands up from the couch. “Okay.”

She walks around the coffee table, and Shane isn’t sure where she plans to go. To him, to hug him? To put her chin on his chest the way she did a few weeks ago? When she called him baby and he felt his insides stir. Or maybe to Ilya, to beg him to take his meltdown of a boyfriend away because he was freaking her out.

Before she can do anything, Shane decides for her. He grabs her by the sleeve of her white sweater, pulling her to him slowly. She goes, but turns her head to watch him in the corner of her eye. She steps into him, their hips touching. He lets her sleeve go to wrap his arms around her shoulders, tugging her against him with one rough pull.

She grunts, bouncing against his hard chest. For a moment, her arms just sit there, unmoving. She lets him hold her and does not hold him back. Hidden in the ridiculous pile of hair atop her head, Shane lets his face crease in any way it wants. In agony, in regret, in shame. He pinches his eyes shut as far as they’ll go, until little spots dance in the blackness behind them.

But then he feels her hands along his shoulders, holding him back. He sighs, and it almost sounds like a groan. Throaty and full of relief.

“I’m sorry,” Shane murmurs against her head.

He feels her nod under his arms. “I know.”

Shane closes his eyes, lets himself exhale so deeply, it deflates him entirely. He drops his head to her shoulder, fits it into her neck. She runs her hand along his back, up into his hair. Every inhale comes with a mouthful of his sweatshirt: a cologne-laced musk, heady and warm. She can hear the steady thump of his blood rushing under her cheek, pressed to his chest. Could he hear hers, when he was lying on her chest? Did it stutter the way she thought it did, when she felt him pulling away?

Bunny pulls away first, slowly inching back. She turns to Ilya immediately, where the Russian busied himself with stroking Theodore, cooing to him softly in Russian. She wonders if the feline remembers him, if his scent stayed the same after all these years. It did to her. The first night at Shane's condo, when all three of them were together, Ilya was exactly the same. The way he smelled, the way he tasted—it all came rushing back like a tidal wave.

Her cheeks were burning and Ilya was looking at her with a soft smile.

Bunny blinks hard and tosses her head aside, clearing the sudden hoarseness of her throat.

How would being just friends work exactly?

"Well," Ilya sighs, standing to his feet. He tosses the white pillow back on the chair and gives Theodore a gentle pat on the butt to scoot him away. "We should go."

He walks to Bunny with open arms that she curses herself for falling into so easily. They fold around her, pulling her close, so close her nose dips into the collar of his sweatshirt.

"Bye," she murmurs into his chest, and she wonders when she'll see him next. She feels like she only just got him back, as a friend or not. She missed their friendship.

She pulls away in time to see him push the visor of his cap back, twisting it around to rest like an awning over his neck. He grips her chin and tips it up, and blood rushes to her cheeks with stinging heat.

"Bye," he whispers back, and then he's pressing their mouths together.

She squeaks, and Shane hears his breath wheeze through the room. Did friends kiss like this? Did they put their hand around their jaws, pull them up until they're clinging for a lifeline on those massive fucking arms? Did they slip their tongues in the other's mouth, moaning with every glide of wet heat?

These friends did.

Jesus, Ilya was going for it. Moving his free hand to the plush fat of her ass, grabbing it with the full weight of his palm. Swallowing the gasp that leaves her, muffling it with another intrusion of his tongue. He slides his hand from her chin to the back of her skull, pulling her close, keeping her stationary—but where the hell would she go?

When their mouths pop apart, Bunny blinks in a sugary daze. Ilya licks the taste of her off his lips, spit-slick and swollen rosy pink.

Ilya adjusts his hat back in place and sniffs. “Hollander, let’s go.”

He doesn’t bother looking at Shane, who’s standing there watching him walk toward the door in an equally stupefied daze. His fingers ache in the tightly-balled fists at his sides. He stopped being able to feel his tongue a few minutes ago, and he’s worried if he talks it’ll come out like mush.

But Bunny turns to him, aching for just one word. They listen to the door swing open, to Theodore chirp his goodbye to an old friend as Ilya slips by.

And Shane steps forward, pulling Bunny into another quick and stiff hug. He pecks the top of her head and clears his throat, removing himself from her body like she’s a hot coal.

“Uh…bye.”

He ignores her small huff of a sardonic laugh as he turns to go. Ilya’s waiting at the door, bracing the frame with both hands to fill the expanse of the exit. He’s looking at Shane like a panther in the brush, daring him to misstep.

And Shane wants to. Fuck, does he want to. He wants to grip the back of her hair the way he knows she likes. He wants to devour her mouth and hear her whine, the way he likes. He wants to rip her clothes off and pin her arms down and—

“Hollander.”

“Yeah,” Shane snaps, walking through the door and knocking Ilya’s right arm down as he goes.

He stomps ahead of him down the hall, the thunder of his sneakered feet thumping in time with his blood, slamming in his ears. In the back of his mind, Shane knows Ilya is following, but he can’t bring himself to care right now. He cares only for the hard strain against his sweatpants, the horrible ache of need in his chest that weeps like something split wide open. He’s felt it before. In the low light of hotel rooms when he was nineteen years old. Nineteen, twenty, fuck—even just a few years ago. When he scrambled to get dressed and pretended Ilya was still asleep, the way Ilya pretended to be asleep, so they didn’t have to say goodbye. So they didn’t have to look each other in the eye in the light of day.

Shane slams on the elevator button, pocketing his anxious, fidgeting fingers. Ilya approaches slowly, waiting a few feet away as the red, blinking numbers rise.

“We agreed,” Shane spits, staring down his warbled reflection in the steel of the elevator. In his periphery, Ilya cocks his head in that stupid Russian way. “We agreed to just be friends with her.”

“We are.”

“You aren’t! You just—you kissed her.”

The elevator is four floors away.

“Yes. You kiss Rose all the time, is same thing—“

“That is not the same thing.” And this time Shane does turn to him, cheeks hot and fists clenched again.

He steps to him, and he can’t quite figure out why the fire inside him is burning so hot. White hot, a temperature almost agonizing. Ilya blinks back patiently, because maybe he can. Maybe he knows Shane better than Shane even knows himself. Or maybe he just knows what Shane isn’t letting himself feel.

Ilya closes the gap between their bodies, and he knows in any other world, Shane would be recoiling and running for distance—but he isn’t thinking straight. Bunny’s got his thoughts twisted, puréed into an incomprehensible nothing. It’s the way Ilya felt—and feels—about Shane.

“What do you want, Hollander?” Ilya gravels. Each word rumbles through Shane beautifully.

Shane looks over Ilya’s shoulder at the empty hall. The elevator dings beside them, and the doors part to a wood-paneled box. A woman steps out with a haul of grocery bags, and Shane steps away this time. He rubs at his temple and sighs, meeting Ilya’s eye from the short distance they now have.

Ilya nods and moves aside, gesturing down the hall. “Get her then. Just stop thinking, Shane.”

Bunny’s just taken her hair down and poured a glass of wine—which she has every intention of taking to bed—when a loud bang collides with her door. She jumps, muffling a yelp with the back of her hand. She wipes the sip of alcohol from her mouth and hurries to the door, glancing through the peephole.

The door opens an inch wide and Shane’s on her—throwing it open the rest of the way, gripping her by the nape of her neck, the curve of her waist, yanking her to him like he needs her to breathe. He groans into her open mouth, walks her blindly to the nearest solid surface. Her back arches over the edge of the island, urged by Shane’s overbearing weight and desperate attack. His mouth moves to her cheek, her jaw, along the column of her throat. She grabs fistfuls of his hair in her fists, gasping for air and struggling to find it.

The door to her apartment slams closed. She jumps, eyes flying open to find Ilya standing before it, arms crossed over his chest. Heat laps at her belly, gathers in her head like air in a balloon. Shane remains undeterred, sucking at the spot below her ear until she whines.

Ilya raises his chin, tips his head to the side. He watches his boyfriend ravage the girl struggling to breathe—the girl he gifted to him. There’s a power to that, he thinks. That he gave Bunny to Shane and he can take her away, too. He thinks.

Ilya nods at Bunny, who finds herself watching him for permission. At this motion, she tips Shane’s head back with her fingers in his hair and guides their mouths together again. He moans against her lips, tongue lolling out lazily, hands wandering beneath the flaps of her sweater, then under the hem of her t-shirt to slide along her bare stomach. He groans throatily when his fingers brush the hard, naked pebbles of her nipples.

For a while, Ilya just lets it happen. He lets their breathing roughen, shorten to sharp pants and huffs passed between slick, open mouths. He lets Shane knead—paw, more like—at Bunny’s tits, lets Bunny throw her head back and whimper at it. He even lets Shane start taking off her clothes, pushing the cardigan off and pulling at the strings of her sweatpants. He waits until her comfortable articles of clothing are on the kitchen floor, and Shane’s sweatshirt has been thrown somewhere aside, to make his move.

They don’t hear him approach, not between all the gasping and whining. It’s pathetic, really, Ilya thinks. The way they so easily fell into worshipping each other.

Did they forget who ran the show?

She hears the sharp hiss of breath whooshing before she feels him being pulled away, and Bunny opens her eyes to find Ilya wrenching Shane off of her by his hair. His face scrunches in a pleasures pain, head tipped back to bare a beautiful throat. Ilya has a hold of the hair at the back of his head, a great fistful in a strong, ringed hand. He has that calculated, empty look on his face, softened only by the fiery glow of passion in his gaze.

Bunny grips at the island behind her, chest rising and falling with labored breath. She watches Ilya take three small steps backwards, pulling Shane with him as he goes. Steered by his hair, Shane releases small, exhaled gasps until Ilya stops them.

“I think,” he says, tipping his mouth to brush against Shane’s cheek, but keeping a steady eye on Bunny, “you still owe Bunny apology.”

Shane’s knees hit the floor with two hard thumps when Ilya urges him down, dropping him before Bunny without another word. She watches him go, pupils blowing wide, jaw going slack. Ilya lets his lip twitch into a half smile, loosening his grip on Shane’s hair.

Ilya turns to Bunny and pats the marble of the island. “Hop up, Bunny.”

She swallows, glancing again at a kneeling Shane before inching herself up onto the island. The countertop is a cold jolt against her flushing skin, a welcome reprieve from the overload of absolutely insane need. She’s never been so horny in her life.

Ilya hums, bending his fingers to skim over Bunny’s warm cheek. He pets over the soft flesh, head tipping this way, that way, inspecting her carefully. She keeps her eye on him directly, despite the hot breath going directly to her core from the floor. Shane’s placed directly between her legs, thighs parting on their own accord—and with the help of Shane’s wandering hands.

“So pretty,” Ilya murmurs. “Pussy is pretty too, yes?”

He pulls back to look at it and she burns bright hot, letting out a soft laugh.

“Jesus,” Shane huffs from the ground.

Ilya tightens the grip on his hair again and the other man groans. “You think so, Hollander? Maybe you should start there, yes? Say sorry proper way.”

Bunny looks down at Shane, the tops of his cheeks a violent shade of red. She begins to pull her knees together again, squirmy and suddenly bashful.

“If you want—“

“Fuck yes,” Shane sighs, and he fights against Ilya’s hold to press his mouth to the soft flesh of Bunny’s thigh.

Ilya smirks, relaxing the hand in Shane’s hair to run his fingers through the mass of it. His other hand burrows in Bunny’s hair, sliding around the nape of her neck supportively.

“Good, get to work, Hollander.”

Shane obediently follows, leaving open-mouthed kisses along the insides of her thighs, using his hands to hook around her knees and keep them spread. He brings them over his shoulders, pressing up on his knees to remain eye-level with the counter. He works his way to the apex of her thighs, where her need throbs and pulses.

He dives in with a wriggling tongue, and Bunny throws her head back with a whimper of his name. Ilya releases his hold on Shane to press his hand firmly into her chest, guiding her back flat against the counter. Sprawled there, he steps around until he’s standing beside her, bracing the counter on either side of her head to attach their mouths.

Another slow, languid kiss that confuses any thoughts trying their best to form in Bunny’s head. She feels them forming, but they fizzle and fade before she can even remember what it was she wanted to think. Ilya’s wrapping his hand around her throat, just under her jaw, and the blood rushes to her head in a swell of blissful ecstasy.

And Shane’s between her legs lapping and sucking like a man on a mission, like a starving dog given a feast. He savors the sounds muffled by Ilya’s mouth, wishes selfishly that he’d pull away so Shane could hear them fully, and know they were all for him.

But Ilya’s on Bunny with just as much need, licking along her mouth and scraping his teeth over her cheek. Her attempts at moaning and whining trail into wheezes from the hand around her throat, but it makes every effort that much more exciting. It makes Shane work harder, pulling her down along the counter until a squeak of flesh on marble erupts through the static. Until he’s buried between her legs with nowhere for her to go, her tremoring thighs held steady by Shane’s strong arms caged around them, pressing into his ears until he can barely hear a thing.

Ilya pulls away from her mouth and holds her throat, keeping her pinned to the counter—as if she’d go anywhere. She’s perfectly content where she is, pinned by Shane fucking Hollander and Ilya fucking Rozanov to her own kitchen counter, half drunk on white wine and ready to ride the nearest thing that approaches her.

Bunny sucks in a much-needed breath when Ilya releases her throat, hands scrambling to remove his shirt and pants. The gold cross around his neck glistens in the low light of the overhead fixture, and the semblance of a thought of Bunny’s floor-to-ceiling windows giving a 4k picture of her current threesome comes and goes when Ilya’s cock slaps against his stomach.

It takes some force, but he pulls Shane from Bunny’s thighs and cups his hand in front of his mouth. Shane blinks, face pink and wet, panting over Ilya’s palm—and then he spits into it. Ilya releases his hair and lets him get back to work, snickering when Bunny whines, her hands flying to Shane’s head in a desperate attempt for grounding.

She receives none, however, when Ilya strokes his cock with the hand Shane spit in and cuts off her air supply with the other. Her back arches from the counter, body twisting sideways. She has no idea where her body thinks it’s going, she just knows it has a mind of its own. Moving on its own accord, fueled by the pleasure building and tingling between her legs and the fuzzy, airy feeling in her head from the hand around her throat.

“Fuuuck, this is hot,” Ilya growls, the wet slap of his hurried stroking registering through the lap of Shane’s tongue and Bunny’s hoarse wheezes against his heavy palm. “Hollander should apologize more, hmm?”

She tries to nod, but she isn’t sure her head moves at all. Ilya takes his lip between his teeth, digging in hard. He watches Bunny’s face contort, feels her body temperature rise, watches every fraction of her begin to vibrate.

“She is going to come, Hollander,” he announces. “Keep going. Do not stop until I say.”

At hearing this, Bunny writhes for release. Her impending orgasm and the promise of torture is as exciting as it is terrifying, and the feelings melding together create a build sure to explore. Ilya was an expert in this—bringing you to the edge, letting you tumble over it, and watching you fall until you couldn’t take it anymore. Until you were sobbing, begging, willing to do anything.

There was a time in Boston a few years ago when Ilya kept Bunny crying for two hours. Suddenly her thoughts work well enough to remember this.

The tears bubble and spill as Shane sucks at her clit hard enough to trigger her release. Ilya lets up on her throat enough to let her breathe into the scream, the one Shane so desperately wanted for weeks. He groans at the gift of it, poking his tongue into the wetness of her pulsing hole, feeling her clench around him.

Ilya groans, his own release approaching at the mere sight of Bunny’s untamed display of pleasure. She was never shy in her satisfaction, and he always liked this about her. Sometimes, Shane held himself back, especially before. Afraid to give himself away fully, fearful of being mocked, terrified of the aftermath when they’d part ways and he gave too much of himself.

Bunny was never plagued with these ideas. Not with Ilya, and now not with Shane.

At Ilya’s command, Shane continues on, sucking and licking Bunny through her high until he can barely keep her still. Until she’s pushing at his head so hard his neck hurts from the resistance and she’s practically flailing for air.

Ilya moves his hold to her jaw and pulls her head aside, jerking his cock against her mouth. Her eyes flutter shut, gasping and panting and twisting her lower body.

“Open,” he grumbles to her, voice wavering with his own approaching orgasm.

She parts her lips, tongue lolling out. He rubs the weeping tip of his cock against the heat of it, and then he’s spurting into the wet cavern of her mouth. On her tongue, on her chin, over her cheek, on the fucking kitchen counter. He’s everywhere, and Shane still hasn’t stopped.

Ilya waits until he’s given her every drop before tiredly patting Shane’s head. “Is good, Hollander. Let her breathe.”

Shane pulls back slowly, pressing a gentle kiss to her clit that makes her jerk painfully. His hands massage at her thighs, easing their aching tremble. He watches her flatten like a thrown noodle against the counter, sure to fall if she were to be placed on her feet. She’s breathing like a player on the ice after a day’s worth of practice, and she’s covered in cum.

Normally, he’d scrunch his nose and complain about Ilya making a mess—but something about the sight of it on her makes his insides wrench. He has the sudden, perverted idea to lick it off her.

Ilya turns to Shane, sees this thought forming in his head, the way his dark eyes trace over Bunny’s destroyed body lying limply.

“Go ahead,” he tells him.

Shane slowly stands, and he joins Ilya on the right side of Bunny. She blinks her eyes open, peering up at them dazedly.

“Give him a kiss, dorogoy.”

Bunny moves her head the only inch she can manage, and Shane swoops down to slide his tongue along the mess of her. He cleans it from her face, keeps it gathered on his tongue as it dips into her mouth. They share Ilya between their mouths and Ilya feels his softened cock hardening just from the absolute filth of it.

He hums, petting the top of Bunny’s hair and the back of Shane’s. They’re both clearly spent, Shane’s shoulders slumped, Bunny still struggling for breath.

“My sweethearts,” Ilya coos. “So good for me.”

Shane pulls away from Bunny slowly, stroking her cheek with the back of his knuckles the way he likes to do. He rubs his thumb into her cheek, enjoys the way her eyes flutter closed.

“I think,” she pants, voice cracked and gravely from strain, “I need a soft surface. Back…is…killing me.”

Shane hooks one arm under her knees and the other around her back, hoisting her into his arms. He takes her to the living room, plopping her on the couch and taking her shiver as a reminder that she’s still bare. Ilya tosses him her clothes one at a time, and soon she’s dressed back in her t-shirt and underwear, tucked under the fluffy leopard print blanket strewn across the arm of the couch.

She pats the cushion next to her head, and Shane—still fully clothed—cups her head and lifts it as he slips beneath her. Her head falls into his lap with a soft, content sigh.

“Ilya?” she calls softly. There’s a soft gentle panic in her tone.

He enters her line of vision in the living room, still shirtless but covered with the sweatpants he came in. A glass of water and a plastic straw wobble in his hand.

“I am here, dorogoy,” he whispers.

The apartment suddenly seems so quiet. The sky darkened to black sometime in the confusion, and now the only light that graces the room is the warm glow of the few lamps flicked on.

Bunny closes her lips around the straw that approaches her, drinking willfully. Ilya kneels beside her on the rug, running his fingers along the swell of her cheek. He tucks her hair behind her ear, brushes Shane’s fingers when the other man comes to feel it, too. They lock eyes over her head, and Shane tries a small smile. Ilya’s is painful at best—and sad. It was always sad these days.

“Sleep, Bunny,” Ilya commands softly, placing the water glass on the coffee table behind him.

Though already drifting, she reaches out blindly and finds his hand. “Will you stay? Just for a bit.”

He swallows. In his peripheral, Shane continues to stroke Bunny’s hair. He shifts and shuffles on the couch, leaning his head back against the plush cushion. He seems relaxed, comfortable. He looks at home.

“Yes. I will stay.”

He tucks her legs into his lap when he assumes the cushion beside Shane, and Bunny burrows further into her new cocoon. And the room is so quiet. A clock ticks from a bookcase, full of colored spines and mismatched trinkets. The sound of city life beyond the windows comes like static. A door slams somewhere down the hall, muffled and distant.

Shane reaches along the back of the couch and cups the back of Ilya’s head. He plays with a curl there, gives him a gentle squeeze around his neck.

He waits to hear Shane tell him he loves him.

But they drift off to sleep, and Ilya remains awake.

♡♡♡

Bunny wakes to a cold breeze through the room. The distant blare of a car horn and the whizz of tires below. She stirs, fumbling for her phone on her nightstand, her glasses atop a book—only to find a hard knee and a big hand. She blinks her eyes open slowly, finding the black screen of the tv and the empty living room. Shane’s lap below her head, his hand placed lazily over her cheek. She hears his soft, breathy snores before she even peeks.

She lifts her head slowly, achingly. Where Ilya once sat at her feet, an empty cushion awaits. His cap sits on the coffee table, the water glass now empty.

Lifting the blanket around her shoulders, Bunny carefully slips free of Shane’s loose hold. She glances at him as she stands, shimmying beneath the blanket. His head is tossed back against the couch cushion, mouth hanging open to emit drool and gentle breaths.

She snickers softly, slipping her glasses back over her nose. Ilya must’ve taken them off when she fell asleep. They were folded carefully on the coffee table near his hat. She notices, with pleasant relief and surprise, that her cheeks are soft and bare. She imagines Ilya carefully wiping her cheeks with a cloth while she slept, and her heart aches sorely.

The Russian, as she suspected, is on the balcony. Wintry wind whistles through the glass door, left ajar. She shivers as she nudges it open, ensuring Theodore is nowhere to be seen before stepping out onto the cement. She shuts the door behind her and turns to see Ilya in the orange glow of a flame. The butt of a cigarette burns in a halo of red as he inhales deeply.

“Hey,” she murmurs.

His lips detach dryly from the paper in his mouth. “Hey.”

Ilya’s sprawled out sideways on the cushioned couch in the corner of the balcony, puffing a plume of smoke from limp lips. Thanks only to the bright city lights and glow of his cigarette, Bunny can make out the angled features of his face. There’s a storm brewing within them, plaguing his brow with a furrow and his mouth with a hard line.

She hugs her blanket tighter around her body and pads over, feet bare on frozen concrete. She tucks them up into her lap when she sits beside him. He’s fully dressed again—besides the hat—and he’s staring out into the cityscape blankly.

Bunny reaches over with two fingers and plucks the cigarette from his hand, bringing it to her own mouth to inhale. He makes a small, sarcastically dissatisfied sound, but watches her blow the smoke out silently.

Ilya retrieves the cigarette with steady fingers and balances it in the corner of his mouth, shuffling up to motion Bunny over.

“What?” she asks.

“Come here.”

She lifts on her palms and wriggles closer, and Ilya shifts to ease the discomfort. When their knees are touching, he brings his hands to brace her neck, tipping her head back carefully. She closes her eyes, a hollow flutter in her chest like a caged hummingbird.

“Was too rough,” he grumbles.

Bunny eases his hands away and watches him puff around the cigarette. “You weren’t. You know I loved it.”

His eyes bounce around her face, studying wordlessly. He places his palm to her cheek and swipes his thumb over the soft, soap-scented skin. She takes the cigarette from the dip of his mouth and ashes it on the concrete. The crease of his face hasn’t eased—in fact, it’s only deepened. Folded into something akin to misery.

She takes his hand and brings it to her lap, watching her own fingers trace the valleys of his knuckles, the deep violet squiggle of veins.

“Am I coming between the two of you?”

Ilya plucks the cigarette back and takes one long, deep drag. It sails over the balcony railing, zipping down like a lightning bug. He pulls at the back of his hoodie with one hand and claws it off, shoving it over her head before she can protest.

She lets him swaddle her in his warmth, pulling the hood over her head and tying the strings tight beneath her chin. She lets him replace the blanket, draping it over their laps, and tug her into his side with one heavy arm around her shoulders. She falls into him, cheek on his shoulder, the tickle of blond curls against her ear.

“Is not you.”

Bunny nibbles on the skin of her bottom lip, scraping her teeth over the surface of the sting. “Something else?”

Ilya exhales deeply. Air feels heavy in his chest, like a dumbbell slammed down. He rubs his hand over his eye, twisting until spots decorate the darkness. His response forms and hesitates on his tongue. The thought of what he might say tastes acidic, sour like something rotten.

Bunny turns and tips her head up, nothing but a nose poking out and big eyes blinking up. Ilya avoids her gaze, keeping his straight ahead at the night before them. He’s afraid he’ll cry if he looks at her.

“You love each other,” she whispers. She sounds so sure.

“Yes,” he murmurs. “But I think I cannot love in silence.”

A swell of hurt rushes through her chest. Bunny reaches up, placing her hand on Ilya’s cheek.

“Oh, Ilya.”

He turns at her prodding fingers, mirroring her gesture against her own face. He rushes forward and smacks his lips against her head. When he rears back, his eyes are wet, and his smile is painful again.

“And now we have you. Another secret.”

Her fingers loosen at his jaw. Like a door opened to the snow, Bunny suddenly feels cold all over. As though the winter had only just reminded her it was there. As though she went wandering without a coat. That familiar ache nips behind her eyes.

“You don’t have to have me, Ilya. I’ll walk away, and I’ll be fine.” After a while, she wants to add. But it isn’t fair.

“You love each other so deeply, I can tell. Don’t let me get in the way.”

Ilya shakes his head, pushing on the back of hers until it falls back onto his shoulder. “Is not you, Bunny. I promise.”

She thinks of Shane snoozing happily on her couch in the room behind them. She thinks of Ilya’s pajama pants folded neatly in her drawer, Shane’s sweatshirt on the back of the bathroom door. She thinks of a hockey game in Boston when she was twenty years old, and of a night in a hazy hotel with a man that left before she could fall asleep. She thinks of the name Jane on his cellphone, and with bright clarity, realizes it sounds a lot like Shane.

They were together long before Bunny had any claim over Ilya, and she wanted it to stay that way, no matter what her body told her—no matter what Ilya told her.

She concludes, as Ilya lights another cigarette and rests his head atop hers, that she’ll make the decision for them.

The Impala door slams, and it echoes through your bones. 

Even Sam flinches. Sam never flinches. When Dean gets this kind of angry, Sam usually just looks at the roof like he’s hoping the world starts ending again, so he can deal with anything else. He’ll sigh, and give you a look of pity that’s pretty fucking useless when he won’t actually take your side, but that’ll be it. 

This time, though. He flinches. 

You don’t bother to look for the pity or nervousness in his eyes, though. You know it’s there—you can feel it—and it’s not going to help anything. 

Watching Dean storm away isn’t going to help anyone either. But that’s not stopping you from doing it. 

He’s moving in the short, clipped way he always does when he’s furious. Stomping, hands curled into fists at his side, yanking the door open as all the muscles in his back flex. He rolls his neck, glances back with a tight brow, and your eyes meet.

Dean stares at you, a harsh, bright glint in his eyes that seems to be rolling through the air like a storm cloud. You don’t blink, don’t waver, don’t do anything but lift your chin slightly in a silent challenge.

He doesn’t see how your arms are wrapped around your stomach. He doesn’t see how your nails are digging into your sides, and—in the shadows of the car—he doesn’t see the shining tears threatening your eyes. But he doesn’t need to. You don’t want him to. 

That isn’t what this is about. 

Dean's jaw tics, and he turns sharply, marching into the bunker and slamming another door behind him. 

You frown, starting to push up out of your seat, and Sam grabs your wrist.

He says your name softly, not balking from your glare. 

“Sam, let me go-“

“If I let you go, you’re going to go after him.” Sam says softly, with a knowing look in his eyes you don’t. fucking appreciate. “And one of you is going to get really hurt.”

“Yeah, Dean.” You yank your wrist from Sam’s grip. “Because I’m going to stab him-“

“You know that’s not what I meant.”

You make a sour face, sinking back into your seat, because you do. Dean won’t lay a hand on you, but you’ll shout, so he’ll shout, and then one of you is going to shout something you can’t take back. And you know you won’t mean anything you say, but he won’t. 

And if Dean says something to break you, it will break you. 

He’s already formed fractures. Which isn’t fair. 

It might just be whining like a child, but it’s not fucking fair that you could scream the meanest thing you can think at him, and he’ll just get angrier. Any wound you inflict will be drowned in rubbing alcohol, and then blurred into every other cruel thing he’s heard in his life. You’ll be blended in with every person who’s insulted him. And then, he’ll never look at you the same again. 

But Dean will be fine. In the long run, nothing you say will be anything important to him. 

Which isn’t fucking fair. 

Because he just called you a reckless idiot and shallow brat, and you’d almost burst into tears. It had only been bitten down on the inside of your cheek, and he didn’t hear the crack in your voice when you shouted back, but Sam did. Sam didn’t look angry or offended that you called his brother a pathetic, overbearing asshole. He’d just done his sad-puppy look at the roof, and glanced at you like he was begging you to stop. For your own sake. 

It’s a small mercy, that you pulled into the garage when you did. 

If Dean had said one more thing to you with that pure, unbridled wrath in his voice, you might have vomited all over Baby’s seats, which would’ve made him more angry. Then you would’ve started crying, and he would’ve rolled his eyes and left you on the side of the road, and you’d be alone, alone, alone- 

“Just give him a day, okay?” Sam mumbles. “He and I fight all the time about this kind of thing, and he always cools down once I give him space. He just- He needs some space.” 

You nod, and look up at the roof as Sam shuffles out of the car. There’s some small hope in you, that doing that actually helps. Could make the world a little quieter, could back track everything to right before you went into the old church, and your whole world started to crack and split from under your feet.

It doesn’t. 

Tears fall quickly. Silently. You wipe your cheeks and nose with your sleeve, and just keep staring at the ceiling. At some point there’s a creak in the door, and you squeeze your eyes shut to avoid Sam’s judging, sad gaze. The door closes, and you take a tiny, ragged breath that no one is ever going to be able to hear. 

The light in the garage goes off. You take deep, slow breaths. 

Dean wouldn’t leave you on the side of the road.

But he might wait until you’re back at the bunker, then tell you to pack your shit and leave.

So you’re trying to wait him out. If you’re in here long enough, he’ll be in bed, and you can sneak to your room before he breaks your heart. 

Because that’s the real, blaring and loud difference between you that only Dean seems unable to see. 

Dean won’t get more than a bruise, from anything you say to him, because that’s as deep as you go. You’re nothing more than just a blemish, just another person in a long line of people who have let him down. You brush over his skin. Once you’re faded, he won’t think about you again. 

But he goes deep into your heart. You feel his anger in your bones because that’s how far he sinks. The heat over your skin goes right into your gut and twists it, because it’s sickening to hear his anger, but so much undivided attention seems to be confusing your body. In the old Church, when he’d roared your name, you’d felt the rush through every nerve. 

Dean can break you down at a fundamental level. In a way that’s going to take years to repair.

In the way that only someone you love can. 

Sam says to just give him time.

So you do.  

The next morning, you stagger when you wake up so that he won’t have to see you in the kitchen. 

Usually you do the opposite. Get out of bed an hour earlier than you ever did before, just so it can be you and Dean. So you can see his pretty just woke up face—hair mussed, eyes a little unfocused, and lips in a grumpy pout as he takes his coffee—and be the first person that makes him smile in the day. 

But today, you give him space. 

So you don’t see him at all. 

Nothing more than flashes in the hallway. Small bits of proof he is, in fact, in the bunker. His mug in the sink. A light on, under the door of his room. His chair in the war room pulled out, and the Impala missing from the garage, then back a few hours later. 

There’s dinner, left out on the counter when you walk into the kitchen. Two plates already in the sink. 

You stare at it. Take a small half-step forward, glancing over your shoulder. You’re hungry, and Dean always makes dinner. Your plan had been to heat up the microwave mac and cheese in the freezer, and sneak off to your room before Dean came back for his 10pm pie. 

But there’s food, right there. Untouched. Obviously made by Dean. 

It must be his. He’s been known to take seconds, and he’ll probably be back for it soon. 

You take your mac and cheese, and retreat to your room. 

The next day passes almost the exact same. Get up late. Give Dean space. Try not to get in your head about the silence. 

The Impala doesn’t leave the garage today. 

Dinner is out again. Left of the counter, this time still steaming with heat. 

You make a sandwich, and retreat to bed. 

And then it’s the same. And the same. And the same. You see Dean in every single inch of the bunker, but only in the empty mugs and left out books and stray flannel he left on the couch that you force yourself not to pick up. He keeps leaving out food, and you start to put it in the fridge so it doesn’t attract flies. 

The days blur together, and the pit that might have been dug in your heart by Dean yelling at you is turning into a chasm from every bit of nothing. 

He hasn’t spoken to you. Hasn’t even tried to find you for another fight. He’s just… ignoring you. Like this isn’t even something he had to cool down from. Like he’s already forgotten about you so much he can’t even remember there’s supposed to be a conversation after the fight, where you either tear each other apart or forgive. 

Maybe you should have let him just yell at you. Then it could be over, and you could be looking for a way to fix it. Now you’re just drowning in the lack of Dean. You miss the coffee in the morning. You miss sitting on the counter and bothering him while he tries to cook. You miss him bothering you while you tried to read. Miss the verbal sparring matches over dinner, or in the car while you went out for supplies. 

“Dean,” you’d said to him once, dragging him away from the snack aisle to the candles. “Smell this.”

He’d taken the jar from you, squinting at the label. Your fingers had brushes. 

You’d rubbed them, like you could get the electric heat of him to sink into your skin. 

“Summer Solstice.” Dean had frowned. “That’s not a flavor, it’s a thing.”

You’d grinned at him. “Well, it’s not a flavor. It’s a smell-“

“You know what I fuckin’ meant-“

“And the Summer Solstice is an event, not a thing-“

“Yeah, yeah, whatever.” Dean had rolled his eyes. “Do you get off, on correcting me?”

No. 

But you might get off on the small smile that had been on his face, or the way he’d stood over you with relaxed shoulders. Might get off on the gravity that was always with him, and how he was looking at you. Amused and focused, almost fond.

“Yup.” You’d bounced on your toes, and his mouth had twitched. “Smell the candle.”

Dean had given you a bored look. “Sweetheart, I’m not smelling the candle-“

“Why?”

“Because that’s dumb.”

“Really?” You’d beamed at him, your voice sweet. “What if I say please?”

He’d made a strange face, but shaken his head. “Nope.”

“Please?” You’d shuffled closer. His body radiated heat, and it felt like being pulled by the tide. “I’ll be your best friend.”

Dean had snorted. “Over a candle?”

You’d nodded, and he’d scanned over your face. Sighed heavily. 

“This really important to you?” He’d muttered, and you’d nodded again. 

Dean had grunted, glared at the candle, and popped off the jar top. Taken a long, deep smell, and given you a pointed look. 

“Happy?”

“Yeah.” You’d grabbed another off the shelf. “Smell this one.”

He’d frowned. “No, we said one-“

“Nobody said anything about numbers. Smell it.”

It had taken a little more coaxing, but you’d gotten him to smell it. And Dean will never admit it—even in the car after, he’d been grumbling like you’d just waterboarded him—but he had fun. You got a leather and sandalwood candle—that smelled like Dean, but he didn’t need to know that—and Dean got a spicy apple and honeysuckle one that he muttered was to combat the gasoline in the garage as he put it on the check-out belt. 

“Thank you.” You’d hummed, leaning back in shotgun, and Dean had grunted.

“You’re welcome.”

You’d smiled at him, pulling your knees to your chest. “I’ll pay you back.”

Dean had been silent for a moment. His gaze had been fixed on where your shoes were resting on the seat. You’d slowly moved them off—no stains, and your shorts had been riding up anyway—and he’d coughed. 

“It’s fine. You don’t have to.”

“But I’m going to.”

He’d shrugged. “Nah.”

“Dean-“

The engine had roared to life, and Dean had turned the music up so loud you could feel it in your ribs. 

But that might have just been your heartbeat. Because he’d smiled at you, and made ridiculous, dramatic gestures as he sang along with the music. He’d looked at you like you mattered. You’d leaned towards him like he was the only concrete, certain thing in the world.

And it’s been a week now. Since you’ve even seen, let alone spoken to him.

You miss him. 

Staring at the ceiling in the dead of night, your brain moving too fast to sleep, you press your lips together and just miss Dean. 

He’s just down the hall, but you fucking miss him.

You get up, because if you lie here forever you’re going to drive yourself insane. You can go for a walk while Sam and Dean are asleep, make some tea to help you go to bed, poke your head into the Dean Cave and see if he’s there. Just to check. Just to see if he was ever real at all. 

But you don’t have to go as far as the Dean cave, to find him. 

When you get to the war room, he’s slumped against the table, a beer held in a slack hand, heavy snores rumbling through his chest. His hair is a mess, his mouth swollen and hanging open. 

You move to him like he’s a magnet. The low light makes his skin almost glow, but that might just be the flush of the drinking. His phone is on the table next to him, the screen long turned off. His shoes are one, which is normal for Dean, but they’re not his indoor shoes. They’re his hunting boots. He’s even got his jacket on, and he was either about to go out, or had already gone. 

He smells heavily of liquor. Not just beer. But Dean doesn’t drive drunk, so he either got buzzed at the bar and wasted here, or never made it out of the bunker. 

You’re betting on the former. 

He lit his candle, flickering golden light over him like a halo. 

He’d never do that sober. 

You’re touching him before you can think better. Running your hand through his hair, just to soothe it. 

Dean stirs slightly. Mutters something incoherent you can’t make out, his shoulders slumping and face turning so he’s hidden in the crook of his elbow. So he’s leaning further into your hand. 

There’s a stabbing pang through your heart, and he wouldn’t let you do this if he knew it was you. He must not know. 

But you repeat the motion, and he lets out a heavy, satisfied breath. You swallow, and risk trying to move him. Get him to bed, so his neck doesn’t hurt in the morning. But Dean’s a heavy man, and when you wrap your arms around his torso, you have to let go quickly. He’s too warm. Too firm and soft at once. You would’ve melted into him, and never been able to pry yourself away. 

And it was too intimate. 

He doesn’t want to see you or speak to you. There’s no reason he’d be okay with you touching him. 

But you can’t just leave him like this, so you grab a blanket, and toss it over his shoulders. Grab a pillow from your room, and tuck it between his head and elbow. Carefully grab his beer, and pour it down the kitchen sink. 

You look back, before you retreat back to bed. He’ll be okay. In the morning, he won’t even think of tonight for more than a few seconds. 

If he does, you don’t get to know. He doesn’t look for you, and you stay out of his way. Distance. 

You’re giving him all the fucking distance he wants. Enough of it to stretch you into a thin, desperate and hungry string that watches the shadows under her door, hoping you’ll just get a knock, or a mutter of your name.  

But you get nothing. Not even a text, as if nothing was ever wrong at all, and Dean’s really just been over it. 

He’s still leaving a plate of dinner out. You stare at it every night, and wonder if eating it would finally make him talk to you, if just to yell at you about taking his food. 

It wouldn’t. Before the big fight, Dean had almost never yelled at you at all. But now Dean hasn’t even consciously been in the same room as you for almost two weeks. 

And there’s a gaping ache in your chest that’s going to eat you alive.

The bunker is almost dead quiet at night. You slip in and out without anyone seeing, just to go get some more tea and a candy bar to numb your sorrow. You collapse in the war room, eating and staring at the wall. Grab a book and open it to a random page, just to fight the restlessness of this.  

It startles you, when your phone rings. The sound bounces off the walls, and you fumble as you pick it up, because it’s Dean’s name, flashing on the screen. 

You glance over your shoulder, like he’s going to emerge from the shadows. You’d thought he was in his room. There’s no reason for him to be calling you if he was in his room. Maybe you shouldn’t answer, in case he just pressed the wrong button. 

But if that’s the case, he doesn’t hang up after you wait a few moments. Wait long enough for the call to go to voicemail, holding your breath as you wait for the buzz that means he’s left a message. You’ll read the transcript, but won’t listen to it. You don’t need to hear the annoyance or fury in his voice. It’s already been haunting you enough. 

The notification never comes, though. 

He just calls you again.  

You take a deep breath, before you answer. Whatever he has to say, you can take it. 

“Dean?” 

There’s a moment of silent static through the speaker, and you feel your heartbeat in your throat. 

Then Dean mumbles your name, and you let out a shuddering breath of relief. 

“You… Picked up.”

“Yeah.” You glance over your shoulder again. “You called me, Dean.”

“Hm.” Is all he says, silent again for a moment. “But you picked up.”

You sigh. “I did. What’s going on.”

“Nothin’.” 

“Really?”

He grunts, and you press your lips together. You want to hold him on the phone, just to hear his voice a little longer. It’s just as deep and rich as you remember. 

Space. 

“Okay, Dean.” You sigh, leaning over the table and staring at your lap. “Thanks for the call, I guess-“

“Wait.” He cuts you off, and you hear something slam in the background. “Just- I’m- Are you safe?”

Fuck. 

He sounds like he cares. 

“Yeah, Dean. I’m safe.” You take a deep breath. You have to hang up. “Goodnight-“

“No-“ He calls your name, and you’ve never heard him this urgent. “Don’t- Don’t hang up, I- Uh- I had somethin’ to ask you. ’S why I called.”

You slump into your chair, staring up at the ceiling. You half expect him to come up behind you laughing, or ask you to make him hot chocolate like he might’ve a few weeks ago. Because it tastes better, when you do it, and he’s a huge kiss-ass who has you in the palm of his big, stupid hand. 

“Okay. What.”

He’s silent again, for so long before he clears his throat, and mutters, “I dunno.”

“You… don’t know? What you called me for?”

“Yeah.”

“Dean-“

“Can you tell me ‘bout your day? Just- Keep talkin’?” He grunts again, and you hear something shuffle. “You can curse me out, if you want. Just-“ His voice lowers. “Whatever. Anything.” He’s silent again. “Please.”

You frown, sitting up slowly. Something’s off in his voice. With his words. 

He said please. 

Dean’s kind, and he’s polite, but he never says please. Not casually. 

Only about things that make his voice a little raw. 

Like it is now.

“Dean?” You say softly. “Where are you?”

“Bathroom.”

You glance to the hallway, heat rising to your cheeks. “Oh, um- Are you okay?”

“‘m fine, sweetheart. Bar was just real freakin’ loud.”

“You’re at a bar?”

“Yep. But I’m good, baby, don’t worry about me-“

“How many drinks have you had?” You’re already standing up, fumbling around in the dark for your keys. “And- Are you at the place on Main Street, or Waystar?”

“Waystar. They got good bourbon, y’know. And- Remember that time you hustled those bikers.” He almost groans. “That was so hot. Your ass looked great.”

You swallow. “Dean, how many drinks-“

“Not enough. But don’t worry, Sammy’ll come get me if I start seein’ spots or whatever-“

“Sam’s asleep.” You snap, pushing on your shoes, and he pauses.

“Huh.”

“Yeah. Huh. Dean, you need to tell me how much you’ve had, specifically-“

“I dunno. Five. Six.” His voice drops to a grumble. “Don’t see how it matters to you.”

You pause, hand on the door. “What?”

“Nothin’ for you to worry about, right? My shit ain’t your problem.”

Heat rushes your face, because you'd screamed that at him. He'd sneered a mock you got a death wish? You like trying to give me a fuckin' heart attack? and you'd shouted in return, your paranoia isn't my problem, Dean. 

Because he'd been acting like you were born two days ago. Like you couldn't possibly know how to calculate risks or take care of yourself. 

But it is your problem. He must not have heard the pain in your voice when you screamed, because it is your problem. Anything that hurts Dean hurts you, like a bruise that comes from trying to drag someone out from underwater, and of course his paranoia is your problem. You never want to be something that causes him pain. 

“You’re on Waystar?” You ask softly, turning the doorknob, and he grunts. “Don’t move, Dean. I’ll be there soon.”

He snorts, just before you hang up the phone. 

“Sure, sweetheart. Whatever.”

You shove your phone in your pocket, and head out without looking back. 

He’s slouched at the bar, when you get there. The bartender’s casting him weary looks, and seems pretty relieved when you say you’re here to pick him up. 

“Worried your guy was gonna hurt himself.” She mutters, and you sigh, mumbling an apology as you tap his elbow lightly. 

His head flies up, whole body shaking, and you cross your arms. Wait for his vision to come into focus.

Take a second to pull yourself together. Because you haven’t looked him in the eyes in two weeks.

And even wasted and tired and angry, scowling and flushed, he’s so beautiful.

“Don’t fuckin’ touch-“ He blinks at you, a tight frown on his face, and says your name slowly. With something like awe in his voice. As if he can’t believe you’re there. 

You give him a tight smile. “C’mon, Dean. Let’ go home.”

He just blinks at you slowly. His arm reaches out, hands flexing, and he slowly runs his fingers down your arm. It sends a small shiver through your body. You bite down the hitch in your breath. 

“You’re…” He reaches up, and before you can react, he’s tracing your face. “Real?”

Dean watches you so carefully, and his features are guarded. Like he’s ready for this to be a trick. 

This smile is more gentle. 

It’s ripping something inside of you, to see him in such pain, and you’re going to do anything to mend it. 

Mend him, even if the smarter thing might just be leave him to put himself back together. 

“Yeah. I’m real.” You pull his hand gently off your face. “Let’s go home.”

Dean nods slowly, and lets you lead him out of the bar. Almost stumbles after you, like he’s afraid you’ll turn into shadow at any moment. 

The drive back is silent. Easy. He only glances at the Impala for a second, before crawling into the spare car after you. He doesn’t try to talk to you, or change the radio. And you can feel his gaze, as you drive down the empty roads, but it doesn’t burn your skin. It’s just sweet.  

Soft. 

Close to awe, and almost making the air seem sweet. 

“Sweetheart…” Dean reaches out, his hand resting on your knee. You glance over to see his eyes shining in the dark. “Did you come for me?”

You frown. “Of course I did.”

“Hm. You drive far?”

“It’s only twenty minutes.”

“Ah. Huh.” He pauses. “But… you came.”

You sigh, fingers tightening on the steering wheel. “Yeah, Dean. I came.”

He makes a low, satisfied noise—his hand still on your thigh—and passes out. When you get to the bunker, he lets you move him into his bedroom with only a few unintelligible grumbles. His shoes get kicked off, his shirt peeled over his head, and his pants tossed away. 

You stand against the door, back pressed to the wood, and fix your gaze on the ceiling. Dean’s all but naked, a few feet away. You’d just have to look down, and you’d see everything you’ve ever dreamed about. 

But he’s drunk, and doesn’t want you like that, and still your friend. You won’t violate his privacy like that. Won’t take advantage of what was clearly one of his worse nights, just so you can feed your own, empty pipe dreams. And- 

Dean grumbles your name, and you squeak as he appears in front of you. His arms cage next to your head, pinning you against the door. Your noses bump, and the heat rolls off his body, into yours. It sparks a wildfire, the proximity. The smell of pure Dean fans it. The warmth stokes it. 

The sight of him, when your eyes drop against your will, fuels it to sweep through you entirely. 

His chest is bare. And everything about him is strong. Not TV strong or cosmetically strong. Not just abs and definition. Muscle and softness that would make him easy to be consumed in. No sharp V in his hips, but thick thighs and a bulge that makes your knees weak. 

He says your name again, and you look up at him frantically. 

“I- I wasn’t-“

“Stay.”

You blink at him, arms wrapping around your stomach. “What?”

“Don’t go again.” He mutters, scanning over your face. “Stay.”

“Dean, I- I have to go to bed.”

He squints at you, leaning in closer. Your lips are almost brushing. 

Maybe this is another form of punishment. It certainly feels like torture. 

But there’s that same shine in his eyes, from the car. And this is so real it might be able to split you cleanly in half. 

“Where?” He mutters.

“Where-“

“Where you goin’ to bed.”

“Um-“ You take a deep breath. “My room?”

The answer seems to satisfy him. Dean relaxes over you, and you try not to whimper when that makes his bulge press on your hip. 

He takes a deep, long breath, and mumbles near your neck. “You smell good.”

“Thank you.” You whisper. There’s a deep, strange fear that if you speak too loud, you’ll shatter whatever this is. This, that’s making him cling to you and touch you so carefully. 

“Flowers.” He takes another breath. “Missed it.”

“There- There are flowers everywhere-“

“Missed you.” He says, a little more firmly, and pushes back up to meet your gaze. His eyes are stripping you bare, even if his gaze never wanders lower than your lips. “You are…”

He trails off, and your fingers curl into his flannel. 

When he speaks, his voice is so low it rolls through your body. 

So pained you can feel it in your bones. 

“Not mine.” He sighs, face dropping once more. “You ain’t mine, are you?”

He laughs to himself, and you blink at the air. A little dazed. Wholly confused. 

“Dean, what-“

“Sweet dreams, baby.” His breath is hot on your ear, and you shiver. “Don’t think of me.”

Dean turns, pulling you with him but giving up easily, and flops on his bed with a groan. It takes a second, for you to remember how to move. And when you do, another few to convince yourself to. 

Then you slip out the door, and try not to sprint back to your room. 

You don’t sleep well. You toss and turn and stare at the ceiling, touching your lips and ear and hip until exhaustion pulls you under. 

But when you dream, it is sweet. 

It’s low drawls in your ear, phantom touches on your skin, and the bare image of Dean burning into your brain. You wake up cold and alone, with the sheets bunched between your legs. 

You can’t take another two weeks. Not having none of him. That had been the tiniest dose, and you’re already high. Spinning around what the fuck that was, what any of it meant, if it means anything at all. He’d been drunk. He might not have meant it. 

You ain’t mine, are you?

Like a question he doesn’t want the answer to. 

As if, if you’d been able to speak, you wouldn’t have screamed yes. 

Given your heart to him. Offered the air in your lungs, and a million apologies. Crossed the country, to get him home safe, even if just from a bar. Let him be angry a million more times, just so long as he never left. 

Missed you, he’d said. 

You missed him more. He haunts you. 

And you’re not even sure he’s going to look you in the eyes, in the morning. 

“Hey.” Sam glances up from his laptop as you shuffle into the library, brows raised. “Where have you been?”

“In my room.” You mutter, grabbing a book, and Sam looks up again. 

Actually looks up. A deep frown on his face, like he doesn’t quite believe you. 

You blink at him. “What?”

“No, it’s nothing- I just-“ He rubs the back of his neck. “We thought you’d been going out.”

“Going out?” You scoff. “Sam, when have I ever gone out.”

“Well, that’s- Fair. But we haven’t seen you in a few days, and I told you to give Dean space, so I figured you’d just been… Around.”

“I have been around. I haven’t left the bunker in like- Six days.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, really- I-“ You shake your head. “Did you really think I’d been gone for two weeks?”

Sam turns a little red. “Uh- Yeah? We hadn’t seen you since you and Dean- You know.”

“I’ve been taking food from the kitchen-“

“I don’t count how much food we have! And you- You haven’t been eating the food Dean’s left out for you!”

“For-“ You blink at him slowly. “For me?”

“Yeah!” Sam sighs dramatically, running a hand through his hair. “I mean- You really haven’t been gone?”

“No, I-“ You shake off the for you. Something to worry about later. “I was giving him space. Like you told me to!”

“I didn’t say avoid him like the plague-“

“I haven’t been-“ You cut yourself off, shaking your head. “Sam, I’ve been here the whole time.”

“Well, yeah. I’ve figured that out now.” He mutters. “You should tell Dean, by the way. He’s been worried.”

You snort. “Yeah, alright.”

Sam gives you a flat look. “Come on.”

“What?”

“He was worried.”

“Sam-“

“He’s been beating himself up,” Sam says your name almost urgently. “He thought you were gone forever.”

You feel something cave in on itself, in the cavity of your chest. “Well, he should’ve knocked on my door.”

“I- Look, I’m realizing now that- Conclusions were probably jumped to-“

“Probably-“

“But you need to tell you’re at least okay.” Sam urges. “I’m serious when I say he was really worried. You- You really matter to him. A lot.”

You let out a slow breath, eyes locked onto Sam’s, and he just raises his brows. A silent, challenging expression. 

Stay.

Dean asked you to stay.

He’d thought you were going—maybe that you’d already been gone—and he’d asked you to stay. Like it mattered. Like you really did matter.

You ain’t mine, are you?

You could be. 

He’s never asked. 

“Dean would’ve told me,” you mutter. “If I mattered-“

Sam laughs. Loud, and truly amused. 

“No. He wouldn’t. Or- He wouldn’t have before.” Sam shrugs. “But he didn’t think he’d lose you before, either.” 

You stare at Sam, trying to come up with any words at all, just to say something. But before you can Dean’s voice cuts through the air.

“Sammy, hey, Sammy-“ He grunts from behind you. “You, uh- you haven’t seen-“

He cuts himself off, as he says your name. And you turn slowly, to find him staring at you in his stupid robe that’s always made you want to jump his bones. 

“You’re still here.” He mutters, and you shrug weakly. 

“I never left.”

He chuckles to himself, shaking his head. “Yeah. Alright.”

Sam clears his throat. “Dean, she really-“

“I’m goin’ for a walk.” He announces to the air, barely sparing you a glance as he turns, and marches away. 

You look at Sam, and Sam just gives you that tight smile and sad-eyed puppy look. When you just stare at him, he lets out a heavy, slow breath. 

“You should talk to him.”

“I did talk to him.” You snap. “Last night, when he drunk dialed me-“

“Which Dean does to everyone.” Sam says flatly, looking down to his laptop. “He’s really famous, for how he’s always making emotional late-night calls while drunk.”

You narrow your eyes. “Don’t be an ass.”

“Sorry.” He doesn’t sound it. “I’m sure you’re right. You know Dean, he’s a sappy guy. Always talking about his feelings, letting everyone in, never engaging in any self-destructive and sacrificial behavior that’s contradictory to what he really wants-“

“Sam.” You snap. “Stop taking online psych courses and trying to diagnose us.”

“Okay, my very good friend.” He hums your name, still looking at his screen. “Who’s deeply self-isolating and tries to hide from everything in her life that might lead to pain, and would rather die than be the slightest inconvenience- Ow-“

You chuck a book straight at Sam’s head, and stomp out of the library before he can keep saying things. Correct things. 

You ain’t mine.

Yes, you are. 

And he just has to ask.

Dean’s gone for hours, which is more than enough time for you to stare at the ceiling and work yourself into a frenzy. He doesn’t get to stand that close and be that handsome and touch you like you’re priceless—because his fingers had been light, his face filled with awe like you were a diamond from the sky—and then avoid you. Doesn’t get to make you dinner for no reason, then not give you the chance to ask why.

Doesn’t get to allegedly worry about you, to think he’s going to lose you, then get you back and storm away. 

You love him too much to ever just leave. But if this ignoring thing keeps going, you’re going to scream. 

You’d rather fight for something fragile and delicate, than have nothing at all. 

You’re going to fight. You are his, and you are going to scream at him like he’s yours until he breaks you and you go, or- 

Something else. 

It’s late, when he gets back. The whole day spent pacing and anxiously eating, staring at book pages without actually reading and scrolling through your phone. You almost call him a few times. But you held out this long. 

And you want to see him. Try to read him. 

Make him look at you.

The door opens a little while after Sam goes to bed. He’d looked at you—waiting for Dean, your feet up on the table—and sighed. 

“Good luck.”

“Thanks.” You’d muttered, and he’d nodded.

“Yeah, just- Uh-“ Sam had sighed. “Try to get to your room?”

You’d looked up at him with a frown, but he’d already walked away. That’s another thing to demand explanation for later. 

Right now, you’re watching Dean stand at the top of the stairs, looking at you like he’d seen a ghost. 

“Hi.” You give him a small wave, and he coughs. 

“Hey. You’re- Awake.”

“I am. Should I not be?”

He winces. That might have come out harsher than you wanted it to. 

“You can do whatever you want, sweetheart.” Dean mutters, shoving his keys into his pocket. “Night.”

“Dean-“ You push to your feet, scrambling to block his path out of the room. “Dean, wait-“

He freezes, giving you a silent, expectant look, and you flush. He can’t look at you like that. It’s not fair.

“I’m- um-“ You rub your arms, forcing yourself to meet his gaze. “Are we going to talk about it?”

“‘Bout what?”

“Last night? You- You called me-“

“I was drunk.” He grumbles, glancing over your head. “That’s it. If I- Said something. I was wasted.”

You blink. “You… Don’t remember?”

Dean just shrugs. Like it is nothing. Like you’re nothing. “Nothin’ to remember. Scoot over, I’m trying to go to bed-“

He grabs your shoulder, and the touch is electric. Almost stuns you into freezing, moving, being whatever he wants you to be just because it’s Dean who’s asking, and- 

You ain’t mine. 

That’s fucking something. He doesn’t just get to say it’s nothing, and pretend the past two weeks never happened, and you’re fighting. You told yourself you were going to fight.

“Where were you?” You blurt, and he freezes. “You were gone all day, Dean.”

His face twitches slightly. “I was out.”

“Out where.”

“I don’t know, out and around-“

“Around where.”

Dean looks at you with an almost frustrated awe. “Around…. Places.”

You raise your chin. “Which places.”

“Places, sweetheart, I-“ He chuckles, the sound hollow. “What do you care? I’m not some damsel, and I’m in one piece, aren’t I?”

“I don’t know.” You shrug. “Are you?”

Dean’s eyes narrow, and you push on. 

“You were looking for me before you left. Why-“

“I wanted to check you hadn’t fucked off to places, sweetheart. That’s it. So can we quit it with the interrogation, and-“

“Do you remember asking me to stay?” You ask softly, and his jaw tightens. 

“Told you. I can’t remember anything.”

You take a small step towards him, and he could so easily move you aside. But he’s not. And you’re not just going to let him make you give up. You love him more than that. Your love is worth more than that, if he wants it. 

Dean’s worth more than that, if he wants you. 

“You called me, and I picked you up.” You murmur, and he snorts. 

“Yeah, I fuckin’ remember that-“

“And I put you to bed.” You raise your voice, taking another step forward, and Dean freezes. “You stripped, and pinned me against the door, and- You asked me to stay. You asked if I was yours, and you asked me to stay.” Your voice cracks. “Why did you do that, Dean? Why would you say that to me?”

Your lip is wobbling, and his face is red. When he speaks, his voice is hoarse. 

“I told you,” he grunts your name, and you’ve never seen him look so cornered. “I was drunk-“

“So you don’t care. If I stay?” 

Something flashes in his eyes. “No, I- That’s not-“ Dean shakes his head, rubbing his brow. “I never said that, I- I was just damn drunk-“

“So you don’t care.”

“Stop saying- Son of a bitch.” He squeezes his eyes shut. “Can we do this in the morning-“

“No.” You take another step forward, and Dean makes a low sound from his chest. It rushes through your body like a drug. His hands flex, and you can see his chest heaving. “We’re doing this now. Do you care? If I stay?”

He blinks at you, and your eyes start to sting. He’s not even saying no. If he did, at least it would be over. But he’s just watching you, like you’re the one about to hurt him

“Because I never left, Dean-“

That gets a snort, like the one he gave Sam this morning. “Yeah. Alright-“

“I didn’t.” You snap. “Sam told me to give you space, after we-“ You take a ragged breath, arms squeezing tight around your stomach. “After the hunt. And I gave you space, and you- You thought I just left? That I’d go without saying goodbye, or anything?”

Dean’s throat bobs. “People have done it before,” he grunts, and you roll your eyes, something white-hot building in your heart. Ready to erupt.

“Yeah, they have, but I haven’t. You really think that I’d just- That I’d do that to you?”

“It’s not about me, sweetheart-“

“Yes, it is.” Your voice rises, and Dean flinches back like you struck him. 

He rasps your name, and you shake your head. 

“It’s about you, Dean. It- I- I dropped everything, to go get you. I stayed out of the way to give you space, I- I spent the whole day-“ You take a deep, uneven breath. “It’s about you, and-“

“Stop.” He rasps, an almost wild look in his eyes. His hands are curled on the wood of the table, his whole body braced. “You- You gotta stop, sweetheart.”

You stare at him. “I- I’m just talking-“

“Stop talking.” He snaps, shaking his head, and his grip looks white-knuckled. “Don’t know what you’re- You don’t get it.”

“Then tell me-“

“No.”

You gape at Dean. His handsome, determined face. How he’s almost cowering from you. It’s worse than the fight after the hunt. That had been all rage and spat words, pure fury and a whirlwind of crude words. He’d looked like he’d wanted to throttle you, and it had made you dizzy, but this- 

This looks like he wants to flee. 

“You made me dinner.” You murmur, scanning over his face. “You- You made me dinner.”

He swallows. “Yeah.”

“Why?”

“Cause. I- I don’t know, alright.”

You stare at him. He lets out a heavy breath.

“I didn’t want you to have nothing. If you came back.”

Fuck. “Dean,” you whisper, and when you take a half step forward, he shakes his head. 

“Don’t. You- Just go the hell to bed-“

“No. I- I’m going.”

His eyes widen, voice dropping. “Wha- What?”

“You want me to stop.” You shrug. “So I’ll stop. And if it’s not about you, and I’m only-“ I’m only here for you. “If that’s it, and you don’t care, I’ll- I’ll go.”

Dean says your name, voice choked, and you shake your head. 

“I’m just a needy, shallow brat, right?” There’s a lump, forming in your throat. “That’s what you think. So I should go.”

“No, that- That’s not-“ His breath is ragged, grip white-knuckled. “I was pissed, I didn’t mean-“

“Didn’t you?”

“I didn’t, I never- You’re not- Goddamnit, you don’t-“

“Get it?” You finish, stopping only an arm’s reach away. “Are you going to tell me.”

He stares at you, nostrils flaring. You sigh. 

“Do you even care? If I go?”

And you know he cares. You wouldn’t be having this fight if he didn’t. 

But he just looks at you. And you feel bile rising in your throat. 

“Tell me you care, Dean.” You murmur, because you don’t want to walk away. Don’t want to leave him. Don’t want to be strong and leave your heart in fractured pieces on the floor. All you want is him, but if he won’t let you have that, there’s nothing left to do. “Please tell me you care.”

“I- Sweetheart-“

“Say you care.” Your voice is only a whisper, and you take an unsteady step forward. “Say you care. Or I- I’m walking away.” 

He doesn’t even have to love you. He just has to care. And he’s still saying nothing at all. 

“Dean, please tell me you care.” You’re begging now, tears pricking at your eyes, and he swallows. 

Mutters your name. It sounds like a plea. 

It’s not enough. 

“Tell me you care, please-“ Your voice breaks. “Dean, just, tell me you care, please, say you care-“

His eyes shine in the dark. “Baby-“

“Fucking- Say you care-“ Your voice is echoing off the walls. He can’t just call you baby like that, it’s not fair. “Dean, I fucking- Just say you fucking care-“

“I care!” He roars, and you freeze. “I care, I care, of course I care, I fucking-“ He makes a face like he’s in pain, his voice gravelly and rough. “I love you, I don’t want- You can’t go, baby, you just fucking came back, and I-“ His voice breaks, and the shine in his eyes is tears. Heavy tears he seems to be fighting with everything in him, rubbing them away with the palm of his hand. Like he’s worried you’ll actually see them. “I fucking care. I care. I- I care. Don’t-“ He shakes his head, hand unsteady on the table. “Don’t go. Don’t fucking go.” His words become choked. “Please don’t go.”

You stare at him, stunned so deeply into silence you almost can’t breathe. Dean’s words linger in the air, heavy and electric. His breathing is unsteady, eyes locked onto yours, and you lean towards him on the tips of your toes. Trying to get closer. Afraid to move, and step on something that’s blooming. That, for once, seems to be good.

“You- You love me?” You breathe out, and Dean’s eyes widen. 

“I-“

“Me too.” A small step forward. He doesn’t flinch away. “Dean, I- If you- I love you. Too.”

He blinks at you slowly, holding onto the table like a lifeline. “Yeah?”

You nod, and his throat bobs. 

“Are you-“

“Incredibly.”

“Oh.” His lips twitch, tears still shining on his cheeks. “Awesome.”

You laugh weakly, wiping your nose with your sleeve. “Is it?”

Dean nods, pushing up off the table in such a smooth motion it’s like he’s being moved. And just before his lips crash over yours, he mutters-

“Yeah. It is.”

And Dean kisses you like he’s a dying man. Like he’s been lost at sea for a hundred years, and you’re the ground as he finally comes home. His mouth is demanding and firm, his touch certain. He grabs at your hips like they’re the only anchor in a storm. One big, calloused hand slides up your back and you arch into the touch. Dean groans. Presses his tongue over your lips, and drags you closer to his body. You’re trapped in his thick arms, melting into his chest as you’ve dreamed about a million times before. 

He tastes like whiskey and fruit. His hand on your back slips higher, grabbing the back of your neck. You bend for him, letting him angle you back further. The kiss deepens, and when you open your mouth, Dean moans into it. The sound is sinful. Intoxicating.

Your knees start to feel weak, as he sucks the oxygen from your lungs. Your arms fly around his neck to keep you upright, and Dean grabs under your ass as you falter with a tiny squeak. 

He breaks the kiss for half a second, allowing you to gasp for air. But then he’s back, and the fervor doesn’t relent. It only grows. 

Dean’s mouth open and harsh over yours. Your own movements sloppy, because you just want more but you can barely think outside of his name. 

“De- Dean-“ You whine against his lips, and he nips at your tongue. 

Gives you a moment to breathe, as he pulls away, but doesn’t give you a single second of a break. He starts to press hot, possessive kisses all over your face. Down your throat and along your jaw. It’s sending sparks over every single nerve in your body, the devotion in every movement making the heat between your legs grow unbearable. 

Dean’s teeth graze your ear, and he starts to suck on the skin right below it. A sound you didn’t know you could make escapes your throat. It’s a strangled whine of his name, and a plea for just more. He’s lighting you up with just his mouth and hands. He squeezes your ass, and you roll your hips into his thigh. 

“Shit.” He leans back with a grunt. His eyes are dark and hungry, blown out with desire. 

For you. 

Desire for you. 

Dean’s fingers flex against your neck, and drag back down. His hand slides slightly under your shirt, sending shivers up your spine. His fingers splay on your lower back. Your nails dig into his shoulders, as you struggle to stop the desire from sweeping you away. Struggle to stay upright. 

“You are…”

“Yours.” You whisper through the daze of lust. “I’m yours.”

Dean’s face splits in a wide, charming grin, and he crashes back over you like a tidal wave. There’s nothing left to fight about. 

He loves you.

And you let that pull you under the tides without a second thought. 

Dean walks you back against the wall, pinning you just like he had last night. He’s still wearing his jacket, though. Still completely covered, while you’re wearing smaller, thinner sleeping clothes. His hand on your back has dipped down to grab your thigh, and hike your knee against his hip. You pull at the collar of his flannel, as his kisses become wet and open. Like he’s trying to take as much as possible. 

You give him all of it. Whatever he wants. Loud moans when he sticks his tongue down your throat, or swipes it over your swollen lips. Your body, pressed right against his. Your burning core, trying to grind onto the rough fabric of his jeans. 

And he gives right back. You claw at his jacket, and he yanks it off and tosses it off to a corner of the room. He stares at you the whole time, chest heaving and face slack with want. You might be drooling, as you watch him flex with the motion, and his eyes gleam with smug pride.

“You like- Oof-“

You drag him back down the moment the jacket is gone, rising up as high as you can to meet him. Dean groans, pulling your arms high over your head and moving his mouth back down to your neck. 

“You are-“ He sucks on a particularly sensitive spot, smirking against your skin when you whimper. “So beautiful. Goddamn gorgeous, and-“ His brow drops to your shoulder, attention fixed on where you’re grinding shamelessly against him. “Needy. Hungry, pretty girl-“ Dean looks back to you, and that’s awe on his face. Pure, open awe. “You want something?”

He’s teasing. The asshole is teasing you. 

“Dean,” you whine, and he chuckles. Leans further in, until your lips are brushing. 

You try to surge up to kiss him. He leans away. 

“Ah,” Dean smirks, thumb rubbing small circles on your wrist. “You had so much to say to me a moment ago, baby. C’mon. Use your words.”

Your hips buck, the desire making your body almost shake. “You’re- An asshole-“

“I know.” He grins. “But you love me. And I,” he lowers back down, and you just manage to stop yourself from trying to kiss him again. “Am gonna give you everything you want. But you gotta say it.”

“Say- Say-“ You can barely think outside of the burn between your legs. This isn’t fair. “Dean, I- I don’t know what-“

“Just tell me what you want, baby.” His free hand moves up, grabbing your chin. His thumb swipes over your lower lip. “That easy.”

You blink at him, and he lets out a heavy breath. 

“Look, I- I can’t give you much. You know my life, my job, my- Shit.” Dean scans over your face, something desperate and almost nervous in his gaze. “You know I’m not gonna be good for you-“

“Yes, you are.” You cut him off with a breath, because of course he’s going to be good for you. He’s Dean. “You- You are.”

He swallows. “I can’t offer a lot.”

“I don’t want a lot.” 

“So what-“

“You.” It passed through your lips with perfect clarity, because that really is all you want. “I just want you, Dean.”

If it’s possible, you could swear his eyes get darker. “How?” He rasps, and you offer him a small smile. 

“Like this.”

His throat bobs, eyes dropping down to where your cunt is still mindlessly dragging over his thigh. Like you couldn’t even bring yourself to stop. He mutters your name, and you whine his. 

“Please.” You throw your head back against the wall, grinding faster. The rough fabric offers little relief, but you need something. “Dean, I- I just want more.”

His eyes move back to yours, and you could swear you hear his breath hitch as he takes you in. It must be an obscene image. You, fucking his leg, your arms above your head, sweat shining through your shirt and your nipple peaked. All the desperation that’s wrecking you, all just for him. 

Dean nods slowly, like he’s just working something out. 

“I’ve got you.” He mutters, and it sounds like it’s mostly to himself. “I’m gonna take care of you, baby, you’re-“

“Yours.” You gasp, and tears of desperation prick at your eyes. “Yours, Dean. Please.”

That snaps something in him. 

Dean crashes back down into another, heavy kiss. His hand drops from your face, his knee pulling away from your core. You barely get to make a noise of protest, though, before his hand replaces it. Pressing, rough and hard, against your cunt. 

Dean groans your name, when he feels how you’ve all but soaked through the thin cloth. 

“You’re fuckin’ dripping.” He mutters, fingers torturously toying with the cloth. “Jesus. Gonna leave a damn stain on the floor.”

You whimper, clutching at his shirt. “Dean, I- I’m-“

“You need more.” Dean’s lips twitch. “I know, sweet girl.” He lands a sharp slap against your clothed pussy, and your body shudders. “C’mon. Relax.”

And you try to. Dean’s words are smooth, and at first, it’s so easy to just go limp. Trust him to keep you upright, and blink at him as he draws away. 

But then he gets to work. His hand drags up your thigh and over your hips, tickling slightly—just enough to make you shiver—and then shoves right down your shorts. You arch with a high noise, and Dean grins. Rubs his palm back and forth on your ruined scrap of underwear. He kisses just your nose, so mockingly sweet, and pulls your panties to the side. 

One, thick finger slides into your pussy, and you clench around him. Trying to drag him in deeper.

Dean grunts, his forehead pressing to yours. He starts to pump the finger slowly in and out, watching your flushed, open expression. Almost studying how every thrust makes your lips part, how the stretch of just one finger renders you silent and desperate. 

But it’s a big finger. And he’s so deliberate and careful, pulling you apart like in just a few seconds he’s worked out every single thing that makes you tic. He brushes another teasing kiss over your lips, right as he shoves a second finger in.

“You’re so tight,” he grunts, fingers crooking deep inside of you. “Soaked and beggin’, but still squeezing me like a glove, baby. Goddamnit, this pussy is gonna fuckin’ swallow me. Can’t wait to feel you cum around my cock-“

You moan, and Dean’s eyes flash. His voice drops lower.

“Like that?” He murmurs. His fingers start to move faster, slamming all the way up to his knuckle. Hitting the most sensitive spot inside of you, every single time. “Like it when I talk dirty, sweet girl? Like hearing me say how you’re squeezing just my fingers, so fuckin’ tight just thinking about it is driving me crazy. How you drive me crazy, how hot you look, fucking my hand and saying my name?”

The pace becomes so fast you can barely think. Your eyes fly down, watching where his wrist and arm are flexing as he fingerfucks you into oblivion. 

“De- Dean-“

“Think you can cum just like this.” Dean says under his breath, scissoring his fingers deep inside your cunt.

Your eyes fly up to his, and he’s looking at you like you’re an angel. Your mouth falls open in a long, broken moan.

Dean smirks. “Yeah, look at you, you’re gonna cum on my goddamn hand. Think you can soak my fingers, baby? Show me just what I’m doin’ to you?”

You nod, straining against his hold on your wrists as light starts to dance behind your eyes. Dean slots his mouth firmly over yours, and you moan. Your wound so tight you might be about to explode, your toes curling as his fingers twist again, and-

“Cum,” he rasps your name. “Come on, sweetheart, cum for me-“

Your release rips through you. It’s burning and satisfying and strong. Wiping your head clean, as pleasure overtakes your every sense. You go slack, into Dean’s arms, and he catches you around your waist. Your hands fly to his chest in an attempt at balance, scratching him over his shirt. He groans, pressing the kiss deeper. 

His fingers don’t stop until you’re fluttering around them. You’re dripping through your clothing, almost down your thigh. Dean’s pulls back with a grunt, his hand slowly pulling away. 

It’s coated in your desire for him. He lets out a deep sound, fingers digging into your hips. 

The hand covered in you drops slowly, and rubs against his crotch. Where a thick, proud tent as formed through his jeans.

“You-“ He looks back to you, eyes shining. “You always this wet?”

You somehow feel more heat, rising through your face. “I- I don’t know- I’ve never checked.”

Dean hums, and there’s something like curiosity shining in his eyes.

“Alright.” He grabs your chin, tipping it back down to his bulge. “You seein’ how fucking hard you make me?”

You swallow. “Yeah.”

“You wanna feel it?” He drawls, and when you look up, the teasing grin has returned to his face. “Feel my cock, let me fuck your pretty, dripping pussy until you can only remember my-“

“Dean.” You whisper, reaching your hand slowly down. 

Grabbing him through his jeans, just to make him feel half of the need you do. His mouth falls open in a loud moan, eyes fluttering slightly. He feels big. You squeeze, and he doubles over you with a grunt. 

“You- You’re playin’ with fire- Shit-“

His mouth attaches to your neck, and you tip your neck back. Wrap your arm around his finger, fingers brushing through the hair at the base of his neck. 

“You worked yourself up.” You whisper, and he chuckles. 

“Yeah. Guess I did.” Dean’s holding you so tight it’ll probably bruise in the morning. You hope it does.

“I wanna feel you.” You whisper. “Please, Dean. Let me feel you.”

His arms tighten around, and once again, something in him snaps. 

Dean drags you off the wall, mouth turning to sear against yours. You grab his face, trying to throw back every bit of desire he offers you. He pulls off his flannel without breaking the kiss, walking you out of the war room and into the hallway. You stumble slightly, and he lurches forward to grab you. Pulls you against his chest, move moving in an unrelenting, bruising pattern against yours. 

The kissing makes you float out of your skin, his hands wandering under your shirt sending you higher, but it’s still not enough. You try to drag him closer, and he grunts, almost falling over you. 

It’s messy. Hungry. And if there was doubt before, it’s gone now.  

He needs you. Just as much as you need him. 

Dean gets impatient of the mess half-steps, and hauls you up his body. You yelp, legs locking around his waist, and giggle when he squeezes your ass.

“That bad?” You whisper between kisses, and he grunts. 

“You got no idea.”

He doesn’t waste time, marching down the hallway. Pauses for a second, glancing at his door, and shoulders it open the split second after you nod. Dean sets you down carefully on the floor, and you both start to shed clothing like it’s made of poison. Somehow, you always manage to keep hands on each other. Dean helps your shirt over your head, his hand planted on your lower back. You do the same for him, and he ducks. Goes one arm at a time, so he can keep a hold of your sides. 

Your mouths crash back together immediately. Your hands wander the panes of his chest as he pulls down your shorts and underwear. You fumble with his belt, palming his erection. Dean moans your name, walking you back until you hit the bed, and fall back with a giggle. 

He crawls above you, kissing over your breasts as he kicks his underwear off. 

His cock springs free. Thick and red, leaking with pre-cum. Your legs spread, your fingers wandering between your thighs as you try to just imagine how he’s going to feel. 

Dean knocks your hand away, and you blink up to find him starting at your cunt. He’s breathing through his nose, dick jumping against his stomach as he takes you in. 

“Dean,” you whisper, and his eyes jump to yours. “I- I want you.”

You swipe your fingers carefully through your own pussy, and he almost growls over you. 

“Baby, you- I’m-“ He lowers himself down, kissing your inner thigh. You run your fingers through his hair, pulling his head up. 

His eyes meet yours, and no one’s ever looked at you like that. 

Like the world could end, and it wouldn’t matter. Not as long as you’re there. 

“Hi.” You whisper, and he presses his cheek to your thigh. 

“Hey.”

“Can you come up here, please?”

Dean nods, slowly rising back up. He slowly moves up your body, kissing over your stomach, breast, collarbone. You work your clit, at the sight of him above you. It’s better than any fantasy. It’s Dean. 

You’re breathless, when his lips find yours again. You’re fucking your own hand, and almost scream when you feel his cock slide between the puffy lips of your pussy. 

“Here.” He mutters, pulling your hand to side. “I got it, sweetheart, wait-“

His head bumps that bundle of nerves, and Dean watches with an adoring gaze as you come undone below him once more. 

“That easy, huh?” He teases, kissing the corner of your mouth.

You take a ragged breath, half nodding. “Just- Just for you.”

Dean makes that low, animalistic sound again, and suddenly you’re being rolled over. His cock slaps against your ass, his grip tight on your waist as you straddle him. 

For a moment you just stare at each other. He raises his brow in a silent question. 

You nod, and he grins like you’ve just promised him the moon and stars.

Dean watches, as you slowly pick yourself up. Line him up against you, and sit down on his cock. His hands fist your soft skin, his head throwing back as you swallow him into your cunt. You moan his name as he stretches you open, and his hips slam up. 

You yelp, nails scratching at his chest, and he groans. 

“Sorry- Sorry, baby.” Dean grabs your hand, kissing the inside of your wrist. “You- Oh.”

You’re staring at him with an almost drunken expression. That, the split second of him losing control, was the hottest thing you’d ever seen. 

The way it had been because of you. 

Dean mutters your name, a low warning. You smile at him, and sink fully into him. He splits you wide open, his tip bumps your cervix, the stretch white-hot pleasure. 

You hold his gaze, as you start to move. Grind back and forth, letting him press against every good spot inside of you. 

Dean’s mouth falls open, and he throws his head back as you clench around him. His hand tangles with yours, and he holds it tight against his chest as the other grabs at your waist. You pick up your speed, starting to bounce. You ride him until your legs feel like jelly, until you’re fluttering around him and need is staining his thighs. 

He looks like a picture of sin. Wrecked below you, hair messy and chest rising unevenly. You moan his name, when he drags along your tight walls. Dean watches you under hooded eyes, making guttural sounds that rush straight to your clit. He squeezes your hand so tight it might break you. 

Fuck, you want it to break you.

“Come on.” You coo, trying to edge him on, and his eyes lock onto yours. “Is that-“ You swallow a moan, as he hits another needy spot inside of you. “You’re just going to lie there, and look pretty? Make- Oh-“ His abs flex, as you drag your clit against them. “Make me do all the work?”

That does it. 

Dean’s eyes darken, and whatever part of him that seemed perfectly happy letting you use him—letting you take control—vanishes. 

He grabs your hips, and pulls you up. 

Slams you down.

All the oxygen is knocked happily from your body, as Dean starts to fuck up into you like a man possessed. The sound of skin slapping against skin fills the room, and any attempts you make to keep riding him are met with a small slap to your ass as hammering thrust that makes you almost convulse with pleasure. 

“Oh- Oh my god-“ You moan. “Dean, I- I can feel you in my fucking throat-“

He groans, driving impossibly faster, bullying your cunt into a slick, oversensitive mess. 

“Can feel you fuckin’ strangling me,” he leans further down into the sheets, craning his neck to watch his massive cock slide in and out of you with ease. “God, you take me like you were made for it, made for my cock-“

Dean moans your name, and you see white as your orgasm hits again. Dean makes a deep, primal noise as you shake above him. 

Doesn’t break his pace for a single second. 

And this might be what people mean, when they say they get enlightened. Dean keeps pounding into you, his own eyes unfocused with desire, and you’re barely out of your third orgasm before a fourth is building in your core. Winding tighter and tighter and tighter, and you call his name and writhe above him. 

It only drives Dean on.  

He surges up, moving you onto your back with your hips in the air. Leans down just enough to kiss you, tauntingly soft and sweet. 

Rubs his thumb around your clit until broken plea are leaving your mouth. 

Then presses down on the button, hard.

This orgasm is so strong you think you see stars. And you’re still almost floating, as Dean folds himself over you. Jackhammers his hips in increasingly uneven thrusts as he chases his own release. You hold him tight, whispering low praise about how big he is, how good it feels, until he stutters. 

His face is pressed into your neck as he slams home, and a tiny, shivering orgasm sweeps through you as he paints your walls white. 

You both just bask in it for a while. The blissful, peaceful and certain feeling of each other. Dean slowly slides in and out, fucking himself back into you, and you’re not even sure he knows he’s doing it.

It’s aching, delicious torment, with how sore you are. With how much you want to feel every bit of him. 

You settle on letting him. Just kissing the side of Dean’s head and holding onto him for dear life, until he finally stills over you. 

Still buried deep in your body. 

“Dean.” You murmur, and he grunts. “Baby, you’re still-“

“I know.” He grunts, arms wrapping tighter around your body. “Just- Wanna keep you here for a while.”

“Oh. Okay.” You stare at the ceiling, then whisper. “You meant it, right?”

“Meant what?”

“That- That you- Love me.”

“Oh.” He pauses. “Yeah.” Another second of silence. “Why did you-“

“I meant it to.” You say quickly. “I meant it- A lot.”

Dean twitches inside of you, smiling against your skin. You swallow.

“When- How long-“

“I dunno.” He tips his head up, chin resting between your breasts. “Forever?”

You give him a flat look. “Dean.”

“What?”

“You can’t have loved me forever-“

“Don’t invalidate my feelings, sweetheart.” He grins. “That’s not very healthy or whatever.”

You narrow your eyes. “Stop listening to Sam when he talks about psychology.”

“Stop talkin’ about Sam when I’m balls deep inside of you.”

You flush, and Dean laughs. Leans up, pressing a soft kiss against your lips. 

“You’re cute when you’re embarrassed.”

You hum. “You’re cute when you’re being an ass.”

“Ah. Well.” Dean bumps his nose with yours, eyes bright. “I’m your ass, aren’t I?”

And it washes over you. An overwhelming sense of this. 

This is what’s supposed to be. 

“Yeah.” You smile at him, and he smiles back like it’s the easiest thing in the world. “You are.”

September 6

On field, the former Winter Soldier and the most efficient ex-Hydra spy. Two of the most feared names in the field. In the Avengers’ tower, just Bucky and Y/N. Tony, Steve, Sam, and Natasha were proud to fight alongside them. More than teammates. A family. 

Y/N charismatic and confident. The heart of the team, the one who made everyone feel like they belonged. She lit up every room she walked into, without ever trying to outshine anyone. Stunning and effortlessly magnetic she turned heads sure, but no one ever called her a “pick me” or fake. She was real. She was kind. She was unforgettable. Y/N knew she looked good. She wasn’t shy about it either. She liked the curve of her hips, the cut of her jaw, the shine in her eyes when she pinned her hair back in the morning. The world might’ve whispered “attention seeker” when she walked into a room with her head held high and her eyeliner sharp enough to kill, but the Avengers? They knew better. She wasn’t just pretty. She was lethal. Sam once joked that she could dismantle a nuke and flirt with the enemy at the same time and he meant it as a compliment.

Bucky, on the other hand, had grown quieter more thoughtful and a little reclusive. He hid behind silence, but those who truly knew him saw the warmth he guarded so carefully. Fortunately, the HYDRA days were long forgotten, and he was still in every way a super soldier with a broad and muscular body but got soft over the years. No more exhausting training sessions, some late snacks he allowed himself and delicious food. So, a small belly formed one he often tried to conceal beneath hoodies and crossed arms. He sometimes felt ashamed of it, even though everyone around him insisted he was still just as strong and just as attractive. Just a normal life, living with superheroes and fighting aliens, but still a normal life.

If Bucky was the dark quiet night, Y/N was the golden light of dawn. Opposites in so many ways, but that was why they had always fit together so well.

Bucky watched her with a sort of reverence, as if each time she walked into the common room in leggings and a crop top, she was rewriting the laws of physics just for the hell of it. He never said much, not directly. But she caught the way his gaze lingered, especially when he thought no one was watching. The way his lips parted when she smiled not even at him, just in general. The way his whole face softened when she laughed. And God, she was gorgeous. Y/N noticed. Of course she did. She noticed everything. Like the way he brought her coffee just the way she liked it. The way he grumbled about Tony being an idiot but never missed a single mission debrief she led. The way he froze when she leaned too close.

That morning, she caught him mid-stare while she stretched after a workout. He looked away so fast, he almost gave himself whiplash. Bucky used to watch her from a distance. He never said anything when Y/N walked into the room looking like she belonged there, like the Tower was hers just by the way she moved. She could quiet a boardroom with one glance and laugh like she hadn’t been through hell to earn her place on the team. She was loud when she wanted to be, soft when it mattered and completely out of his league. So, he watched quietly and hopelessly. A stupid ache in his chest every time she ruffled Steve’s hair or stole fries off Nat’s plate or leaned against Sam’s shoulder during movie nights. She deserved someone whole. Someone who looked like he belonged next to her in magazine spreads. Not a worn-down ex-assassin with broad shoulders, a soft stomach and nightmares that left him shaking in the shower.

That was the day, Lexi Connor came into their life.

Tony hired her through SHIELD. Shiny resume, sharp clothes, the kind of smile that came with calculated sweetness, first in class in SHIELD Administration. Bucky didn’t pay her much attention at first. He was used to new faces passing through the Tower. But then he overheard her.

“So, I’ll be just there coordinating?” Lexi asked Tony, gesturing toward the lobby.

Tony raised a brow at the tone. It was dipped in something that wasn’t quite disdain, but damn close. He didn’t like it. “You’ll building and directing operations, making sure nobody unauthorised steps foot into our building, and help keep things running smoothly.”

Lexi gave him a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “Right. Got it.”

Tony plastered his most, fake, charming smirk but inside his sensors were already blaring. He knew that look. He worn it himself in boardrooms when he was twenty-four and thought everyone around him was an idiot.

Lexi thought she was better than this job. That was clear. Helping to direct the operations in the Avengers’ Tower? Still like a front desk girl, and Tony swore himself she didn’t like it but he gave her the benefit of the doubt.

For now. Tony, leaned one elbow on the sleek desk and sunglasses perched smugly on his nose, showing Lexi something on a tablet. “So, mission coordinator means you keep tabs on who’s punching what galaxy-level threat and make sure they’re not late for the daily debrief,” he said, flicking through holograms with casual flair.

Lexi didn’t blink. Her eyes scanned the interface, her fingers already rearranging mission schedules, rerouting field agents, and uploading encrypted codes before Stark had even finished his spiel. “I’ll triple the efficiency in a week,” she said, voice smooth, almost bored.

Tony raised an eyebrow. She leaned forward, lowering her voice with a smirk. “Let’s just say coordinating missions is a nice warm-up. But I’ve got bigger plans, Stark. Avenger-level plans.”

“Right,” Tony muttered. “I’ve seen that look before. Usually ends with someone building a killer robot or trying to rewrite reality.”

The hum of servers filled the quiet control room. Lexi sat alone, tapping commands into the console with eerie precision. She began a couple of hour ago, but she was already at ease. Multiple mission feeds flickered across the screens; agents in action, crises unfolding, enemies slipping through shadows.

Later that evening, completely unaware of Lexi, Y/N found Bucky on the roof looking out over the city with his hands shoved into his jacket pockets. “You okay?” She asked, joining him.

He gave her a small smile“Yeah. Just… thinking.”

“About?” She said, voice light. His ears turned pink. “I can tell there’s something.” She murmured, stepping closer. He turned to her, eyes wide.

About you, Bucky thought.

Y/N smiled at him. He didn't answer her question.

Two weeks after Lexi’s arrival - September 20

Y/N strolled through the Tower after training. Messy ponytail, leggings, oversize hoodie. Gorgeous as hell. A vision. Lexi looked up from her desk and blinked. Then her gaze narrowed, just for a second. It didn’t go unnoticed. Bucky was, totally coincidentally, near the gym when he caught the exchange.

Y/N smiling, saluting Lexi like she did with everyone. Lexi blinked at her like she couldn’t quite figure her out. When Y/N started to walk away, Lexi muttered under her breath, “Wow. Must be easy getting away with anything when you look like that.”

Bucky froze. His super hearing was a bless just as much as a disdain. Something cold settled in his chest.

But Y/N too heard her. She didn’t hesitate, didn’t falter. She stopped mid-step turning around slowly and tilting her head. She wasn’t angry but kept a calm grace that made her so terrifying. “I don’t get away with anything,” she said, voice steady, sweet like honey with a razor underneath. “I earned every ounce of respect in this place. You want to talk about my looks? Fine. But don’t mistake it for weakness, or my face for my worth.”

Lexi opened her mouth, then closed it again, visibly shrinking. Y/N offered her a smile sharp, polite and utterly untouchable then turned on her heel and walked away with shoulders squared and head high. Bucky stood there for a beat longer jaw tight, something protective and proud churning low in his gut.

God, he loved her fire. He swore himself to marry that girl one day, even just in his dream.

Bucky didn’t go straight to the gym. Instead, he turned and reached Lexi. “Hey,” he called out, voice calm but firm.

Lexi looked up, trying not to look flustered. The handsome super soldier surely caught her attention the very first day she met the team. “Bucky. Everything okay?”

He crossed his arms over his chest. “About what you said… to Y/N.”

Lexi shrugged, feigning confusion. “Did I say something wrong? It was just a comment.”

Bucky’s jaw clenched. “Y/N’s more than how she looks. She’s one of the best people on this team. Stronger than most, smarter than all of us on a bad day. She’s earned everything she has, and she doesn’t deserve that kind of disrespect.”

Stunning as the sun, he added in his mind.

Lexi blinked, the corners of her mouth twitching like she was fighting the urge to smirk. “Of course,” she said, nodding with mock understanding. “You’re right. I didn’t mean anything by it.” But her eyes said otherwise. “...I don’t even know her.” She already pieced it together.

The way his shoulders stiffened, the way his voice softened just slightly when he said her name. She found the chink in the Winter Soldier’s armour, Y/N. Bucky stared at her for another beat, trying to read her.

But Lexi just smiled and tilted her head. “I’ll be more careful next time,” she added, turning her eyes back on the screen like she didn’t just step on something fragile.

And Bucky, still fuming, reached for the gym. He didn’t realise it yet, but Lexi wouldn’t have forgotten the look in his eyes. And she certainly wouldn’t missed the weakness she saw. She didn’t say anything then. She didn’t have to. Not yet. She was already sick and tired of hearing her name and her actions.

Two weeks and the only things she heard about her, was compliments and people losing their mind for her. Even before joining the Avengers, just as ‘mission coordinator’ even if in her head she was already a member of them, she heard about how great and brave Y/N Y/L/N was.

For the SHIELD was a role model, for the Avengers the bravest one and for Bucky… oh stupid, handsome Bucky. He thought of her like the hanger of the moon and stars. The heroine who sacrifices herself for the others. She was just a pretty girl.

Did he really think a girl like her, would ever put her eyes on a guy like him? Pathetic.

She saw the chaos of heroism and believed she could do better. Fix the flaws, remove the unpredictability, command outcomes like a chess master and maybe taking Y/N's place in the Avengers and into Bucky's heart.

She remembered the day Y/N turned her down. Calm, collected, and merciless in her honesty. “You don’t have enough preparation, Connor.” She said during recruitment.

Words sharp but clinical like a doctor diagnosing something terminal. There had been no cruelty in her voice, and somehow that made it worse. No anger, no disdain. Just a quiet certainty that Connor wasn’t enough. But preparation wasn’t just brawn, and strength was discipline. Vision. Willpower.

“Please, Y/L/N. Give me another chance,” Lexi said, breathless, frustration barely veiled beneath her words.

Y/N looked down at her, eyes unreadable but steady. There was no smirk, no malice just expectation. “Get up then, Connor.”

Lexi scrambled to her feet, the ache in her ribs ignored in favour of the flicker of opportunity. She stepped back onto the mat, determined, fists raised in front of her face like she’d rehearsed a hundred times. She didn’t flinch when Y/N mirrored her stance calm, balanced, effortless.

This time would be different. Lexi told herself like a mantra.

She learned from last time. Timing, footwork, patience. She’d studied every move Y/N made, practiced counters in her dreams. But dreams didn’t fight back. Y/N moved first. One step. One faint shift of weight. Lexi blinked and then, humiliation.

Again.

Before she could react, she was on the mat, back slamming hard, air punched from her lungs. A clean sweep. A lesson. Another reminder.

Y/N offered no hand this time. Just a quiet look as she stood over her. “Told you, Connor,” she said, voice low but firm. “You're clever but not field prepared.”

Lexi stared up at the ceiling, jaw tight, chest burning. It wasn’t just pain she felt, it was the weight of never being enough. And Y/N never even raised her voice. She would prove that. She would show them all.

Y/N, the Avengers… Bucky. There was more than one way to be a hero.

And this time, she wouldn’t need anyone’s permission.

Bucky always trusted his instincts. But ever since Lexi showed up, those instincts felt clouded, not wrong, just… off. She didn’t say much at first. Just little things. Comments he would normally shrugged off, if they wouldn’t have been about her.

“Wow, she’s confident, huh?” Lexi had said one afternoon, when Y/N walked through the common room still in her tactical gear. Boots heavy on the floor, lipstick bold against her smile, a streak of dried blood running down her cheek like it belonged there. “Must be exhausting always needing to be the centre of attention like that.” Bucky frowned but didn’t reply. “Why putting make up on a mission?” He didn’t agree. Y/N has never needed attention. Lexi hadn’t pushed. She just smiled and moved on like she didn’t say anything at all.

“She humiliated me,” Lexi said during another break with Bucky, her voice soft but charged as she leaned back against the railing of the Avengers training deck

The late afternoon's light cast sharp angles across her face, the shadows falling just right. Vulnerable, but not weak. Y/N was resting after a tough mission, while the other in the tower were monitoring the outside. “Right there on the mat. No hesitation, no mercy. Just... took me down like I was nothing.”

Bucky didn’t look at her right away. He stood nearby, arms crossed over his chest, gaze fixed on the skyline. But she knew he was listening. He always listened. Lexi went on, letting a shaky laugh slip through.

“She didn’t even help me up. Just stood there and said I wasn’t field prepared. Like I was some intern who wandered into a war zone. You know what she called me? ‘Clever.’ Do you believe it?” Her mouth twisted slightly. “Like that was a consolation prize.”

Bucky’s jaw clenched just a little, barely noticeable if you didn’t know him. Lexi noticed. “She made it personal. Always did. I think... I think she was threatened. I worked hard. I studied tactics, psychology, combat theory. I wasn’t handed anything. But it didn’t matter. Because I wasn’t her. I didn’t have her little reputation or... whatever she had with you guys...” That last part hung in the air like smoke.

Bucky finally turned to look at her, his eyes unreadable. “Y/N was tough,” he said, his voice low. “But she wasn’t cruel.”

Lexi blinked, caught between offense and panic. “I didn’t say she was cruel, just-”

“You said she humiliated you,” Bucky cut in gently, but firmly. “Sounds more like she did her job.”

Lexi’s stomach turned. She hadn’t expected that. “She never gave me a real chance,” she whispered, dropping her gaze to the floor. “…maybe I never needed her approval anyway.”

Bucky didn’t respond this time. He just looked away again, his silence louder than any defence. Lexi felt the weight of a story that didn’t quite land the way she wanted it to.

The next time, Lexi was more careful. More casual. “She’s always touching people.” She muttered to herself, leaning on the desk, skimming the security footage like she was bored. “Flirty…”

Y/N, passing behind her just in time to catch it, didn’t even slow down. She raised an eyebrow, offered a calm smile, and said, “It’s called being affectionate, Lexi. Some people call it emotional intelligence.” Lexi began to say something, but Y/N was already gone. Hips swaying, voice echoing back down the hall.

Or that time during lunch, “Oh, I didn’t realise she was that close to Steve. No wonder she got promoted so fast.” She said to Bucky.

Bucky noticed. He noticed all of it. He tried to shake it off at first, tried to convince himself Lexi just had a rough edge, and it got harder every time. That time Bucky felt something sharp in his stomach, something ugly.

Because he noticed the way Y/N tugged playfully on Tony’s tie when she teased him, how she leaned into Sam’s side when they laughed at game night. The casual affection she spread so easily. But then he noticed that Y/N treated Natasha the same way, kinda flirty. Once Bucky started remembering his moments with her. The way she used to pull him into dance-offs in the common room ruffling his hair when he brooded too hard, or when she put her head on his shoulder during movie nights. Y/N did it with everyone. Not just the guys, but something in his chest sank no matter what.

“She’s just friendly,” Bucky mumbled.

“Sure,” Lexi replied, smiling just enough. “If that’s what you want to believe…”

And that was it. Nothing outright cruel. Nothing too bold. Just suggestions. Innuendos. Enough to plant seeds. And Bucky hated himself for letting any of it fester. But once they were there, those seeds took root. He found himself watching Y/N differently not in awe like before, but… guarded. Maybe Lexi had seen something he hadn’t.

Was Y/N really flirting with everyone? With Tony? With Sam? With Steve? But why Nat too? Was that special look she gave him just… her being nice and flirty with everyone? Could she really have even ever flirted with him? Surely, he mistaken her being nice to something deeper. Y/N Y/L/N would never, ever, flirt with him.

One evening, Bucky watched as Y/N threw her arms around Steve’s neck after a sparring match, laughing breathlessly. Steve beamed, arms strong around her waist as he twirled her once in the air before setting her down. Bucky’s heart twisted. Lexi’s words in his head, “Told you.” And he said nothing. Y/N noticed his change. Lexi never wanted to be a superhero. She wanted control. “Let’s start from Barnes.” she thought that day back when she had her first encounter with Y/N. 

“Oh Y/N, how gorgeous is Y/N” “How brave is Y/N” “She took down a HYDRA base alone”

Blah, blah, blah

Deep down, Lexi wasn’t looking to destroy the Avengers. She just wanted to replace them. Or at least one of them. Her plan? Build a covert network of operatives and digital tools that could neutralise threats before they ever reached Earth. No capes. No explosions. Just precision. But to prove herself, she’d need to test her system, maybe even sabotage a few heroic missions to show how vulnerable they really were.

That night, he ignored Y/N’s knock on his door. He didn’t see the way her smile faltered when he didn’t answer. Didn’t hear her whisper through the wood, “Everything okay, Buck?” Didn’t see her stand there for a minute longer waiting and hoping, before she walked away.

A month with Lexi - October 6

One month. 30 days since Lexi entered the tower. From day one, Lexi and Y/N clashed.

Y/N, a skilled field agent, respected by the Avengers and trusted with high-risk missions saw Lexi as cocky, untested, and too comfortable behind her desk. Lexi, on the other hand, saw Y/N as reckless, too reliant on muscle and instinct, and blind to the strategy that saved missions before they even began.

Every meeting was a silent battle of eye rolls and sharpened remarks. “Sorry, I thought we were solving this with intelligence not throwing fists,” Lexi would say, coolly adjusting her headset.

“Funny. I thought saving lives meant showing up, not sitting behind six screens” Y/N would fire back.

Tony found it hilarious. Steve tried to mediate. Natasha mostly stayed quiet, watching the storm brew.

Y/N wasn’t the jealous type. At least, that’s what she told herself. She’d fought gods. Faced death. She wasn’t going to let a pretty coordinator in four-inch heels and a shiny French manicure rattle her. But she noticed the way Lexi seemed to be there, always there.

In the hallways, in the break room, outside the gym with that coy little smile and just the right amount of lean whenever she spoke to Bucky. And Bucky? He used to light up when Y/N walked in the room. Used to meet her eyes across the table during debriefs and smirk at her sarcastic remarks. Used to bring her coffee without being asked and always saved her a spot on the couch. Y/N was careful, always. Not just with missions, not just in battle, but with feelings. Especially this one.

She loved Bucky Barnes, for longer than she cared to admit. But she didn’t let herself believe he could love her back. Not like that. She wasn’t the one people chose. She was support, not the story. She always made dinner. After missions, after meetings, after days the world felt too sharp and heavy. It had become a quiet tradition neither of them ever named, but both kept returning to. It grounded them. Gave them something normal.

After a tough mission, some times ago, they came back frozen and bruised too tired to speak more than a few words on the flight. The cold had settled in their bones. The silence had weight. So, after a super hot shower, Y/N cooked. She moved through the kitchen with quiet precision, sleeves rolled up. Bucky watched from the other side of the counter, the scent of her lasagna already warming the room. When they finally sat down, he ate three portions. She hadn’t said a word about his body. His size. His choices. Not now. Not ever. She didn’t comment at first, just watched him with that small, amused smile that tugged at the corner of her mouth.

“This lasagna is to die for,” he said through a satisfied exhale, leaning back slightly in his chair, touching his belly. “Seriously, Y/N, I think I’d betray the whole team for another bite.”

She raised a brow at him, half-laughing. “Didn’t know you liked it that much, Barnes.”

“You kidding? I’ve been thinking about it since we got on the jet.” Y/N’s heart did something traitorous in her chest. He said it so casually, so fondly. Like the idea of coming back here, with her, was part of the mission plan. Like this mattered.

She swallowed it down, hiding it behind a sip of wine and a well-rehearsed smirk. “Well. Noted. I’ll keep a tray on standby in case you ever have to flee the country.”

Later, they ended up on the couch, not from some grand plan but because they were tired, full, and comfortable. He’d fallen asleep first, head tilted slightly toward her, lips parted in a rare kind of peace. And she’d watched him for a long time, tracing the scar on his temple with her eyes, not her hands. So she slept beside him. Close, warm, unaware. And she stayed still, pretending it was enough. Because for now, it had to be.

Nights like that were now long forgotten. Now he barely looked at her. And when he did, there was something different in his eyes, something wary like he didn’t trust what he was seeing any more. It made her stomach twist. Y/N knew, of course, that Bucky wasn’t in love with her like she was with him. She would have sworn to not feel anything for the super soldier, but then in her room at night closed her eyes and thought about holding his hand during a walk. She just liked the idea of him being in love with her not because she needed attention, but just because the reality of him not being interested was killing her inside. She used her cockiness as a shield, just as a fantasy of her and Bucky dating.

Bucky Barnes, the Bucky Barnes, in love with her? Absurd. She should have never get her cockiness, her facade, between them. She went to the gym.

Y/N sat cross-legged on the floor of the training room, idly wrapping and unwrapping the tape around her knuckles. Her voice was low when she finally spoke. “Nat… do you think I’m too cocky?”

Natasha, perched on the bench nearby tilted her head, one eyebrow rising. “That’s dramatic even for you.” She laughed but stopped when she saw Y/N’s expression.

“I’m serious.” Y/N didn’t meet her gaze. “I know I can come off a little… too confident.”

Nat let the silence stretch a beat, watching her closely. Then she stood, walked over, and crouched beside her. “Confidence isn’t a crime, Y/N. Especially around here. You’re sharp, capable, and yeah… maybe a little mouthy sometimes. But cocky? No. Not even close.”

Y/N gave a half-smile, still not quite convinced. Natasha narrowed her eyes slightly, something sharp and familiar behind them. That subtle tilt of the head. The look she gave when she’d already solved the puzzle but wanted to hear you say it anyway. “Is this about someone in particular… or are we pretending it’s a general observation?” She asked, casual but with precision. Y/N hesitated, too long. “Is this about Bucky?”

The colour bloomed immediately in Y/N’s cheeks, soft but undeniable. She looked away, fingers fussing with the roll of medical tape in her hands, suddenly too focused on wrapping her own wrist. Nat sighed, a faint smirk tugging at her lips. “Right. Thought so.”

Y/N didn’t answer, but her fingers stilled completely on the tape. That was all Natasha needed. Her expression shifted, the teasing edge fading into something more careful.

“Is this have anything to do with Lexi?”

Y/N finally looked up. Her voice was quiet, words slipping out with more honesty than she intended. “She’s always around him. Like, always. And I’m not trying to be that girl who gets weird about it. He's not my boyfriend, but…” She trailed off, letting the sentence dissolve under the weight of her thoughts. “It’s hard not to notice.”

Nat leaned back slightly, crossing her arms. “You’re not imagining it. I’ve seen it too.”

Y/N blinked. “You have?” Nat just nodded, her expression unreadable now. Calm but alert. “Lexi knows exactly what she’s doing.” Silence fell between them for a beat. The kind of silence where everything was understood but not everything had been said.

“What do you think?” Nat asked quietly.

Y/N looked down at her hands again. “I don’t know, Nat,” she whispered. “If Bucky wants Lexi… then it’ll happen, I guess. And I’m not going to get in the way of that.” Her voice broke just slightly at the end. Not enough to cry. Just enough to reveal the truth she kept buried. “I mean, why would he choose me?” Y/N added with a breathless laugh. It wasn’t bitter, just tired. Worn thin around the edges. She rubbed at her wrist absently, her voice growing quieter. “Lexi’s calm. Quiet. She says what she wants. Maybe Bucky needs someone like that.” She paused, eyes flickering toward the floor like she wasn’t sure if she wanted to hear herself say the rest. “I’m not like that. I’m... cocky. Too confident. Loud when I should be quiet. I speak before I think. I fight hard, and I love harder, and sometimes I wonder if it’s just…too much for someone like him.” Y/N exhaled. “Bucky needs someone calm…”

There was a long silence. The kind where it felt like the air shifted. Natasha’s expression didn’t soften like most people would. She didn’t reach for Y/N’s hand or offer some delicate reassurance. That wasn’t how she loved people. Instead, she straightened a little, voice low but solid. “Bucky Barnes doesn’t need someone like Lexi. He needs someone who makes him feel safe.” Y/N looked up, startled. “And for the record?” Nat continued, eyes locked on hers. “You’re not ‘too much,’ Y/N. You’re real. And real is rare around here.” Y/N swallowed, her throat suddenly tight. “And if he can’t see that,” Natasha said, rising to her feet and tossing the tape roll onto the table, “then that’s his mistake. Not yours.” She started to walk away but paused at the doorway, glancing back with a knowing look. “But between you and me? I think he already does.” Y/N gave a short, humourless laugh. “So, I’m not just being paranoid.”

“No. You’re just jealous” Nat said softly. “And I don’t like see you like this... Lexi’s… calculated. She plays sweet, but she watches people like she’s gathering intel. And I don’t like how close she’s getting to Bucky especially when you’re involved.” She said, intending something else.

Y/N let out a soft laugh and shook her head. “Nat… you’re exaggerating. Bucky doesn’t feel anything for me.”

Nat raised an eyebrow. “You sure about that?”

“Yeah.” Y/N gave her a tired smile. “He’s nice to me… at least he was.”

“So, you’re the only one with the gigantic crush?” Nat said, rushing to the gym’s exit.

The same afternoon, she walked into the lounge and froze. Lexi was perched on the arm of the couch close, too close to Bucky. He was saying something quietly, and Lexi laughed like he’d told the funniest joke in the world. Her hand brushed his forearm as she leaned in. Y/N felt something inside her snap. Nat, who had followed her in, raised an eyebrow. Lexi was still touching his arm. It did bother her. It bothered her more than it should’ve.

“Why she’s never at her desk?” Y/N said. Nat snorted. This wasn’t just about Lexi, this was about Bucky acting like Y/N had done something wrong. She waited until Lexi finally left the room swaying her hips before she approached.

“Hey,” Y/N said, standing in front of the couch.

Bucky blinked up at her, surprised. “Oh. Hey.”

Not a great start, Y/N thought.

“Got a minute?” He hesitated, then nodded. “Yeah.”

She sat beside him but not too close, not like Lexi. “You’ve been… distant.”

Bucky’s jaw tightened. “Just been busy.”

“With Lexi?” That surprised him. He turned to look at her.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Y/N shrugged, casual. “She’s always around you. Didn’t know you two were close.”

Bucky looked away. “She’s just easy to talk to.”

Ouch.

That landed sharper than he probably intended.

Y/N stared at him. “Am I not?”

He didn’t answer. And that silence said everything.

Next day 7 October

Lexi stood by the projection screen, flawlessly presenting the team’s plan. Her voice was calm, clipped, and deliberate. “Y/N, you’ll take Rear Sector 7,” Lexi said. “It’s the least active quadrant, but you should be comfortable there.”

Y/N blinked. “I usually lead recon...” Lexi smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes.

“Yes. But we had to adjust after… last time.”

Last time.

Yes, last time when Lexi rerouting the mission almost killing the avengers. “My system projected a 78% success rate with the alternate route. It was statistically right.” she said, defending herself. Lexi learn on her skin that 78% success rate it’s not 100% success rate.

Now, a quiet murmur rippled through the room. Natasha shot Y/N a look. Bucky frowned. Y/N crossed her arms, jaw tight. “That ambush happened because of you reroute.”

“But you save everyone, right?” Lexi replied, sliding her finger across her tablet. “Mistakes like that usually prompt a shift in responsibility.”

Tony leaned back in his chair, watching, eyebrows lifted. “Easy, Lexi. It was still your mistake, not Y/N’s.”

Lexi didn’t break stride. “I just misread the date. We all want what’s best for the team.”

Y/N locked eyes with her, voice low. “Don’t confuse ‘team’ with ‘agenda.’ Don’t worry Tony, I’ll take sector 7.”

The team got up toward the locker room, suiting themself. Y/N and Nat, on the bench were talking both strangely attentive. The mission went obviously well. 

Lexi wasn’t stupid. She saw the way Y/N looked at Bucky. The way her smile faltered every time she walked into a room and found her already there, chatting with him or touching his arm just a little too long. She saw the jealousy and she thrived on it. Bucky was sweet. Quiet. Easy to read once you knew where to look. He flinched at attention, softened at kindness, and was desperate for someone to choose him. And Lexi was more than willing to play the part . Especially if it meant knocking Y/N down a peg or two. So, she waited. She let the tension simmer. Let Bucky feel increasingly distant from the woman he clearly adored. Let the doubts she’d planted bloom into something painful. Then, after they got back from the mission where Y/N did took sector 7 and won, so she made her move.

She caught Bucky in the hallway, back from the mission, reorganising supply crates with quiet diligence. He’d pulled his hair back, a few strands still slipping loose, and his hoodie was slightly oversized. He looked more civilian than super soldier. He looked tired. Vulnerable. Perfect.

“Hey,” she said, with a soft smile playing with her tower’s pass, wrapped around her neck. “Can I tell you something? Kind of… personal?”

Bucky blinked, wary but polite. “Yeah. Sure.”

Lexi bit her lip, hesitating just enough to make it seem like a confession. “I overheard something. In the locker room, just before getting on the jet. Between Y/N and Nat.”

Bucky straightened, already tense. “What kind of something?”

Lexi lowered her voice. “Y/N was talking about you. About how she knew you had a thing for her, and how she was ‘letting you hang around because it was cute.’ Her words, not mine.” Lexi said, holding her hands up. 

Bucky went completely still. Lexi tilted her head, softening her voice. “She said you were sweet. But not really her type. That she liked guys who could keep up with her, you know? Guys who looked like they belonged on the front of magazines… like Steve” Bucky’s throat bobbed as he swallowed hard. “I mean first she almost dismiss an order and now talking bad about teammates behind their back?”

Bucky didn’t hear how Lexi was still rambling about Y/N not taking order, he just listened his heart crushed in his chest. “…it's not a good thing to do.”

Lexi stepped closer, hand brushing his arm like it was nothing. “I just thought you should know. Because you deserve better than being someone’s backup. You deserve someone who sees you.”

Bucky gave a tight and quiet nod, eyes on the floor. Lexi smiled to herself. And down the hallway around the corner, just out of sight Nat had stopped dead in her tracks, eyes wide, having heard everything.

Lexi’s Quarters - 3:07 a.m.

Dim light from her monitors cast eerie shadows across Lexi’s desk. Her fingers danced over encrypted systems, patching into a classified black-ops satellite. “She did actually take sector 7,” Lexi said looking at her screen. In her room, she felt like a real avenger free to do whatever she wanted. “Y/N outperformed expectations again,” she muttered, pulling up combat data. “Typical…” she took a sip of tea. “Let’s see how she performs when intel fails.”

With a few keystrokes Lexi re-categorised a mission lead. Y/N’s next op came alive on the screen and she inserted a false threat profile. The team would head in under-prepared, just enough to cause chaos. Not to kill… just to rattle. If Y/N stumbled, if Bucky stepped in, the narrative could twist in Lexi’s favor.

Pre Mission - 8 October

The briefing room buzzed with quiet conversation and the shuffle of data pads as the team filtered in. The lights were low, the air stale with too much recycled coffee and not enough sleep. Y/N sat near the center, her hands folded over the mission file she’d already read twice. Another mission, the day after. Weird.

Something was wrong. The threat profile on the screen didn’t match what she’d prepped for. The satellite data. The ground intel. The enemy strength ratio off, just slightly. Sloppy enough to be overlooked, smart enough to be dangerous. She frowned, flipping through the digital brief again. This wasn’t just an update. It had been restructured.

“Command recalibrated after a late intel sweep,” Lexi said from the corner, too casually. “Minor adjustments.”

Y/N’s eyes flicked up to her across the table, narrowing for half a second. But then she looked at Bucky, instinct, habit, hope. He was across the room, arms folded, gaze on the screen. Not on her. Not even a glance. No warning. No softness. Just distance. The silence rang louder than anything Lexi could’ve said. Y/N’s pulse picked up. Her lips parted, the beginnings of a protest catching in her throat. She could raise a flag. Call it out. Say something felt off. But then, her mind flashed back. “I’m cocky. Too confident.” and “Maybe Bucky needs someone like her.”

She blinked, her shoulders tightening subtly. Maybe this wasn’t sabotage. Maybe she was just reading too much into it. Paranoid. Overcompensating. Trying too hard to prove herself. She pressed her mouth shut and sat back in her seat. “Understood,” she said flatly.

Lexi glanced at her, just briefly. The smallest curl of satisfaction behind her eyes. Natasha, on the far end of the table, raised an eyebrow barely perceptible, but it was there. She caught Y/N’s eye for a flicker of a second. Saw something wasn’t right. The meeting moved on. Slide by slide. Order by order. But under the table, Y/N’s fingers dug hard into her palm. And in her chest, the doubt bloomed like a bruise.

The locker room hummed with quiet motion. The click of gear locking in place, the shuffle of tactical boots, the low murmur of voices down the corridor. Y/N adjusted the straps on her vest, jaw tight, eyes not quite focusing on her reflection in the narrow mirror above the bench. Natasha walked in, checking her sidearm with a swift, practiced flick.

She didn’t say anything at first, just leaned against the row of lockers beside Y/N, arms folded. Watching. “You’ve triple-checked your gear,” Nat said finally, voice low.

Y/N didn’t look at her. “Just being careful.”

“You’re always careful,” Nat replied. “But this?” She tilted her head. “This is different.”

Y/N paused, fingers tightening around the edge of her glove. “I’m fine.”

Nat was quiet for a second, then pushed off the locker and stepped closer. “No, you’re not.” Y/N hesitated, breathing shallow. “I saw your face in the briefing,” Natasha continued, voice softer now. “You knew something was off. Then you swallowed it.”

Y/N finally met her eyes. There was a flash of emotion there; doubt, frustration, something raw trying to surface but held back. “I didn’t have proof. And I’ve been wrong before.”

“When? Back in third grade? Since when that has stopped you?” Nat pressed gently.

Y/N looked away again, jaw clenched. “Bucky didn’t even look at me. He always looks at me when something’s off. Like he sees the mistake in the same moment i see it. Today…” She shook her head. “Maybe I am reading too much into it. Maybe Lexi just... knows better than me. Maybe she should be lead-”

Nat’s expression darkened. “Don’t finish that sentence.”

“But what if I’m not really cut out for this?” Y/N whispered, barely audible. “What if everything I’ve done, everything I’ve tried to be- what if it’s not enough for him? Or the team?”

Nat’s reply was firm. “This isn’t about being enough. This is about something not adding up, and you trusting your gut.” She paused, eyes narrowing slightly. “And I trust your gut.”

Y/N blinked hard and nodded once, but the weight didn’t leave her chest. Nat reached forward, rested a hand briefly on Y/N’s arm. “Stay sharp out there. And if anything feels wrong, anything, you say it.” Y/N looked up, something steadier flickering back into her. “Yeah.”

And as they walked out together, neither of them said it aloud, they both knew Lexi had just made herself a problem. The final checks were underway. Armor sealed. Comms tested. Weapons calibrated. The air was thick with adrenaline and quiet urgency, that strange kind of calm just before insertion.

Lexi hovered close to Bucky, too close, if anyone had cared to look. She was tightening the strap on her sidearm when she leaned toward him, her voice light, but loaded. “I’ll be here if you need me,” she said, fingers brushing her comms as if to underline the point. Bucky gave a short nod, distracted.

His eyes flicked across the room to where Y/N stood, silent and sharp-edged as she checked her loadout. No banter. No quick-witted comments. No offhand remarks about his over-polished knife or Sam’s endless gum chewing. Just… quiet. Too quiet. Something tugged at him.

Lexi followed his line of sight and gave a little tilt of her head. Then, in a low voice meant only for him, she added, “See how Y/N’s like a well-trained puppy now? Isn’t it better without her constantly snapping at me?”

Bucky’s brows furrowed immediately. His head turned slightly in her direction, the shift in his expression subtle, but clear discomfort. Disapproval. He opened his mouth, about to say something.

“Buck!” Steve’s voice rang out from across the hangar. “C’mon, we need to go!” Bucky glanced toward him, then back at Lexi. Steve paused just a beat, eyes cutting toward the two of them. “Lexi,” he said, sharp now. “No mistakes this time.”

Lexi stiffened, lips pressing into a flat line. “Copy that.”

Bucky stepped back, his gaze lingering on her for a second longer before he turned and walked toward the Quinjet. Y/N was already up the ramp, silent but alert, her jaw tight as she checked the interior lockers. She didn’t look at him as he passed. But Bucky did. And for the first time in days, he really saw her. The storm hadn’t hit yet. But it was coming.

The mission had gone south fast. Too fast. Y/N crouched behind the wreckage of a flipped transport, her breathing ragged, heart hammering against her ribs. Bullet casings rang like bells around her, and the sky overhead churned a cold, steel gray. She’d known it the second they landed. The silence wasn’t right. The heat signatures were too consistent, the response time too fast.

Hydra wasn’t just here. They were ready.

“This isn’t recon,” she muttered under her breath. “It’s a setup.” Her fingers flew across the small holo-console clipped to her forearm. Incoming data... scrubbed. Rewritten. Artificially trimmed. Then it hit her. This wasn’t an intelligence failure. It was manipulated intel. Her blood ran cold. “Lexi,” she growled into the comms, slipping between broken cover. “We need extraction. NOW!” There was a long pause. Too long. “LEXI!” Y/N yelled.

Then Lexi’s voice came through, detached and cool. “I’ll reroute available units… standby.”

“Standby?” Y/N snapped. “We’re boxed in with no high ground and zero exit coverage-” An explosion cut her off. The blast was close. Bucky didn’t hesitate. He moved like instinct, like muscle memory. Threw himself in front of her, his vibranium arm raised just in time as a grenade burst nearby. Shrapnel tore through the air. His body caught most of it. “Bucky!” she screamed, catching him as he staggered.

Blood stained the edge of his gear. Not fatal, since he was a super soldier, but bad. They hit the dirt together behind a concrete slab. Y/N pulled his arm around her shoulder, dragging him to better cover. Her hands were slick, her breath coming fast but her mind was clear. And something snapped. Forget caution. Forget self-doubt. Forget whatever fake modesty she’d wrapped herself in since the briefing. Her voice cracked through the comms, sharp and commanding.

“This is Y/N. Mission parameters are compromised. Intel is fabricated. We walked into an ambush. HYDRA units are embedded and waiting. This was never a recon sweep. This was staged.” She didn’t care how it sounded. She didn’t care if she was wrong. She wasn’t. She looked down at Bucky, who was clutching her side, but almost conscious. He was watching her.

Y/N switched frequencies. “Red? This is Widow-Two. Confirming op breach. Requesting immediate extraction and medical for Sergeant Barnes. Repeat. Hostiles overwhelming. Mission integrity compromised.”

For a moment, silence. Then Natasha’s voice came in, crisp and fierce. “Widow-One here. Copy that, Widow-Two. We’re en route. Hold position.” Y/N’s lips pressed into a hard line. And this time, she wasn’t staying silent.

Back at compound

The compound was too quiet.

The storm still lived in Y/N’s chest, even after the Quinjet had landed, even after the medics had rushed Bucky to the infirmary, even after Natasha gave her a nod that said I’ve got him, a nod that let Y/N move. Now, her boots echoed down the corridor like warning shots. She spotted Lexi in the common room. Calm. Alone. Tea in hand, like she hadn’t just nearly gotten them killed. Y/N didn’t hesitate. She stormed across the floor, anger simmering just beneath her skin. Her voice cracked like a whip. “You doctored the data.”

Lexi turned her head slowly, utterly unfazed. She took a small sip of tea, one eyebrow raised. “Or maybe the enemy just got smarter. That happens sometimes.”

Y/N stepped closer, fists clenched at her sides. “You wanted me to fail.” Her voice wasn’t yelling. It was lower, more dangerous. Raw. “You sent us in blind. You knew we’d walk into a trap. You knew, and you did it anyway. You risked everyone just to-what? Make me look incompetent?”

Lexi stood, letting her cup clink gently against the saucer. She tilted her head, eyes cool and amused. “No one made Bucky jump in front of that grenade. He chose to protect you. He bled for you.” Y/N’s face went still.

Lexi stepped closer now, her voice softening, as if it was suddenly a private confession. “Just think how deep that guilt will run if you keep letting him get hurt.” Y/N blinked, stunned still not by fear, but by the sheer calculated cruelty in Lexi’s words.

Lexi smiled wider, slow and sharp. “Now tell me…” she whispered, “who’s really the dangerous one here?” Y/N’s body stiffened like a pulled wire.

For a second, the room felt like it might explode from the pressure between them. “You’re manipulating mission data,” Y/N said through gritted teeth. “That’s not dangerous, Lexi. That’s treason.”

Lexi’s mask didn’t crack, but her eyes darkened. “Careful. Big words make you sound hysterical.” Y/N took a slow breath, forcing herself not to swing. Not here. Not yet. “You think no one will believe me?” She asked, voice icy now. “You think I don’t have people watching? Natasha was listening the second things went off-plan. She’s already running your logs.”

Lexi’s smile faltered only slightly, but Y/N saw it. “And Bucky?” Y/N added, stepping forward now, refusing to flinch. “He might not have seen it before. But he will now.” Lexi tried to recover her smirk. “You think he’ll choose you after this? After you froze in that briefing room?

After I held the team together while you sat there second-guessing yourself?” Y/N’s eyes flared. “I froze because I was trying to be decent. Because I was trying not to turn this place into a battleground over ego. But make no mistake, Lexi if you try to rewrite the truth again, you will see exactly how dangerous I can be.” They stood in silence, tension electric.

Late Night

Lexi leaned against the cold steel corridor outside the lower weapons vault, posture relaxed, one foot crossed over the other like she had all the time in the world. Her breath fogged faintly in the chill. Timing was everything. And sure enough, right on cue, Bucky emerged. His jacket was half-zipped, fingers still tugging at the collar as he stepped through the security lock. His cheeks were pink from the cold. Or maybe something else.

Lexi smiled. “Cleared for duty?” Lexi asked, her voice light with a practiced kind of concern.

Bucky glanced at her briefly. “Yeah. Just a couple cracked ribs left to deal with.”

Lexi gave a low whistle and pushed off the wall, falling into step beside him. “Always playing the hero. You know, most people use recovery time to, I don’t know, recover.” He didn’t laugh. “I saw your mission report,” she said lightly, pushing off the wall like it was coincidence. “You really threw yourself into the fire for Y/N. Again.”

Bucky barely paused, but she noticed the slight twitch in his jaw. He tried to walk past. “She’s my teammate,” he said, low and short.

“Of course,” Lexi agreed quickly, falling into step beside him. “She’s smart. Bold. Beautiful. She knows exactly how to pull people in.” That made him slow. Just enough.

Bucky’s eyes flicked to her. “What are you trying to say?” Lexi tilted her head, kept her tone light, sympathetic. She clasped her hands behind her back like she was sharing something personal, something painful. 

“I just think… maybe you should ask yourself what she gets out of it,” she said softly. “You’re loyal. You’re kind. You’re protective. You’re…” Her voice dipped, almost reverent. “Safe.”

Bucky’s brow furrowed. “And?”

Lexi gave a little shrug. “She needs someone like that until she doesn’t anymore. Until the mission shifts. Until the stakes change. Until someone more ‘super’ walks through the door and catches her eye.”

Bucky looked away. He shouldn’t have. But he did.

Lexi caught it. Pressed in. “She doesn’t talk about you when you’re not around, you know. Not really. Not like she talks about Steve, or Sam, or even Natasha. You ever notice that?” Bucky didn’t answer. His mouth had gone tight. “She doesn’t linger,” Lexi said, almost gently now. “Doesn’t stay. Doesn’t see you. Not really. Not when you’re not bleeding for her.” There was a long pause. Her words echoed quietly in the sterile hallway, and Bucky’s silence only made them heavier. “You deserve more than that,” Lexi added finally, voice a little lower. “You deserve someone who sees you. Chooses you. Not just when it’s convenient. Not just when they’re scared.” She looked away for a beat, as if baring something vulnerable in herself.

“I see you that way.”

The words hung in the air between them like a stone dropped in still water. Bucky exhaled through his nose. His hands flexed at his sides. He didn’t look at her. Didn’t look away either. Lexi didn’t expect him to respond. That wasn’t how this worked. It just had to sit there. Long enough to grow roots. And in the silence that followed small, poisonous things started to bloom.

End of the week around 10/11 October

Bucky didn’t say anything to anyone for the rest of the week. He trained until his muscles burned. Pushed himself harder than he had in weeks. Every punch he landed on the bag echoed Lexi’s words in his head. 

“She said you were sweet. But not really her type.” or “Letting you hang around because it was cute.”

He’d thought… God, he’d hoped.

All those late-night conversations. Her laughter when he said something sarcastic under his breath. She did talk to me outside work. Right? He almost didn’t remember the last time she had a conversation with Y/N, but the way she leaned into his side on the jet, falling asleep like she trusted him.

Had it all been pity?

Had he misread everything?

The more he thought about it, the more everything seemed to warp. Every kindness from Y/N felt like a performance in hindsight. Every compliment a setup for a punchline he’d never seen coming. By the time he got back to his room, his chest ached with something sharp and ugly. He stopped showing up to movie night. He skipped breakfast. He didn’t text her back. Y/N noticed. The messages started off light.

Y/N: You okay? Y/N: Haven’t seen you lately. Did you get kidnapped or just hiding from me? Y/N: Bucky, seriously. What’s going on?

He left them unread. Because what if Lexi was right? What if Y/N was really laughing about him behind his back with Nat? What if everything she did was just to make him feel wanted without ever meaning it? He couldn’t face her. Not when he felt this raw. This stupid. He went silent. Detached.

He even started spending more time near Lexi, not because he wanted to, but because she was safe. Predictable. She didn’t make him feel the way Y/N did. And right now, that felt like protection. The rest of the team noticed. Steve tried to get him to open up. Sam gave him space. Nat watched him with eyes sharp as razors, saying nothing yet but waiting. Watching.

Y/N, meanwhile, was unravelling. He could hear her outside his door one night. The quiet sound of her voice. The hesitation. “Bucky… please talk to me. If I did something wrong… just tell me. I’ll fix it.” He sat with his back to the door, hands in his hair, breath shallow. He wanted to open it. He ached to. But Lexi’s words echoed again. “You’re not her type.” So he stayed silent. And Y/N walked away heart bruised, fists clenched not knowing that Bucky Barnes was slowly breaking in the room behind her. If she didn’t like him, why she was begging him to talk to her? Was it a cruel joke? Someone was lying? He remained on the floor.

A couple of day later - 13 October

Lexi found Bucky in the corner of the file room, flipping through old case logs, face drawn in quiet thought. She slid beside him with practised ease, placing a sealed report gently on the shelf. No reason to be here, except him.

“You read her latest mission debrief?” She asked, casually. Bucky nodded. “Yeah. She held her ground.”

Lexi tilted her head. “Held it. Took credit. That’s what she does.”

He didn’t respond, but his grip tightened slightly on the folder. “She’s incredible, I’ll give her that.” Lexi continued. “But she’s polished. Political. She knows exactly how to use what she’s got. Even you.”

Bucky’s brows knit together. “Y/N doesn’t use people.”

Lexi stepped closer, her voice soft. “Then why does she always find herself at the center of everything? Every mission. Every spotlight.”

“You’re saying she-”

“I’m saying,” Lexi interrupted gently, “she’s smart enough to notice. And know it makes you loyal. Protective. Maybe even a little… blinded.” Bucky’s expression fell, subtle and wounded. Her voice dropping to a whisper. “You think she could be with someone like you? Someone who’s broken, tired, carries scars she’s never had to face?”

The silence hung like fog. “She needs someone perfect. Someone the press loves. Someone safe to love in public.” She straightened slowly. “But you’re not public, are you, Bucky? You’re shadow. The Winter Soldier. Steel. Weight. That’s not a life she wants.” Bucky stared at the file, at Y/N’s bold signature on the mission report, his heart aching. “She’s only using you during mission. You should take credit for them, not her.”

Couple of hours after 

Y/N stood now near the window in the file room, flipping through mission files. Sunlight streaming across her brow. She glanced across the room, instinctively searching for a particular figure in grey. Bucky, still there at the far table with arms folded, deep in conversation with Lexi. They weren’t close, physically. But Lexi leaned in like she belonged, and Bucky didn’t shift away. Y/N blinked. Later, Bucky exited the file room without his usual nod. No shared smirk. No “stay safe.” Just silent focus.

Y/N pulled him aside, fingers brushing his wrist making him stop. “Hey, Bucky,” she said quietly. “You good?”

He hesitated. “Fine.”

“You haven’t spoken to me since…” God she didn’t even remember since when. “… after saving me from that bomb. And… yesterday, you gave Lexi a full smile. I’ve only ever seen you give that to dogs or Sam when he brings you coffee.” She tried to joke.

Bucky looked down, sheepish. “It’s nothing.”

But Y/N pressed, voice softer now. “Did I do something?”

He swallowed, jaw tightening. “No. You’re… great. You always are.”

That was worse than silence. Y/N stepped back, heart twisting. “Then why do you look at me like I’m not real any more?”

He didn’t answer, and proceed getting out the file room. And somewhere down the hall, Lexi watched.

Bucky’s Quarters - Same night.

The room was quiet, bathed in amber glow from a single lamp. Bucky sat on the edge of his bed, headphones nestled over his ears. The music playing was soft. A blend of vintage jazz and ambient hums that Lexi had recommended. Soothing, she’d called it. A nightly ritual, just for him. Underneath the saxophones and sleepy rhythms, buried below frequencies too subtle for conscious thought, was her voice coded, layered, undetectable. Whispered affirmations laced with distrust.

Y/N takes advantage of you… She doesn’t see you… She belongs to the world, never to you… Trust is dangerous when it’s given to someone like her…

Bucky’s eyes closed, the tension in his shoulders softening. He never remembered falling asleep during the playlist, but he always woke feeling… detached. Clouded. A little colder toward Y/N each morning.

Morning - 14 October

Bucky woke abruptly, sweat slicked across his neck, his heart racing. He couldn’t remember what the dream was, but Y/N’s name was tangled in it. Not her face just flashes, feelings, doubt. He reached for the headphones still on his pillow. The music was still playing softly. Familiar notes. Comforting. But lately, it felt hollow. Like something behind the melody was speaking through it. Across the room, the mirror reflected dark circles under his eyes. He hadn’t been sleeping well. Not since Lexi started curating his “mental wellness routine.”

Training Room - Hours Later

During sparring, Y/N reached out to help Bucky from the mat after a slip but he flinched. Pulled back too fast, like her touch stung. Everyone noticed.

“Sorry,” he muttered, avoiding her gaze.

She frowned. “You okay?” He nodded once. But inside, something twisted.

She’s controlling the narrative. She makes you feel small. She smiles when you’re broken. She’ll never choose you. Not really.

The whispers were always underneath the surface now, whispering before he could form thoughts. Lexi’s voice buried in the soundtrack replayed in his memory at odd moments before decisions, during arguments, after silence. He didn’t even realize he was humming one of her songs out loud. That night, Lexi watched a neural pattern chart dance across her screen, confirming subtle changes in Bucky’s behavior: reduced trust, heightened emotional withdrawal, selective memory fragmentation. She kept trace of it like a diary. She smiled faintly.

“Not mind control,” she whispered. “Just better instincts.”ù

She cued up the next playlist for tomorrow night. Just enough suggestion to nudge him toward confrontation. Toward suspicion. Toward her.

The next day, in the interrogation room, Y/N was reviewing surveillance footage in the dim file room, tracking a recent Hydra breach. Her fingers danced over controls, the glow lighting her face. The door slid open sharply.

Bucky stepped inside, arms folded, eyes darker than usual not icy, just fogged. Distant. “You intercepted the intel on Sector Delta before I could access it,” he said. Flat.

Y/N looked up, surprised. “Because Lexi said it was corrupted. I was trying to cross-reference-”

“You always have an explanation,” he cut in. “Always one step ahead.”

She stood slowly. “Bucky, what is this?” He took a slow breath, like he was reciting something he wasn’t sure he believed. “I don’t think I can trust you anymore.” The words fell like glass.

Y/N blinked. “You’re serious?”

“Too many things don’t add up. Timing. Positions. Intel flow.” He paused. “Lexi thinks-”

“There it is,” Y/N said, voice trembling but sharp. “Lexi thinks. And now you do.”

Bucky hesitated, his fingers twitching like his whole body was arguing with itself. “You saved me on mission nearly a week ago,” Y/N whispered. “You held my hand during recovery last year when i got severely hit. That was real.”

“She sees more in me,” Bucky muttered. “She believes I’m more than what you think.” Y/N’s expression cracked, hurt pouring through.

“Then she brainwashed you better than Hydra ever did.” She said regretting almost immediately. Bucky looked away. Her words definitely broke him. Bucky didn’t stay. He looked away and walked away. Y/N opened her mouth, heart thudding in her throat. Something rose inside her raw, quiet, desperate. A truth she’d never let herself say aloud until that moment.

“…maybe she sees you,” she whispered, barely audible. Bucky didn’t hear. “…but I love you.” Her voice cracked on the last word. But he was already too far.

Some days after - 20 October

‘Then she brainwashed you better than Hydra ever did.’ That phrase still vivid in his mind.

Bucky didn’t mean for it to happen. One evening, while Y/N was wandering into the common room, looking for her phone charger Bucky was there. And so was Lexi. They stood near the window, just out of the main light, talking in hushed tones. Lexi’s laugh drifted out first soft, calculated, just a little too breathy. Her shoulder touched his arm. Standing there like two lovers. Y/N paused near the doorway, half-shielded by the wall.

Lexi reached out, fingers brushing Bucky’s arm. “You know,” she said, voice low and intimate, “you’re not as unreadable as you think.” Bucky gave a quiet chuckle, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Is that so?”

“Uh-uh.” She stepped closer, too close. They now stood one in front of the other. Bucky looked down at her face.

NO PLEASE DON’T KISS HER, Y/N though.

“I notice things. Like how you always stay just a little distant… except around certain people.” Lexi briefly looked down, at the floor. Then she looked up again. Bucky’s expression shifted, guarded. Lexi took that as permission. “You don’t have to keep pretending,” she said, tilting her head slightly. “If you’re looking for something real… I’m right here.”

Y/N’s heart thudded painfully in her chest. Lexi brushing her hand against his. Her offering to grab him coffee during breakfast. Walking with him to the gym, laughing at his dry sarcasm like it was her favourite sound in the world. All little steps that got Bucky slowly attached to Lexi. All little steps that brought them that night, near the window. He didn’t kiss her at first. He didn’t even want to. But she was there. Steady. Warm. Always saying exactly what he needed to hear.

“You deserve someone who really sees you. You don’t need to chase after someone who’ll never choose you.” So when she kissed him, soft lips and tentative fingers curling at the collar of his hoodie he didn’t pull away. Because Y/N hadn’t knocked on his door in days. Because her texts had stopped. Because maybe he was just a joke to her. 

Y/N saw their first kiss from across the hall. She froze, hidden just enough to watch Lexi press a kiss to Bucky’s lips, linger at his jaw like she belonged there. Bucky closed his eyes. He just stood there near that window, letting it happen. He let Lexi kiss him again. And again. He was so tall, so she stood on his tip. Hands grabbing his hoodie. Y/N left before they could see her. Before seeing Bucky's hands stayed still, along his body. Not on Lexi's hips. Y/N's hands were shaking. 

“She kissed her, Nat,” Y/N cried that night in Natasha’s arms. “Bucky let Lexi kiss him.”

“What do you mean ‘let her kiss him’?” Natasha asked, her voice low and sharp. Y/N buried her face deeper into Natasha’s shoulder, her voice cracking. “He didn’t stop her. He just… stood there.”

Natasha’s jaw tightened. Never, she saw Y/N like that. “Did he kiss her back?”

“I don’t know,” Y/N whispered. “I couldn’t watch any more.” There was a pause heavy, aching. “I feel so stupid,” Y/N whispered.

“No,” Natasha said firmly. “You’re not stupid. You love him. That’s not a mistake.” Natasha held Y/N until her sobs softened into silence. Her thumb brushed gently over Y/N’s shoulder, but her eyes were hard, focused on something far away. "I told him that she rewrote him better than Hydra ever did.” She remember crying. “Nat, do you realise how he must have felt in that moment?” Nat swore to herself, right then and there, she was going to get to the bottom of this.

27 October

A week after, the team found out about their first kiss. Bucky and Lexi had been seen together again, the team's reactions came quickly.

Steve was the first to say something, cornering Bucky in the hallway. “Tell me this isn’t serious,” he said, voice low but laced with disappointment.

In the common room, Sam muttered, “Lexi? Really...” Under his breath as the two walked in.

Tony just shook his head when he passed them, not saying a word but the silence said plenty. Nat silently judging.

Now the clink of a spoon against a ceramic mug was the loudest sound in the kitchen that morning. Sunlight poured through the floor-to-ceiling windows, making everything look deceptively peaceful. Y/N was perched on a stool at the island, nursing a coffee that hadn’t quite kicked in yet.

Tony was poking at a croissant like it had personally insulted him, while Sam and Steve sat across from each other in the usual competitive silence that happened when both were pretending not to care who finished breakfast first. Then there was Bucky. He was sitting at the counter beside Steve, hunched over a plate stacked high with eggs, bacon, and toast, moving with soldier-like precision. His metal hand made a soft clunk each time it tapped the counter top, but no one mentioned it.

They never did. Y/N tried not to glance at him. She really did. Nat, beside her was preparing to see Lexi entering. The night before, was the first she actually spent in the tower with Bucky.

And there she is. Dressed in Bucky’s Henley like it was a trophy, walked into the kitchen like she owned it. Nothing happened between them, but Y/N couldn't be sure of this and she was sure Lexi was just acting like something did happened. Her expression was all casual confidence and just a touch of morning superiority. The oversized shirt slipped off one shoulder just enough to be calculated. Her hair was still damp from the shower.

Bucky’s shower, maybe?

Y/N’s stomach turned at the thought.

“Hi,” she said breezily, not bothering to hide the smug little smile she tossed at Bucky. Y/N forced a polite smile. She walked over to the island, standing behind Bucky and leaning her arm casually on his shoulder. He didn’t look at her, just kept chewing. The girl wrinkled her nose. “You eat like… that every morning?”

Everyone looked up. “Like what?” Bucky asked, finally glancing at her.

She waved vaguely at his plate. “Just… all that grease and protein? No fruit? No carbs that aren’t… what is that? White toast? God. Don’t you ever detox?”

Sam tried very hard not to choke onto his orange juice. Natasha raised an eyebrow and took a sip of her black coffee, clearly not enjoying the scene. Bucky slowly lowered his fork and turned to the girl. His voice was flat. “I was hungry...”

“Well, sure,” she said with a small laugh. “I just figured you’d be more… I don’t know. Mindful?”

Y/N couldn’t stop the eyebrow that arched before she looked back down at her mug.

“Mindful?” Bucky repeated.

The girl nodded like she was being helpful. “Yeah. You know. Of your body. What you put into it. I mean… you’re still fit clearly, but like… your arteries must be begging for mercy.”

Steve intervened first. “He’s got a metabolism you wouldn’t believe,” he said smoothly, giving Bucky a subtle nudge under the table.

Sam, always a master of making things worse, grinned. “Yeah, don’t worry, sweetheart. The guy burns calories just by brooding.”

“Well, we’re starting a diet soon together. Right love?” Lexi said. Y/N swore she said love looking at her. No one talked. “Jeez. Was it something I said?” Y/N set down her mug. Her heart beat a little too loud in her ears, but she spoke anyway. Quiet, cool, and clear. “Actually, yeah.”

Lexi blinked. “Sorry?”

“You said something,” Y/N continued, voice calm but knife-sharp. “You walked in here like you belonged, like you earned something. But all I see is a guest trying too hard to rearrange furniture in someone else’s house.”

The room went still. Lexi tilted her head, but the gleam in her eye sharpened. “Well, maybe someone needs to.”

Bucky still hadn’t said a word. But he was looking at Y/N now. Not past her. Not through her. At her. Like maybe, for the first time in weeks. Meanwhile, Nat was watching. And she was done staying quiet. She hadn’t liked Lexi from the start. There was something too smooth about her. Too polished. Like someone always performing. And Nat didn’t miss much. She remembered the day she’d overheard Lexi whispering to Bucky, spinning her little story about Y/N mocking him.

At the time, she hadn’t wanted to believe Bucky would fall for it. But now… Now she saw the way he avoided Y/N like she was radioactive. The way Y/N’s bright spark had dulled to something brittle. The way Lexi always looked smug around both of them, like a cat who’d eaten the canary. It was all wrong. And the diet? Y/N could never.

29 October

The breakfast incident had become just a blip in memory. A forgotten detail, but now Lexi was pushing every morning green smoothies and lean protein on Bucky like it was her mission, smiling too sweetly while casually shaming the man who used to eat cheeseburgers on rooftops with Y/N after long missions.

Everyone began to notice that Y/N and Bucky were almost never parried for mission. If Bucky had a mission in Europe, Y/N remain home. When Y/N was sent to Russia, clearly expecting Bucky on the jet, she then faced Sam clearly confused as her.

That morning, Y/N got a text from Lexi. Cool and casual, just coordinates and the message.

“Intel said you’d want to handle this one yourself. Good luck 😉”

Y/N didn’t question it, in the beginning. It wasn’t unusual from Lexi, sending personal text for the mission. She should have. The building was supposed to be an empty safe house for recon.

What it was? A trap.

Four armed men. Two snipers. One with tech strong enough to scramble her comms for nearly forty minutes. But Y/N was still Y/N. Even bleeding, even outnumbered, she moved like a ghost and struck like lightning.

When she walked back into the Tower nearly two hours later, her knuckles were raw, her uniform torn, and there was a dried blood at the corner of her mouth. She didn’t say a word. Just walked through the lobby with that same terrifying calm that came before a storm. The security cameras caught the moment.

She didn’t flinch, didn’t slow down. But Lexi saw it first. She was seated in the common room, on the couch, with her arm linked with Bucky’s one. She was laughing at something Tony had said, until she looked up and caught sight of Y/N entering. Her smile slipped. Just for a second. Just a flicker of fear in her eyes.

And Bucky saw that too. His body tensed, not really knowing why. He turned slowly, watching Y/N as she passed by, her eyes scanning the room landing on Lexi for a single, ice-cold second before continuing toward the medical bay. No reaction. No words. Just that look.

And Lexi… She paled. Not enough to draw attention from the others. Not enough to be obvious. But enough. Because she realised something in that moment. Y/N knew. And this time? She wouldn’t just let it go.

You didn’t know how long you lay there. You didn’t care.

His body was still pressed to yours, skin warm, breath slow, steady now. At some point, you shifted slightly, your head tucked against his shoulder, one of his arms snug around your waist. The other lay across your back, vibranium fingers resting gently at your spine like he was afraid to let go—even in sleep.

Or whatever this was.

You didn’t know if he was fully asleep. You weren’t sure if you were, either.

You just… existed. Together.

And it was enough.

The room was dark save for the weak amber glow of an old light strip still clinging to life in the hallway. The silence wasn’t awkward. It was earned. The kind of silence that came only after something had cracked open.

Every so often, you’d shift, and his arms would tighten around you instinctively. Protective. Grounded. Like he still needed to know you were real.

You ran your fingers gently along the nape of his neck, brushing through his hair, and whispered soft things you didn’t need him to remember—just things you needed him to feel.

“I’m still here,” you breathed.

And he exhaled, long and low, his face pressing into your shoulder.

You didn’t know where your body ended and his began.

All you knew was that you were wrapped in each other, and that for the first time in what must’ve been years… he slept without fear.

────────────────────────

The soft blue wash of morning light filtered through the cracked windows as you slowly began to dress.

Your limbs moved on instinct, your body still humming with the aftermath of last night—not just the sex, but everything that came with it. The breaking. The rebuilding. The silence that wasn’t empty anymore.

His gaze was heavy—not hungry like before, but quiet, almost forlorn. Like every inch you put between you and the mattress carved a little more out of him.

You paused to pull your jeans up over your hips and glanced at him, and he was still watching.

He sat on the edge of the mattress, jeans tugged back into place but still shirtless, elbows resting on his thighs, fingers laced. He watched you like you were already gone.

You paused, gave him a soft look. “Hey.”

His eyes flicked up.

“You okay?”

He didn’t answer right away.

Just gave the smallest nod. A lie, but not one you’d call out.

You pulled your shirt over your head, not bothering to fix the buttons just yet. Bucky finally moved, reaching slowly for his own shirt, tugging it down over his chest. He moved like someone whose body felt heavier today. You didn’t push. You let the silence wrap around the both of you again.

Then—voices.

Faint, at first. Outside.

You stood instinctively, moving toward the warehouse’s main entrance, brushing your fingers against Bucky’s shoulder as you passed—just a soft press. “Be right back.”

He looked like he wanted to say something.

But he didn’t.

────────────────────────

You stepped out into the chill, pulling your shirt tighter around your body, still half-buttoned from earlier. The wind carried the rustle of boots, the clink of gear, and quiet voices—tones you recognized even before you saw the faces.

Steve.

Sam.

And not just them.

Clint Barton stood to one side, squinting against the light like he hadn't slept. Wanda lingered near him, arms crossed, her posture at ease but eyes sharp as ever. And then there was a man you didn’t recognize—nervous, fidgeting, trying too hard not to.

“Oh, great,” you said, loud enough to carry. “I thought you were retired.”

Clint grinned. “I was. Then the world wouldn’t stop spinning without me.”

You snorted.

The stranger stepped forward next, hand extended. “Hi! Uh—Scott. Scott Lang. Ant-Man.”

You blinked. “Ant… what?”

“Ant-Man,” he said again, more sheepish this time. “It’s fine, you probably haven’t—uh, it’s complicated.”

You gave a small, puzzled smile, still reaching to shake his hand as you introduced himself.

Scott blinked, “Attorney like lawyer attorney.*

You smiled faintly. “Yeah.”

Scott gave an exaggerated sigh of relief. “Oh thank god. Do you… have a card or something? I have a feeling I’m gonna need legal help after this.”

Your eyebrows lifted, but you reached into your bag and handed him one anyway.

“I like you already,” he added, tucking it into his pocket with too much care.

“Try not to get arrested, then.”

He gave a nervous laugh. “No promises.”

Steve had been watching from a few steps away. Now he moved toward you, expression tight with everything he couldn’t say. He looked tired in a way you hadn’t seen before—like the kind of tired that lived behind his eyes.

“Thanks for looking after him,” he said quietly.

You nodded. “Of course.”

But he just stood there, gaze lingering, and suddenly he looked younger somehow—less like Captain America, and more like the boy from Brooklyn you’d first met years ago.

Without thinking, you stepped forward, arms wrapping around his middle. He held you tight, his chin resting briefly against your hair.

“You sure you’re okay?” you asked, voice muffled in his jacket.

“No,” he said simply. “But I’ve got to be.”

You pulled back slowly, pressed a quick kiss to his cheek.

“Be careful, Steve. Please.”

“I always try,” he said, too lightly. Then, more sincerely, “You should go back to New York. Before this gets worse.”

Behind you, Sam appeared with his usual dry grin, clapping you on the back.

Behind you, there was a pause.

Sam wrapped an arm around your shoulders, warm and easy. “Glad to see he didn't burn the place down.”

“Really missed your charming optimism, Sam,” you said dryly.

“I’m gonna pretend that’s not sarcasm.”

“You do that.”

And then you felt it.

Eyes.

You turned—

And there he was.

Bucky stood in the doorway, fully dressed, stiff in the shoulders like he was bracing for impact. His jaw was tight, his arms stiff at his sides, as if even existing around other people took work.

But it was his eyes that struck you.

Not blank. Not lost.

Just… guarded. And something else. Something small and aching curled behind them.

The light hit him in that strange, soft way—dust curling through it like a veil between you. Like last night had been a hallucination, and now he was slowly retreating back into whatever shadows he’d crawled out of.

You stepped toward him, slow, like approaching a wounded animal. For a breath, you thought he might back away.

But he didn’t.

You stopped just short of touching, voice quiet. “I guess this is it.”

He didn’t answer.

His eyes searched yours with something close to panic—not sharp, not loud. Just quiet, restrained apprehension. Like his body knew you were leaving before his mind caught up.

And then—you moved.

Without hesitation, you stepped in and wrapped your arms around his neck.

No preface. No invitation.

Just the steady press of your cheek against his shoulder, your heartbeat open against his chest.

He froze.

Just for a second.

And then—he folded around you.

One arm slid around your waist, the other lifting to the back of your neck, his palm splayed flat against your hair. He didn’t tremble. He didn’t pull back.

He held you.

Not loosely. Not politely.

Fully. Fiercely.

As if his body knew how to stay when his mind didn’t.

Sam made a low sound, almost a whistle. “Well… ain't that something.”

Steve stood a step back, face drawn tight, watching—his eyes didn’t narrow, but they didn’t blink either.

You pulled back slowly, just enough to look up at Bucky.

“You’ll be okay,” you whispered.

Still, no words.

But his arms stayed locked around your waist.

You shifted, tried to step back.

And that’s when he grabbed you.

His arms tightened—one quick, almost frantic pulse—and before you could guess what was happening, his hand came to your jaw and he kissed you.

Right there.

In front of everyone.

You let out a small, stunned sound against his mouth, hands flattening against his chest—caught between the instinct to pull him closer and the need to stop him.

The kiss wasn’t gentle.

It was desperate.

Like he was pouring every last thing he didn’t know how to say into you. Like if he could just press hard enough, stay close enough, it might change what came next.

Eventually, you had to break it.

You pulled back, breath caught in your throat, your cheeks burning.

He looked down at you, eyes heavy and sad, lips slightly parted like he’d already regretted it—but wouldn’t take it back.

You stared at him, then past him.

And couldn’t meet Steve’s eyes.

You just… turned.

And walked away.

Every step felt like your skin didn’t fit right anymore. Like something inside you was fraying.

Because Bucky’s need wasn’t about affection. It wasn’t even about you, not really.

It was survival.

And now it sat heavy in your chest—because whatever happened last night, however real it had felt in the dark, it was suddenly too complicated in the light.

And you couldn’t help but feel like you’d taken something he wasn’t ready to give.

────────────────────────

By the time you made it back to Hell’s Kitchen, the sun had long since dipped behind the rooftops, and the office was its usual brand of organized chaos—papers stacked on every surface, the smell of burnt coffee lingering in the air, and four overworked friends pretending they weren’t a little bit in love with the mess.

You were leaning against the edge of the desk, arms crossed, scanning the top page of a police report with your glasses pushed up on your head. Foggy was pacing near the window, chewing on the cap of a pen like it owed him money. Matt sat in his chair, fingers steepled, listening as Karen flipped through another file.

“He’s claiming excessive force,” Karen said, voice even but skeptical. “But the responding officer was a foot shorter and eighty pounds lighter.”

“So,” you said, arching a brow, “a minor traffic violation turns into a broken nose and four cracked ribs, and that’s the story we’re running with?”

Matt gave a tiny shake of his head. “There’s video. Grainy, but enough to show the officer wasn’t the aggressor.”

Foggy stopped pacing, waving the pen. “Which means we either settle or poke holes in the narrative until someone blinks.”

You leaned over to grab another file, muttering, “God forbid we ever have a client who tells the truth.”

Karen snorted. “What fun would that be?”

“See, that’s why she gets paid the big bucks,” Foggy said, raising his coffee in salute. “Our legal assassin.”

You opened your mouth to say something equally smart-assed, but Karen beat you to it.

“Well, she does have experience with super soldiers.”

Your pen froze mid-note.

The room stalled, just for a second. Like the punchline hadn't landed—or maybe had landed too well.

You didn’t look up right away. Just capped your pen slowly, deliberately.

Foggy blinked. “Wait—like Captain America super soldier?”

“No,” you said calmly, still not meeting anyone’s eye. “I did not sleep with Captain America.”

Then you did look up—right at Karen, who had the decency to look stricken. You tilted your head. “That was said in confidence. Over Chinese food. And wine.”

Karen winced. “I thought Matt knew!”

“I didn’t,” Matt said quietly, not judgmental exactly, but there was a shift in the air. A subtle tightening.

Karen rushed to explain. “I thought she told you about the Bucky Barnes.”

Foggy made a small choking noise. “Wait—so, hold on. The Winter Soldier? That guy with the metal arm and murder eyes? You slept with—?”

You raised a hand. “Foggy.”

He shut his mouth with a sheepish grin.

You turned back to Matt, who hadn’t said anything else. His jaw was tight, unreadable behind those glasses. You could feel his attention like a weight.

“Just because we grew up together doesn’t mean we tell each other everything,” you said lightly, but the air had cooled.

Karen looked like she wanted to crawl under the table. Foggy was half-shocked, half-impressed.

But Matt… he didn’t say a word.

Not at first.

When he did speak, it was quiet. “You told me you were going to Berlin for a few days,” he said. “You said it was personal.”

You didn’t blink. “It was.”

He tilted his head slightly, brows drawn. “You went to help Captain America.”

You sighed through your nose, pressing your fingers to the edge of the table. “I did help Steve.”

There was a beat.

Then, without warning, his voice cut sharper than you expected.

“And in what universe did you think sleeping with an international war criminal was a smart decision?”

The room froze.

Foggy blinked. Karen stopped mid-sip of her coffee. The air between the four of you shifted so fast it was like the ground tilted.

You set your pen down carefully. “Are you serious right now?”

“I’m dead serious,” Matt said, crossing his arms. “That wasn’t just reckless—it was stupid. He’s unstable. He’s dangerous. And you—what in your right mind would make you do that?”

You scoffed, leaning forward now. “Wow. Okay. Are you shaming me, Matthew?”

“I’m trying to understand what part of this sounded okay in your head,” he snapped, voice rising just a notch. “He's a man that has just come out of severe brainwashing and you—what, thought it was a good time to sleep with him?”

Karen flinched. Foggy stood, trying to wedge a word in.

“Matt—come on, man—”

But Matt wasn’t finished.

“I knew helping Rogers was already a stretch,” he continued, ignoring the interruption. “But this? You’re a lawyer. You’ve seen what men like Barnes do in your cases. You know what it looks like when someone isn’t capable of giving consent.”

That hit you in the chest like a blow.

You stood.

“You think I don’t know that?” you snapped, voice sharp now. “You think I haven’t been thinking about that every hour since I left him?”

Karen stepped between you, hands up. “Guys—hey, hey—”

But Matt didn’t back off. “Then what were you doing? What were you thinking?”

“I was thinking,” you said, trembling now—not from sadness, but indignation—“that I’d never seen someone look more afraid to be alive. I was thinking that he needed someone to treat him like a human being for once in his goddamn life.”

Foggy stood as well, voice low but firm. “This is not the time.”

But the air was already too thick with everything that had gone unsaid for years.

Matt shook his head slowly. “He’s not your responsibility.”

“No,” you said bitterly. “But neither were you at Saint Agnes. And that never stopped me.”

Silence.

Even the hum of the old radiator seemed to hush itself.

Then the TV flickered—static for a second—before the volume kicked in. The newsroom anchor’s voice, flat and grim, broke the silence that had followed your argument with Matt.

“…former Avengers Steve Rogers and Sam Wilson are confirmed to be in hiding following a classified prison break from the Raft—a maximum-security facility designed for enhanced individuals. The prison housed members of the rogue Avengers detained after the Leipzig airport incident in Germany.”

You stiffened.

The anchor continued as footage played—blurry helicopter shots of the ocean-bound Raft. Steel, water, storm.

“Security footage has not been released to the public, but officials confirm the breakout was staged by none other than Rogers himself. The former Captain America is now considered a fugitive by the United Nations, alongside Wilson and others believed to be aiding him.”

Karen lowered her coffee slowly, frowning.

“Sources also indicate that James Buchanan Barnes—known as the Winter Soldier—was not housed at the Raft, but is considered armed and internationally wanted. Barnes was last seen with Rogers in Siberia and is now suspected to have fled with him. Their current whereabouts remain unknown.”

The words blurred.

The room receded.

Because you weren’t hearing the anchor anymore—you were hearing Steve.

“I don’t think this’ll end well.”

You had heard the resignation in his voice when he’d said it—like he was already bracing for the fallout. Like he already knew.

And now it was here.

Karen’s voice was a soft whisper beside you. “Oh God.”

You let out a breath that wasn’t quite a laugh.

Matt didn’t say anything. His jaw was still tight, and you could feel his scrutiny like a second pulse under your skin.

But he wasn’t the one you were listening for anymore.

You gathered your files and walked toward the door, brushing past them all with a quiet, “Let me know if we're filing,” before stepping out into the hallway.

Karen looked at you like she wanted to say something—but didn’t. Foggy rubbed a hand over his face, sinking down into his chair with a pained groan. “Wow. That was… hilariously bad timing.”

And Matt… just sat there.

Arms crossed.

Jaw set.

Still convinced he was right.

And not feeling any better for it.

1 Year Later

Nelson & Murdock, Hell's Kitchen — Late Morning

The debate in the cramped office was escalating fast.

“You’re missing the point,” you said flatly, flipping the case file closed. “We’re not here to do what feels morally correct. We’re here to win.”

Matt’s head tilted, his brows knitting in that quiet, exasperated way of his. “It’s not about morality. It’s about precedent. If we push this—”

You cut in, calm but curt. “We let landlords in this city get away with enough. I’m not handing them another loophole.”

Karen raised her voice gently, trying to stem the friction. “Maybe we take five—”

You turned her way. “I’m not asking for much, just once—just once—to have one of you on my side.”

Karen put her hands up. “I’m not siding with anyone!”

“Right because you're always playing referee.“

“I’m not playing anything,” she replied, shoulders tensing.

You turned to Foggy, who had been suspiciously quiet.

“Don’t even try to claim neutrality. You always back him.”

“I do not—” Foggy began, already knowing he was beat.

You held up a finger. “You backed him on the parole hearing for that mob accountant who had bodies in three boroughs. You backed him when we took on the Russian construction union—without confirming who was financing them. Hell, you backed him on the Diaz brothers appeal and that guy confessed twice.”

Foggy winced. “That was one time.”

“Three,” you corrected, “It was three times, Foggy.“

The debate had just hit a simmer when the door creaked open.

Karen froze mid-sentence. Her eyes widened. “Oh my god.”

You turned, already sensing something was off—and then your breath caught.

Four figures stepped inside. No one said a word.

Steve Rogers. Natasha Romanoff. Sam Wilson. And James Buchanan Barnes.

All stood just inside the office. Not armored. Not armed. But carrying the weight of a hundred headlines and a year of silence.

Steve stood just inside the doorway, not in the uniform, but unmistakably Captain America. His jaw was a little tighter, with a beard now, but the way he held himself—calm, decisive, eyes scanning the room with practiced awareness—hadn’t changed.

Beside him, Sam Wilson, cool and watchful. Natasha Romanoff, all composed silence and lethal grace, and now… blonde. And then—

Bucky Barnes.

Long hair tucked behind his ears, jaw shadowed with a thick beard, dressed in black. His presence was quiet but sharp—like the air changed around him. His eyes, slate blue and piercing, found yours and held there. He didn’t blink.

You didn’t meet his gaze.

You shifted focus—to Steve.

Matt, from behind the desk, tilted his head. His senses picked up the weight in the air—the loaded silence, the tightened heartbeats, the shift in everyone’s posture.

Foggy, stunned, leaned toward Matt and muttered under his breath, “Uh—Cap, The Falcon, Black Widow, and the Winter Soldier just walked into our office.”

Matt didn’t even flinch. “I figured,” he said quietly. “That’s a lot of boots.”

Steve stepped forward, voice steady. “We need counsel.”

Natasha’s eyes flicked toward you. “And we're here for your help.”

You were still standing by the table, arms folded tightly. “That’s a long way to travel for a consultation.”

“We’re trying to re-enter the world,” Steve said. “We want to do it the right way.”

Karen finally found her voice. “I thought you were fugitives.”

“We are,” Sam said, with a small shrug. “Just figured maybe it was time to try something less dramatic.”

You looked at Matt—because it was still his firm.

Matt turned his face slightly toward the sound of Steve’s voice, his expression unreadable. “With all due respect… you’re not exactly the kind of clients we’re licensed—or funded—to represent. You’re under international surveillance, and we’re a neighborhood firm in Hell’s Kitchen.”

“We’re not asking for a full legal team,” Steve said. “We’re asking for her.”

Matt’s jaw ticked subtly.

His hands folded on the desk, his expression unreadable behind his dark lenses.

“Our jurisdiction doesn’t cover what you’ve been accused of,” he said, addressing Steve directly, though his words encompassed all four fugitives. “We handle housing evictions. Police misconduct. Petty criminal defense. What you’re asking for isn’t just risky—it’s out of our league.”

Bucky hadn’t said a word since stepping inside. But you could feel his gaze—hot, weighty, locked on you like gravity. You kept your expression neutral, your eyes on Matt.

“They’re not walking into any firm uptown,” you said, arms crossed. “And every second they stay on the run, they look guiltier. You know that.”

Matt nodded slowly—measured, cautious. “Then give us a minute.”

Steve gave a slight nod in return.

Without another word, Matt motioned toward the hallway. You, Foggy, and Karen followed him into his office, the door clicking shut behind you.

────────────────────────

The second the door closed, you rounded on Matt.

“This is the part where you tell me we’re turning down Captain goddamn America?”

Matt didn’t flinch. “This isn’t just about Steve.”

“No. It’s about people who tried to do the right thing and were burned by bureaucracy.”

Matt stepped closer, voice low, deliberate. “It’s about us being a three-person law firm in Hell’s Kitchen with no security, no resources, and no international immunity. Do you have any idea what taking this case means?”

“Yes,” you snapped. “It means we actually do something that matters.”

He lifted his chin slightly. “We’d be standing against the United Nations. Against General Thaddeus Ross. Against the Sokovia Accords.”

You leaned in. “Which, by the way, are unconstitutional. Half the legal scholars in the country are already saying it.”

“And half the world signed on,” Matt countered. “Which makes it binding. These aren’t small charges. This is global policy.”

Karen stepped between you both, her palms lifted. “Okay, let’s all take a breath—”

“Karen,” you said, exasperated. “We do not need referee again.”

Foggy raised his hand, hesitant. “Not to interrupt, but… guys, I don’t think the walls are that thick.”

A beat.

Then— Sam's voice called from the other room.

“He’s right.”

You closed your eyes and sighed.

Matt dropped his voice, almost a whisper. “You’ve got history with Rogers,” Matt said evenly. “You’re not objective.”

You met his gaze, cold steel behind your eyes. “Don’t—”

“Are you doing this for them?” Matt pressed. “Or for us?”

A pause.

“For us,” you said finally. No hesitation. “Because if this firm stands for anything—if we really mean all that justice-for-the-voiceless rhetoric—then we don’t walk away when it gets hard.”

Matt stared at you. Silent.

Karen moved closer, her voice softer. “If we don’t help them… who will?”

Another silence.

Outside, the scrape of boots on the wood floor. Maybe someone pacing. Waiting.

Finally, Matt nodded once. Sharp. Decisive.

“Then we do this carefully.”

────────────────────────

The door to Matt’s office creaked open and the four of you re-emerged, expressions tight and unreadable. The air in the main room was still thick with silence, though Sam leaned casually against the wall, arms crossed, wearing a knowing grin.

“Let me guess,” he said lightly. “That was the ‘don’t take this case’ speech?”

Foggy gave a small shrug. “More like a group therapy session with legal consequences.”

Matt stepped forward, composed, and focused entirely on Steve. “There are serious risks here. For all of us. This isn’t one case. It’s two.”

He turned to the group at large, folding his hands over his midsection. “One is the Sokovia Accords. The legality of operating as enhanced individuals without government oversight. Violating international protocol, fleeing detainment, staging a breakout at a maximum security prison. That alone could get you extradited.”

He shifted slightly, his tone measured. “The second is Barnes.”

You felt it before Matt even said it.

“Everything the Winter Soldier did under Hydra’s control—assassinations, covert destabilizations, attacks on U.S. soil. That’s a separate case. Separate charges. Separate legal challenges.”

Bucky, who had remained still near the wall, barely reacted—but his jaw flexed, just slightly.

Matt continued, voice low and clinical. “Legally, emotionally, those two cases need to be separated. Treated with different strategies.”

You nodded once, slowly. “Makes sense.”

Matt turned to you, expression unreadable behind the dark lenses. “You’ll take the Sokovia case. With Karen.”

You blinked. “Matt—”

“—I’ll oversee Barnes’ case,” Matt said. “Foggy and I can manage the prep, the research, the filings.”

There was a beat. Just long enough for the subtext to land.

You knew why he’d made the call.

Because of Berlin.

You didn’t argue.

You just nodded. “Fine.”

Karen glanced between you both, clearly picking up on the tension, but said nothing.

Steve spoke up. “We trust you. All of you.”

Matt nodded once. “Then we’ll need everything. Every detail. Nothing sealed. Nothing omitted.”

Natasha, quiet until now, gave a faint, dry smile. “You’re going to be real popular in Washington.”

Matt didn’t return it. “I’m used to being unpopular.”

Your eyes flicked—briefly—to Bucky. He hadn’t moved. Hadn’t spoken. But he was still watching you.

You turned back to the team. “Alright. Let’s get to work.”

────────────────────────

Two Months Later

The old television bolted to the corner of the wall crackled with static before clearing into focus—just in time for the morning news anchor to smile with the smugness of someone who knows they’re about to deliver the most interesting story of the week.

“In a move that’s turning heads across the country—and sending the internet into overdrive—Captain America, Black Widow, and the Falcon have officially stepped out of hiding.“

You looked up from your case notes. Karen froze with her hand half-dipped into a bag of bagels. Foggy leaned in.

“Two days ago, in a move that surprised just about everyone, former Avengers Steve Rogers, Natasha Romanoff, and Sam Wilson appeared at the Federal Court of Appeals in Washington D.C., accompanied by their legal representation from—get this—a small, previously low-profile law firm operating out of Hell’s Kitchen.”

The image cut to grainy footage of you, Matt, Foggy, and Karen flanking the group like a mismatched legal cavalry.

“Nelson & Murdock, previously known for representing low-income residents and suing city contractors for asbestos violations, now finds itself at the helm of the most closely watched legal proceedings since the Accords were signed. The defendants, who include Rogers and Romanoff, are seeking to challenge the legality of the Sokovia Accords themselves…”

The anchor’s tone shifted slightly, eyes flicking to the teleprompter.

“…and yes, among them is James Buchanan Barnes, aka the Winter Soldier, whose history as a Hydra operative makes this not just a case of civil liberties—but of reckoning with war crimes. His charges, we’re told, are being handled separately by the same firm.”

The screen showed Bucky stepping out of a black SUV, flanked by Matt and you. His eyes were cast downward. Yours weren’t.

“Their lawyers declined to comment, but sources close to the case say the team has already begun mounting a complex dual defense—one tackling international law, the other psychological trauma under state-sponsored manipulation. It’s ambitious. Whether Nelson & Murdock are brilliant… or just insane? Time will tell.”

Matt muted the screen with the remote.

A beat.

No one said anything for a long moment.

“Brilliant or insane,” you murmured. “Could be both.”

Foggy popped a cold fry into his mouth. “Leaning toward insane.”

Karen smiled tightly, but her eyes were distant. “You know what this means, right? If we lose… this isn’t just bad press. It’s over. For the firm.”

You leaned back in your chair, the glow of the TV soft against your skin. “Then we don’t lose.”

────────────────────────

The hum of conversation and typing filled the small legal office, broken only by the occasional scrape of a chair or the tired sigh of someone realizing they’d reread the same sentence for the third time.

Karen sat beside you at the center table, files on the Sokovia Accords spread open like a battlefield between you. Natasha leaned against the window sill, unreadable as always, arms crossed. Sam paced behind his chair, restless energy rolling off him like heat. Steve sat back, quiet but alert, his gaze following every word exchanged like a chessboard in motion.

“Paragraph twelve, subsection four,” Karen muttered. “The clause on oversight jurisdiction contradicts itself. It mandates UN supervision but assigns implementation to national governments.”

You blew a slow breath through your nose. “That’s either an oversight or a trap. Both are bad.”

“Welcome to international policy,” Natasha drawled, not looking up.

Sam made a low noise in his throat. “Well, joke’s on them.”

From beyond the glass wall of Matt’s office, another voice filtered through—rougher, heavier. Bucky’s.

“No. I don’t remember the name. He was wearing a blue ring, I think. Target was in Warsaw. Hydra flagged them as a threat to... something.”

Foggy’s voice followed, steady but gentle. “You’re doing fine, Bucky. Just talk us through what you remember, even if it’s fragments.”

There was a beat of silence, and then Matt’s voice, calm but firm. “And the handlers? The ones who triggered you—how often did they use the code?”

“It varied,” Bucky said. “If I resisted... more.”

You glanced toward the frosted glass separating the rooms. Bucky was a vague shape on the other side, head down, broad shoulders hunched like he was trying to disappear into the chair. Matt stood opposite him, arms folded, Foggy sitting nearby with a yellow legal pad already half-filled in cramped handwriting.

“He’s been in there for two hours,” Karen said softly, reading your look.

“He’s cooperating,” Steve murmured. “But it’s not easy. I wouldn’t want to talk about it either.”

Back in your office, you flipped another page in the Accords briefing. Your fingers were starting to cramp.

“The entire structure of this thing is meant to constrain,” you muttered. “They want to turn the Avengers into government employees. And if they refuse, it’s jail. Or worse.”

“They tried that,” Sam muttered. “Didn’t work out for them.”

Karen leaned back and scrubbed a hand down her face. “We’re going in circles.”

“No,” you said, “we’re dancing around landmines.”

Another silence.

Karen stood abruptly. “Okay, this isn’t working. We’re all burned out. We need a break.”

You blinked, half in protest. “Karen—”

“You’re losing your mind over there, I’ve read the same paragraph three times, and Steve looks like he’s reconsidering all of his life choices.” She pointed at the door. “I’m declaring a recess.”

From the other end of the table, Steve raised an eyebrow. “Recess?”

“Josie’s,” she clarified. “We go, we drink, we breathe. Otherwise one of us is going to snap and file a motion to burn the Accords in front of the UN.”

Romanoff arched a sleek brow. “What’s Josie’s?”

You didn’t look up as you gathered the pages into a pile. “A dive bar two blocks from here. Sticky floors, strong drinks. A Hell’s Kitchen classic.”

Sam grinned. “Sold.”

Karen poked her head into Matt’s office. “We’re going for drinks. You’re coming. No debate.”

Matt looked up, eyebrow raised. “Karen—”

“Even you need a break,” she insisted, voice lighter but not asking. “And Foggy, if you don’t close that legal pad in the next five seconds I’m stealing it.”

Foggy blinked like he’d surfaced from a fog. “Wait, what?”

Matt sighed, then turned toward Bucky. “Do you want to come?”

Bucky didn’t answer right away. His gaze slid over to you—just for a second—then back to the floor. But he gave a quiet nod.

“Alright,” Matt said. “Josie’s it is.”

────────────────────────

The moment the eight of you stepped into Josie’s, the entire bar went still.

It was almost cinematic—the way conversation halted mid-sentence, pool cues hovered mid-shot, and every pint glass seemed to freeze just before reaching someone’s lips.

Only it wasn’t you they were looking at.

Their eyes went right past you to the four figures just behind.

The tension was immediate. You could feel it like static against your skin.

You squinted at the crowd and snapped, “What.”

It came out sharper than you meant—but effective. Just like that, everyone returned to their drinks and conversations, like they hadn’t just seen literal war criminals walk into their local dive bar.

You sighed, stepped inside, and motioned toward the back booth like it was any other Thursday night.

“Same rules apply,” you murmured over your shoulder. “No starting bar fights. No interrogating anyone mid-darts game.”

Sam let out a quiet laugh. “Wasn’t planning on it, but now I’m curious.”

“Don’t be,” Foggy muttered. “That guy with the dart tattoo takes it really seriously.”

Karen nudged him, leading the way toward the booth. “Come on, Captain America. Let’s see how you do in a place where the floor sticks and nobody salutes you.”

Steve offered a faint smile, clearly trying to pretend he didn’t just make a dozen patrons sweat through their flannel shirts. “Sounds...refreshing.”

Bucky didn’t say anything. He followed silently, but you could feel his presence behind you—like gravity. Like heat.

You settled into the booth first, flanked by Karen and Foggy. Matt slid in next, followed by Steve and Natasha on the far side. Sam pulled up a chair. Bucky remained standing a moment too long, then finally sank into the seat next to Matt—putting the maximum amount of physical space between you.

Your stomach twisted, just briefly.

You didn’t look at him.

Karen raised a hand for Josie. “Eight whiskeys. Don’t ask.”

Josie nodded from behind the bar, unfazed as ever.

“You bring a circus, I serve a circus,” she called. “Just don’t bleed on the floor.”

────────────────────────

At some point, you’d drifted. The laughter around the booth was distant now—Karen leaning into Natasha as the former recounted some mildly incriminating story, Sam egging on Steve about a round of darts he absolutely didn’t want to play. Matt was nursing his drink with that subtle tightness in his jaw he always wore in crowded spaces.

You slipped away, needing a minute, and ended up at the bar under the flickering light that buzzed like it was dying. The wood beneath your elbows was sticky, familiar. Comforting, in a weird, grimy way.

A moment later, Foggy appeared beside you, sliding his hand onto the bar as he leaned. “I come bearing a noble quest.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Let me guess. Refills?”

“Exactly.” He grinned. “Whiskey times eight. Josie’s gonna love us.”

As Josie started lining up the glasses, you glanced sideways. “How’s your case coming along?”

Foggy made a sound that was somewhere between a groan and a laugh. “Difficult. Bucky’s… not great at giving detail. He gives you one name, two dates, and then he goes quiet like he’s talking through glass.”

You nodded, unsurprised.

“But,” he added, tipping his head toward you with a knowing look, “also distracted. Like, flinch-at-the-sound-of-your-voice distracted.”

You blinked. “What?”

“I’m serious,” he said, grabbing one of the glasses, inspecting it before sliding it back down. “Anytime you walk into a room? His eyes snap to you like a moth to a flame. It’s kind of… sad, actually. Those big, quiet eyes practically begging you to look at him.”

You rolled your eyes. “That’s not true.”

“It is,” he insisted, still in that frustratingly calm Foggy way. “I thought maybe I was imagining it, but after the fifth time I caught him zoning out mid-sentence because you walked past the hallway? It’s a pattern.”

You stared ahead, lips pressing into a thin line.

“My client,” you said after a beat, “is Steve. Natasha. Sam. I work on the Sokovia side of this mess. Bucky’s—” your voice dropped, “—not my responsibility.”

“No,” Foggy said slowly, “but you are avoiding him. And don’t tell me you’re not.”

You ran a hand over your face and muttered under your breath, “If you haven’t noticed, I have a very big, very real Matt-shaped fence around me any time I’m in the same room as Barnes.”

Foggy winced sympathetically. “Yeah… he does kind of hover.”

“Hover?” you echoed with a hollow laugh. “He treats me like I’m going to spontaneously combust if I so much as sit next to the guy.”

Foggy didn’t say anything at first. Then: “You don’t look like you want to combust.”

You were about to say something—something not entirely wise, maybe—but Foggy beat you to it, glancing over your shoulder with a quiet hush.

“Cap's on his way over here,” he murmured. “And he looks like a man on a mission.”

You turned just enough to catch the tall figure weaving through the crowd, eyes set squarely on you.

Foggy grabbed six of the whiskey glasses Josie had just lined up, balancing them with both arms like a bartender with something to prove. “I’ll leave you two with these,” he said, nodding toward the final pair left on the bar, “and, uh, good luck.”

You didn’t reply—just watched as he maneuvered his way back to the table like he was handling a tray of grenades.

And then Steve slid onto the barstool next to you. Quiet. Steady.

He didn’t say anything at first, just folded his hands loosely on the bartop, his presence as familiar as it was grounding.

“Hi,” you murmured, not looking directly at him as you nursed your drink.

He gave that small, sincere smile. The one that never failed to remind you why you'd once entertained the idea of something more.

“I know this is putting a strain on you,” he said finally. His voice was low, quiet enough that only you could hear. “I just wanted to thank you—for helping us. Again.”

You scoffed lightly, your tone flippant by design. “You know I’d do anything for you, Steve.”

But you kept your eyes on your drink. It was easier that way. Easier than meeting those too-blue eyes and seeing all the history sitting inside them.

“I don’t take that lightly,” he said after a pause. “I never have.”

You didn’t respond. You didn’t need to.

The silence that settled between you wasn’t awkward—but it was full. With things neither of you had ever said out loud. With everything you’d been, everything you almost were, and everything you now couldn’t afford to be.

Steve shifted slightly. “You’ve changed.”

That caught you off guard. You turned, just enough to look at him out of the corner of your eye.

“In a good way,” he added quickly. “Stronger. Sharper.”

You snorted. “Or maybe just tired.”

He smiled, but there was a flicker of something behind it. Regret, maybe. Recognition. You didn’t ask.

“You ever think about what things might’ve looked like... if this all hadn’t happened?”

His voice was barely above a murmur, heavy with something unspoken. The kind of question that didn’t ask for an answer, not really—but still lingered between you, expectant and fragile.

You didn’t look at him right away. Just shook your head slowly, the corners of your mouth twitching in something like a sad smile.

“It probably would’ve been the same,” you said quietly. “You asking me for help... and me helping you. Without hesitation.”

Your eyes met his then—soft, sure. Unflinching.

“Just like now.”

Steve’s expression didn’t shift immediately, but something in his posture relaxed.

“Nothing more,” you added, voice gentler this time. “Nothing less.”

For a moment, he looked like he wanted to argue. That familiar Captain instinct flickering just behind his eyes—always reaching for something better, something fuller.

But he didn’t.

Because he knew you meant it.

────────────────────────

The office was unusually quiet for a Wednesday.

Karen had gone out to meet a contact. Foggy was holed up in the back with a stack of transcripts, headphones in. And Matt—Matt was gone, off doing whatever it was he did when he didn’t tell anyone where he was going.

You were at your desk, sorting through notes on the Sokovia filings, when you heard the soft shuffle of boots against hardwood.

You glanced up.

Bucky stood in the doorway, hands in his pockets, expression unreadable. Not cold—never cold—but hesitant, like he was walking into enemy territory and wasn’t sure if he’d make it out the other side.

Your heart stuttered, but you masked it with a carefully neutral look. “Need something from Foggy?”

He shook his head, slow. “No.”

You set your pen down.

The silence between you wasn’t heavy—it was brittle. Like one wrong word would crack the whole thing wide open.

Bucky took a few steps in. Close enough that you could see the faint bags under his eyes, fading but still present. A leftover from whatever truth he’d had to drag out in testimony.

His voice, when he spoke, was low. Rough around the edges like gravel. “Why won’t you talk to me?”

The question hung in the air.

You stared at him for a beat too long. You’d imagined this—this exact moment—so many times. And somehow, the real thing still knocked the air out of your lungs.

“I do talk to you,” you said, too quickly. “We’ve had conversations.”

He didn’t flinch. “Brief ones.”

You hesitated. Then stood, slowly, placing your hands on the edge of the desk like it might steady you.

“I didn’t think you wanted to,” you said finally, quietly.

“That’s not true,” Bucky said. “You know that’s not true.”

He took another step in, but didn’t crowd you. Never that.

“You used to look at me,” he said. “Back in Berlin. You saw me. Not the ghost. Not the asset. Me.”

Your throat tightened.

“I haven’t changed,” he said, a little more broken now. “Not really. But you… it’s like I became someone you’re not allowed to be alone with.”

Your mouth opened, then closed.

There it was.

The thing you’d been avoiding. Not because you didn’t want to face it—but because you already had. Night after night. Every time you saw his eyes find you across the room and forced yourself to look away.

“I didn’t want to make things harder,” you said, voice almost a whisper.

“For who?” he asked. Not angry—just quietly devastated.

You didn’t answer.

Couldn’t.

Because if you did—if you opened your mouth—you were afraid of what might come out. And there was already too much unsaid between you to risk making it worse.

Bucky took one more step closer, slow and tentative. Like a man approaching something sacred. “I need to know, did I… did I do something wrong? That night?”

Your breath caught.

Your whole body stilled.

“No,” you said, almost too fast. “No. You didn’t.”

He blinked, eyes narrowing slightly with confusion and something sharper—pain. “Then why do you look at me like it was a mistake?”

You turned away, suddenly unable to hold the weight of his gaze. Your fingers curled into fists at your sides, trying to ground yourself. But your voice cracked as you spoke.

“Because I think I made a mistake.”

You heard him shift, barely a sound, but you could feel the air change between you. “What mistake?”

“I think I… took advantage of you.”

The words hit the room like a punch. You didn’t look at him—you couldn’t. You stared at the stack of case files on your desk, eyes burning.

“You were… not okay, Bucky. You were still half-lost, barely holding on. I kissed you to stop a panic attack, not because I thought we—God, I didn’t think. I just acted. And then you kissed me back, and it felt like if I pulled away you’d shatter and—” you cut yourself off, swallowing hard. “And I let it happen. I let it go too far.”

A beat of silence.

Then another.

Then his voice, lower than you’d ever heard it. “You think that’s what that night was?”

You turned, finally.

He was looking at you like he didn’t know whether to fall apart or hold himself together.

“That night,” he said slowly, “was the first time I felt human again.”

You stared at him.

“The first time someone touched me like I wasn’t dangerous,” he continued, breath catching. “Like I wasn’t something to be handled, or feared, or fixed. You kissed me and I—” his voice broke, “—I didn’t know what it meant, or how long it would last, but I held on to it. For a year. In Wakanda. Every morning, I thought about you.”

Your heart ached.

“I don’t know what it is I feel for you,” he admitted, shoulders taut, “but it’s not infatuation. It’s not fantasy. It’s something I haven’t had in a long time. And maybe I only knew you for a day—but it was enough to remember the way you made me feel.”

He took a tentative step forward.

“You were the first thing that made me want to come back.”

Your knees nearly gave out at that.

Because this wasn’t just about guilt. Or trauma. Or old wounds.

This was about healing, too.

And somehow, heartbreakingly, he had found his in you.

You took a breath, shaky and too thin, eyes burning with the effort it took to keep yourself upright beneath the weight of his words.

Part of you wanted to say nothing. Let silence answer.

But you’d done that already. For months.

So instead, you forced yourself to speak—softly, but firmly.

“I thought what I did… that night, I thought it might’ve been selfish.”

His gaze didn’t waver. “It wasn’t.”

You looked up at him, finally meeting those steel-blue eyes that had haunted you every time you tried to sleep.

“I don’t regret it,” you whispered. “I just didn’t know if I had the right.”

Bucky exhaled, the sound low and wrecked.

“You didn’t take something from me,” he said. “You gave me something. You made me feel… wanted. Safe. I hadn’t felt that in decades.”

A beat passed. Then another. Your hand twitched at your side, like it might reach for him. You didn’t let it.

“I care about you, Bucky,” you said, so softly it barely reached the space between you. “More than I probably should.”

Hope flared in his eyes—and that’s when you took a step back.

“But right now, I’m your lawyer.”

He blinked. “No. You’re not.”

You frowned. “What?”

“Nelson and Murdock are my representation. You’re on the Avengers’ case.”

The smallest, saddest smile tugged at your lips. “Still. It’s messy.”

His eyes searched yours, quiet and patient. “I’m not asking for something now. I’m not asking for anything.”

You tilted your head. “Then what are you asking for?”

He swallowed. “That you stop looking at me like what happened between us was wrong.”

The crack in your heart widened.

And maybe you didn’t have the strength to tell him that you'd been looking at yourself that way, not him.

You nodded instead. Barely.

He stepped back. Gave you space. But didn’t stop looking at you.

And as he turned to leave the room, your eyes followed him.

────────────────────────

Josie’s bar was unusually full for a Tuesday. The crowd buzzed with quiet conversation, the low hum of sports highlights rolling on the TV behind the bar. But then the channel flickered—cutting to a breaking news graphic—and slowly, the room began to hush.

“After over a year on the run for their violation of the Sokovia Accords,” the reporter continued, “the trio was represented by a relatively unknown but fiercely competent law firm based out of Hell’s Kitchen—Nelson & Murdock.”

A round of murmured cheers rippled through the bar.

“And leading the charge,” the anchor said, “was associate attorney—” your name followed, clear and pronounced, “—whose legal argument reframed the Accords as unconstitutional under both domestic and international law. The case has since been labeled a landmark ruling on enhanced rights, government overreach, and jurisdictional ethics in conflict zones.”

A grainy clip of you outside the courthouse played next. Microphones crowded around you. Your hair pulled back, blazer sharp, your voice calm but firm under pressure.

“The Sokovia Accords were a rushed and fear-based overreach,” you were saying. “The world needs accountability, yes. But not at the cost of civil liberties, and not by punishing people for doing the right thing under the wrong rules.”

A quiet cheer went up near the bar. Someone clapped. You heard a voice—one of the long-time regulars—murmur, “That’s the one that comes in for bourbon on Thursdays, right?”

Josie herself just raised a brow from behind the bar, the closest thing she gave to a nod of approval.

“General Thaddeus Ross issued a formal response,” the anchor added, voice tight, “saying—quote—‘While I do not agree with the court’s interpretation, I respect the process. These individuals are no longer fugitives, and I trust they will now operate within a framework of accountability moving forward.’”

Muted scoffs met that.

“Yeah, sure he does,” Sam muttered under his breath, arms crossed where he sat across from you.

On screen, the reporter continued, summarizing the case’s outcome. “The general amnesty clause within the ruling ensures that enhanced individuals acting in good faith and without malicious intent will not be prosecuted under the original terms of the Accords. While some international critics have voiced concern, the decision is widely seen as a critical first step in rebuilding trust between superpowered individuals and governing bodies.”

Steve didn’t say anything, but his eyes found you—something quiet and full in them. He raised his glass. Just once.

You exhaled slowly, unsure whether it was relief or anticipation sitting heavier in your chest.

Because one case was over.

And the hardest one still waited.

────────────────────────

The holding area outside the Special Tribunal Court at Fort Meade, Maryland, was as sterile and impersonal as the military complex it belonged to—linoleum floors, harsh fluorescent lights, and the low hum of overhead ventilation.

Outside the windowless space, armed guards rotated in silence. The tribunal room itself, behind a thick blast door, waited like a judgment chamber.

You sat stiffly on a bench too narrow for comfort, legal documents fanned out over your lap. Your fingers clenched the edges of one as your eyes burned with something hot and sharp.

Matt Murdock was nowhere to be found.

He hadn’t returned calls, hadn’t shown up to prep the night before, hadn’t replied to the increasingly frantic voicemails from Foggy. And now, with less than an hour until Bucky’s final hearing—he was still missing.

Foggy entered the room like a storm cloud. “I’ve called everyone I can think of,” he said, slightly out of breath. “Nothing. He’s not answering his phone, the apartment was locked up, Karen hasn’t heard anything from him either—he’s gone, and we’re out of time.”

You stood sharply, biting back the rush of frustration rising in your chest. “He had one case,” you said. “This was supposed to be his goddamn priority.”

“Yeah, well, it’s Matt,” Foggy muttered, raking a hand through his hair.

Your eyes narrowed. “This is more than a case, Foggy. This is his life—” you gestured toward Bucky, who sat silent and watching “—and Matt just walked away from it.”

A long silence stretched between the five of you.

Bucky’s voice broke through. Quiet. “So… what now?”

Steve looked at you. So did Sam.

You stared at the stack of files on the bench. “I’ll take it.”

“You sure?” Foggy asked, already reaching for the briefing notes.

You gave him a look. “Do I look unsure?”

He swallowed. “Okay. Geneva precedents up top. Watch for prosecution's cross-exam strategy—she'll hammer your credentials hard, especially since you’re taking over so last minute.”

“Let her try,” you said under your breath.

Bucky rose slowly, his blazer stretching across his shoulders. He didn’t look at you—just toward the tribunal doors. “They’re going to call me a monster.”

You turned to face him.

“They might,” you said. “But they won’t win.”

His eyes found yours then—guarded, questioning.

“They’ll see a file, a record, a reputation,” you added. “I see a man who survived hell and still had the strength to pull himself out. That’s who I’ll fight for.”

His jaw worked slightly. And in the silence that followed, he nodded—once.

The weight of his trust settled over your shoulders, heavier than any closing argument.

You picked up your notes, spine straightening. “Let’s go win this.”

────────────────────────

The tribunal room at Fort Meade was cavernous and cold, more war room than courtroom. A long semi-circle of military and civilian officials presided behind bulletproof glass and steel.

The American flag stood behind the tribunal's emblem—flanked by the Department of Justice seal and the Department of Defense. The lighting was clinical, unforgiving, and the walls, though soundproofed, seemed to hum with silent judgment.

General Thaddeus Ross sat at the far end, half-shrouded in shadow, his arms folded and his jaw set in stone. Beside him were analysts from the CIA, a rep from Homeland Security, and the sharp-eyed lead prosecutor from the DOJ’s National Security Division—Assistant Attorney Caldwell. Her file on Barnes was a stack thick with ink and classified stamps.

The moment your group was escorted in—Bucky, Foggy, Steve, Sam, and yourself—all eyes shifted. You didn’t flinch. But you felt the air change.

Bucky didn’t look up. He hadn’t since the elevator ride down.

You took your seat at the defense table. Foggy beside you. Bucky just behind, shadowed. And for one sharp moment, you felt utterly alone at the center of this war.

The presiding military judge adjusted his mic.

“We are here to assess the culpability and legal standing of one James Buchanan Barnes, formerly known as the Winter Soldier,” he began. “This tribunal acknowledges the unique nature of this case, involving alleged international war crimes, state-sponsored coercion, and actions performed under mind control.”

Then, he nodded to Caldwell. “Prosecution.”

She rose with the kind of practiced composure that could slice through steel. Her tone was calm. Precise. Measured.

“The defense will ask you to see James Barnes as a victim,” Caldwell began, voice resonant in the mic. “They will cite brainwashing, trauma, and a corrupted past. And yes—there is undeniable evidence that Mr. Barnes suffered under Hydra.”

A pause.

“But the law is not only built on sympathy. It is built on accountability.”

She turned toward the panel. “James Barnes was a lethal asset in a global shadow war. He executed heads of state. He destroyed civilian infrastructure. He has killed American agents on American soil. His body count surpasses a hundred and known ops occurred over seven decades.”

Then, looking toward your table:

“Whatever happened to his mind—his hands did not forget how to kill. And today, we must ask whether releasing him into society is an act of mercy… or a threat to every principle we claim to defend.”

She sat.

You didn’t blink.

The judge turned to you. “Defense. You may proceed.”

You stood.

Voice calm. Clear.

“For over seventy years, James Barnes was a prisoner of war in a war he never chose. He was stripped of identity. Language. Memory. He was tortured and rebuilt into a weapon—not by choice, but by force.”

Your fingers tightened around the edge of the lectern.

“Yes, he executed missions. But he also survived unimaginable horrors. His captors used science and brutality to shatter the man he was, again and again. And yet—he clawed his way out.”

You met the tribunal’s eyes, one by one.

“He did not run. He came back. He asked for help. And this country, after failing to protect him once, now has a chance to show that it remembers what justice really is.”

You stepped back, pulse hammering in your throat. Behind you, Bucky hadn't moved—but you could feel him breathing. Steady. Listening.

The tribunal was silent.

And the battle had begun.

And after a brief recess the tribunal resumed. You reviewed the witness list as your pen tapped softly on the table. Your jaw was tight. Foggy leaned in beside you.

“You good?”

You nodded once, barely.

The tribunal called its first witness: Colonel Elias Rourke, former liaison to SHIELD, now with Homeland Security. He swore in, stiff and iron-backed in uniform. His voice was gravel.

“Colonel, you had firsthand knowledge of the Winter Soldier’s activity?” Caldwell prompted.

“I did. I was stationed in Berlin during the assassination of a NATO peace envoy. Clean kill. No surveillance footage. The only evidence was a classified SHIELD transcript pointing to a ghost operative—metal arm, cold precision. Barnes.”

You watched Bucky flinch imperceptibly. You didn’t look back.

“And what was your assessment?” Caldwell asked.

Rourke’s lips thinned. “The man was Hydra’s blade. Deadliest asset in the game. We called him ‘death in the dark.’ Didn’t miss. Didn’t stop.”

Caldwell turned, satisfied. “No further questions.”

You rose slowly. “Colonel Rourke, you served under SHIELD, correct?”

“Yes.”

“Were you aware SHIELD was compromised by Hydra at the time of your assessment?”

He hesitated.

“Yes.”

“So your data, your field reports—all possibly filtered through an organization secretly aligned with the enemy?”

Rourke bristled. “That doesn’t change the kill count.”

“No, it doesn’t. But it does change how we interpret it,” you said smoothly. “Tell me, Colonel—how do we define guilt when the evidence comes from traitors?”

The tribunal rustled. Ross's eyes darkened. Caldwell leaned back.

“No further questions,” you said.

Witness after witness passed—some military, some from European intelligence. You dismantled their claims methodically. Not denying Bucky’s past—but reframing it.

Context. Compulsion. Control.

Then came your first and only defense witness: Ayo Sekayi, General of the Dora Milaje, flown in under diplomatic neutrality. Her presence silenced the room.

Ayo took her seat, graceful and firm.

You approached.

“General Sekayi, you worked directly with Mr. Barnes in Wakanda?”

“I did.”

“And what was your primary role?”

“Deprogramming. Erasing the Soviet Hydra conditioning. The trigger words, the synaptic trauma, the enforced behaviors. We dismantled them piece by piece.”

You turned toward the tribunal. “And your conclusion?”

She looked directly at Bucky.

“James Barnes is not the Winter Soldier. Not anymore. What they built in him—we destroyed.”

Caldwell stood. “General, can you confirm that these—‘deprogramming’ techniques—cannot be reversed or broken?”

Ayo narrowed her gaze. “Nothing in life is certain, Miss Caldwell. But I trust the work. And more importantly, I trust him.”

The prosecution rested after a tense exchange. Foggy passed you a note: You’re killing it.

But your stomach twisted.

The judge shifted in his seat. “Closing statements will begin in the next session. Tribunal adjourned until 1400 hours.”

You nodded, quietly collecting your papers. Bucky hadn’t spoken all day—but he stood when you did.

His gaze didn’t waver.

“Thank you,” he said softly.

You didn’t reply.

Not yet.

────────────────────────

The minutes before reconvening felt like a countdown to impact.

The tribunal room was heavier now. Not just because the panel of adjudicators had seen the evidence, heard the testimonies—but because they knew the weight of their decision. This wasn’t just about a man. It was about precedence. Politics. Redemption. War.

You stood at the lectern. Foggy sat beside you, calm but alert. Behind you, Bucky sat like he had the entire hearing—shoulders tight, jaw clenched, hands folded. Steve and Sam were across the room, watching, holding their breath through silence.

The presiding officer gave a nod. “Defense, your closing.”

You moved forward slowly. Let your silence stretch for two full seconds before speaking.

“James Buchanan Barnes was trained to disappear. Not just behind enemy lines—but inside himself. He was torn apart, piece by piece, rebuilt without memory or mercy. For decades, he was a weapon in human form. A ghost. A nightmare.”

You let your gaze sweep the tribunal.

“But that’s not who sits behind me today.”

Your voice softened, sharpened.

“He is not innocent. He will never claim to be. But he is not the man they made him. He is not their ghost.”

You swallowed.

“He is a man who has fought harder than most of us can comprehend to claw his way back into the light. He submitted himself to justice. He asked for this hearing. And what he’s asking for—what we’re asking for—is not exoneration without cost.”

You paused.

“We’re asking for understanding. For mercy. For recognition that justice must evolve alongside science, circumstance, and morality.”

Then, finally—

“James Barnes was a soldier. Then he was a prisoner. Then a weapon. But now—now he’s just a man, trying to find something like peace. Let’s not take that away from him.”

You stepped back.

The room was silent.

The prosecution’s closing was colder, but no less powerful. Caldwell spoke with solemn finality.

“However reformed, however rehabilitated—some weapons are too dangerous to unholster. James Barnes has been the tool of multiple regimes. Are we prepared to bet the lives of our citizens on the belief that it won’t happen again?”

She sat.

Then—nothing. Just deliberation.

Forty minutes of it.

Each tick of the wall clock pounded behind your eyes. Steve sat forward, elbows on knees. Sam paced. Foggy didn’t even pretend to read his notes.

Bucky never moved.

Then, the tribunal returned.

The presiding officer cleared his throat.

“In light of the presented evidence, the declassified testimony, and scientific evaluation…”

Your fingers curled against the edge of the table.

“…this tribunal finds James Buchanan Barnes…”

A pause.

“…not criminally liable for the acts committed while under Hydra control. Further, we acknowledge the legitimacy of his rehabilitation and no longer consider him an active threat to national or global security.”

A stunned silence followed.

But your heart didn’t lift. Not yet.

“We impose a five-year probationary review period. Mr. Barnes will remain under international observation and restricted combat engagement unless sanctioned. However, he will not face incarceration.”

A breath you didn’t know you were holding escaped your chest.

Foggy muttered, “Holy shit.”

Behind you, Steve let out a slow exhale. Sam’s shoulders dropped.

But Bucky… Bucky just sat there. Still as a statue. His eyes weren’t wide, weren’t teary. But something deep in them shifted—like a plate in the earth, tectonic and unseen.

He looked at you.

And for the first time since Berlin, you let yourself look back.

Not with guilt.

But something closer to peace.

The gavel dropped.

Court adjourned.

────────────────────────

The door to your apartment clicked shut behind you with a thud that echoed louder than expected. Your keys fell into the bowl by the entryway with a tired clatter.

The moment you slipped off your shoes, it was like your body remembered just how much weight you’d been carrying—shoulders sore, back stiff, head foggy.

The tribunal had ended just hours ago. One year’s worth of courtrooms, hearings, back-channel negotiations, UN statements, and defense strategies finally behind you. It should’ve felt victorious.

Instead, it felt like collapse.

You didn't turn on any lights. The glow from the city outside was enough—warm, amber halos from streetlamps slipping through your windows and stretching across the hardwood floor.

You moved by muscle memory, changing into an oversized shirt and sweatpants, tossing your suit into a corner without care. You’d earned at least a week of hermit-mode.

The pizza delivery guy barely warranted a word, just a tired smile and a muttered thanks. The glass of wine you poured wasn’t even your usual—it was whatever had been in your fridge long enough to gather dust on the cork.

You had just curled up on your tiny loveseat, plate in lap, wine within reach, when your phone buzzed on the kitchen counter.

Karen Page

Drinks at Josie’s to celebrate? 🍻 Foggy’s already halfway drunk. And we found Matt.

You smiled softly. Sweet, thoughtful. But it hurt a little.

Your fingers hovered for a second before you typed:

Rain check? I’m officially horizontal for the foreseeable future.

Almost immediately came a heart emoji and a "Love you, you earned it."

That small glow vanished when the screen lit again.

Matt (1 Missed Call) Matt (2 Missed Calls) Matt (3 Missed Calls)

You didn’t even have the energy to read the texts—but they stacked like an avalanche.

Matt Murdock

Call me back. Please. I didn't know Elektra would show up. I didn’t mean for it to affect the case. I never meant to hurt you. I’m sorry.

You turned the screen face-down and shoved it under a couch cushion like a bad memory.

Pizza. Wine. Couch. That was all you had space for.

And for a while—it worked. The TV murmured in the background. The bottle slowly emptied. Your shoulders lost some of their coiled tension.

Until a knock sounded at the door.

You stared at it for a full ten seconds.

Another knock. Firmer. You sighed, dragging yourself up with a muttered, “Matt, I swear to God—”

But when you looked through the peephole, your heart stuttered.

It wasn’t Matt.

It was Bucky.

James Buchanan Barnes.

Hair swept back, still slightly damp like he’d just showered. A simple navy t-shirt. Jeans. No jacket. And in his hands—

Flowers.

A small, uneven bouquet. Wildflowers. Not the kind you bought in shops. The kind you had to actually look for.

You opened the door without thinking.

When you opened it, the sound of the city filtered in faintly behind him.

Bucky looked… nervous. As in, genuinely uncertain of himself. The man who’d stood before a tribunal that morning like a stone pillar was now awkwardly holding out flowers that were slightly crumpled.

You blinked. “You’re… here.”

“Yeah.” He glanced down, cleared his throat. “I, uh… wasn’t sure if this was okay.”

You looked at the flowers.

“I didn't know what kind you liked,” he said, suddenly rambling. “So I just… picked some.”

You stared at him, the bouquet still held between you like a question.

Then, softly, “You picked these?”

His jaw flexed, faintly sheepish. “Yeah. I mean—not from someone’s yard. There’s this stand up in the Bronx. The guy there… he helped me out.” He paused. “I remembered you smelled like lavender. That night. So I made sure there was some in there.”

He hesitated.

“And now that I’m saying it out loud, it sounds a little stalker-ish.”

You didn’t say anything.

He shifted his weight. “You weren’t at Josie’s.”

“Didn’t feel like celebrating.”

“I figured.” His voice was soft. “I thought maybe… you didn’t want to be around everyone. So I came here. Just in case.”

You leaned back against the doorframe, watching him with quiet wariness.

“Why’d you bring me flowers, Bucky?”

He looked down for a second, then back at you. “Call it a thank-you gift. For my lawyer.”

A breath of a laugh escaped you, the first real one in hours. “For the last time, I’m not your lawyer. Matt and Foggy were.”

He didn’t flinch. “You were the one who argued for me. Who won my case. The one who sat across from me every time I wanted to give up.” A beat. “You always seem to be the one pulling me out when I’m sinking.”

You didn’t know what to say to that. So you didn’t. Just reached out and took the flowers from him, gently, like they might dissolve in your hands.

“Thanks,” you murmured.

He gave a quiet nod. “I’ll let you get back to your night.”

And just like that, he turned toward the hall.

You watched his retreating back, something cold curling low in your chest.

You closed the door quietly behind him.

But you didn’t move.

Not at first.

And then your body did what your heart had been screaming for since the moment you opened that damn door. You turned, ripped it back open, and stepped out into the hallway.

The hallway was dim, amber from the old light fixture flickering overhead, but you could still make out his silhouette. Shoulders hunched slightly, hands in his jacket pockets. That quiet slouch he always slipped into when he was trying to take up less space.

“Bucky—”

He was only a few steps away, but he stopped like you’d shot him.

Turned slowly, brows drawn, eyes searching yours, “Yeah?”

You exhaled, stepping into his space without hesitation, bare feet cold against the worn floorboards.

“What do you want from me?” you asked, voice low. Not demanding. Just tired. Raw.

His eyes locked on yours, steady. Like he’d been rehearsing his answer.

“Whatever you’re willing to give.”

Your breath caught. That simple. That honest.

You stepped closer, heart thudding like a drum in your ears. “What if I want you?”

That was all the warning he got before your hands cupped his face, pulling him down.

And Bucky—he melted into it.

Like he’d been waiting for that kiss since Berlin. Since your hands had once pulled him out of panic and into something like peace. Like you’d opened a door inside him he hadn’t dared approach until now.

His hands came to your waist, tentative at first, then firmer—like he needed to feel you were real.

Your fingers slipped into his hair, tugging just enough to make him groan into your mouth.

This wasn’t the desperation of before. This was a storm that had built for a year, a longing that had aged like wine, richer now, deeper. And when you pulled him back into your apartment by the front of his shirt, he followed without hesitation.

Your back hit the door before you’d even registered closing it.

Bucky’s hands were on you—your waist, your thighs, your face. Everywhere at once, like he couldn’t decide where to touch first and was terrified he’d lose you if he stopped.

His mouth found yours again in a bruising kiss, all teeth and breath and the kind of hunger that came from a year of silence and stolen glances.

You moaned into him—high, needy—and he swallowed it like he’d been starved for the sound.

Then, without a word, his hands slid beneath your thighs and lifted.

You gasped, legs instinctively wrapping around his waist as your back slammed gently against the wall. His strength was effortless—of course it was—but the way he looked at you, like you weighed nothing and everything all at once, made your stomach flip.

“God,” he rasped, pressing his forehead to yours for a breath. “You feel real.”

“I'm real,” you murmured, fingers threading through his hair, tugging him back down.

And he kissed you again, harder this time. Desperate.

You rocked your hips into his, and he groaned against your mouth—low, broken, like he was barely holding it together. The metal of his left hand braced against the wall behind your back, his right gripping your thigh so tightly you knew you’d feel it tomorrow.

He pulled back just enough to look at you—his eyes dark, pupils blown wide.

“I wanted this,” he whispered. “Since that night.”

You blinked up at him, lips parted, chest heaving. “Then take it.”

And he did.

He surged forward, grinding against you through your clothes. The friction was too much and not enough, the heat between you growing sharp and wild. Your hands clawed at his shoulders, nails dragging over the cotton of his shirt as you moved against him, meeting his thrusts with your own.

His lips moved to your neck, sucking hard enough to leave a mark. “You drive me insane,” he breathed. “Every time you walk into a room, I forget how to fucking breathe.”

You whimpered, tilting your head back to give him more. “Then don’t breathe.”

He laughed—sharp and breathless—and kissed you again like it hurt not to.

And still, the wall shook with every push of his hips.

You didn’t know who moved first—maybe it was you, maybe it was him—but suddenly your hand was sliding between you, dragging the rough line of his zipper down.

You could feel how hard he was already, straining through the fabric, and Bucky hissed through his teeth when your fingers brushed him.

“Christ,” he groaned, forehead dropping to your shoulder. “You want this here?”

Your answer was a breathless whisper at his ear: “Please.”

He growled—a deep, involuntary sound—and kissed you hard, teeth catching your bottom lip. His hands scrabbled at your sweatpants, pushing them down just enough, just enough for what mattered.

Yours were still wrapped around his waist, heels digging into the small of his back, urging him closer. Always closer.

There wasn’t time for finesse. Only need.

Only him.

You reached between you, helping him free himself, guiding him, your hands shaking. And when he slid inside, it was one motion. No hesitation. Like your bodies had been waiting for this, just this, for years.

The stretch made your head fall back against the wall with a soft cry.

“Oh, God—Bucky—”

“Shh,” he whispered, eyes locked on yours, one hand cupping your jaw while the other gripped your thigh like an anchor. “I’ve got you.”

And then he moved.

Slow at first, dragging his hips back and thrusting in again with enough force to make your breath hitch. The friction of clothes, the roughness of denim, the press of your back against the wall—it all made everything hotter, messier. You weren’t supposed to be doing this. Not here, not like this.

But it felt like coming home.

He was panting against your neck now, lips moving over your skin like he couldn’t decide whether to kiss you or devour you. His hips snapped forward harder, deeper, making you cry out and cling to him.

“Fuck,” he rasped. “You feel like—like I’ve been dreaming of you. And this is better.”

You arched into him, nails digging into his shoulders. “Don’t stop.”

“I’m not stopping,” he said, voice hoarse. “Not until you come. Not until I know you remember this every time you look at me.”

He was unraveling. You could feel it in the way his thrusts grew less controlled, how he trembled against you, how his breath turned ragged. Your own climax was building fast—too fast—but you chased it, grinding down against him as he thrust up, again and again.

When it hit, it was a wave that crashed hard, stealing your breath and your voice. You bit into his shoulder to stay quiet, and that did it for him—he gasped, buried himself deep, and came with a broken sound that might’ve been your name.

His forehead dropped to yours as the both of you shook through the aftershocks, your hands still clutching at each other like it wasn’t enough. Like it would never be enough.

The only sound in the room was your shared, panting breath.

And neither of you moved.

────────────────────────

Your back still tingled from where it had met the wall—hard, unforgiving, but so forgotten beneath the ache of Bucky's body pounding into yours just moments ago.

You barely remembered how you got to your bed. One moment, his hands were gripping your thighs, his breath hot against your neck, his voice wrecked as he whispered how good you felt around him—and now you were sprawled across soft sheets, still trembling.

You were flushed, chest rising and falling in uneven breaths, your lips swollen from his kisses and your thighs still parted, slick and sensitive from the way he just claimed you like he’d been waiting his whole life.

You were floating. Light. Feral with afterglow.

And then you saw him.

He was standing at the edge of your bed, chest rising in deep, uneven breaths. His eyes were locked on you—burning, stormy, like he wasn't quite done being wild.

His pants hung low on his hips, the fly undone, the muscles of his abdomen flexing with every breath. His metal hand was clenched at his side like he was holding back, barely.

You blinked up at him, still dazed, lips parting. “Bucky…? What are you doing?”

His jaw ticked. A muscle beneath his cheek jumped. He looked you up and down like he was trying to memorize the sight of you ruined and open for him. “I’m not finished with you yet.”

Your breath caught.

He shedded the rest of his clothes with slow, deliberate movements—like he was daring you to look away. You couldn't. You wouldn't. His body was all hard lines and shadows, the silver glint of his vibranium arm catching the low light as he crawled onto the bed.

“Did you really think one time was enough?” he murmured, eyes never leaving yours as he moved between your legs. “After how long I’ve wanted you? After what you do to me?”

You tried to answer, but your words dissolved into a gasp as he began undressing you—slowly almost reverently, his hands pulling your top over you head, his mouth brushing the newly revealed skin. He dragged your panties down your thighs, kissing each inch of your skin as he exposed it.

You whimpered as his hands pushed your legs apart, his mouth hovering just above your soaked center. He kissed the inside of your thigh, then the other, teasing, soft, then biting just enough to make you jerk.

Then he looked up at you—hair messy, pupils blown wide, lips red from earlier kisses—and said, “I need to taste you.”

And then he did.

His tongue touched you like a man possessed—like he was starved for you, like this was the only thing that would calm the storm raging inside him. The first long, slow lick made your hips jerk off the bed, a moan punching from your lungs before you could stop it. He groaned into your cunt, his hands—one metal, one flesh—gripping your thighs, holding you open, keeping you there.

“God, you taste so fucking good,” he rasped between licks, his voice muffled and desperate. “I could die like this. Right here. With you.”

He buried his face between your thighs, tongue plunging into you, then swirling up to your clit, his mouth wet and eager and relentless. He ate you out like he was drunk on you, like each moan you made was gasoline and he was the match. His metal fingers dug into your skin, grounding you, steadying you as his pace grew more frantic, more desperate.

You were already close again, still oversensitive from before, but he clearly didn't care. If anything, he was chasing that—your twitching thighs, your gasping breaths, the way your fingers tangled in his hair and yanked when it got too much.

“Come for me,” he whispered against you. “Let me feel it.”

He sucked your clit, fingers slide inside you without warning—two of them, thick and curling just right—and that was it.

You broke.

Your orgasm ripped through you like lightning, spine arching, a choked sob tearing from your throat as everything inside you contracted around him. You were shaking. Panting. Utterly wrecked.

And still, he didn't stop.

Not until you were whimpering, tugging at his hair, begging.

Only then did he pull back, lips and beard shiny with you, chest heaving, eyes wild with satisfaction.

“Fuck,” he breathed, crawling up your body, kissing your throat, your jaw, your mouth—letting you taste yourself on his tongue. “I’m never gonna get enough of you.”

Bucky stared at you like you were something sacred. Like he couldn't believe you were real. Like he was terrified this would disappear if he looked away.

His metal hand, now sleek and Wakandan-forged, cradled your cheek as his thumb swept across your skin. You leaned into the touch—there was nothing cold about it. Not anymore. Not when it was his.

He pressed his forehead to yours, breath ragged. “I didn’t think I’d ever get this again.”

“This?” you whispered, still breathless. “You mean… me?”

He nodded his head slowly. “Peace. Softness. Wanting something. Wanting you.”

You didn't say anything. You just kissed him again. Slow. Deep. Letting your lips speak all the things words couldn't. That he wasn't broken. That he wasn't just what they made him. That you saw him.

He exhaled like it was the first full breath he’s taken in years.

Then he reached down, wrapped a hand around his cock—still hard, still aching—and slid it through your slick folds. You were so wet for him, still pulsing, your thighs sticky with your own release and his from before. He groaned, the sound low and raw in his throat.

“Bucky…” you whispered, arching your hips toward him, needing him inside you again—slow this time, deep, drawn out until it’s unbearable.

“I’ve got you,” he murmured. “I need to feel you again.”

He lined himself up, one hand braced beside your head, the other gripping your hip—not to restrain, but to hold himself steady. He pushed forward, just the tip breaching you. You gasped at the stretch, and his eyes fluttered shut, jaw clenched so tight he might crack a tooth.

“Fuck… You’re still so tight,” he muttered, forehead pressed to yours again. “You feel like heaven.”

He inched in deeper, groaning as your walls clung to him, as if your body was reluctant to ever let him go. He kept his pace achingly slow, giving you time to feel every inch of him sliding inside—filling you again, this time without the rush. No frenzy. Just presence. Just him.

When he bottomed out, both of you froze.

He stayed there for a long breath, forehead against yours, breathing your air.

Then he began to move.

The rhythm was unhurried, sensual—his hips rolling in slow, deliberate thrusts. Deep and full, every stroke brushing places inside you that made your toes curl. His cock dragged against your walls like he was trying to leave an imprint, like he wanted your body to remember him.

Your fingers slid over his back, tracing the line of his spine, digging into his shoulder blades when a particularly deep thrust made you moan.

He smiled against your jaw. “Yeah… that’s it. I wanna hear you.”

He was whispering now—dirty things, soft things, things that sounded more like worship than filth.

“Feel so good wrapped around me… like you were made for me…”

“Can’t believe this is real. You—under me—letting me have you like this…”

“I’m not gonna rush this. Not when I’ve waited this long…”

And then he shifted—just slightly—and hit that perfect spot inside you that made your vision blur. You gasped, nails biting into his skin, and he groaned like he was unraveling.

He leaned back to look at you, watching your face as he moved inside you. The way your lips parted, your brows knitted, your hips lifted to meet his.

“You’re so beautiful like this,” he murmured. “So fucking beautiful.”

Your legs wrapped around his waist, pulling him deeper, keeping him close. He adjusted his angle, going deeper still, and you both moaned—low, guttural, lost in the feel of it.

The tension built again, slow and steady. Not a crashing wave this time—but a tide, rising and rising, until it’s all you could feel.

You were close. He knew it. He could feel you clenching around him, see your eyes fluttering, your moans growing more desperate.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered. “Come with me.”

And when you did—when you fell apart under him, soft and shaking, moaning his name like it was the only word you’ve ever known—he followed, hips stuttering, a strangled groan tearing from his throat as he spilled inside you for the second time that night, his body shuddering with the force of it.

He collapsed onto you gently, his weight warm, grounding. His metal arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you tight to his chest. He kissed your collarbone, your cheek, the corner of your mouth.

Neither of you spoke for a moment.

He didn’t move.

And neither did you.

Not for minutes. Maybe more.

The weight of his body on yours was grounding, not stifling—his arms wrapped around you like you were something he’d waited too long to hold, and now that he had you, he couldn’t let go.

You traced lazy, absent-minded circles over the back of his shoulder with your fingertips. Felt the faint line of the scars that connected to metal. A ridged edge from something long healed, but never really gone.

He sighed against your skin. A deep, almost trembling sound. Like the tension had finally broken loose from inside his chest.

“I keep thinking I’ll wake up in Wakanda again,” he murmured. “Like all this’ll vanish. The case, you… this.”

You turned your head toward him, your cheek brushing his. “It’s real.”

He nodded, barely.

“I didn’t think I deserved this,” he said. “Not after everything.”

You felt your throat tighten, but you didn’t speak. Just kissed the side of his head, soft and slow.

Eventually he shifted—easing onto his side beside you, never more than inches away. His arm draped over your waist, his leg still tangled with yours. His forehead pressed gently to yours as if he needed that last point of contact to stay grounded.

No space. No distance.

And still—neither of you let go.

Your fingers brushed gently along the metal of his forearm, slow and absent. The room was dim now, the only light coming from the hallway through the cracked door. His breathing had evened out, his eyes half-lidded, but you could tell he wasn’t asleep. Not yet.

“Bucky,” you murmured.

He hummed in response, barely moving.

“What are you gonna do now?”

He didn’t answer right away. You didn’t push.

Eventually, he exhaled. “I don’t know.”

You waited.

“I think Steve and Sam… they’re still going to do it. The work,” he said. “Even without the Avengers. Even without the titles. They can’t not help people.”

“And you?” you asked gently.

He turned his head, eyes meeting yours in the dark.

“I don’t think I want to fight anymore.”

There was no shame in his voice when he said it. Just exhaustion. Honesty.

You nodded, quietly. “Then don’t.”

He shifted a little closer, brushing his thumb over your hip.

“I just want to be,” he said, voice low. “Not a soldier. Not a weapon. Not someone to be fixed. Just… a person.”

Your heart tugged painfully at the simplicity of it. The longing buried in those few small words.

“Maybe,” you said after a moment, voice light but not careless, “you could stay in New York.”

Bucky didn’t respond at first. You felt him shift slightly, just enough to brush his nose against your hair.

“You’re from Brooklyn,” you added, teasing gently. “You’re practically built for rooftop fire escapes and overpriced bagels.”

That pulled a faint huff of laughter from him, the sound rumbling in his chest where it pressed against your cheek.

Then, softer—almost shyly: “I’ve taken a liking to Hell’s Kitchen.”

You smiled into the dark. “That so?”

He shifted, the tip of his nose brushing your forehead. “It’s loud, messy… smells like fried food and bad decisions most nights.”

You laughed—quiet, tired. “Accurate.”

“But it’s honest,” he added, voice softening. “People look you in the eye here. They don’t pretend not to see you.”

You swallowed, eyes on the ceiling. “Yeah. It’s rough around the edges, but it doesn’t lie to you.”

He was quiet for a beat. Then, “I need that. Somewhere that doesn’t look away when I walk by.”

You turned slightly to face him. “You don’t scare people here.”

“I used to.”

“You don’t scare me.”

His eyes found yours in the dark. There was something unguarded in them now—exhaustion, yes, but something gentler too. Something you hadn’t seen on his face since Berlin.

“Not even a little?” he asked.

You shook your head. “You’ve never scared me.”

He watched you a moment longer, like he was searching for a reason to disagree. But he didn’t find one.

The quiet was broken by the low buzz of your phone vibrating insistently from somewhere in the living room

You didn’t move. Just let out a soft groan and nuzzled further into the warmth of Bucky’s chest, tucking your face into the curve of his neck like you could block the whole world out.

“Just ignore it,” you murmured, lips brushing his skin. “It’s probably Matt. Again.”

Bucky’s hand slid slowly along your spine, his touch soft, deliberate.

“He’s been calling?”

You gave a faint nod. “And texting.”

There was a pause. Then Bucky pulled back just enough to look at you, brow furrowed.

“Texting?”

You opened one eye, smiling faintly at the confusion written across his face. “It’s a thing called voice typing, honey. Blind people use it. Revolutionary stuff.”

He huffed—quiet, but amused—and let his head fall gently back to the pillow.

“Still weird,” he mumbled. “Didn’t think he’d be that tech-savvy.”

You sighed, lifting your hand to lazily trace circles over his chest. “He’s not. Every message ends up with an accidental comma or two dozen typos.”

Bucky was quiet for a moment, his hand resting warm against your waist.

Then, almost reluctantly: “He was at Josie’s. When I left. I saw him.”

You blinked, but didn’t sit up.

“He looked… rough,” Bucky continued. “Like he’d been in a fight with a brick wall, and lost. Cuts, bruises. Said he’d been in an accident.”

You gave a small, tired laugh. “Matt’s always getting himself into accidents.”

“Does he?” Bucky asked, not pushing, just curious.

“Mmhm. Staircases, doorframes, the occasional wall,” you muttered. “Clumsy as hell.”

Bucky tilted his head slightly, lips brushing your hair. “He apologized to me. For not showing. Said he should’ve been there. That it wasn’t fair to me. Or you.“

You went quiet at that and after a moment, you sighed, resting your head more comfortably against Bucky’s chest.

“I’ll forgive him,” you said, voice softer now. “Sooner or later. I always do.”

Bucky’s hand paused on your back.

Then, carefully—like he wasn’t sure if he wanted the answer or not—Bucky asked, “You and him… were you ever a thing?”

You blinked, pulling back just enough to look at him. His tone was neutral, but you could see it in the tension around his jaw. The quiet way his eyes avoided yours for a beat too long.

Your brows pulled together. “What?”

He didn’t respond immediately, just glanced away toward the dark corner of the room like it might have the answer.

“You’ve been around us for a year,” you said, still trying to wrap your head around it. “You thought me and Matt were—”

“There’s obviously something,” he cut in, not defensive, just… honest. “There’s history.”

You watched him for a moment. Then sighed, laying your head back against his chest, cheek pressed to the space just beneath his collarbone.

“Of course there’s history,” you murmured. “We grew up together at Saint Agnes Orphanage. Sister Maggie basically drilled it into us that we were each other’s family. We were each other’s shadow for years.”

There was a pause. A breath of quiet between you.

“But,” you added, a wry smile tugging at your lips, “we’re also excellent at driving each other completely insane.”

That earned a small chuckle from him, low in his chest. His hand resumed that slow, absent stroke along your spine. But you could still feel it—that little line of worry sitting tight in his silence.

“I love him,” you said softly. “I do.”

His hand stilled again.

“But not like that. Not ever like that.”

The quiet stretched again. You thought maybe he’d fallen asleep.

Then, softly—not a question. Just a realization.

“You’re an orphan.”

You nodded slowly against his chest. “Yeah.”

There was another pause, longer this time.

His hand kept tracing that steady path along your spine. You could feel how the air around him shifted—not cold, not distant, just… deeper. Like he'd stepped into something personal without meaning to.

“Matt, Foggy, Karen…” you said softly, “they’re my only family.”

There was a pause. A soft breath between two heartbeats.

“Maybe not anymore,” Bucky said.

You stilled.

The air shifted again—warmer, somehow heavier—like the room had shrunk to only the space between you.

His hand didn’t stop its quiet movement across your back. His voice, when he spoke again, was softer. More certain.

“You were the first person to treat me like I wasn’t a machine. Like I wasn’t dangerous. You looked at me like I was still a man… even when I didn’t believe it myself.”

You didn’t move. Just listened.

“You didn’t try to fix me,” he went on. “You didn’t flinch. You didn’t pity me. You just… saw me. And that night in Berlin—when I was breaking—you didn’t pull away. You pulled me back.”

Your fingers tightened slightly against his side.

“That never left me,” he whispered.

And that’s when it slipped out—bare, breathless, and truer than anything you’d said all night.

“You make it really hard not to fall in love with you when you say things like that.”

It was barely above a whisper. But it landed heavy between you.

Bucky didn’t flinch.

He just looked at you for a long, aching moment. Eyes open. Jaw tight with something deeper than tension.

Then, quietly, like it cost him something—but he gave it freely anyway:

“Maybe that's not such a bad thing.”

You didn’t have time to respond.

Because his mouth was on yours again—slow, sure, steady. Nothing like before. This kiss didn’t burn. It settled. Deep into your chest, into the space where grief and guilt used to live. It didn’t ask for anything. It just was.

Because now, unlike that night, there was no looming mission. No stolen hours. No fight waiting outside the door.

Now, he was free.

And he had time.

All the time in the world.

With you.

Two nights after your call with James. The call still lingered in you. Now, on that Thursday night, the office was quiet. The right silence to wandered back with your memory.

Already Wednesday morning when you came down from you high with James.

You quickly dressed again and went out of your office. You met Dylan in the lobby of the building where the company was. Legs wobbling and core throbbing. You began picturing your neighbor’s face when James began to call you sweetheart. His broad shoulder. His strong biceps. You were so desperate. His voice lingered in your mind. You heard your name, and then a hand on your arm.

“Want to grab a drink. Let’s say today,” he forced the tone on today.

What a loser with this joke, you though.

“You know… well, dinner if not-?” Dylan asked you. You almost didn’t catch a word he was saying. “So, a drink or a dinner?”

Dylan, with his eternal crush, invited you. You said yes, but still refusing his passage with his car, more out of pity.

So that’s how you spent your Wednesday. Once the car left you home, you felt asleep. Mid morning, was the time when you woke up. You stayed in bed, you hand began to wandered down touching yourself during, then taking a shower, then touched yourself again. As the tip of the dildo you have in your side bed’s drawer pointed at your hole, you moaned James’s name. Then you were picked up by Dylan.

You grabbed a couple of drink, then you brought him home. He insisted driving you to the office, but you refused. A desire in you needed to be satisfied. You had sex, once you got to your home. Or at least he had sex. You remained there, laying on the bed and faking as you usually did.

But not with James, you though.

Dylan came on your stomach. Some little drops on your skin. You cleaned himself and guiding him at the door. He was so full of himself, he didn’t notice how you didn’t even came. He wasn’t working that night. You got back in the bedroom. Legs spread open and fingers circling your clit. “Please… James…” You moaned. You came in an instant.

You took a look at the clock; 10 o’clock. You cleaned yourself better and dressed, waiting for the car. It arrived 30 minutes later. You got up looking at his house.

Bucky, that night, didn’t call. He didn’t reach for you. Your night was calm; some clients wanting to know what you’d do if you were with them, a boy saying ‘ops my mistake’ when you picked up.

“You need to pay, kid. How could you made a mistake…” You muttered to yourself, waiting for the shift to end.

Back with you mind in your office, you noticed you barely had a lull in calls tonight but something flashed on the screen and your pulse spiked.

Incoming call: unknown

You glanced at the clock. You knew it was him. Your stomach fluttered. You’d expected him to call again eventually, but seeing the line light up sent a shiver down your spine. You clicked to answer. You shoot your shot. “Hello, James,” you greeted, soft and teasing. “I wasn’t expecting to hear from you so soon.”

Hearing no sound on the other side, made you believe you made a mistake and that wasn’t James calling. There was a small pause. “Don’t talk unless I tell you to.”

Your chest skipped a beat, heat pooling low. This wasn’t a question. Not really. A low chuckle rumbled through the line. “Thought I’d check in,” he said, voice calm, confident, and… commanding. The raw vulnerability of the first night was replaced by a quiet, self-assured hunger. “I’m… feeling a little more restless than usual. Thought I’d see if you were available.”

“I am,” you said. Heart quickening.

“Are you… alone?” he asked.

“Completely,” you confirmed. “No one else around.”

A pause, then he talked. “Good. I want you to follow my instructions tonight. Only speak when I tell you.”

Your pulse jumped. The sharpness in his tone sent heat coiling low in your belly. “Yes, sir,” you breathed.

A small, pleased chuckle. “Good girl.” You felt your thighs tighten. “Sit up straight,” he instructed. “Hands on the desk.”

“Yes, sir,” you obeyed, letting your movements be slow, deliberate. The headset amplified your soft, obedient response.

“Good,” he murmured. “Do you remember the first time you told me about… your drawer?”

A faint blush crept up your neck. “Yes, sir,” you said, careful to keep your voice soft and respectful.

You remembered it clearly. The first night he’d called you. Nervous, unsteady, desperate for something he didn’t even have the words for yet. “Do you… ever… use toys?” He’d asked cautiously, voice low, rough around the edges. He could barely believe he was saying it aloud. There had been a pause.

A soft inhale from your side of the line. “Yes,” you had admitted, voice teasing, soft, almost playful. “I… have a drawer. A small collection. Company policy says it’s available if… the occasion calls for it.”

He had choked on his breath at that. The words alone were enough to make his pulse spike, and the thought of you… you, consenting, playful, daring, with a drawer full of your little secrets, was intoxicating.

Now he was a completely different man. “Perfect,” he said, low and approving. “Tonight might call for them.”

Your hand twitched under the desk. You didn’t dare move yet, waiting for his next command.

“Stand,” he ordered. You obeyed, legs shaking slightly. The office chair rolled against the floor. “Good. Now,” he continued, voice deepening, deliberate, “I want you to start touching yourself. Slow. I want you to tell me when your fingers are wet.”

“Yes, sir,” you whispered. The heat built immediately. You could hear his breathing on the other end, steady, almost predatory. He didn’t speak unnecessarily, just gave instructions and you followed.

“Lower your voice. I don’t want to hear anything except your confirmation,” he said.

“Yes, sir,” you murmured again, letting your fingers trace your clothes, careful to keep it slow, teasing, exactly as he wanted.

“Strip first.” he ordered.

You obeyed, fingers trembling as you peeled off your clothes, the room suddenly hotter than it had been a moment ago. “Tell me what you’re doing.”

“I’m unbuttoning my jeans… they’re sliding down my legs,” you said. He growled in your ear. “Now I-I’m removing the shirt.”

“Slowly.”

Piece by piece, you were bare. Standing naked in your office and with a moaning man in your ear. You nipples hard, claiming attention, but you didn’t dare to move.

“Good girl,” he murmured, approvingly. “Do you want to use that toy?”

Your pulse skipped. “Yes, sir,” you said quickly.

Too quickly.

Your desk drawer opened, fingers trembling slightly as you pulled out the sleek toy. Cold in your hands, almost vibrating with the thrill of his command.

“Remember,” he said, tone low and almost velvet, “I told you the first time… only speak if I give you permission. Everything else, just follow. Imagine me right there, watching you. I want you perfect for me.”

“Sir? Can I touch myself?” You asked.

“No.” He replied. You huffed. “What was that?”

“No-nothing…”

“Grab your nipples. Both of them,” he ordered you. You were almost thanking him. “Grip them harder. Pinch them. Let me ear you.” You grabbed your nipples, already hard. As he heard you, he ordered you something more. “I said harder. I wanna hear you whine. Grab those fucking nipples, doll.”

You did. Your cold fingers around them, gripping and pinching and pulling. Too sensitive and already too overstimulated, you whined. “Sir… please… it hurts…”

“Good.” He growled. “Stop,” he ordered suddenly. Your fingers froze, heart hammering. “Tell me you’re mine.”

“Yes, sir. I’m yours,” you whispered, voice barely audible, but firm.

“Now… touch yourself for me,” he commanded. “Harder. Make it obvious. I want to hear it.”

A soft, shuddering sound left your lips. “Yes, sir,” you whispered, following each word.

You felt alive, tethered only to his voice, his presence through the line, the sense that he could see everything from here. You spread your legs more, wider. You balanced with a hand on the desk while the other one traveled from your chest, nipples still hard, to your core. You barely grazed your folds, and you felt wetness all over you. He heard on the other line how you were touching yourself. The same wet sound from the last time. This time he maintained his control. He wouldn’t touch himself tonight. A soft sigh came through the line. “Good girl,” he murmured. “Already wet for me, aren’t you?”

You licked your lips. “Yes, sir.”

He breathed out slowly, satisfied.“Now,” he said softly, “say my name.”

“James.”

His inhale was sharp. Needful. Hungry. “Again.”

“James.”

His voice dropped to a dangerous whisper. “On your knees.”

You sank down instantly, the office carpet rough beneath your skin but the intimacy of the command drowning everything else out. He exhaled again slower this time, like the sound soothed something inside him.

“That’s better,” he murmured. “I like you like that.”

A flush crept across your chest. “Sir…?” Your voice trembled. “H-how do you know I’m doing all this? I mean… you can’t see me.”

His reply was immediate. Warm. Firm. Unshakably sure. “Oh, sweetheart,” he murmured. “I know because you don’t want to make me disappointed.” Your breath caught. His tone melted through you; not manipulative, not cruel, but devastatingly confident. “You wouldn’t lie to me,” he continued, voice steady as a heartbeat. “Not about this. Not when you’re already listening so well.” Your core pulsed at the praise. “And even if you tried,” he said, voice dipping lower, “I can hear everything.”

You froze. “H-hear everything?”

He hummed.“The way your breath changes when you move… the sound of your clothes shifting… the way your voice tightens when you’re turned on…”

With his super hearing, he was able to hear the smallest flinch in the space. You stroke your nipple? He heard it. You knelt down on the carpet? He heard the thumps on your legs. You swallowed hard. He was right. He did sound like a man who knew exactly what your body was doing. But he avoided the implication you were circling. “I don’t need to see you,” he said firmly. “I feel you. That’s enough.”

The explanation soothed you. It wasn’t logical, but emotional, intimate. You nodded even though he couldn’t see it. “Yes, sir.”

He hummed.“Good girl. Now reach into your drawer.”

Your hand shook as you slid the drawer open.“Yes, sir.”

“What do you have?” He asked, voice deep with interest. “Tell me exactly.”

You hesitated. “A bullet vibrator… and a silicone dildo.”

He groaned. A low, barely-there sound like gravel dragged over velvet. “Take the bullet,” he commanded. “Hold it in your hand.”

You obeyed. “It’s small,” you whispered. “And cold.”

“Warm it up then,” He commanded you.

You took the the bullet better in your hand. Tongue out and ready. You licked just as you imagining licking his cock. From the side to the other. From the base to the tip.

“Think of me sweet,” He told you.

“Already doing, sir.” You said suddenly. You almost expect him to ask you to punish yourself. He didn’t. He just moaned harder and deeper.

“Put it between your thighs… don’t turn it on yet.”

You did, gripping it lightly, letting the chill of the toy press against your heated skin.

“Now,” he said, tone deepening, “I want you to open for me. Spread your legs wider.” You gasped softly as you obeyed. “Wider.” Your breath hitched. “Good,” he said, satisfied. “If I were there, I’d put my hands on your thighs and keep them just like that.”

Your head spun.

“But for now… you’ll keep them open on your own. Won’t you, sweetheart?”

“Yes, sir,” you whispered.

“Say it again.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You’re doing so well for me,” he praised, voice like molten gold. “Now slide the bullet up… just a little. Let it kiss you.” You choked on a breath. “Slow,” he warned gently. “I want to feel your patience.” You pressed the bullet forward, its cool surface nudging your folds, and your body reacted with a quiet, helpless sound you couldn’t quite contain. You let the bullet kissing your clit, cold and hard.

You shivered. He heard it. Of course he did. “That’s my girl,” he murmured. “Now turn it on. The lowest setting.” Your thumb trembled as you clicked the button. The vibration buzzed softly. barely there but enough to make your hips jerk. “Slow,” he reminded. “Let it pulse against you. Hands behind your back. You’ll ride the bullet.”

You spread your knees more, balancing you. Hands behind your back, wrists grabbing onto each other. The base of the bullet touching the floor, helping you as you rode it.

“Hold it, for now.” He ordered. “Don’t move.”

You were already trembling. “Sir,” you whispered, “you’re… very demanding tonight.”

“Does that scare you?” He asked, voice impossibly calm.

“No, sir.”

“Does it turn you on?”

You swallowed. “Yes, sir.”

“That’s what I thought.” A silence stretched, not empty but thick and saturated with desire. Then, “I’m not done with you yet,” he murmured. “Not even close.” Your lips parted, breath shivering. “Now,” he said slowly, “you’re going to grind on that toy. Just a little. Don’t move your hands. Don’t speak.”

You obeyed rocking gently, barely moving, but enough for the vibration to slide over you in maddening increments. Your breath came quick and shallow. You wanted to beg. You wanted to say please. But he hadn’t given you permission to speak.

“Good girl,” he whispered. “I can hear how close you’re getting already.” You whimpered quiet, desperate, involuntary. “That’s it,” he praised. “Use your body for me. Let me feel how badly you want to come.” You were shaking now, thighs quivering. “Stop.”

You froze instantly. The denial ripped a quiet gasp from your throat. You tuned off the bullet.

He chuckled dark, warm, approving, hearing the now silent toy. “I knew you’d stop right away,” he murmured. “Because you want to please me.”

“Yes, sir,” you breathed, voice trembling.

“And because you know…” He added softly, “I’ll let you come when I want you to.” Your whole body pulsed. “Lie down, sweetheart.” Your breath caught. “You heard me,” he said, that calm, unshakable command sliding directly into your core. “On the floor. Back flat against the carpet. Now.”

You obeyed immediately, lowering yourself to the ground, the rough fibers teasing your back, your thighs still sensitive and aching. “Good…” he whispered. “Now spread your legs.” Your knees fell open. “Wider.” You obeyed until the stretch burned. “That’s it,” he murmured. “Now put one foot up on the chair. Make it wider for me. I want you completely open.”

Your heel lifted, resting against the edge of the chair seat, hips tilting slightly, opening you in a way that felt both vulnerable and… perfect.

He exhaled sharply into the phone. He liked this. He liked imagining you like this.

Or… he wasn’t imagining, was he?

“Yes, sir…” you whispered.

“You look perfect,” he murmured. Your heart stopped. He said it like he could see you. Before you could ask, he continued smoothly, voice low and knowing. “Legs open, pussy swollen, breath all shaky… yeah. I know exactly how you look right now.”

Your throat tightened. “Sir… are you-”

“Shh.” His voice cut through, soft but absolute. “No questions.” A pause. “You don’t want to make me sad, do you?” Your breath hitched. “No, sir.”

“That’s my girl,” he whispered. Silence stretched for two beats. You felt it in your chest, in your stomach, between your legs. “Now reach down,” he instructed. “Two fingers. Slide them over yourself.” You gasped softly the moment you touched your slick folds. “Slow,” he warned.

“Yes, sir.” You dragged your fingers through your wetness, agonizingly slow, thighs trembling where they were spread wide apart.

“I can hear that,” he murmured, something dark and hungry in his voice.

“Yes, sir…”

“Rub your clit in little circles.” You obeyed. The pleasure shot through your body immediately. Your hips lifted off the floor. “Keep your leg on the chair,” he warned. “I want you open exactly like that.” You planted your heel firmly on the seat to stay in place. “Good girl… fuck, you’re doing so well.” Your breath hitched. “Now push your fingers inside,” he ordered. Your slickness made it easy, your walls clenching around your own touch. “Slow. Feel how tight you are?” he whispered. “You’re tight because you’re mine. This body listens to me.”

A small moan escaped before you could stop it. “I heard that,” he said, voice dropping even lower. “Don’t pretend you didn’t mean it.” Your hips rolled instinctively. “That’s it,” he whispered. “Fuck yourself slowly. I want to hear how good it feels.”

He gulped. You didn’t even notice that. You scissored your fingers inside your heat, curling them slightly, your other leg trembling on the carpet. “Good girl… now deeper.” You pushed your fingers deeper, back arching. Your fingers curled instinctively, pleasure sparking through your belly. “Slow down,” he ordered.

You instantly obeyed. Your hips stilled on the carpet, your leg shaking where it rested on the chair. “That’s it,” he whispered, approval thick and warm. “God, you’re so easy to read… I can tell exactly when your breath catches. Exactly when your fingers go deeper. Exactly how wet you are.”

You swallowed hard. “Sir… how-”

“Don’t ask,” he cut in gently. “Just listen.” His voice dropped, deliciously dark. “I don’t need to see you to know you’re beautiful like this.” Your fingers slid inside yourself again, slow and needy, your other hand gripping the carpet. “Wider,” he commanded softly. Your leg strained farther, exposing yourself completely. “That’s my girl,” he whispered. “Stay open. Don’t close up.” Your breath came out shaky. “I can picture you perfectly,” he continued, voice lowering to a slow, intimate rumble. “Back on the carpet… one leg up on the chair… fingers deep inside… trying so hard to be good for me…”

A small gasp escaped you.

“Mmh,” he hummed. “There it is. I know that sound. That’s your I want to come for you, sir sound.”

Heat flooded you instantly. “Yes, sir…”

“Good girl. Keep your fingers where they are. Don’t change your pace. Let me guide you.” You followed every word. “I want you to press your thumb to your clit… slow circles. The way I know you like it.” Your body jolted at the sensation. “Good,” he murmured. “Let me hear it. Don’t hide from me.” Your breathing grew ragged, your hips lifting from the floor. “That’s it… keep going… stay spread for me… let me hear how good it feels…”

Your fingers trembled. “Sir-”

“Not yet,” he snapped softly. “Stay right where you are. Hold it.” Your whole body tightened. A beat of silence. Then his voice dropped to something rough, possessive: “You come when I say.”

“Y-yes, sir…”

“Now,” he said, barely more than a growl, “come for me. Right now. All of it. I want to hear every second.”

Your orgasm hit so hard your back arched off the floor, your leg nearly slipping off the chair. You moaned openly, unrestrained, your fingers riding out every wave as he listened. “That’s it… that’s my girl… fuck, you sound perfect…” You collapsed back onto the carpet, trembling, chest rising and falling with shallow breaths.

Minutes passed before he spoke again. “You did so well,” he murmured, voice softer now, warm enough to melt you. “So obedient. So open. So perfect for me.” Your eyes fluttered closed.

“Are you still with me?” He asked you.

“Fuck yeah, sir.”

Bucky whispered. “Grab the dildo.”

You wrapped your hand around it; thick, heavy.

“I want to hear everything. And spread your legs back out,” he added. “Wider. I don’t care how sore you are.” Your thigh burned as you lifted your leg back onto the chair, stretching yourself open again. “Perfect…” he exhaled.

“I-I’m still there…sir.”

“Fuck, I can picture you.” You swallowed hard, heat blooming again between your legs. “Show me,” he said softly. “Touch yourself with it. Just the tip.” You dragged the head of the dildo down your folds, your breath shaking as the slick sound filled the quiet room. “Oh I heard that,” he groaned. “You’re dripping for me again, sweetheart.” Your hips instinctively rolled. “Stop,” he snapped.

You froze instantly. “…Good girl. I didn’t tell you to move.” You bit your lip.

“You have a pretty rough carpet under you… it’s scratching on the floor,” you tremble because it was true. “Now…” his voice dropped to a dark rumble. “Tap the tip against your clit. Slow. Gentle. Let me hear what it does to you.”

You did as he said. The soft sound of silicone against your swollen clit filled the phone line; wet, quiet, filthy. A broken moan escaped you. “Oh, that one…” he hissed. “That sound. Do it again.”

You did. And you moaned again, louder, unable to hold it back. “Fuck,” he growled. “You’re killing me.” Your thighs trembled. “Put it inside,” he said suddenly. “But only an inch. Don’t you dare take more than that.” Your body jerked at the command. Your hand guided the dildo down, and you pushed it in. just an inch. Your walls clenched around the stretch. A sharp gasp tore from your throat. “There it is…” he whispered. “I know that gasp. That’s your first stretch sound.”

Your breath trembled. “Hold it there,” he demanded. “Just like that. Let yourself feel how empty the rest of you is.” You whimpered. “Good,” he murmured. “Now take it…slowly.”

You sank the dildo deeper, inch by torturous inch, your body clenching around the shape. “That’s it…” he praised. “Let it fill you… let it open you up…” You moaned as you reached the halfway point. “Stop.”

You stopped, panting.

“How deep are you?” He asked.

“Half,” you breathed.

“Good girl. You sound so fucking tight.” Your hips twitched. “Now fuck yourself again,” he said, voice low and hungry. “Slow strokes. I want to hear the slide.”

You lifted it out an inch, then pushed it back in your slickness making the movement loud enough for the microphone. “Fuck…” Bucky exhaled. “Just like that. Don’t speed up. Stay slow for me.” Your free hand gripped the carpet. “Move your leg higher on the chair,” he ordered. “Open yourself even more for me.” You obeyed, stretching wider, the angle hitting deeper inside you. A choked moan broke from you. “There she is,” he murmured. “My pretty girl… stuffed full and obedient on the floor…”

Your pace faltered with pleasure.

“Don’t you stop,” he warned. “Not until I tell you.” You kept going, thrust after slow thrust, your body trembling as the pleasure built painfully slow. “Tell me how it feels,” he said softly.

“Full,” you gasped. “So full…it’s so…” Your voice broke.

He inhaled sharply, the sound vibrating through the phone. “Good girl…” he whispered, voice thickening. “Fuck yourself deeper.”

You slid the dildo to the base, your back arching off the carpet. A cry tore from your throat.

“Oh… fuck,” he groaned, voice cracking for the first time. “I can hear how deep that was.” Your whole body shook. “Do it again,” he commanded. “All the way in. I want to hear you fall apart.” You did. And you did fall apart; your voice, your breath, your control shattering into the microphone.

Your breathing was ragged, the dildo still buried deep inside you, your leg trembling where it rested on the chair. You were following every command perfectly. Slow, steady, obedient.

Too obedient.

Suddenly the desire hit louder, hotter, wilder than before. A surge of adrenaline shot through you, and without thinking, without permission, you moved. You pushed yourself up off the carpet. Hands landing on the floor, knees spreading, your back arching as you came onto all fours.

The new position drove the dildo deeper, the angle startling a sharp, cracked moan out of you. The microphone picked everything up. There was silence on the line. A silence that vibrated like danger.

“…sweetheart,” he finally said, voice dark. “What’s that noise?”

Your breath shook. He heard the carpet scratching again on the floor.

“I-I just…it felt…”

You couldn’t even finish. The pleasure stole the words. Dragging your arm behind you, you kept sliding the dildo inside you. “A-all… f-four… sir…”

He exhaled a long, slow breath that sounded like he was dragging his palm down his face. “You got on your hands and knees,” he said quietly, “without me telling you to.”

You swallowed. “I’m sorry, sir-”

“Don’t apologize,” he cut in, voice dropping another octave. “You’re not in trouble.” A beat. Metal clenching. “You just made me very, very hard.” Your thighs quivered. He let that hang in the air before he spoke again. “Describe what you look like right now.”

You inhaled shakily. “I’m on all fours,” you whispered. “Back arched. The dildo is…it’s dee-deeper than before.”

“How deep?”

“All the way in.”

A low, rough curse came through the speaker. “Fuck… I knew you’d look pretty like that.” You whimpered. “Move your knees apart,” he ordered softly. “Wider.” You did, trembling as your thighs stretched, opening yourself obscenely. “And lower your chest to the floor.” You sank down, your breasts pressing into the carpet, your ass lifting higher exposing the angle, the stretch, the way your body clenched around the toy. He inhaled sharply. “Jesus, sweetheart… I can hear how wet you are.” Your breath hitched as your hips rocked instinctively. Wet sounds heard in the silence of the office.

“Don’t move,” he snapped. You froze instantly. “Stay just like that,” he murmured. “Toy buried inside you. Chest down. Ass up. Dripping.” You whimpered again, heat pulsing through you. Then his tone changed. A low, commanding growl. “Now push back on it.” Your whole body jolted. “Go on,” he urged. “Use your hips. I want to hear you fuck yourself like that.”

You pushed backward, slow at first, and the dildo sank even deeper, the angle explosive inside you. A broken cry tore from your throat.

“Oh…there it is,” Bucky groaned. “That sound. That needy little sound you make when you’re being filled from behind.” You rocked again, harder, the wet slap of your body hitting the base echoing in the room and through the phone. His breath stuttered. “Again.”

You obeyed, pushing back harder, your hand clawing into the carpet, your moans raw and unrestrained. “Fuck…” he hissed. “I can hear how tight you are. You’re gripping that toy like it’s alive.” Your hips trembled as you pushed back again, harder this time, the pleasure almost violent. “Don’t stop,” he growled. “Not until you can’t hold yourself up.” You moaned, your arms shaking as you slammed back onto the dildo, each thrust sending sparks up your spine. “You’re doing so good for me…” His voice was low, reverent. “On all fours, taking it deep, just like I want you.” Your legs began to shake.

“Are you close?” he asked, voice tightening.

“Yes…” Your voice was cracked, desperate.

“Good. Keep going. And don’t you dare come until I say.”

Your whole body trembled, pleasure winding tight and merciless inside you as you thrust back again, again, again. “I can’t…I can’t…please…”

“Just a little more,” he rasped. “Keep going. I want you right at the edge for me.”

You whimpered, sobbed, thrust back again, limbs trembling violently. “Please…let me… let me…let me come…please…”

And his voice dropped into something dark and wrecked. “Come.”

The word detonated inside you. Your orgasm hit like a shockwave, ripping through your entire body. You growled, hands flying forward too late to catch yourself as you collapsed onto the carpet, your hips jerking uncontrollably, the dildo still deep inside you as you came around it.

“Oh fuck…” Bucky gasped in your ear. “Sweetheart…that’s it…let it happen…”

Your thighs shook, your body buckling, your breath breaking into sobbed moans as the orgasm tore through you in waves, each one stronger than the last.

“That’s my girl,” he whispered hoarsely. “That’s it. Come for me. Come hard. Don’t stop.”

You couldn’t stop. Your body convulsed, clenching around the dildo, riding it in helpless aftershocks. You collapsed fully, cheek pressed to the carpet, gasping. Your legs were still trembling uncontrollably.

“Good,” he whispered, breathless now. “So good… So fucking good for me.”

The silence was thick, charged, intimate. You lay there ruined shaking, the dildo still inside you still, on the carpet when his voice dropped into something you’d never heard from him before. Quiet, steady, careful.

“Hey… sweetheart,” he murmured. “Slow your breathing for me. Don’t rush.” You tried, inhaling brokenly through your nose. “That’s it,” he whispered. “Good girl. You did so well.” You felt heat prick behind your eyes. His tone was still deep, still rough, but all the sharp edges were gone. melted into warmth. “You okay?” He asked it softly, like he actually needed the answer.

You nodded before remembering he couldn’t see. “Yes… I’m okay.” Your voice shook.

“Yeah,” he breathed, relieved. “I can hear it. You’re coming down.” Your legs were still trembling. Your cheek was still pressed to the carpet. “Don’t move yet,” he said gently. “Just stay where you are. Let your body calm down.”

A pause. Soft. Warm. Close. “You did everything I asked,” he murmured. “Perfectly.” Your chest tightened. “And you sounded…” His breath hitched, like he was trying not to say too much. “You sounded incredible.” You swallowed hard. He let the silence settle a moment, comforting instead of charged.

“Do you need water?” he asked quietly.

“Maybe… in a minute.”

“Good.” A soft exhale. “I’m not hanging up until you get it.”

You closed your eyes. “Thank you,” you whispered.

His voice dropped to a tender murmur. “Of course I’ll take care of you.” A beat. “Always.”

Your heart squeezed at the tenderness in his voice. You didn’t mean to say the next words. They just… slipped out. “…I wish you were here.”

Silence. Not cold, just startled.

You swallowed. Then, soft and breathless. “James… I want to see you.”

His inhale was sharp. Not arousal, but panic. Fear. “No,” he said immediately.

Your chest sank. “Why not?” Your voice was small, raw. “I want to… I want to see you, I want to look at you, I want-”

“No.” His tone was still gentle, but the finality in it made your eyes sting.

“But I-” You didn’t even know what you were begging for.

His warmth?

His real touch?

The face behind the voice that kept you up at night?

You bit your lip, trying again. “Please… even just once. I want to know who you are.”

His voice cracked. “You can’t, sweetheart.”

You felt your throat tighten. “James-”

“No.” Softer this time, but unmovable. “I can’t let you see me. Not with who I am.”

Your heart thudded. “Who you are?” You whispered.

A long pause. You could hear him swallow on the other end. “You don’t understand,” he said quietly. “I’m not… someone you want to meet in person.”

“That’s not true.” It came out as a whine; embarrassing, desperate. But it was true. You wanted him. You craved him, voice and all.

“It is true,” he murmured. “If you knew the things I’ve done… you wouldn’t beg to see me. You’d run.”

You shook your head, tears slipping silently onto the carpet. “I wouldn’t,” you whispered. “James… I wouldn’t.”

A shaky exhale left him. “You’re sweet,” he said, almost painfully. “But you don’t know me. Not the real me. And I can’t-” His voice broke. “I can’t let you look at me like I’m something good.”

Your chest squeezed tight. “But I want to,” you whined softly. “I want you. I want to know you.”

He groaned quietly not with desire, but with frustration and longing. “Sweetheart…” His voice was a wound. “If you keep saying things like that, I’m gonna break.”

You closed your eyes. “So what?” You whispered. “You don’t want me?”

“God, I want you.” The confession hit like lightning. “You have no idea how much. That’s the problem.” A thick silence hung between you. He softened again, voice dropping to a tender whisper. “You can desire me,” he said. “I won’t stop you. But you can’t have me,” he added gently. “And I can’t have you.”

Your breath trembled. “But you still want me,” you murmured.

“…Yeah.” His voice was almost silent. “Yeah, sweetheart. I do.”

You sniffed, wiping your face. “Okay,” you whispered finally. Weak, aching, but accepting.

“Good girl,” he breathed. And you hated how much that praise soothed the ache in your chest.

“They’re the best,” Natasha said without hesitation. “They also hate each other,” Sam countered, raising a brow. “Last time they shared airspace, I thought she was going to strangle him with her own belt.”

“They don’t hate each other,” Steve said, but his tone wasn’t confident. Tony snorted. “No, they hate how much they understand each other. It’s worse.” Sam cleared his throat. “Can they at least pretend to cooperate? Or are we deploying World War III with stealth camo?”

“They’ll manage,” Steve said firmly, ignoring the look Tony gave him. “They’ve both led black ops. Both trained to compartmentalize. Whatever’s between them they’ll bury it for the mission.” Natasha gave a small, knowing smirk. “Or they’ll use it to get the job done faster.” Tony flicked to the next slide: blueprints of the Hydra outpost. “High-altitude drop, full winter gear. Satellite blackout zone. And if they’re compromised-”

“They’re ghosts,” Steve finished. “No rescue. No trace.”

Silence fell again. Finally, Tony exhaled. “Guess we’re betting the mission on gritted teeth and sexual tension.” Sam muttered, “This is gonna be a shitshow.” But no one disagreed.

AVENGERS COMPOUND -  GYM 

Grunts echoed off the padded walls. The rhythmic slap of fists on mats, the crack of limbs colliding sharp, clean, and focused. Y/N ducked under Bucky’s swing, sweat-slick and breathing hard. She twisted, leg sweeping toward his ribs, but he caught it with a grunt, tossing her off-balance. She rolled, came up in a crouch, and smirked. “Slowing down, Barnes.” He wiped a bead of sweat off his brow, metal fingers flexing. “I’m giving you a chance to keep up.” They circled each other again, bodies coiled like springs. Neither pulled punches. Neither gave ground.

Outside the gym, behind reinforced glass, the rest of the team watched from the mission briefing room. Steve folded his arms. “You’re sure about this pairing?” Natasha raised an eyebrow, glancing at the sparring match. “They’ll get it done. They always do.”

“But they’ll kill each other doing it,” Sam muttered, sipping coffee. Tony leaned back in his chair, watching Y/N shove Bucky back with a palm to the chest. “Or they’ll finally screw and get it out of their system.”

“Tony,” Steve warned. “What?” Tony grinned. “Tell me you haven’t noticed the tension. I’ve seen less eye contact in war zones.” Sam chuckled. “Still… it’s Hydra. Deep recon. Snow, low visibility, unstable terrain. This op needs the best.”

“And that’s them,” Nat said simply. “Like it or not.” Steve sighed, watching Bucky catch Y/N in a hold and pin her against the wall. She elbowed him in the ribs. He grunted, and she slipped free. “They’ll fight it,” Steve said quietly. “Each other. The mission. Everything.” Nat’s eyes narrowed, but her voice was sure. “Then they’ll survive it.”

Y/N’s breath came in short bursts, sweat glistening on her skin as she twisted into a takedown. With a sharp grunt, she hooked Bucky’s arm and shoulder-rolled him clean off his feet. He hit the mat hard, the thud echoing through the gym but before his back fully met the ground, his boot swept out low and fast, nailing her ankle just right. She yelped as her balance gave out, and a heartbeat later she was sprawled beside him, face-first on the mat. Both of them groaned, tangled in exhaustion and bruises, neither willing to admit the other got the last hit in. It was a draw. Again.

The door opened with a hiss of hydraulics. Steve entered first, arms crossed, expression unreadable. Behind him, Nat, Tony, and Sam filtered in, observing the sprawled pair with thinly veiled amusement. Steve arched a brow. “Kids. Shower. Briefing room. Now.” Y/N flipped onto her back, breathless. “You calling me a kid, Rogers?” Bucky snorted. “He meant me, obviously.” Tony smirked. “Sure, grandpa. C’mon, before you two make it weird.” Y/N and Bucky exchanged a glance competitive, lingering, electric but neither said a word. They both stood, brushed themselves off, and silently made for the locker rooms. Nat leaned into Steve as they left. “They’re going to love what’s coming next.” Steve just sighed. “They’re going to hate it.”

Y/N now showered stood near the window, arms crossed tightly over her chest. Eyes locked on the frost-streaked glass. She didn’t even flinch when the door opened. Bucky entered with that same grim tension he always carried before a mission jaw tight, shoulders squared, and gaze already wary the moment it landed on her. Steve followed a second later, holding a tablet. Natasha and Sam lingered by the doorway, exchanging a glance that practically screamed this is gonna be fun.

Steve didn’t waste time. “Hydra’s back in motion. Remote outpost in the Carpathians. Two or three high-value targets confirmed on site. We need them taken out, clean and quiet.” Y/N arched a brow without turning. “You’ve got half a dozen field agents who can do quiet. Why call us in?”

“Because it’s not just about infiltration,” Natasha said, stepping forward. “They’re building something. Biotech. Red Room–adjacent. You both have history with the programs involved.” Bucky’s tone was flat. “Who’s the lead?” Steve paused for half a beat. “Joint op. You and Y/N.” The silence hit like a thunderclap.

Y/N turned slowly, her eyes cold. “No.” Bucky’s brow furrowed. “I work alone.”

“Yeah, and I work with people who don’t get me shot,” Y/N snapped. Steve held up a hand. “We don’t have time for this. You two are the best option. You know Hydra’s playbook better than anyone else.” Bucky’s jaw clenched. “She doesn’t follow protocol.”

“And he doesn’t listen when someone smarter gives him orders,” Y/N shot back. Natasha sighed. “Look, no one’s asking you to hold hands and braid each other’s hair. We’re asking you to eliminate a target and survive.” Sam added under his breath, “And preferably without killing each other before extraction.” Steve stepped between them, calm but firm. “You’ve done this before. You don’t have to like it you just have to finish the mission.” Y/N stared at Bucky for a long, silent moment, something unreadable passing through her eyes. She scoffed and looked back at Steve. “Fine. But I’m not babysitting him.” Bucky’s voice was low. “Wasn’t planning on needing it.” Steve nodded, handing them both comm devices and the mission tablet. “Gear up. Wheels up in two hours. High-altitude drop, sub-zero conditions. You’ll be alone out there.” As the others filed out, Y/N and Bucky lingered behind tension thick enough to cut with a knife. “You stay out of my way,” she muttered, strapping the comm to her wrist. He didn’t blink. “Only if you don’t get yourself killed first.”

“Wouldn’t give you the satisfaction,” she said, brushing past him. He watched her go, eyes narrowing slightly. Not for the first time, he wondered if she was the only person on the planet who could get under his skin and still make his blood run hot. This mission was going to be hell. But he was already in it.

AVENGERS COMPOUND - ARMORY LOCKER ROOM

The metallic clatter of weapons and gear echoed faintly as Y/N adjusted the straps on her tactical vest. The cold metal of a knife sheath slid into place along her thigh. Focused. Silent. Tense. A soft footstep behind her didn’t make her flinch she already knew who it was. “I know it sucks, working with him,” Natasha said, leaning casually against a locker with her arms crossed. “Trust me. I’ve done it.” Y/N huffed. “Wasn’t planning on letting him slow me down.”

“You won’t,” Nat said easily. “But you should know… he respects you. Even if he shows it by growling like a rabid dog.” Y/N smirked, despite herself. “Charming.” Nat pushed off the locker and walked over, voice lowering. “Look I know it’s complicated. He gets under your skin. Pushes every button. But in the field? You two work like a loaded gun. Clean. Precise. Lethal.”

“That supposed to be comforting?” Y/N muttered, adjusting the clasp on her gloves. “No,” Nat replied. “It’s supposed to remind you: You don’t have to like him. But you can trust him especially when it counts.” Y/N didn’t reply right away. But her jaw unclenched.

MECHANICAL BAY - GEAR STAGING AREA

Bucky sat on the edge of a bench. Metal fingers worked methodically loading his gun, but his face was far from calm. Steve approached quietly, offering a small nod. “You packed?” Bucky slid the mag in with a sharp click. “Almost.”

“You don’t have to like her, Buck,” Steve said carefully, resting a hand on the back of the bench. “You just have to get the job done.”

“That’s the problem, Steve,” Bucky said, not looking up. “I do like her. On the field. She’s reckless, sharp, brutal. Like she knows exactly how far to go and then goes two steps past it.” Steve raised a brow. “Sounds familiar.” Bucky gave a dry laugh. “Yeah, well. Guess that’s what pisses me off.” Steve studied him for a beat. “You think she’ll be a liability?” Bucky finally looked up. His eyes were clear. Certain. “No. She’ll have my back, even if she wants to shoot me right after.” Steve gave a faint smile. “Then that’s all that matters.” As Bucky stood, sliding a knife into his belt and slinging a rifle over his shoulder, his gaze shifted to the snowy sky through the high windows. “She doesn’t know how dangerous she is,” he muttered. Steve clapped his shoulder. “Maybe that’s why you’re both still alive.”

AVENGERS COMPOUND - HANGAR BAY, NIGHT

The hangar was dark, lit only by the floodlights lining the floor and the sleek silhouette of the quinjet idling on the tarmac.  Y/N walked in first, boots echoing sharply against the concrete, each step steady and unbothered. Her gear was tight, efficient. A second skin molded to every curve and angle of her body. It wasn’t for show, and yet it had the effect of one. Tactical, precise, and effortlessly lethal. She didn’t look at Bucky as he approached from the other end of the bay, but she didn’t need to. She felt him. Like always. The weight of him. The quiet storm that trailed behind her in silence.

Bucky almost faltered. His eyes locked onto her, tracing the lines of her frame, the way the combat vest hugged her torso, the smooth stretch of her sleeves over lean, powerful arms. He told himself it was reflex, muscle memory from a lifetime of watching for threats, assessing allies. But it wasn’t that. Not really. It was her. She moved with purpose, like a loaded weapon, unaware — or maybe fully aware — of how every calculated movement pulled him in. Bucky knew better than to let his guard down, but around her, the lines blurred. Watching her, wanting her — it had become a habit he couldn't break.

He clenched his jaw and forced his eyes elsewhere, pretending to check his gear, but they always drifted back. Just a glance. Just one more. It was a facade, the way he acted around her. The cold nods. The gruff, impersonal words. He wore indifference like armor, because it was safer that way. But none of it was real. What he wanted — truly wanted — was her. Not just the version in combat boots and Kevlar, but all of her. The fire behind her eyes, the quiet strength, the way she never flinched around him, even when others did. He wanted to touch her like he wasn't afraid of breaking things anymore.

But for now, he just watched. Pretending it didn’t burn. Neither of them spoke. The rear ramp of the jet lowered with a hiss. Steve stood at the edge, arms crossed, watching them both like a parent sending his problem children off to boarding school. “You’ve got coordinates locked,” he said. “No comm chatter unless necessary. Target recon first. Elimination second. Extraction window is tight.” Y/N nodded once. “Copy.” Bucky just grunted. Checked his sidearm. They reached the ramp at the same time. Steve gave them a look half warning, half faith then stepped back.

“Don’t die,” he muttered. Y/N smirked. “I’ll try not to kill him.” Bucky didn’t respond. Just walked past her up the ramp, heavy boots thudding against the steel, each step a measured beat in the silence between them. It was Y/N’s turn to look. She hadn’t meant to — told herself she wouldn’t — but her eyes followed him anyway. The broad set of his shoulders beneath his jacket, the way his muscles moved under the fabric like coiled wire. Controlled. Contained. Always on the edge of snapping loose. There was something about the way he walked — like he carried centuries of weight in his spine and didn’t trust the ground not to give out beneath him. That same quiet tension that radiated off him when he stood too close. Like lightning in the air before a storm. She swallowed.

He wasn’t looking at her, and yet she still felt seen. Exposed, somehow. The way his silence said more than most men ever did with a full sentence. The way he kept his distance, but never really left her orbit. It was easier when he looked away. Easier to pretend none of it mattered. That her skin didn’t remember the sound of his voice or the rare, barely-there smile that threatened to undo her completely. But now, watching him climb the ramp — back rigid, jaw tight — Y/N felt something twist inside her. Because she knew the truth, whether he said it or not. He wanted her. And god help her, she wanted him too. But want was dangerous. Want got people killed. So she kept her hands to herself and her feelings locked behind walls even he couldn’t break through. At least, not yet.

Inside the jet, the atmosphere was colder than the sky outside. She slid into a seat, strapping in, while he took the bench across from her. Their knees almost touched. Almost. She didn’t look at him. He didn’t look away. The engines roared to life. The jet lifted off into the night. For a long moment, nothing but the hum of flight and the quiet rasp of breathing filled the cabin. Then Y/N finally spoke, voice low and calm. “Let’s get one thing straight.” Bucky arched a brow. “Go on.”

“I don’t like you.” Her eyes cut to his, sharp as glass. “But I trust what you can do.” His jaw twitched. A muscle ticked in his temple. He leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees. “Good,” he said. “Because I don’t like you either.” A pause. Then the faintest curve at the corner of her lips. “Perfect.”

The roar of the jet engines hummed low beneath the silence that had settled over the cabin. Mountains of white sprawled endlessly below them, wind currents buffeting the Quinjet like a steady heartbeat. Snow. Ice. Silence. Y/N sat strapped in, arms crossed, eyes fixed on the endless whiteness outside the small window. She hadn't said a word since takeoff. Bucky sat across from her, elbows resting on his knees, staring at the floor like it might open up and swallow him whole. He finally exhaled, slow and deliberate. “Listen, if…” Her head snapped toward him. Cold. Sharp. “If what, Barnes?” He looked up, met her eyes. And for once, there was no heat behind his stare — no sarcasm, no challenge. Just… sincerity. And something older. Wounded. “If you see something about the Red Room… memories, triggers, files—whatever,” he said quietly, “remember you’re not a Widow anymore.”

The silence stretched. She blinked. Once. Then twice. The cold edge in her gaze softened, just barely. “Same for you,” she said after a moment, her voice warmer now. Softer. “You were never him.” The corner of Bucky’s mouth twitched — not quite a smile, not quite a grimace. Just something real. “I know.” he said. But they both knew it was never that simple. The Quinjet rumbled on, slicing through the storm. And for the first time in a long time, they didn’t feel entirely alone with the weight they carried. They stared at each other. Steady. Electric. Two weapons locked in the same box, waiting to explode. Outside, the clouds swallowed the jet whole, and the mission began.

The quinjet touched down with a low hum, its engines cutting through the frigid mountain air like a blade. Snow drifted in thick, blinding sheets, settling in every crease of Bucky’s tactical gear as he stepped into the whiteout, rifle slung over his shoulder, jaw clenched tight. Y/N followed just behind him, checking her weapon one last time before pulling her hood over her head. The cold bit through everything, even their high-grade suits, but neither of them flinched. They weren’t here to get comfortable they were here to kill. “Target compound’s half a klick northeast,” she muttered, glancing at the tablet in her gloved hands. A grainy satellite image flickered on the screen squat buildings hidden beneath camouflage netting, high fencing barely visible beneath the snowdrifts. “Hydra’s ghosts are nesting again. Intel says two of the names on the watchlist are confirmed inside.” Bucky gave a tight nod but didn’t look at her. “We get in, eliminate the targets, and get out. No heroics.” She scoffed. “I wasn’t the one who tried to play human shield in Jakarta.” “And I wasn’t the one who ignored backup protocol in Prague,” he shot back, voice clipped. They fell into silence, trudging up the slope through the snow, both too stubborn to acknowledge the sting behind each other's words. They didn’t like working together. Never had. Too much alike. Too much history. But they were the best and when the mission was this delicate, this dangerous, the Avengers sent them anyway. Hydra wasn’t just regrouping they were testing limits again. Quiet, hidden cells scattered across the globe, rebuilding what was lost, piece by twisted piece. And the two assets best equipped to erase those pieces? Y/N and Bucky.

They reached the ridge twenty minutes later, breath fogging the air, snow clinging to their gear. The compound lay below, barely visible through the storm a few scattered figures moving between buildings, heat signatures glowing faintly in their goggles. Y/N dropped to her stomach behind a jagged outcrop of rock, pulling her sniper rifle into position. Her heartbeat slowed. Focus narrowed. They took different paths. “Three tangos out front. Two near the east gate,” she whispered into the comms. “Looks like shift change. This is the window.” But before she could take the shot, Bucky’s voice crackled in her ear low, firm, and already laced with tension. “You’re too exposed on that ridge,” Bucky’s voice crackled through the comms, rough with tension. “Pull back, now.” “Negative,” she replied, crouched low behind a jagged outcrop of stone. Snow whipped across her face like razors. “Targets in the open. I can take the shot.”

“Not with those thermals scanning the perimeter. They’ll spot you before your finger touches the trigger.”

“I know what I’m doing.” There was a pause. Then, clipped and sharp: “Copy that.”

She adjusted the scope, heart pounding. She could feel him fuming through the comms, but this was her op. She had led it from the beginning reconnaissance, planning, infiltration. Bucky was only there for backup, and his presence had been a thorn in her side from the first briefing. Too intense. Too observant. Too silent until he wasn’t then all bark and bite and frustrating, infuriating right. Still, she trusted her instincts. Until everything went to hell. The second her finger squeezed the trigger, the world lit up in red sensors flared, alarms screamed, and within seconds, a flood of heavily armed guards swarmed the compound. She dove for cover, adrenaline crashing into her system like lightning. “Fuck! I’ve been made-”

“I told you,” Bucky growled over the comms. “Fall back to point Echo. Now.”

“I can still-”

“No.” His voice snapped like a whip. “You stay and fight, you die. Move.” She hesitated just a second and that second nearly killed her. A blast tore up the snowbank beside her, spraying ice and debris across her face. She scrambled to her feet and ran, sprinting toward the treeline, heart thundering. Shots rang out behind her. They weren’t aimed at her. She skidded into cover just in time to see Bucky all muscle and fluid brutality drop from a ledge and take out three guards before they could follow. His movements were precise, lethal, beautiful in the worst possible way. “We’re clear,” he muttered. He eliminated all the guards, alone. He grabbed her arm and hauled her into motion without waiting for thanks. “You compromised the op,” he said through clenched teeth as they ran. “We improvise now.”

“And what? You’re in charge suddenly?” He stopped abruptly, backing her into a tree, his breath misting hot between them. “I don’t give a shit about rank. I care about getting us out alive. So yeah I’m in charge. Unless you want to bleed out in the snow.” She hated the way her heart jumped. Hated that she couldn’t argue because he was right. And when he turned and took off again, she followed without another word.

“You good?” he asked, voice lower now. Rougher. She glanced at him. Nodded. “Yeah.” But she wasn’t. Not really. Because even now standing in a battlefield of snow and blood and broken bodies she felt it. The tension. The pull. The urge to slam him against the nearest tree and scream out every unsaid thing with her mouth, her fists, her hips. And worse? She saw it in his eyes, too. He stepped even closer. She didn’t move. His voice was quiet, unreadable. “You disobeyed a direct order.” Her lip curled, defiant.

The snow crunched beneath their boots as they moved through the shadowed trees, the cold biting through their layers but doing nothing to cool the fire simmering between them. The moon hung low, casting pale light over the frozen landscape, every breath visible in the icy air. Neither spoke. Words felt useless—too sharp, too vulnerable. Y/N’s mind raced, every nerve alert, every glance at Bucky’s rigid posture a reminder of how close they were to the edge—of the mission, of each other. He led without looking back, silent and sure, like a predator confident in his path. She kept pace, matching his steps but keeping a careful distance. Their breaths rose and fell in uneven rhythm, and every so often, their eyes would meet—brief, charged flickers—before darting away like startled prey. The extraction point came into view—no quinjet waiting.

Bucky paused, scanning their surroundings once more before turning toward her. All that remained was a twisted, smoking wreck—shattered by Hydra’s ruthless strike while they’d been occupied. Y/N’s breath hitched as she took in the ruined craft, the blackened metal glowing faintly in the cold night. Bucky cursed under his breath, fists clenched tight. Without hesitation, he pulled out his comm and dialed Tony. The static crackled before Tony’s voice came through, strained but calm. “Bucky, we saw the attack. The quinjet’s a total loss.”

“What’s the plan?” Bucky asked, scanning the dark tree line. Tony sighed. “Weather’s worsening. Visibility’s dropping fast. You’re stuck there for the night. Find shelter, stay low. I’m sending reinforcements at first light.” Y/N swallowed hard, the weight of their predicament settling like ice in her stomach. Bucky’s jaw tightened. “Copy that. We’ll hold position.” He ended the call and looked at Y/N. His voice was low, clipped. “No extraction tonight. We find cover, keep watch. This just got a hell of a lot more complicated.” She nodded, heart pounding—not just from cold or danger, but from the way his eyes held hers—dark, fierce, and raw. The night was far from over.

The wind howled through the trees, slicing cold air through their layers as they trudged deeper into the woods. Snow crunched beneath their boots, every step echoing in the stillness around them. Bucky scanned the darkness ahead, muscles tense, eyes sharp for any sign of danger—or refuge. Y/N’s breath came out in frosty clouds, her fingers numb despite the gloves. The chill wasn’t just from the weather anymore. After what felt like hours, a faint light flickered through the trees—warm and steady, a beacon in the cold night. They exchanged a quick glance, silent agreement. Moving cautiously, they approached the source: a small, weather-beaten cabin tucked among the pines, smoke curling gently from its chimney. The house looked abandoned, but sturdy—just enough to shield them from the storm. Bucky reached the door first, pressing his ear against the wood before turning the handle slowly. The hinges creaked, but the door gave way.

Inside, the air was stale but dry. Dust motes danced in the weak glow of a lone lantern hanging from the ceiling. Y/N stepped in, closing the door behind them, shutting out the storm—and the world outside. Bucky dropped his pack with a thud and locked the door behind them.

“We’ll make do,” he said, eyes already searching for firewood or anything useful. Y/N nodded, muscles still taut but a flicker of relief warming her. For now, they had shelter. But the night was still young—and so was the storm between them. Inside, after the door slammed shut behind them, Bucky turned slowly to face her. “You’re welcome,” he said, voice low and bitter. “I didn’t ask you to save me.”

“No. You didn’t,” he said. “That’s the fucking problem.” She stared at him, chest heaving. Rain dripped down her face, but her blood burned hotter than ever. “I don’t need you.” He stepped closer. “Yeah? Then why’d you listen when I told you to run?” She said nothing. Because the answer was simple. She did trust him. Even when she hated him for being right. Even when she wanted to push him against the nearest wall and—

The silence cracked between them like thunder. The storm outside hadn’t even started yet. The power flickered twice then died, leaving the place in a cold, humming silence. “You’ve gotta be kidding,” she muttered, soaked through and scowling. Bucky locked the door closed behind him, shoulders tense, eyes already scanning the dark with soldier precision.

“No power. No signal. We’re stuck until morning.” She blinked. “There’s only one bed.”

“And no heat,” he said, jaw tight. “This high up in the mountains? We’ll be hypothermic by dawn.” She pulled off her soaked jacket, biting back a shiver. “What, no generator in your fancy arm?”

“No,” he said, stepping closer. “But I’ve got body heat.” She scoffed. “Wow. Original.”

“I’m serious.” He always was too serious. Cold. Controlled. And now here they were. Wet. Cold. Stuck. Together.

In the dimness, she peeled off her boots and gear, teeth clattering. Bucky shrugged out of his gear with more force than necessary, metal arm clanking as he yanked his harness free and dropped it to the ground. He looked at her and his jaw was tight, twitching like he was trying very hard not to say something he’d regret. They watched each other intently as they slowly peeled off every piece of clothing. Fingers trembled slightly with anticipation, eyes tracing every curve and line revealed with each discarded layer. The air between them thickened with heat and unspoken desire, every glance speaking louder than words as they bared themselves completely, standing vulnerable and exposed before one another. He watched as the tactical pants slid slowly down her legs, the fabric slipping over smooth skin. She watched how his metal arm moved deliberately, unclipping and pulling the belt free with quiet strength. Their eyes met, the small moments charged with something electric between them. When she removed her bra, Bucky kept his eyes fixed on her face. Inside, he was dying—dying to touch those delicate breasts, to suck on the nipples now fully erect. But he also knew she’d probably shoot him if he tried.

“You always think you’re right,” she snapped, pacing across the floor. “Like your instincts are the only ones that matter.” His head jerked toward her, blue eyes sharp. He stopped undressing, his shirt and boxers still on. She looked at how tight the boxers were, the fabric stretched against his skin.  “I was right,” he growled. “If I hadn’t pulled your ass out, you’d be cooling in a body bag.” Her ass, Bucky thought, now bare except for a tiny pair of underwear clinging to her skin. She stepped in closer. “You don’t get to throw that in my face.”

“I do when you nearly got both of us killed.” Her pulse spiked. “I had it handled—”

“Bullshit. You’re too reckless.”

“And you’re too cautious.”

“I’m still alive.”

“I made the call—”

“And it was the wrong one!” That hit like a slap. Her breath left her in a short, sharp exhale. The room felt smaller. Tighter. Her hands curled into fists at her sides. “You think just because you’ve got a metal arm and a haunted past, you get to take over whenever you feel like it?” she hissed. He stepped forward. “No,” Bucky said, voice low and dark. “I think I get to take over when you start making decisions with your fucking ego instead of your head.”

The silence after that was deafening. They glared at each other, the storm howling outside. Rain hammered the roof. Their chests heaved in unison her in just a tiny pair of underwear, him still in his shirt and boxers. Then she laughed sharp and humorless. “God,” she said, her voice rough, “you are so fucking infuriating.” He stalked closer. “Funny. I was about to say the same about you.”

She peeled off the last piece of clothing and grabbed a very light blanket she found. Curling under it on the bed, she settled in, the fabric barely shielding her skin. Bucky watched her remove the last piece of clothing, his breath catching as he took it all in. He inhaled deeply, the air thick with tension and something raw between them. “This is stupid,” he said. “You’re freezing.”

“I said I’m fine.” He stripped off his shirt and boxer slow, deliberate. His chest, all scars and muscle and too much perfection, caught her eye even if she didn’t want to look. Then he was beside her, sliding in behind her, his arm circling her waist like a steel band. “Bucky—”

“Shut up,” he said into her ear, voice low and rough. “It’s survival.” She tried to ignore the heat blooming under her skin. The sharp contrast of his bare chest pressed to her back. His breath on her neck. She was flushed too flushed and it wasn’t from the cold. “You always get this worked up when a guy’s just trying to keep you warm?” he murmured. She turned her head, eyes narrowing. “You’re enjoying this.” He didn’t flinch. “I’m hard,” he said, blunt and brutal. “Doesn’t mean I’m enjoying it.” She blinked. “You’re serious?”

“Fine. I’ve had dreams about you,” he said, voice like gravel. “Nights where I woke up panting and touching myself to the sound of your voice echoing in my head. And you acted like you didn’t fucking notice.” She turned fully and stared at him. Thunder cracked overhead. “I noticed,” she said, just above a whisper. “I just wanted you to beg for it.”

“I’d never beg for you,” Bucky said. A long, heavy silence filled the space between their bodies, broken only by the pounding storm outside and the way his chest heaved beneath her. “Oh?” she said, tilting her head, voice all silk and steel. “You sure about that, soldier?” His jaw clenched. “Dead sure.”

She wasn’t supposed to lose control. Out in the field, she was the one barking orders, dragging Bucky out of fire, running point with steel in her spine and fire in her eyes. But now? Now it was Bucky who’d saved her life. And that shift sudden, jarring left her off balance in a way she couldn’t explain. Now, he was on top of her. Now, his hand was curled around her throat with just enough pressure to remind her that she was his at least for the night. "You don’t know how long I wanted to see you like this,” Bucky rasped, voice low and thick in her ear. “All bark, all orders… but look at you now.” She was naked beneath him, thighs spread wide, breath caught in her throat as he pinned her wrists above her head with his flesh hand.

“Bucky,” she whispered, writhing beneath him, desperate and aching. “No,” he growled. “Tonight you listen. No control. No orders. Just me.”

“You just love pushing me, don’t you?” he growled, metal hand clamped around her throat unyielding, cold, and terrifyingly precise not choking, but firm enough to pin her there. “Out there, you gave me orders like I’m some fucking lapdog.” Her lips parted. Breath shallow. “You gonna do it again?” he asked, eyes blazing. “Or are you finally gonna learn what happens when you make me feel like I don’t have any power?”

“Get off me,” she said but her voice shook, not with fear… but anticipation. He smirked. “Oh, we’re playing that game tonight,” he murmured darkly. “Good.”

She wanted this. She wanted the loss of control. She wanted to be taken.

“You act like you’re in charge,” Bucky hissed, grinding against her. “But look at you now. Shaking for it.”

“Don’t stop,” she whispered.

“I wasn’t going to.”

The moment he flipped her over, she knew she was in trouble. Not just because of the bruising grip on her waist, or the way his cock slid between her folds with maddening precision but because of the way he smiled when she whimpered. Like he had won. “Look at you,” Bucky murmured, dragging the blunt head of his cock through her slick folds but refusing to give her what she wanted. “Acting like a big-shot in the field… but needy as hell the second I get my hands on you.”

She clenched her fists in the sheets, growling, “Just fuck me already.” He paused. “We stop the second you say the word. Always.”

“Don’t you dare.” Then crack a sharp slap landed across her ass. She gasped, hips jolting forward. “Bu-Bucky…”

“You gonna boss me around again?” he asked slapping her ass, then gripping the bruised flesh. “I don’t remember giving you permission to talk to me like that.” She lifted her head slightly, breathless. “Maybe I like being punished.”

“That’s right,” he rasped. “Because this body? It’s mine now. You only get to act like you’re in charge.” His chuckle was dark and low and filthy.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he rasped, leaning over her, pressing his cock along the seam of her pussy without entering. “You have no fucking idea what that does to me.” Before she could reply, he pushed in hard stealing the breath from her lungs. She cried out, half in pain, half in relief, arching her back to take him deeper. “Fuck, you’re tight,” he groaned. “So desperate for it, and still you act like a brat.” He started thrusting deep, slow, punishing strokes each one knocking her further forward on the bed. His hand gripped the back of her neck, holding her in place like a doll. “You wanna act like a mouthy little thing?” he growled into her ear. “Then I’ll fuck the attitude out of you.” She gasped, grinding her hips back just to spite him. “Maybe I want you to try.” Another slap this one harder, across the curve of her ass, the sound echoing in the tiny room. “Careful,” he warned. “I’ll break you in half.”

She smirked into the mattress, panting. “Big words from someone already close to coming.” That did it.

Bucky grabbed both her wrists, pinning them behind her back with one strong hand. His other hand tangled in her hair, yanking her head back as he slammed into her, over and over, faster, rougher, until her moans turned to ragged screams. “Say it again,” he demanded, sweat dripping from his brow. “Tell me how bad you want it. Beg me like the needy little brat you are.” She was too close, too full, too wrecked to keep her defiance intact. “I want it,” she gasped. “Fuck, Bucky I need it—”

Another slap. Another sharp, blissful sting. She moaned, shaking. “‘Need’ isn't good enough,” he growled. “Tell me you belong to me.”

“I'm yo—” She couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. She was unravelling. “I belong to you, Bucky. I’m yours. Just please let me come.” He shoved deeper, hips grinding against her ass, the wet sound of their bodies colliding filling the room, obscene and perfect. “Say it louder.”

“I’m yours!” That broke him.

His rhythm turned feral, his fingers bruising against her hips as he fucked her hard and messy and deep, chasing both her orgasms like a man starved. Her legs shook. Her walls clenched. She screamed his name as she came, her whole body tightening like a bowstring then snapping apart beneath him. She felt him pulse inside her moments later a raw, guttural noise tearing from his throat as he came with her, collapsing forward, keeping her caged beneath his body as he filled her. They both lay there, breathless, soaked in sweat, marked in each other’s prints.

She was still shaking when Bucky pulled out slow, thick, wet making her moan at the loss. Her body was boneless, wrecked, trembling in the aftermath of her orgasm, but he wasn’t done. Not even close. Because this wasn’t just about heat. This was about power. About payback.

And she saw it in his eyes the second he turned her onto her back his pupils blown wide, chest heaving, jaw clenched tight with the restraint he hadn’t yet dropped. “You think you’re done?” he growled, crawling over her, sweat-slick skin sliding against hers. “I—”

He grabbed her jaw, forcing her eyes on him. “All those times you gave the orders. Made me wait. Treated me like a subordinate instead of a partner.” She whimpered as he lined himself back up, her body already aching, still sensitive and leaking from the last round. “You liked teasing me in the field, didn’t you?” he said, voice low and dark. “Bossing me around. Making me watch you walk away.” He didn’t wait for an answer. He slammed back into her with a brutal thrust, ripping a gasp from her throat.

“Bucky—!” she cried, trying to squirm, to adjust, but he was relentless deeper than before, fucking her harder now that she was loose, open, soaked and ruined. “You wanna act like you’re in charge?” he hissed into her neck, biting hard enough to leave a mark. “Then take it.” She clawed at his back, nails dragging down muscle. “Please too much-”

“Oh no, baby,” he snarled. “This is just the beginning.” He sat up on his knees, grabbing her thighs and folding her in half, forcing her open. Her hips trembled, overstimulated and exposed. “You’re gonna lie there and take it,” he said through clenched teeth. “Every. Last. Drop. Until you forget how to boss me around.” She moaned like she was falling apart, her body shaking with every thrust. Her legs touched at his shoulders so he just grabbed her ankles, pinning them back. His metal hand wrapped around her throat again firm, not tight just enough to make her gasp. “You’re mine now,” he said, hips snapping mercilessly. “You understand?” She tried to nod, words gone. “Say it,” he growled. “I’m yours,” she gasped, tears prickling in her eyes. “I’m yours, Bucky- fuck-”

He fucked her through it. Through another orgasm. She didn’t know when the begging started. She just knew she couldn’t stop shaking. Couldn’t stop moaning. Couldn’t stop taking everything he gave her. By the time he flipped her over again face down, ass up, back arched and marked with bruises her voice was wrecked. Every sound she made came out hoarse and breathless, her body trembling from the overstimulation and rough praise he’d dragged out of her. But Bucky wasn’t finished. Not even close.

He settled behind her, kneeling between her thighs. His hands smoothed over the curve of her hips, fingers tracing bruises like they were battle scars he was proud of. Then, without a word, he leaned in and spread her open, dragging his tongue through her soaked folds with slow, deliberate pressure. She gasped high and broken her thighs trying to close instinctively, but his hands kept her wide and vulnerable for him. The flat of his tongue pressed against her clit, flicking, circling, teasing. He moaned into her like he was drunk on her, the vibration of it sending jolts of pleasure straight through her spine.

"Fuck—Bucky," she cried into the pillow, voice muffled but desperate. He didn’t stop. He didn’t even slow down. His mouth was relentless tongue plunging deep, then retreating to flick her clit again and again until her hips were shaking. His metal hand gripped her ass tightly, holding her still while his other hand slipped between her thighs, two fingers sliding inside her with ease. He fucked her with his mouth and hand like he meant to break her all over again. She clawed at the sheets, sobbing out broken curses as he devoured her messy, hungry, insatiable. Every time she thought she might come down from the edge, he sucked her clit hard enough to make her scream, dragging her higher all over again. Her body wasn’t her own anymore not with the way he worshipped her, wrecked her. Her legs trembled violently, barely holding her up. He moaned into her cunt like he belonged there, like this was exactly where he was meant to be.

"You taste so fuckin’ good," he muttered against her, lips slick, voice ruined with heat. "I could stay here forever."

She sobbed into the mattress, her body shaking uncontrollably, every nerve on fire. And when the orgasm finally hit sharp, hard, unforgiving it shattered through her like lightning. Her whole body tensed, then buckled, her cry strangled and raw.

But even then as her body collapsed, twitching, spent Bucky kept licking her through it, through the aftershocks savoring every drop of her release like it was the only thing that could satisfy him.

Y/N tried to speak, to form a single coherent word maybe a protest, maybe a plea but the pleasure was too much. Her mouth opened, a sound barely escaping, nothing more than a whimper caught in her throat. Her mind was fogged, drowning in sensation, every nerve lit up and thrumming like live wire. She couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe all she could feel was his mouth on her, his fingers deep inside her, and the overwhelming heat crashing over her in relentless waves.

“B-Bucky—” she managed to gasp. Her fingers clawed at the sheets, desperate to anchor herself, but her body refused to obey. Her thighs shook, her back arched, and she let out a strangled cry. He knew. Of course he did. He could feel her tightening, hear the breath hitch in her throat, see her hips trying to pull away even as she ground herself against his mouth. “You gonna fall apart again, sweetheart?” he murmured against her soaked flesh, lips brushing her clit like a tease. “You trying to tell me to stop?” She shook her head violently, breath catching. “No—please—don’t stop—”

“Didn’t think so,” he growled, and then his mouth was back on her harsher, deeper, as if he wanted to break every bit of control she had left.

Y/N sobbed into the mattress, trying to say his name, trying to warn him, but her voice failed her again as pleasure took over. All that came out were helpless moans, wrecked and breathless. Her body went limp beneath him, trembling violently, tears pricking at her eyes from the sheer intensity of it all. And Bucky just kissed the inside of her thigh, slow and reverent, like he hadn’t just dragged her through the edge of oblivion.

By the time he finally pulled back, her thighs were soaked, her body boneless, her breath coming in shallow, trembling gasps. And he just smirked lips glistening, eyes dark. And still he didn’t stop.

His palm came down on her ass, sharp and fast. Then again. And again. Until her whole body quivered under him, and all she could do was whimper and moan and fall apart in his hands. “Pretty little brat,” he grunted, thrusting into her so deep a last time, it knocked the breath from her lungs. “Finally shut the fuck up.” She didn’t even know how. Just that her body couldn’t not not when he sounded like that, not when he owned every inch of her. This time, he came with her deep, rough, possessive one last groan torn from his chest as he spilled inside her again, his thrusts slowing but no less intense. He stayed there for a long time buried in her, body heavy over her back, breath hot against her shoulder. When he finally pulled out, she collapsed onto her side, utterly limp, spent, broken in all the right ways.

First Snowfall - (Steve x Reader) - @saiyanprincessswanie

a baby for christmas - (Steve x Reader) - @witchywithwhiskey

Wordle Cheat - (Bucky x Reader) - @castielscaplan

Play Me a Song - (Chase C x Reader) - @castielscaplan

Bright Eyes and Shy Gals - (Hal C x Reader) - @castielscaplan

Barbecue - (Bucky x Reader) - @navybrat817

Generous - (Bucky x Reader) - @navybrat817

Glitter - (Jake x Reader) - @callalillywrites

Knitting - (Ransom x Reader) - @callalillywrites

Glacier - (Curtis x Reader) - @callalillywrites

Gentle Hugs - (Bucky x Reader) - @lives-in-midgard

Sweet on you - (Bucky x Reader) - @buckybarnes82

The Naughty List - (Bucky x Reader) - @sunday-bug

The Switch - (Curtis x Reader) - @stargazingfangirl18

Against the Shelves - (Lee x Reader) - @societyfolklore

Hit and run - (Steve x Reader) - @nekoannie-chan

Supermoon Part 2 - (Steve x OFC) - @nekoannie-chan

Supermoon Part 3 - (Steve x OFC) - @nekoannie-chan

moon wishes - (Steve x Reader) - @witchywithwhiskey

Baby - (Steve x Reader) - @lokischambermaid

Quiet in the Tail - (Curtis x Reader) - @societyfolklore

Nostalgia and pre-lit trees - (Bucky x Reader) - @buckybarnes82

Christmas Past Meets Christmas Present - (Bucky x Reader x Steve) - @americasass81

Ficmas 2025 - Day 17 - (Nick x Reader) - @daydreamgoddess14

Taste of the Holidays - (Steve x Reader) - @biteofcherry

Santa's Lap - (Lee x Reader) - @societyfolklore

Meditation time! - (Bucky x Reader) - @sosa2imagines

A hot fix - (Steve x Reader) - @tarithenurse

Fic: Grit Your Teeth (while you have them) - (Bucky x Reader) - @azriona

Warm You Up - (Andy x Reader) - @stargazingfangirl18

A Very Merry Christmas and an Alpy New Year - (Alpine the cat) - @buckybarnesfic

The Greatest Gift - (Bucky x Reader) - @navybrat817

Santa kissed mommy! - (Bucky x Reader) - @herejustforbuckybarnes

The contract (12) - (Steve x Reader) - @holylulusworld

─── PARTS [6/7] ✩ ✩ part one ✩ part two ✩ part three ✩ part four ✩ part five ✩ part six

“What are those?” Anthony queries as you get closer, dropping a pair of leather cuffs onto the coffee table, keeping hold of a second pair as you approach him first.

You step between his splayed knees, his eyes slowly travelling up your body until they reach your face. That's when you choose to answer.

“They are for your wrists, my sweet prince.”

An array of reactions ripple over his handsome face as you invoke your chosen play name for him. They have already agreed to any name you choose to bestow; tonight, Anthony will be your sweet prince, and Benedict shall be your lovely boy. 

“When did I agree to this?” Anthony’s brow creases in wary confusion as you tower over him, snapping the leather between your hands, a challenging eyebrow raised.

“Last night,” Benedict pipes up from the other end of the sofa, looking thoroughly entertained, “after about four whiskeys.”

“I didn’t…” he counters hesitantly, but it’s more of an uncertain query than a statement. 

“Yes, you did…” both you and Benedict answer in unison, your eyes darting to each other and a knowing smile exchanged.

Anthony swallows hard, his eyes fixed on the glint of the buckle on the leather cuffs. “Well, if I am doing this, he is going to have to too…” he gruffs, pointing to his younger brother.

“Oh, I agreed to it immediately, brother, and sober,” Benedict counters, shooting you a molten look before holding his wrists up obediently for you.

You saunter over to him instead, glancing pointedly at Anthony over your shoulder before taking Benedict’s wrists, binding them quickly in the cuffs using the buckle and crawling onto his lap. 

Making a show of it, you push his bound hands high above his head and dive in for a ferocious kiss, your tongue running possessively into his mouth, unashamedly rubbing yourself over his lap as he moans so prettily under you. 

“Lovely boy,” you purr as you break away, and there is a huff from nearby.

“I want to play…” Anthony pouts fractionally, jealous already.

You cut your eyes sideways at him, goading him by lightly running your tongue down Benedict's cheek, enjoying the hitch of sound he makes against your ear.

“Your brother here is the perfect little switch for me, but I wonder if you can be too? Because if you cannot, then I'm afraid, my sweet prince, you will just have to sit there. Just sit and watch as I fuck him utterly senseless...” you tease, knowing you are provoking him now, as Benedict murmurs a curse beneath you, already so very keen.

Anthony emits a light growl. “Yes, yes, I can do that…” he replies impatiently.

You smirk and drag yourself against the growing bulge in Benedict’s jeans as you address Anthony. “Call me your goddess,” you prompt.

“Yes, goddess,” Anthony mumbles, realising he is definitely the one missing out.

“Was that so difficult?” you chuckle, giving Benedict a peck on the lips before standing up, swiping the other set of cuffs and climbing into Anthony’s lap to give him the same treatment.

He is silent as he holds his wrists together for you to bind, just a slight puff of his breath tickling your hair. But when you push your knees wider and rock against his pelvis, pulling him into a kiss, he is pliant under you in a way that makes your stomach swoop with excitement, a softness in his eyes as they open when you end the kiss.

“Perfect, my sweet prince,” you compliment, a little bloom of colour dusk creeping across his cheeks. “Oh, we are going to have so much fun,” you add before hopping off his lap.

“A few rules for tonight, my darling boys…” you drawl, walking over to dim your lights so the room is more atmospheric. “You may only touch me or yourself when bidden; the cuffs should help with your obedience,” you chuckle before continuing. “I, however, can touch you both wherever and however I want unless you invoke your words. What are they?” You pause and look at them expectantly. You already know them; this is just reinforcement.

“Byron,” Benedict immediately pipes up, enthused.

“Bitcoin,” Anthony mutters quietly. 

“Good boys. Now, I decide everything tonight: when or if you come, when, where and even if you get my pussy. Do you understand?”

“Yes, my goddess,” they both reply in unison, a frisson over your skin at all the possibilities.

“If you disobey, I won't touch you again,” you warn, turning so you are facing away from them, running your hands over the globes of your bottom, teasing them. “And you definitely won't get any of this….”

You bend over, widening your stance, knowing the opening in your peekaboo lingerie set has parted, so they can see your bare slit, already damp and shining from playing with yourself while getting ready. There are two beautiful moans from behind as you straighten up again, a triumphant smirk as you whip around and order them both to stand up. They spring to their feet, athletic enough not to need their bound hands to do so. Your clit throbs at the prominent outline in both of their jeans. 

Goading Anthony yet again, you approach Benedict, one hand sliding into his hair, pulling his face down to meet yours in a fiery kiss as your other hand falls to his jeans. He makes a delightful sound into your mouth as you grab his cock through the denim. Then, as your tongues parry, slowly pull down the zipper tab. Surprised as your hand encounters steely smooth skin.

“You slutty boy,” you scold mildly as you pull back from his kiss, palming his naked erection.

“All for your convenience, my goddess,” he fawns, breathing slightly laboured.

You smile and turn to Anthony even as you keep teasing Benedict’s cock.

“This here, my sweet prince? This is a very good boy,” you provoke. “Unless you can convince me otherwise, he is getting me first…”

Anthony scowls, not used to being second at anything, rocking impatiently on his toes, his bound hands limp in front of him. 

Benedict whines as you release your grip, moving to push his jeans down. They pool around his ankles, and you nod approvingly when he steps out of them. You spider a hand up under his t-shirt, walking each fingertip over the light swell of each abdominal muscle, him staring down at your lips, his glistening, eagerly awaiting another kiss. Instead you demand his wrists that he presents to you so sweetly. You unhook the metal clasp between them.

“Arms up,” you murmur, so pleased when he instantly obeys. 

You have to push onto tiptoe to get his t-shirt up over his head, but he assists you, stripping the last of it and tossing it aside so he stands before you completely naked. He is all lithe ropey muscles and pale skin, his chest rising and falling a little rapidly, his cock standing proud. He brings his arms back down, and you re-hook the clasp on the cuffs as he shoots you that soulful look through his lashes.

“Such a lovely boy,” you whisper, grabbing him again for just one pump before ordering him to sit again.

He whimpers but obeys, bound wrists resting on his lap as you turn your attention to Anthony. You take two steps, so you are standing before him, envy seeping through his pores. You lean in to run your tongue in a teasing stripe over his cheek, loving the slight drag of stubble as you do. 

“You are so handsome when you’re jealous,” you needle, unable to resist poking this bear, something about his struggle to fully submit makes it even more delicious. “Don't even try to deny it,” you add quickly when Anthony goes to open his mouth, and he snaps his jaw shut, mollified. “Let's see what treat you have in store for me….” you dusk as your hand drops to his groin.

You don't kiss him as you pull down his zipper, just gently teeth his earlobe. His bound hands flex against your belly, struggling not to touch your naked skin as he is forbidden to do.

“Nothing is sexier than a beautiful, powerful man at my mercy,” you murmur as your hand slides between his fly, encountering his boxer briefs, the hot swell of his cock straining against them. “And, my sweet prince, they don't come much more powerful or beautiful than you…”

He seems to bloom at your compliment, a stuttering exhale into your hair as he meekly requests a kiss. You allow it, pulling him in for a fiery kiss as you assist him in pushing down his jeans. He groans loudly into your mouth as you slide your fingers into his underwear and grab his cock, pumping him slowly as you pull apart.

“You are the beautiful one, my goddess,” he stutters with blown pupils as you squeeze him gently.

“Oh, now you are getting it,” you smile triumphantly, releasing him to shove his underwear down his muscular, fuzzy thighs, then unhooking his wrists to strip him of his shirt until he is naked too.

You pull him in for another biting kiss, your fingertips running up his chest into the thatch of dark hair there, scratching lightly on his pectorals as he whimpers over your tongue.

“Take a seat, my sweet prince,” you counsel, as you break apart, nodding for him to resume his place.

Reluctantly, Anthony does as bidden, shooting you a puppy dog look, his cock bobbing as he takes a seat.

“Now, my darling boys, don't forget you cannot touch yourselves…” you remind, looking at each of them in turn.

They nod as you take a seat on the coffee table between them. Their attention is undivided as you slowly open your legs out wide, your knees almost touching each of theirs, knowing they cannot resist the sight. Your underwear’s slit reveals just enough to have them licking their lips, something so illicit about the peek rather than being able to see everything. You make a show of swirling your fingertips over your inner thighs, their heavy gaze tracking every motion as you inch closer.

They both make a hungry noise as your fingers swirl over your pussy lips and you throw your head back and moan, a little theatricality never hurts. You arch your spine, your other hand sliding over the glass table behind you to brace yourself as you play with yourself. Even with your eyes closed, head tilted back to show the lines of your body, you can sense their salivation, how they both lean in. When your pointer finger slides over your clit you groan loudly and tilt your head back down to see an erotic sight. Both sets of eyes boring into you, barely contained lust as they both fight the urge not to touch themselves.

“You truly are a goddess,” Benedict opines huskily, likely a tactic to curry favour, but one you don’t mind in the slightest.

“And don't you forget it,” you shoot back before plunging a middle finger into your pussy and sliding backwards to lay on the coffee table, hooking your feet up onto the corners of the table, legs splayed wide. You bring your other hand to rub your clit as you ride your fingers, inserting a second now, pumping slowly.

You don’t need to see them to know what sweet torture this is for them, the scent of your arousal no doubt swirling thick in the air as they watch, powerless to do anything about their hard, leaking cocks unless you bid it so. The slick sound filling the air as you ride your fingers, coating your hand with your arousal, the only other sound their panted breaths.

“May I touch your foot, goddess?” Anthony implores, a new deference to his tone that has you tilting your head up.

He is leaning forward, his bound hands hovering above his knee, not far from your toes curled over the glass edge of the coffee table.

“You may,” you concede. “Only my foot for now,” you add sternly.

Warm hands cup your foot, massaging your skin insistently in a way that has you emitting a light stutter of pleasure, somehow easing the ache from a day on your feet with just a few well-placed fingers. Murmuring encouragements as he draws your foot into his lap, massaging in a way that has you languid, your fingers slowing.

“May I do the same, goddess?” Benedict’s bashful question has your head swinging to him.

“Yes my lovely boy,” you allow, revelling in the look of excitement as he too grabs your other foot. He cups your heel in his bound hands and lowers his head to kiss the tendons atop before flexing your ankle to place a gentle kiss onto your arch that is almost ticklish. No one has kissed your feet before but it is oddly fitting for a night where they are in your command.

Also, something about their tender treatment as you slowly fuck yourself with your own fingers is such an exquisite contrast. Anthony groans his approval as you slide a third finger into your pussy. Not as good as their cocks, obviously, but the perfect hors-d'œuvre. You emit a louder moan as Benedict opens his mouth wider, lathing his tongue then gently biting the underside of your foot, his eyes glued between your legs.

Anthony's hands stray up onto your calf, and you snatch your leg away, placing it upon the round of his shoulder as Benedict chuckles and kisses the tip of your other big toe.

“Nuh uh,” you cluck, stilling your hands and pushing Anthony with your heel.

“Please….” He sounds wrecked as he falls backwards and you glance down to see his rigid cock weeping slightly in his lap.

You decide to take pity upon him a little, shooting Benedict a look that has him releasing your foot obediently. They both pout as you withdraw your fingers from within yourself and sit up.

“Move closer,” you gesture with your hands for them to shuffle closer. 

When they settle a couple of feet apart, you stand up, both of their heads tilting to gaze up as you tower over them - a bloom of joy that they do so without you even having to ask. 

You bring your wet fingers up to both of their handsome faces and trail your juices over their lips. Both of their tongues dart out immediately to lick the essence, groaning deeply, wrapping their lips around your tips and sucking covetously, as if a life-giving nectar you are bestowing upon them. 

For a few beats, you bask in the wet pull of their mouths, suctioning you clean, drawing your fingers deeper into their heat, both of their tongues lapping enthusiastically. You reluctantly withdraw from their mouths, quickly reaching behind to unhook your bra, tossing it aside and painting their saliva over your nipples as they groan gently at the sight.

“My beautiful boys….” you exhale, tweaking your nipples as you stare down at them, bound and rapt by the sight of you.

“Please let us touch you some more…” Benedict appeals besottedly, his hazy eyes blown wide, his lips dark pink from sucking your fingers.

“We will do anything…” Anthony chimes in breathily, his face slack with complete submission, a spike of want racing down your spine that he is now pliant.

Spinning around, you turn your back to them, their breaths huffing onto the dip of your waist before lowering yourself slowly to sit between them. Intentionally slowly, you hook your legs over each of their thighs, hard muscle under your skin as you turn your head first to Anthony and pull him into a deep kiss as your hand slides down Benedict’s torso to grasp his cock and he practically howls.

You pump Benedict gently as your tongue parries with Anthony’s, both of their cuffed hands limp in their laps.

You swap, swinging your head to draw Benedict into your mouth, abandoning his cock, that hand instead curling around his jaw as your other slides down to grasp Anthony and pump him too.

“I could tease you boys all night…” You lilt over Benedict's cupid's bow as you pull back, him chasing your lips as you do so.

“Have mercy…” Anthony gasps as you squeeze his cock near the base, loving its heat and girth trapped within your palm, the trickle that coats your knuckles as your fist raises to encase his tip.

“Maybe…” you tease, curling your foot around his calf where you have your leg draped over his thigh, “if you ask nicely….” you add, drawing his brother into another kiss, just to test Anthony’s resolve a little more. 

“Please, goddess,” he appeals deferentially, but with a thread of desperation that has you break from Benedict’s lips.

Releasing Anthony’s cock, you undrape your thighs from over theirs and grab the clasp on their leather cuffs. You guide their hands to your hips, hooking their fingers into the side of your lace underwear and nodding for them to pull it down.

Goosebumps break out over your body as they slowly tug down the material over the flare of your hips, their fingertips sliding over your skin intentionally slow—a little payback for the tease you have made them endure. Anthony lightly scrapes his blunt nails down your outer thigh, but you let him, as it just adds to your arousal. 

Completely naked now, you use your foot to fling the underwear across the room, which they huff, amused, both falling back into the cushions, bracketing you with their muscular torsos, looking at you expectantly. Their stares are hungry, barely contained lust now that you are as naked as them.

“You may kiss my neck…” 

You can barely get the offer out before two sets of lips suction onto the tender spot under your earlobes, a lushness that has you gasping and grabbing their muscular thighs, your eyes fluttering closed.

Their dual groan is like music to your ears, their tongues more insistent, sliding lower to your collarbone, which you don't fight, too drunk on both of their mouths upon you, a heavy tug low in your pelvis.

“May we….” Benedict begins, and you just nod sharply, biting your lip as you wrap your arms around the back of their necks, pushing up, your hips lifting off the cushion, encouraging them to slide lower.

Your moan echoes around your high warehouse ceiling as they capture both of your breasts in their mouths, tugging gently with a slight bite of their teeth, their need telegraphed by their tongues lapping hard, teasing your nipples into stiff peaks. Your hands spider upwards and grab both cocks at once making them stutter, their mouths going slack on your chest.

“I should have made you both wear cock rings,” you attest, beguiled by the sudden mental flash of them struggling in cuffs and rings, leaking, thighs trembling.

“Happily my goddess,” Benedict breathes, moving to claim a kiss without permission.

“Did I say you could kiss me?” you admonish over his lips, and he freezes. 

“Please forgive me…” he stumbles, hanging his head even as you keep palming his cock.

“I will this time,” you offer conciliatorily, nuzzling his face until he tilts his chin upwards, his contrite expression filling your field of vision. “But, my lovely boy, I will need you to pay penance.”

“What do you need, my goddess?” he blinks, his lashes batting so alluringly, biting his lip as you squeeze his cock in your fist.

“You may touch yourself,” you allow, guiding his cuffed wrists to replace yours.

“How is that penance?” he asks, his brow knitting adorably as you remove your hand, guiding his into its stead.

“You will have to watch quietly as I fuck your brother...” 

Benedict’s face is a kaleidoscope; you can see the envy, the desire, the defeat and the acceptance. Anthony making a victorious noise next to you, his cock pulsing in your other hand that now goes slack. 

“...first,” you add belatedly, seeing Benedict light up again, settling back into the sectional corner with a coy nod of acceptance.

You twist around and swing over into Anthony's lap, pulling him into a kiss that is instantly intense, excitement rippling in his muscular form under you.

“There are rules, though, my sweet prince,” you sigh over his lips, guiding his hands behind his head.

“You may not move your hands from there,” you warn as he cups the back of his own skull.

He pouts fractionally but that morphs into a picture of euphoria as you shuffle forwards in his lap, running your glistening slit over his tip.

“Can you feel that?” you murmur, his nod so enthused that a lock of hair flops over onto his forehead.

You reach and twirl the strand between your fingers as you keep teasing him with your damp heat, rocking your engorged clit against his frenulum. 

“Beg for it,” you command gently, hooking your other thumb tip into the corner of his mouth.

“Please, my goddess, take me. Please do not tease me anymore.”

Anthony sounds so pretty as he fights the instinct to take over, to throw you down onto the sofa and take you roughly as he does so well when he is the one in charge.

“I have the right to tease you all night, sweet prince,” you caution. “I could just edge you for hours until you are a trembling wreck.”

“Yes…” he concedes. “But please do not…” His brown eyes shine as he beseeches in such a demure way that it makes you suddenly desperate for him.

A melodic noise escapes his lips as you tilt your pelvis and sink a fraction onto his steely cock. This is the first time you have gone without a condom with him since you started this dynamic, and the sensation is almost overwhelming. This was agreed in advance of your play tonight, but still, the reality of it is so intense. Your eyes meet as you sink slowly, the leather cuffs creaking as his hands flex behind his head. You pull him in for another kiss as you are fully seated, held open in that way that makes your eyes want to roll - no one else you’ve been with seems able to do this quite as well as these Bridgerton brothers do.

“My goddess…” he whispers back, face devoted.

“I will never tire of you calling me that,” you sigh, almost rhetorical, turning sideways to look at Benedict. “Both of you,” you add for his benefit as he smiles crooked but modestly, his bound hands wrapped loosely around his cock.

Maintaining eye contact with Benedict as you rise up and back down on Anthony, who moans so prettily under you. Having the rapt attention of one as you fuck the other is something else you could never tire of.

“My beautiful boys,” you exhale indulgently, bringing your attention back to the Viscount, looping your hands through the crook in Anthony’s arms to grab the top of his shoulders.

Arching your back slightly, you begin to ride upon him. You pull up and sink onto his mass, biting your lip about and closing your eyes how good it already feels. His gaze falls to your breasts, his warm breath panting across your sternum. You know he is fighting the urge to tilt forward, capture them in his mouth as you rise. But he is aware he cannot do so without your permission; the twitch in his thighs between yours as you set a pace. Tilting your chin down, you soothingly request he look at you, and sweetly he does. Raising those ardent brown eyes to yours, so much conveyed without words.

“My sweet prince, you are doing so well for me,” you whisper, squeezing your pussy tight around him. 

He groans loudly, the leather of his cuffs rasping again, a flex in his bicep that betrays their latent power.

“You feel divine…” he utters, thick and low.

“As I should, for I am your goddess,” you return with a hint of sass, raising an eyebrow as you begin a faster pace, moving your grip to the back of his head, placing your hands over his bound wrists as if to emphasise your point.

He is passive as you ride harder, a slight burn in your thighs as he whimpers under you, gaze roaming your body as you undulate upon him, a heat notching up your spine as your pussy swells from that repeated delightful friction, a slight burn in your thighs as you just cant stop riding him, chasing bliss.

“I won't last,” Anthony gasps in warning, rueful almost.

“That’s okay my sweet prince, come for me,” you goad, riding harder, glancing over to Benedict as if reminding him he is next.

“I need you to come too,” Anthony pants, eyes wild, hands flexing in his cuffs as if he cannot bear the idea of you not getting your pleasure too.

“I will,” you assure, winking then releasing your right hand from its grip around his wrists to fall between your splayed thighs, not stopping your rhythm as you fingers slide over your swollen clit.

His stare tracks your hand then he curses, head flopping back, thighs clenching, bearing his teeth as his face contorts, so close to release.

“Give it to me, sweet prince,” you pant into his ear, your fingers a rapid tattoo against your swollen pearl.

That is what breaks him. His whole body goes stiff and there is a gargled noise in the back of his throat then a pulse that runs up his length inside you just as you crest a similar wave. It is what pulls you over too, calling out as you shatter around him, pussy fluttering around his spurting cock, milking him of his cum, dripping down your walls as you slump onto him, wracked breaths, your mind floating blissfully above.

“Please untie me,” he begs quietly as you both return to the room. 

You reach behind him and unhook his arms, unfastening the cuffs as he slips from inside you. You rub his pinkened wrists gently, even as you glance over to Benedict, intuiting his impatience for his turn. 

“Help me to your brother,” you entreat Anthony.

Tenderly, he assists you to your feet, your legs wobbly from exertion, uncertain whether you will be able to do the same again, despite a burning desire to. You cling to him as you take the few paces to Benedict, who raises his bound hands from his cock as you climb into his lap and snuggle into him, still in the afterglow of your orgasm.

“Surely a goddess deserves some rest,” he murmurs in your ear, able to read your tiredness. “If it is acceptable, perhaps you can lie down and be worshipped in the way you deserve….”

His lilting, velvet words have you nodding enthused, a ripple of excitement at the idea that you will receive pleasure. Benedict gives a nod to his elder brother, who is now pulling on his underwear, his hands being free. Without a seeming word exchanged, Anthony assists, rearranging your body so that your hips are at the edge of the sectional chaise. Then he places a cushion in his lap and lays your head upon it, his hand soothingly massaging your scalp. 

You stare down the plane of your body, watching Benedict slowly kneels between splayed legs, impressed with his balance, seeing as his wrists are still bound. You keen softly as he rubs his cock over your swollen pearl, the cuffs creaking as he does so.

“Do not tease your goddess,” you chide but it has zero heat, for he chuckles and demurely looks at you through his lashes.

“You wish is my command…” he rumbles, a touch cheekily, before he lines himself up and ploughs deep into your swollen pussy, in a way that has your toes curling. It’s the first time you have felt his unsheathed cock too, and it also steals your breath, so much heated mass pressing into your walls.

“Yesssss, that’s it, my lovely boy,” you commend, reaching for his bound hands pressing low on your belly.

You lace your fingers with his and nod for him to move, Anthony leaning down to capture your lips as Benedict withdraws and snaps back into you. Your cry is muffled around Anthony’s questing tongue.

“You will make him jealous if you get so many more kisses tonight, my sweet prince,” you warn quietly over his lips.

Anthony’s smile is handsomely devilish. “Then he should have gone first,” he sasses, then schools his face. “My goddess…” he belatedly adds.

“You always do fight being a good sub for me,” you snark over a moan as Benedict begins to set a pace. “I think your brother is so much better at it than you. In fact, maybe he gets a privilege you didn’t….”

You just love to provoke the proverbial beast in Anthony, especially on nights where he must do your bidding. 

“Be still, my lovely,” you decree and instantly Benedict freezes, holding still buried to the hilt within you. “Good boy,” you flatter, reaching for his wrists and unclipping the hook between them.

“You may touch me anywhere you wish,” you offer, throwing a side-eye to Anthony.

“Thank you my goddess,” Benedict inhales sharply, blooming beautifully at the privilege you have bestowed.

Given the greenlight, his fingertips instantly sweep up over your ribs to your nipples, teasing them expertly as he begins to move again. Your feet curling up off the floor to nudge his shapely bum, encouraging the snap of his hips driving into your, your whole body rolling with his athletic thrusts.  

“Kiss me, lovely boy,” you call out, watching Anthony’s face above you cloud with envy as his younger brother’s face hovers into view, his lips meeting your and pulling you into a passionate kiss.

“Thank you for letting me touch you, my goddess,” he lauds, nuzzling your cheek, smiling with boyish enthusiasm. 

“Of course, my lovely boy, now earn your privilege,” you challenge, your fingers dancing down the lithe musculature of his back, running your lips over to his ear, “make me come again.”

And, good boy that he is, he does as commanded. As you lay back and enjoy the sensations coursing through you, he grabs your hips, pulling you down onto his driving cock, you moaning with each thrust as he pushes you open, his cock feeling huge inside your swollen soaked channel.

Your eyes drift to Anthony’s again over Benedict’s shoulder, “May I have your hand, my goddess?” 

As soon as you nod, Anthony grabs your hand, the one you had made yourself come with when fucking him, and brings it to his lips. He sucks the fingers clean, his stare boring into you, a fiery challenge glinting despite him obeying your rules.

To have both of their undivided attention rockets you so fast. Anthony’s strong tongue swiping and suckling your fingers deep into his hot mouth, Benedict’s hands clamped around your waist, the leather of his cuffs tickling your skin, his sizeable cock boring into you with remarkable, athletic alacrity.

“I’m close…” you rasp, that telltale quiver deep in your belly, not needing much to take you over the edge for a second time.

“Wait for me goddess, please,” Benedict petitions, a little bead of sweat forming on his brow above you.

“You fuck me so well, my lovely boy,” you praise, knowing word of affirmation are such a catalyst for him, running your free hand over his cheek, caressing his jaw, then pinching his chin in a tighter hold. “Now give me your all, don’t hold back, I need to feel it.”

Benedict’s nostrils flare and he nods decisively, always eager to follow ample instruction. His thrusts become almost punishing, his slender hip bones snagging your inner thighs as he notches you higher, each time crushing into your engorged clit, grunting with the exertion now. You pull him down onto you, loving the feel of his heated flushed skin over yours, whisper praises into his ear. All as you stare Anthony down, your fingers still in his mouth, him gently scraping his teeth over your knuckles, knowing a slight roughness will help you over the edge.

As your fingers fall from his mouth, Anthony’s hand reaches down and pinches the nipple closest to him. It has you yelling out, your body arching off the sofa at that rough spike of sensation, propelled into Benedict’s torso just as you start to clench around his cock, coming for a second time. That wondrous sensation fanning out from inside to inflame your whole being, dimly aware his thrusts become erratic and then he stills, speared deep as he too reached his peak. You feel the warmth of him spread inside as you float back down into your body.

“Thank you my sweet boys,” you slur, as Benedict withdraws and Anthony bends down to kiss your forehead, this second orgasm making you drowsy.

“You are welcome, goddess,” they both seem to chime in unison.

A few moments later and you have removed Benedicts leather cuffs and the three of you share a lazy intimacy, your head still in Anthony’s lap as Benedict curls around you on the wide chaise, resting his cheek on your belly.

“You, particularly, did so well,” you smile up at Anthony as your fingers card through Benedict’s hair.

“I don’t mind being your sweet prince… on occasion,” he confesses. “Just as long as you will be my baby girl just as often.”

“Of course, sir,” you wink up at him, that infectious, breathtakingly handsome smile inhabiting his stubbled face.

Benedict chuckles from his perch on your tummy, twisting to kiss the dewy skin above your belly button.  “Are you sure both of us aren't too much, kitten?” he goads, even though he already knows the answer.

“I did a good job of making you both do my bidding tonight, didn't I?” you point out, and he concedes that you did indeed with just a humourous shrug. “And besides, something too good could never be too much,” you wink to him.

Something about the moment feels decisive, so you decide to declare yourself.

“We are only just getting started with this adventure, boys” you state boldly. “Well, that is, as long as Eloise is away…” You modify, knowing this sort of thing is only possible when your flatmate, and indeed their little sister, is away, as she is now.

“I’m going to buy her a bloody flat,” Anthony growls decisively, his hand scooping behind your head and hauling you up to meet his lips. “This place is yours alone now, baby girl…”

Well, you're not going to argue with that.

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You go back into the house, a young girl reading a book comes out. You smile and tap her on the shoulder, as she turns to look at you. You grab the book from her hand and run from her.

“Isa!” she yells and chases you

“’Oh and the love of my life did say to me you shall be mine and I’m forever yours’“. You read before she grabs it from you, glaring at you “I can’t believe you read all that soppy stuff”

“It’s romantic”

“It’s slightly sickening”

“I can’t help it if you’re inexperienced in the ways of love” you laugh

“’Oh my dear, I love you and I can’t picture my life without you. Let’s have 20 babies and then I’ll find a nice, younger woman who I can run away with and leave you with my children’. I think that’s love this day and age right?” you chuckle

“Or more like-” she picks her book up “’my dearest love. I think of thee as I watch the sun rise and the moon set and wonder, is this what our lives our like? Destined to be so distant. Only being able to share a few seconds with each other before we must spend our time apart again’“

“Sickening”

“Romantic” you chuckle as you look outside

“Speaking of moons and suns, our sun is setting. So go get into bed. We are to rise early tomorrow. Or as your book would likely say ‘our eyes are destined to bewitch each other one more time before we know we are truly in love’“

“You must’ve read her book before” another girl walks out, sticking her tongue out at her sister. You laugh

“Come on. Bed. All of you!” you yell. 3 more girls walk out of the kitchen, flour covering them “Daisy, can you go get your sister from outside. Guys” you pause, looking at the state of the three of them and letting out a soft chuckle “What happened?”

“It was her fault” they all say in unison and point at each other. You roll your eyes

“Just, get changed and go to bed. I have work tonight so I’ll be back late. If you guys are up when I get back you’ll be in trouble. I’ll eat all of your chocolate” you smile and tickle one of the girls who laughs as you carry her to the bedroom. “Dressed and bed. I’m leaving Daisy in charge of you” you go and grab a bag and a coat “I’ll see you all later, love you all” you blow kisses to them, seeing the eldest as you walk out “I’ve left you in charge. Make sure they are all in bed by the time I get home. And lock the door behind me. I’ve got my key so you’re ok” you smile and kiss her forehead before walking to work.

You let out a small sigh as you reach the brothel doors. You go inside, men and woman grinding on each other as you go to the backroom where you can get dressed. You smile at one of the girls whose smoking. She offers it to you, taking it and having a few puffs as she speak “quite a lot of people tonight. I reckon we might get lucky enough to have them spend out a bit more tonight on us, what do you think?” you nod and hand her cigarette back, exhaling the smoke.

“Hopefully some men who think with their dicks and not their brains” you both laugh as you get into your clothes for the night. You go out, eyeing up a few gentlemen as they walk past. You walk over to a man sitting alone. “Hey there handsome” you sit next to him, hand gently resting on his. He smiles at you slightly, drinking from a glass. “Ooh what drink do you have?”

“Whiskey. Helps settle my nerves” 

“Why are you nervous?”

“I’ve never been in a brothel before” he admits to you. You chuckle slightly, stroking his hand with the tip of your finger

“I can show you how it works if you want” he shakes his head

“I’d quite like to just chat to you to be honest” he takes another sip of his drink “what’s your name?”

“What do you want it to be?” he raises an eyebrow at you. You let out a soft sigh

“It’s Isabella. Most of my friends call me Isa though” he nods

“John” you nod.

“What brings you here John? I assume you aren’t here for the obvious reason that is” he takes the last of his drink, ordering another one. 

“I normally live in France but I am here for business reasons. I leave for France again on Tuesday. I’m currently at a place just down the road from here” you nod

“Are you staying with family?” he shakes his head

“No. It’s just a house a bought as my vacation home” he chugs his drink “my mother is coming over the weekend as well as some family friends. She’s arranged a ball for everyone” you nod slightly. After a few more drinks he turns to you, a look of seriousness on his face “Isa. I know we’ve just met and I don’t mean this in a harsh way and I want you to know that you are gorgeous, but I’m not going to have sex with you. But-” he places his finger to your lips, to hush you from words you weren’t going to say “but I have another offer for you. The reason my mother has arranged a ball is so that I can find a woman. However, I have no interest in finding myself a woman. But, if I have a woman she thinks I am seeing she will be happy” he smiles at you “would you do me the honour of letting me court you for a week? I will pay you” he write down a number on a piece of paper “in cash”

“I- oh my god...” you look at the number but swallow sadly “I’m sorry. I can’t leave my family for a whole week. I’m the oldest one and Id worry too much” he nods

“The weekend then. Mother comes on Saturday, so come Friday and leave Monday” you nod slightly

“I will have to check in with my family but… yes.” he smiles as he hug you. 

“I will meet you here in 2 days” he smiles at you as he stands and walks out. You look at the number he wrote down and squeal in excitement.