shay

Almost none of you.

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

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

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

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

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

Asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sit up.”

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

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

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

“I told you to sit up-“

“I heard you.”

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

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

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

“No. I work under Nat.”

“Who works for me-“

“Does she?”

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

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

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

No one hates Steve Rogers.

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

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

So you must be the fucking problem.

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

Someone says your name, and your head snaps over.

“Yeah?”

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

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

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

“Hey.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hm.” You smirk. “I’m sure you are.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What the fuck is your problem.”

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

“This isn’t a dating app.”

“I know that-“

“Didn’t seem like it.”

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

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

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

“That’s rude-“

“Oh, suck my dick.”

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

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

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

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

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

Not this again.

“If someone got the jump on you-“

“No one gets the jump on me.”

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

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

 “I didn’t say that-“

“Then what were you going to say-“’

“That you need to be careful-“

“And why do you care-“

“I don’t-“

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

“You- You fucking-“

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

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

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

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

Controlled. Always so fucking controlled.

“Nothing important-“

“It looked important.”

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

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

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

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

Passion, he said.

Idiot.

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

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

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

“Tony, what’s going on-“

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

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

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

“Well, I know it’s your fault-“

“Because everything is my fault-“

“For stuff like this, yeah. It is.”

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

“I’m not in trouble-“

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

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

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

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

“Yeah, it does. Which is annoying.”

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

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

“You should sit down, buddy.”

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

“Don’t stand there like a creep.”

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

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

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

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

Tony’s lips twitch despite himself. Steve scowls.

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

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

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

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

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

Secret Love In the Avengers.

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

“Tony,” Steve mutters. “What’s this.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What?” You snort. “No, it isn’t-“

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

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

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

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

“Yes. I do. And you do too.”

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

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

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

Steve coughs, ears turning red. “Nothing-“

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

“They- What?!”

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

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

He never does.

“Did you know about this?” You hiss.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Don’t Tony me, pretty boy-“

“Just- Not now-“

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You don’t. You don’t. You don’t?  

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

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

Oh, no.

You want to fuck him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“We really don’t-“

“Yes, we do- Will you slow down-“

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

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

“Let go-“

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Aw. I’m a woman-“

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

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

“I’m a problem?”

Steve’s throat bobs. “Yes.”

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

“You’ll live.”

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

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

“You’re impossible-“

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

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

“Yes. You do.”

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

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

“Steve…” You breathe, and he chuckles.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Steve-“

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

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

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

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

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

But Steve…

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

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

“Since the second I saw you.”

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

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

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

Stares for a second longer, then nods.

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

“Okay?”

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

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

Steve snaps.

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

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

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

“Shut up, I could still stop this-“

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You would’ve killed me.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Steve…” You whisper. “Don’t tease.”

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

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

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

“You- You’re such an ass-“

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

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

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

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

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

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

And he’s still so hard.

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

“You’re- Uh-“

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

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

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

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

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

“Stop,” he grunts, and you obey.

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

“You like that, doll?”

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

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

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

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

“Wasn’t- Wasn’t begging-“

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He’s looking at your tits.

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

“Steve- Ooh-“

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This feels real.

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

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

You hum in agreement. “Clean up later?”

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

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

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

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

“You gotta hold on.”

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

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

“I’m holding on tight.”

“Hold on tighter.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Steve.

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

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

“Is that me?”

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

“Stay.”

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

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

“You like that, huh?”

“Shut up-“

“No, you liked that-“

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

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

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

Steve shrugs. “I do. So?”

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

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

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

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

And all your protests slip out of your head.

I love you.

He- He said-

“What?” You squeak, and Steve sighs.

“I love you.”

He said it again. “Wh- Why?”

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

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

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

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

“It’s not.”

“But-“

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“See?” He smirks. “Begging.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes?”

You glare at him, and he raises his brows.

“You getting on, or not?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your eyes dart up, and oh. Oh god.

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

“St- Steve-“

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

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

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

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

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

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

You whimper an agreement, and Steve chuckles.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You gonna talk to me?”

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

“I didn’t hurt you-“

You shake your head quickly, and his shoulders relax.

“Okay. Good. I- I’m gonna-“

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

“Honey, it’s everywhere.”

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

“Okay. Five minutes.”

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

Like a real couple.

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

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

But now-

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

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

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

Steve murmurs your name, and you smile.

“I love you,” you croak out.

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

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

And he might really be the only thing in yours.

Or, more accurately, whatever demon had possessed Sam had shot him. It doesn’t matter. He’s going to give Sam a hell of a beating for it either way.

He realises dimly that he had woken up because of a heavy guitar noise. His ringtone. And he hears a voice - two? - but he can’t summon enough energy to identify what they are saying.

He hopes one of the voices is you. He hopes you know that he’s sorry. 

There is some splashing going on around him but his head is inside a murky cloud. An arm wrap wraps itself around his back and a body buckles under his weight. But the force of it bears heavy on his injured shoulder. That cloud gets thicker and Dean slinks out of consciousness.

He comes to on a rigid wooden chair in the bar. Everything around him is blurred and foggy, but after a few blinks he meets Jo’s concentrated stare. She’s working on his shoulder with a tweezers and a white padded gauze.

“You’re awake,” she says monotonously. She pushes a pill forward and puts a glass of water from the other side of the table in front of him.

“Yeah,” he grunts. He swallows the pill without the water. He begins to straighten up and a sharp blade of pain cuts into his shoulder.

“Sit down,” she demands. “I haven’t got the bullet yet.”

He doesn’t want to listen, but his shoulder is showing no quarter. He’s sure he can feel the dirty steel rattling inside. He’s sweating and shivering - whether from the cold or the pain, he’s not sure.

“Listen,” he grunts. “There’s a girl. She’s in a car parked just down the road from here. Little red convertible. I need you to go get her for me. I have the keys somewhere…”

Jo says your name. Abrupt and matter-of-fact. He frowns at her.

“I spoke to her already. She made her own way out and found you at the dock.”

Suddenly, he feels like laughing. Despite everything. Of course you made your own way out. That’s just like you. 

Oh, you’re going to be so pissed at him.

“Where is she?”

“She’s trying to find out where Sam is. He disabled the GPS on his phone again.”

He nods and feels Jo eyeing him quizzically. He’s sure she will ask who you are to him if he meets her eyes, so he doesn't.

The dim lights in the bar are too bright for his groggy eyes. Jo has one hand steadying his arm and the other picking at the deep wound on his shoulder with the tweezers. Her hands are soft and they feel like a woman’s but not like yours. 

His body is sticky and slow with pain, but after a few minutes the painkiller kicks in. This one is stronger than any of the ones you had been giving him. It makes his arms and legs feel weightless. He doesn’t have very much agency in his body anymore. He can hardly feel Jo prodding away at him or her hands on his skin.

“Oh- sorry.”

You’re standing at the door, frozen still. The right side of your clothes are damp and dirty, which he figures is on account of you dragging him out of the water. You still somehow manage to look put together. You’re looking between himself and Jo. “I’ll wait in the car.”

He very suddenly wants to push Jo away. He has the irrational urge to tell you that it’s not what it looks like  - that there’s nothing between himself and Jo - but he’s not sure why he feels the need. He stiffens up.

“Don’t,” he says, feeling strangely jittery. “Where did you go?”

“I tried to get the operator to turn on the GPS again but he wouldn’t. I’ll try calling again from the car. Hopefully I’ll get onto someone else.”

You smile faintly and turn before he can say much more. 

He stares at the door as Jo continues her work, feeling as though his brain might have exited the room with you. Jo is eyeing him again with puzzlement and maybe a little suspicion, but still doesn’t ask. He’s glad. 

Instead, she asks him about demons; when they lie, when they might tell the truth, how he knew Sam was possessed. He answers them absently, itching the whole time to get up and make a break for the car. He’s mildly concerned that you might take off without him or something if you are really pissed about him ditching you. Or if you think he’s fooling around with Jo.

When Jo finishes bandaging him up, she tries to go with him. He becomes irritated, angry to an irrational extent without knowing why. For whatever reason, the idea of Jo sitting in the backseat of your car, head propped between the two of you, is wretched to him. She would create some kind of barrier that is enough to stop him from saying everything he wants to say. He wants to be alone with you.

She reluctantly throws him the little pill bottle of painkillers on his way out and he feels a twinge of guilt at the dejection on her face, but not enough to change his mind. He leaves with a promise to call her later. He knows that he won’t, even as he says it.

The car is still there. You hadn’t taken off. 

He is nervous, walking up. He hesitates and pulls at the car door to find it locked. He fishes in his jeans, arms still numb and clumsy with the painkillers. He finds the key and clicks the button. A high, chiming sound calls out and he’s able to sit in on the leather. It’s unusually hot which feels nice, being damp to the bone as he is. You had got the seat-warmers going for him.

You’re on the phone.

“I completely get that. It’s just- well, Sam is my husband and he hasn't been home in a few days. I’m getting worried but I’m also… I just need to find him. I need to know where is he and what he’s doing. I’m sure you can understand.”

Now there’s a genuinely unpleasant thought. You and Sam together. Married. He mostly hates how easily he can picture it. How much sense it would make.

He recollects you using the word ‘husband’ earlier that day and how it made him hard. In this context, it makes his mouth taste sour.

“Thank you so much. Truly, I appreciate it. Have a great night.”

You hand him over your phone on the GPS page. Sam’s green dot is back on the map and moving south, just like he had thought.

“He’s going to Sioux Falls, South Dakota. We’ll have to cut through Minneapolis. Traffic shouldn’t be bad once we get there. It’ll be late.”

You nod slowly but you don’t move to start driving. You just stare at him, expression unreadable. He wonders if you’re waiting for an apology. He will happily give it, but he doesn't know where to start. For locking you into the car, for whatever the hell misunderstanding happened in there with Jo, for dragging you into this whole clusterfuck in the first place. If you’d just tell him, he’d get on his knees and beg, bad leg and all.

“Dean, you have my keys.”

“Oh,” he says, fishing clumsily in his pocket. “Right. Sorry. Here.”

You pull out of the avenue and begin to drive - out of the city the way you came. It has become quieter. There are a few speeding cars, a few silhouettes hurrying by, but none of the bustle of a busy city. He’s not even sure what time it is.

He swallows. “I’m sorry.”

You don’t give anything away, eyes on the road. “For?”

“Everything. Locking you into the car, involving you in any of this. I’m so sorry.”

He hates the way his voice cracks - the apology in it. You look sideways at him and he sees now that your face is still soft. “I’m not doing anything that I’m not actively deciding to do, Dean. I’m here because I want to be. There’s nothing you need to feel guilty about.” You pause, lips pursing. “Except locking me into the car. That was real shitty.”

He laughs weakly. “I know.”

“I understand, though. My sister always used to do shit like that to me. I don’t remember that much about my birth parents but I remember her locking me into the room when things got dirty. Probably gave me a complex but she was trying to do what was best for me.”

So that’s the pesky family thing. He pairs it up with your weird insistence on being useful. He holds it up against his memories of you like two pictures he’s trying to compare. It makes sense.

“How’d you get out of the car?” he asks.

“Realised you don’t need the keys to put the top down. I was so mad it took me so long to think of it.”

“You’re crafty.”

You cock an eyebrow. “Not crafty enough to realise you were playing me. Can’t believe I fell for it.” You mimic him, deepening your voice. “‘Gotta get my gun from the trunk. You stay here.’ My ass.”

He laughs again, stronger, and you lapse into silence as you leave the city. 

He tries to get a hold of Bobby for the first time somewhere around Minneapolis. On his fourth attempt, it cuts out mid-ring. He curses furiously and throws his phone into the backseat somewhere. You don’t jump. You’ve become more accustomed to his temper tantrums in recent days. 

“No answer?”

“Sam's there,” he grunts. “He must have cut the line. Just gotta hope Bobby knows better than Jo.”

Your foot squeezes down harder on the accelerator. You always drive just a little bit over the speed limit, but he is honestly surprised that you haven’t been pulled over by a cop with the way you’ve been driving since leaving Jo’s bar.

The car usually smells like your skin - a pleasant, delicate scent. Right now, he can only smell the motor oil and unclean water off his own clothes. His boots are sitting in the backseat and his feet, covered in soggy socks, are up against the leg heater.

“I’m sure Bobby will be fine. You said he’s been doing this for ages, right?”

“Yeah, he’s one of the best. He’s considered a bit of a craftsman in the business. But Sam is real fucking strong. If Bobby doesn’t catch on right away, he’s toast.”

“I’m sure he will. We’re not too far off, anyway. Another hour and we’re there. Maybe I can make it forty minutes.”

You speed up again and he grabs the handle on the roof of the car. There’s a minute of silence that is not entirely comfortable.

“Jo is nice,” you remark with a nonchalance that may be forced.

“She’s alright,” he says.

“So are you guys-”

“No. Definitely not.”

“Okay. But maybe before?”

“No. Never. I don’t see Jo that way. She’s more of a little sister type. I mean, she’s cute and all but too much of a schoolgirl.”

He’s parroting exactly what he had told Sam before with a rush of intense, confused relief. He’s glad of the opportunity to explain. Your mouth twitches into a wry grin and he realises his blunder.

“Not that there’s anything wrong with schoolgirls- I can get down with- Wait, college girls, I mean. College girls are fine. Fair game.”

You laugh, loud and bright, and the knot in his chest loosens. “What about little sisters? You got something against them?”

He sighs, embarrassed. “I meant that she’s like a little sister to me. Kinda annoying like one too.”

“She’s not so bad,” you smile, turning on your indicator while you prepare to pull off at an exit. “I thought she was nice. She cares a lot about you and Sam. You guys close with her?”

“Not really. Met her for the first time about a year ago. Her mom doesn’t want her doing all this but she tagged along on this hunt we were doing. She wasn’t half bad.”

“Why doesn’t she stick with you guys? Wouldn’t that be safer?”

“Sammy and I are a good team. We don’t need nobody else.”

“Oh,” you say, thoughtfully. There’s a brief pause. “Is that why you don’t want me coming-”

“No.”

You breathe a quiet laugh. “Okay.”

“You and Sammy would get on like a house on fire. I know it.” 

You smile shyly. “I think so too.”

He doesn’t want to walk this path again. It’s too dangerous. He needs to get his words in check and his thoughts too.

“There was some weird situation with our dad and Jo’s anyway. They used to work together. I don’t know the details but I don’t think she wants to hang around us very much either.”

You don’t answer him for a moment, lips pursed in something like doubt. “You don’t talk a lot about your dad,” you say eventually. “Only when you need to. Like if you’re telling some story or something.”

“He was a weird guy. Big personality. Hard to explain.”

“You’ve done a pretty good job explaining the other hard-to-explain stuff.”

He almost laughs. You’re right. He has all but forgotten that you were claiming not to believe that the supernatural exists. You might have forgotten too. Despite still not seeing any hard evidence, you haven’t shot him even one doubtful glance whenever he brings up anything about hunting or demons or holy water. 

“Difficult to bring myself to explain,” he amends. 

You give him a tight, sad smile and nod. “That’s okay.”

He looks at you, your face glowing, pretty eyes shining. He sees understanding on your face. Understanding for the fact that he can’t talk about his dad right now, maybe not ever. 

You can’t possibly know all the mental gymnastics he’s been doing in his head - not even Sam does. You have no knowledge of all the memories he’s sifted through, asking himself whether that was really how it happened or if it’s how he wants to remember it. You can’t know about the battle between blind faith in his father and the repressed feelings of guilt for not standing up for Sam who had the bravery to see things a bit clearer. You have no idea how he’s questioned what parts of him are his and what parts were surgically placed there by his dad. Still, you understand.

He’d like to say something to you - to thank you maybe, or apologise or just to come clean about all the longing and tenderness that has been tormenting him for days, even if you already know - but words are difficult things, and he has never been good with them. He can only look at your face and suffer and worship.

You fish out the CD wallet and toss it to him. He catches it before it flies out the open window and flicks through it without questioning you, for fear that you’ll take it back. He finds a Nirvana album and lets the first three tracks play out in silence. He starts to recognise the roads around Bobby’s house at track four, and turns the volume down.

“We’re getting close,” he says, voice low. “I’m not gonna lock you in the car again, but I’m gonna need you to stay outside the house.”

You give him a look he knows well.

“I mean it,” he says. “It’s not safe. Please. If you don’t wanna do it for your own safety then just do it for my peace of mind. I don’t want this to be your first hunt.”

He hates himself immediately for the slip-up. You catch it. Your eyebrows raise. 

This is what hope does. It twists everything around. Makes him say stupid shit like that. ‘Your first hunt’ - like he’s planning on training you up to come on the road. The thought of it might have crossed his brain in unguarded moments of ridiculous reverie, but only in an abstract way. Only in a harmless, notional game of what-if. Now he’s vocalised it, and he’s not sure if he can take it back.

“I told you Sam is strong,” he ploughs on, hoping you’ll let the topic drop. “But he’s also smart. This is a demon with access to Sam’s strength but also to his knowledge about me and about all the ways we’re gonna try hunt it. I need you to stay in the car.”

“I’ll stay behind you. I won’t do or say a thing if you tell me not to. But I want to come in. I need to- I just need to see…”

There’s that desperation again. Another one of those things you can’t bring yourself to explain. When he sees it in your eyes this time, he knows he will fold.

Here is another shiny thing he has tarnished because of some insatiable need that he can’t even name. He will let you join him while he hunts his own brother. Because your eyes are gleaming with a trust that he knows will never recover if he doesn’t and he’s selfish and greedy, so he’ll let you do anything just as long as he never has to watch that trust evaporate. He is suddenly nauseous.

“You can come,” he chokes out.

Your expression hardly changes. “You’re being serious? You’re not gonna go ahead and lock me in again once we get there?”

He shakes his head, feeling as though he could vomit if there was anything at all in his stomach.

“You’re not responsible for me. You know that, right? I meant what I said earlier. I’m making my own choices here.”

He has a lot he would like to say to that, but he says none of it. Instead, he says; “There’s this thing called a devil’s trap. It’s a sigil. Bobby’s got one on the roof over his living room. You get one of the suckers to step under it and they can’t get out. That’s when you gotta do the incantation to exorcise them from the body. Our best hope is that Bobby noticed something off with Sam and has him in the trap now. Otherwise, whatever we’re walking into won’t be pretty.”

You nod with quiet solemnity. He points right to signal the dirt road you need to drive down. You take the turn, driving significantly slower than you had been before.

“It’s never too late to back out,” he says. “Whether it’s now or on the walk into the house or when Sam is beating the crap out of me. Just remember that, yeah?”

“Yeah,” you say. He has the feeling he’s lost you - like you’ve dug some deep hole within yourself and are burrowing further. You’re concentrating on the mission ahead now. That’s fine. He does the same thing himself.

He points to Bobby’s house as you approach and when you pull in and park the car, the two of you climb out silently. You climb out a little faster this time, just in case.

With one hand on the front door handle and the other clasping his gun, he turns to you with his eyebrows raised. You nod. He bursts through the door.

With the situation explained and yourself and Bobby formally introduced, Dean slaps the demon awake. It blinks groggily, looking down at where it is tied to the chair and then up at the sigil on the ceiling, before setting its sights on him. Something sinister is playing behind its eyes. 

It feels wrong to see Sam like this and he’s dimly aware of the fact that this is your first impression of him. He stands up close in an attempt to block you and Sam from each other’s visions.

Sam’s eyes finally lock on to somewhere behind him - you - just as Bobby begins to read the incantation. Sam doesn’t know your face, so the demon has no information to play on. His eyebrows twitch with a sort of animal curiosity and it makes Dean’s skin feel tight and putrid. He feels as though he could get sick again. That terrible, assessing look on his little brother’s face is enough to destroy his sanity, and it’s aimed at you.

Bobby continues to chant, but Sam’s eyes stay locked on you with no signs of letting up. He doesn’t so much as flinch at Bobby’s monotonous recital.

“I learned a few new tricks,” he says, head dropping low until his chin meets his chest, drooping lazily like that of a man hanged. He begins to speak in Latin, low and frenzied. Dean doesn’t recognise a word of it - it’s no incantation he has ever heard - but each syllable is bubbling with a lunacy he has never heard in Sam’s voice.

Abruptly, the fireplace explodes with a flaring scream. The lights begin to flicker and Dean has to, for once, admit that he’s scared.

Not for himself. He’s seen much worse than this and he’s not all that afraid of dying, anyway. He has been on the cusp of it or fallen over that edge one too many times to feel fear over it anymore.

He’s scared for Sam. If the incantation doesn't work - and it looks like it hasn’t - he’s all out of ideas. And maybe that means that Sam will be destined to live out the rest of his life as only a husk of himself - to hand over his body to something that will defile it.

And he’s scared for you. He can’t even bring himself to look at you for fear that the guilt will swallow him whole. The house begins to rumble, as if a stampede were passing by, old dust unsticking from hard-to-reach crevices and falling down over them. He waves a hand, signalling that you should get back. 

Bobby tears up Sam’s sleeve to find a large Q branded in jagged red onto the tanned skin there. The scar is swollen and tender, flesh that looks more like jelly oozing out of the skin.

“It’s a binding link,” Bobby shouts over the thunder of moving furniture and shuffling concrete and wood. “It’s like a lock. He’s locked himself inside Sam’s body.”

“What the hell do we do?” he screams, backing up. He feels your body hit his back and he pushes you further out of the room, still not turning his back. Sam’s head snaps up sharply, black reptilian eyes turned up to the ceiling which immediately cracks, bringing down a cargo of dust and rubble. Sam tears the rope he is bound in. The sigil is broken.

You fly first, slamming into the other room with one clawing wave of Sam’s arm. Bobby goes second - into a bookshelf, where his body slumps limply over a cluster of pages and hardbacks. And then it’s Dean’s turn.

He’s launched into the side of a door, flask of holy water knocking from his grip. His bad shoulder meets the door with a cold stroke of agony, pain flaring through it. He won’t be able to move it tomorrow, but it matters very little to him now. 

He can manage only a thin, forced breath before Sam is on him again. He descends on him like a tornado, raining down punch after punch - slowly, like he’s enjoying it. Blood streams steadily down his nose and creates a sheet over his eyes. He can taste copper in his mouth.

Dean drifts in and out of consciousness rapidly - hands and fingers grasping at the air as if trying to bring himself to harbour. Sam’s mouth - but not Sam - is speaking animatedly about hell and prisons made of bone and flesh. He doesn’t understand much, but he understands enough to know that he’s speaking to Meg.

Meg stretches Sam’s lips into a twisted grin of horror. “Whatever I do to you, it’s nothing compared to what you do to yourself is it?” Sam-Meg asks, digging a thumb firmly into the bullet wound in his shoulder. Dean retches and sobs in agonising pain. “I can see it in your eyes, Dean. You’re worthless. You couldn't save your dad and, deep down, you know that you can’t save your brother. They’d have been better off without you.”

Even though the haze of pain, he stares at Sam’s manic eyes, shining and empty. They are just white and black and green with nothing behind them - meaningless, devoid of any feeling or soul. But still, something wrenches in his chest. 

A strange, ambivalent serenity overcomes him, even as Sam raises his hand for another punch that will surely send him plummeting into unconsciousness. Because he’s seeing the truth of it - the whole picture - for the very first time, in a flash of horror and understanding. All the ways in which he has lost and all the ways in which he has yet to lose.

He doesn’t see how you come up from behind Sam with the poker, but he sees you once you grab the arm that is about to fire another downwards punch. He can only watch with a mixture of awe and terror. Sam tries to spin around with one arid, whistling breath, but you get him with the poker, striking a fresh burn across the fleshy Q on his arm.

Sam’s body jackknifes and convulses. He pulls up to his knees, taut and strangled, with an ear-splitting, rage-fuelled roar, heaving a cloud of black, smoky sludge upwards. It flees into the fire, leaving a limp Sam on the floor.

There is just a second of silence before Sam opens his eyes, frantic and confused, cold sweat coating his hair and forehead.

“Sammy?” Dean manages to grunt.

Sam looks quickly to Dean, then to you and then Bobby, who has started to pull himself up from the ground. He’s breathing heavy and his face is confused and miserable, like he can’t put anything together. He looks back at you and stares for a second longer.

There’s a brief pause. “Did I miss anything?”

Dean surrenders to all his primal urges. He punches Sam square in the face, collapsing into a heap immediately after.

Sam passes out at Bobby’s. Bobby offers a room to yourself and Dean, but he insists that you will find a motel for the night. He wants to get you away from everything, and he wants to take Baby for a spin anyways, now that he has her back.

Silence spins out slowly in the motel. He’s a bit worse for wear. His shoulder hurts like a bitch, but the pain of it is distracting almost wholly from his calf. He is just waiting for the painkillers to start working, which they slowly do. He had thought about showing you all his cassettes the whole drive up here, but he never reached for them.

He coughs. “So what’d you think of him?”

You laugh, soft and low. “He was a real charmer. Must be a family thing.”

He scoffs. “I got more game than him. I’d never throw a pretty lady like you across a room.”

You throw a pillow at him while he settles into the bed, before crawling in beside him, close but not touching. He catches it and props it under his back.

“Is he okay, do you think?” you ask, nestling in.

“He’s okay. I talked to him a little bit while you were with Bobby. I should be checking whether you’re okay, sweetheart. That was a lot.”

You look tired but pretty mellow, all things considered. You’re curled around a pillow, suddenly looking quite small to him - as if you’ve folded in on yourself. But you’re wearing a small, secret smile.

He will miss your body when you’re gone. Not in the carnal sense, though he can’t deny that he wants it in that way too. He will miss studying your hand gripping loosely on the steering wheel and the curve of your spine when you curl up to sleep. The angle of your hip when you turn to talk to him, the bone of your knee he has once or twice touched.

“I dunno why but I pictured you in a jeep or something,” you say, casual and sleepy. “The Impala makes way more sense. So flashy.”

“Don’t change the subject.”

You breathe a quiet laugh, smiling at him. “I’m okay. I’m good, actually.”

He smiles tentatively back. “Yeah?”

“Yeah, I…” You falter, eyes moist. There is a beat where nobody says anything while you look at him hopelessly, trying to pull words from somewhere.

His lips flatten into a straight line. “No.”

“Dean-”

“No. I’m serious.”

“I’m serious too!” You prop yourself up on your knees to face him. “You’re gonna tell me I don’t know what I’m talking about again. But I do.”

“You don’t,” he insists, wanting to feel angry and only feeling tired. He meets your pleading expression with a mask of indifference. He does his best John Winchester - the sort of snarl that would make anyone believe that argument is futile. “You don’t know anything about it.”

“I know enough to know that I wanna come with you,” you say. “You can’t tell me that I don’t know what I’m getting into after today.”

“You don’t know everything there is to know after one hunt-”

“But you could teach me! You could help me like you help Sam.”

He laughs, suddenly. “Fat load of help I am to Sam. You see him tonight?”

“Yes, I did.” Your eyes are wide and angry, but your voice is level. “I saw you lie and hustle your way into a ride across the country for a whole week while badly injured. Saw you take a gunshot from him and never hurt him back. I saw the whole goddamn thing.”

He says nothing for over a minute, staring at you closely. His Adam’s apple quavers. He finds, with some surprise, that he’s trying to find a way out of believing you. Trying to find some sort of loophole so he doesn't have to believe that you see him the way you’re suggesting. 

Because that kind of person is the ideal he had always held himself up against but could somehow never believe that he was meeting. He has felt more like a mortician than a hunter recently, with the way death seems to follow him around like a bad smell. It’s somehow excruciatingly uncomfortable to think of you seeing him the way he has always failed to see himself. 

“I punched him,” he says, quietly. 

You laugh a watery, sniffling chuckle. “I suppose that’s true.”

He looks at you, your face, neck and shoulders. He reaches out to touch your arm and feels the warmth of your skin all the way to his stomach. Your lips part slightly, when he leans forward to capture your lips with his, swallowing your shuddering breath.

He kisses you for the second time like he’s swallowing a poisoned pill, because he is. Your lips are soft and warm and whatever the outcome may be now, he knows he can’t do without you. Whether you go with him or drive all the way back home, he’s done for. If he leaves you here, you’ll slip in between the cracks of his brain and melt into of his dreams and from there you’ll be immobile. Dean never forgets a thing once he’s dreamed it.

He can feel your breasts against his bare chest through your thin white t-shirt while your hands cradle his face. He tugs you onto his lap, one hand slipping up your thigh until it can creep under your t-shirt. You jump when the other grasps tight on your hip.

He looks up at you questioningly.

“Your rings are cold,” you giggle, swiping a thumb along his cheekbone.

He smiles while he jimmies the rings from his fingers and puts them on the bedside locker. His hands meet your skin again and he dives back into you.

He can feel the heat of you spill onto his lap, two legs wrapped jealously around him. Your hips move against him in small, unconscious ways. He has rapidly become hard, and you move your hips again, applying more pressure almost unconsciously.

You’re trembling in his arms - out of excitement or nerves, he’s not sure. His own chest is heaving softly as he gently inches the t-shirt up over your stomach. Your arms reach up above your head delicately. He moves slowly, enjoying the feeling of his own impatience as he gradually slips the fabric over your nipples. And Dean is no blushing virgin, but he sure as hell feels something close to worship when he gets it off you. Just the sight of you like this, perched pretty on his lap in nothing but some pathetic excuse for panties, is enough to make him suffer the rest of his life.

He presses his lips against yours again and this time feels your skin against his own, your nipples peaked and pebbly on his chest, your bare stomach under his fingertips. His hands squeeze your hips once and begin to trail along your warm stomach, nudging a thumb into your underwear.

You make a choked squeaking noise, jolting away from his mouth but moving your body closer. He latches to your neck, kissing and sucking and biting at the thin flesh there. His thumb strokes gently at the skin around your opening. He waits until you release a particularly desperate little gasp to dip his finger in, letting it pad over your clit. He is satisfied to feel a thick wetness coat his thumb - so much of it that it is almost impossible to get any decent friction against your swollen clit. Still, he manages.

“Dean…” you sigh ardently.

“Yes, sweetheart?” he mumbles into your neck, now teeth-bruised and wet with spit.

“Feels good,” you breathe back. He pulls back to look at you for a second and sees your eyes clouded over already, just from a little heavy-petting. His dick twitches hard where it is still pressed against your moving hips.

He has, for the last week, silently considered his desire to be something too vulgar and grimy for you. He is used to feeling desire for sultry women in bars or when looking at porn mags that cast the widest net of human desires by hiring models that are so nondescript they are essentially mannequins. He never feels guilty about that. The subject of his desire has, to him, always seemed about as cheap and dirty as his desire itself.

The desire he has for you is different. It’s fervent and hungry and frankly bordering on obsessive, but you’re good, and he knows you’re good. The idea of tarnishing you by touching you with that desire (an idea that has occurred to him many times in many different ways) has always left him with an overwhelming sense of guilt.

Strangely, he doesn't feel at all guilty right now. He can feel nothing but pleased, watching your mouth part slightly, face pinched in pleasure.

“Already feels good?” he says, trying not to smirk to avoid triggering your pride. He can’t stop his smile, but it does nothing. You just nod absently. He’s going to have so much fun with you.

“But m’not even doing anything, baby,” he says innocently. “Just a little bit of touchin’.”

Embarrassed, you put your face against the side of his neck and he feels your breath there. He laughs. Both hands move to your hips and begin to bounce and rock you there, experimentally. Your breaths shallow out into small, stuttering ones.

“S’okay. You’re just a little worked up. Me too. Wanted to touch on you so bad, but you just wanted to keep this,” He reaches up to softly knead a breast with his right hand. “And this,” He slips his thumb back into your underwear, eliciting a soft keen from you. “To yourself.”

You continue to rock forward, grinding up against him, and he is suddenly sharply aware of two things; the first being that he's in his underwear only and the second being that he hasn’t cleaned the pipes in a few days. He needs to stop you now or he’ll shoot in his pants like some kid. And that’s no good for anyone involved.

Gently, with one arm reaching behind your back, he lowers you onto the bed and pins you there. When he kisses you this time, he feels the cold tip of your nose on his face and is overrun with affection.

He’s is overwhelmed by the feeling of rightness while you giggle your breath into his mouth. He kisses you but it’s oddly clumsy with the smile stretching both of your lips. 

He cards his fingers through the line of fabric stripping across your hips and drags your panties down your legs and over your feet. He continues to kiss you intermittently while he teases your folds. Slow, soft, messy kisses. He dips one finger and then two into the tight, wet heat, slowly, just feeling. You’re soaked. His fingers slide into the tight space easily. He begins to shallowly pump.

“That feel good, angel?” he asks, already knowing it does. You give him an eager, bobble-head nod in response.

He’s bagged more than a few women in his day and he knows when he’s a got a performer on his hands - those trebling, soprano, inflated shrieks that let him know he’s had a poor show and it’s time to wrap it up. 

But your breath is hitching and legs are shaking, almost vibrating, in a way that is impossible to fake. If anything, you seem to be trying to suppress and choke all the noises being pulled out from your chest. That’s fine - he is looking forward to knowing what you sound like when he’s worked you up enough.

You’re a fucking vision under him; eyes glazed, a thin sheen of sweat on your brow and eyes firmly on his. He wants to see you like this every day. That might fill that massive, greedy hole in his chest. Looking at you like this, he doesn’t feel the emptiness. That place that usually feels like an empty vacuum trying to suck up anything it can. And Dean had been in the business of starving it but right now it’s full, bursting at the seams.

He feels good. He feels even better as he slides his underwear off and you stare at the stony solidness of his cock, stiff with blood and rock hard. Your eyes are suddenly very dark. Your finger reaches down low, tracing a line down the thick length of it. Something deep in his stomach jumps and he grabs your hand in his own, pulling it away from his cock.

He doesn’t want to explain to you that it’s not going to be a very impressive performance out of him if you keep doing that, but you smile and kiss him softly, so he figures you understand.

When the tip of his cock kisses your clit, you both make desperate hissing noises. He pushes up briefly, feeling the overwhelming warmth and wetness on his length and letting his stomach flutter in pleasure and excitement.

“You been thinking about this?” he grunts. “Thinkin’ what it would be like for me to slip inside you like this?” He grinds the tip just barely into your opening before sliding it over your clit again. 

You let out a frustrated, embarrassed whine. “Yes, Dean. Just…”

He laughs. “Okay, sweetheart.”

He slides in slowly, groaning at the way you envelope him. It’s a tight fit. He brings one hand down to where you’re connected and begins to rub circles around your clit and your body stutters, hips jutting upwards. He’s gradually able to push in all the way.

He loses his breath. You’re warm and responsive around his cock, walls fluttering. Your pussy twitches, my God it twitches, and he almost busts a load into you right there.

He’s never been one of those sappy schmucks who wants to stare into a chick’s eyes or kiss her silly to get his rocks off, but he has an intense urge to feel close to you. Your eyes are starry and clouded over with pleasure. 

He kisses your nose. He wonders briefly whether that is a weird thing to do in the moment, and tries to make you forget it happened by dragging out and pushing in again, slow and deep. You make a high, strangled noise.

“That’s it,” he breathes, eyes on yours. “Taking me so good. Good fuckin’ girl.”

Your eyes glitter at the praise. It’s a look he’s seen before, when he compliments you or tells you that you made a good call. He saw it when he said you were a damn natural after you swindled that priest. It’s eager and obedient, like only his opinion matters. He thrusts in again slowly, feeling the tight muscle clasp around his cock.

“You’re my girl, right?”

He’s letting his greed - that filthy possessiveness - get to him. He’s letting his mind run amok with ridiculous conjectures. How nice would it be to have just one thing of his own. Just this. Just you.

“Please, Dean,” you wail, as he thumbs your clit. “I’m yours. I was made for you. Oh God, just- please…”

A groan is punched out of his chest. “Fuck, you’re so good, angel.”

It all spills out of him while he draws back and begins to fuck into you - the deep-seated desperation to keep you. Like, if he fucks you just right then he might be able to. And maybe it’s true. He pictures spilling into you, filling you up until he’s spilling out and feels an odd mix of guilt and head-spinning pleasure in the pit of his stomach.

He turns into a damn wimp when you lean up to kiss him, his hips still pushing his cock in and out of you.  “Fuckin’ gorgeous,” he mumbles against your lips. “So goddamned beautiful, y’know that, angel? They should make you illegal.”

“You’re so sappy,” you giggle

You shudder a light laugh into his mouth that is abruptly replaced by a moan of his name when he pushes in again particularly hard. He’s playing a dangerous game, trying to give you as much as he can without busting too soon. But it’s worth the momentary panic to see the whites of your eyes as they roll back. Your hips twitch and grind in desperation. Obscene wet noises are filling the motel room.

“Sue me. I got the hottest chick in the world under me right now. Can’t blame a man for gettin’ a little sappy.”

He’s working you up, fucking you at just the right pressure to bring you to the edge, little ‘uh-uh-uh’s falling from your lips, before pulling back into a slow, deep rhythm that makes you whine and moan and complain. And that’s what he’s out for - that’s fucking music to his ears.

“Dean!” you whine, hips stuttering.

“Yeah?”

You’re shaking around him. He can’t stop kissing you. He’s drunk off the feeling of your moans vibrating through his body, lips crushed together in open-mouthed, wet kisses. You kiss him back, lost in the feeling.

“What is it, hm? What d’you want, baby?” He gives your clit another light rub with his thumb.

You sigh. “Don’t be mean.”

“M’not mean. Could never be mean to you. Promise I’ll treat you so nice. Y’just gotta tell me what you want.”

“Just want you, Dean,” you pant. “Want you to make me…”

His heart swells inconveniently. You just want him. 

“You wanna cum, sweetheart?” he asks, because he knows that, at least, is something he can give you.

You nod, a dumb, blissed-out expression on your face. “Yes, please,” you sigh.

He gives you what you want. Begins to rut up into you hard and fast while you grind downwards in tandem. Pleasure shoots through his stomach and zips up his spine. 

“My perfect girl,” he whispers. “Wanna keep you full of me all the time.”

The way he fucks you is wet and frantic. He reaches a hand down to press lightly down on the bottom of your stomach and you gasp. He feels you tighten around him. He presses down harder until he can feel the pressure of his own hand against his dick.

“That’s it, angel. Good girl. Look at me.”

You do. Your eyes, the irises almost swallowed by black pools of want, meet his own. And you fall apart.

When you cum around him, it’s just fucking sunlight. Your back arches off the bed and he feels your breasts rub against his chest. Deep, almost pained whines escape your lips. He’s not sure he’s seen anything as goddamn beautiful in his entire life. He’s in so much awe that he almost stops short, but catches himself.

He works you through it, thrusting deep, trying and just barely managing to stave off his own orgasm. He gets close but in an endeavour of sheer will, he manages to stave it off until your pussy is quaking around him with weak aftershocks. 

He pictures it, though. He pictures it when he pulls out and groans at the warm, shooting sensation low in his stomach as he jerks himself. He spills his load over your stomach and thighs, savouring the image in front of him while also thinking about it would feel like to let go inside you, watch it drip out…

He collapses onto the bed beside you with no consideration for the masses of body fluids he is bathing in, pulling your trembling frame to his own, your back to his chest and his chin on the top of your head. You laugh quietly when he reaches an exhausted hand over to grab his underwear from the side of the bed and drags it over your stomach and thighs, mopping up some of his mess.

He feels your breaths, the expanding and shrinking of lungs through your back. He lets it lull him, unconsciously matching his breathing to yours. You stay like that for a number of minutes, your head against his shoulder and one of his hands running through your tangled hair. He kisses your temple every so often, or your cheek, or the side of your neck. At some point, you intertwine your fingers with his unoccupied hand. Your breathing is steady and deep.

“You really wanna come with me?” he asks.

He’s not sure how to think about this himself. It’s a terrible idea and he knows that, but somehow it doesn't seem so terrible right now. He allows himself to picture it, not for the first time. Yourself and Sam sharing custody of the front seat. Him taking you on long drives by yourselves, pulling over multiple times to make out. Forcing you to listen to his cassettes and pretending to be annoyed when you add your own ones to his collection. 

He is met with silence. He rubs his thumb over your knuckles, wondering if you’re asleep. When he leans forward, he sees your eyes are open and staring forward.

“I do,” you say. Your voice is tired and soft and cracking. “I do, Dean. But I understand.”

He frowns. “You understand.”

You nod. “I don’t wanna hold you guys back. And I don’t want you to treat me like I’m some sort of… I don’t know. I’d rather go back and live the rest of my life with Adam than be a burden to you.”

When you mention Adam by name, he’s aware of a pang of jealousy and thinks of you with some engagement ring the size of a cue ball and two well-behaved kids in Ralph Lauren polos. He feels sick suddenly. His arms tighten around you.

He clenches his teeth together. “You’re not a burden. But this thing that me and Sammy are in… it’s no joke. It’s too late for me to get out of it now. I’m already twisted. If I could, I would go back and untwist myself and I’d untwist things for Sammy too.”

You lean back and fix him with a stare. “Would you?”

He stares back at you, mouth twitching. For all the betrayal he felt when Sam went to Stanford and all the talk about wanting them to stick together in this life, he would unfurl it all for Sam if he could. He would pull it all apart for him if it meant that he could find happiness. For himself… Well, he’s not so sure. This game is awful, but he doesn't know who he is without it. 

He’s tried self-reflection before and didn’t like the results. All he discovered was swelling, gurgling, bubbling oceans of pain. He could have delved deeper, plumbed the depths of those oceans, but he doesn’t see the use in it. And he doesn’t want to know what’s in there anyhow. He doesn’t want to mine out the pain. If it’s removed, he might just find a big, white nothingness. An empty canvas. Or maybe he’d find something worse.

“I know you think you’re protecting me,” you say, voice tired. “But taking my choice away is not that. It’s something different.”

He blinks and wets his lips. He tries to think of something profound and intelligent to say, but can think of nothing. He can’t decide whether your logic makes sense to him or not, but God, he would like to give in if he could find the courage. Would it be selfish? He thinks so.

You give him a small, gentle smile and press a delicate kiss to his lips. Then you turn around, slumping back into his chest and pulling the duvet over your intertwined bodies.

You both go back to collect Sam from Bobby’s the next day.

You and Bobby must have bonded more than he noticed the previous night, because he greets you with a warmth. Dean leaves you both to chat it up in the kitchen while he fetches Sam from the bedroom.

When he finds him, he’s sitting on the bed, still wearing his clothes from the night before but they are askew and wrinkled. He is staring into the wall.

“Y’good?” Dean asks. 

Sam wets his lips and nods with an almost confused frown. He’d like to ask what that frown is about, but they don’t really do that. Sam would probably tell him it’s nothing, anyway.

“Okay,” he says instead. “Come out to the kitchen. There’s someone- uh,” He shifts on his feet, embarrassed. “Someone I want you to meet.”

Sam raises an eyebrow, small, quizzical smile making its way to his face. He stands up from the bed, his huge frame casting a shadow in the early morning light.

“Hey, um,” Sam says, grabbing Dean’s forearm firmly and solidly. “Thanks.”

Dean smiles, almost laughs. “Be cool, yeah? No embarrassing stories.”

He introduces the two of you and is astounded to find that you are actually pretty shy about it. Nothing like you were when he had first met you. He supposes it makes sense though, after he had talked this kid up for over a week. And there is also the small consideration that you had watched Sam attempt Dean’s murder the night before. 

You give him your name with a sort of embarrassed diffidence that slowly melts the longer you talk. Sam has that effect on people. He can make anyone like him. 

He feels strangely proud, watching the two of you - that pride mingling with an overwhelming affection for the two of you. It makes his stomach feel warm.

He’s equally as happy to introduce you to his dorky little brother as he is to introduce Sam to his… whatever you are. His girl, he had called you last night. Made for him, you had said.

You get on like a house on fire, but he does have to remind Sam of his promise a few times with a gritted out; ‘Be cool, man. Remember?’

“Bobby,” Dean says, when the sun is no longer streaming gently across faces and onto the furniture and is instead casting a glow around the room. “There’s a little red car outside. Y’reckon we could leave it here for a bit?”

You turn to look at Dean while Bobby answers in the affirmative, eyes wide, polite expression frozen on your face.

“You’re coming with us?” Sam asks pleasantly.

You pause for just a second. “Yeah,” you say with a shy grin. “I’m gonna come with you guys for a while.”

Sam smiles. He looks at Dean. “You know where we’re going next?”

Dean thinks for a moment. “North Carolina is nice this time of year.”

You blink once and then smile at Dean. It is a smile so lovely and earth-shattering that he could not, if his whole life depended on it, stop himself from smiling back.

a/n: a big fat thank you to everyone who has followed along and read this far - especially to those of you who took the time to point out all the different parts and lines that resonated with you or that you particularly liked. the super long comments and reblogs of your favourite parts have been insaane to me like i genuinely can't tell you how much it means that someone would care enough about something i've written to do that so from the bottom of my heart thank you!!! i'm ngl this was TOUGH as it's the longest thing i've ever written but it's also the most rewarding thing ever - i'm so deeply in love with these two and their dynamic!! (i may or may not have thought about what happens to them beyond s2 and have a concrete story for them in my head LMAO). thank you thank you thank you everyone who commented or reblogged with your kind words, it genuinely has meant so much 🤍

🏷 series taglist: @juliperezsilveira @logansdollxx @buckfreqky

🏷 everything taglist: @buckysbbydoll @donuelle @angelryex @kombuchaaaaa @dollfaceglow @vip-hs @mollyherondale @taecallsmenoona @gummycluster856 @tw1sters @tellybearryyyy @dollydoll111

🏷 dean taglist: @soullessambs @leyra-giovanni @spaghettiwoes @suckitands33 @buckmybarnes @lostdragonqueen13 @moralgraymatter @love-stucky @sourgummieworm @annoyingrebelsoul @roseblue373 @meowrz1a @spookyysinsanity @bleuatlas @kelseaackles @10ava01 @cvntyvampi @hisbabydollmae @magic-sprinkled-daydreams @hxlaenahalliwell @katiejade @sodavrr @s0ullesslullab1es @girls-alias @marsmaryy @directioner5life @lyannalovesfictionalmen @ashlizabeth @mrrayjay @overly-enthusiastic-cats @blubellwoods

You’re curled up in bed, face smushed into the scratchy motel pillow. You’re on your side, facing him, one hand draped over his chest and your knee propped up over his leg. 

He likes the way you look when you’re truly awake - the little frown when you’re trying to work things out, the side-glance you throw Dean when he says something gross - but he likes how you look like this too. Soft and unworried. He could look at you like this forever.

He gives you a gentle nudge with a hand on your hip. “Morning,” he says through a smile.

You hum sleepily and shift a bit closer to him but don’t open your eyes. He can’t help the quiet laugh that runs through him. In his peripherals, he sees Dean leave the room. He scoffs before he goes, but Sam can hear a sort of reluctant amusement laced through it.

“C’mon,” he laughs, hand on your hip giving you a little shake. “Time to get up.”

You moan something unintelligible and begin to nestle in to his side, warmth bleeding from your body onto his. Your leg moves further onto his lap as you lie with your chest on his, face nudging into his neck, nuzzling in and breathing a deep, sleepy sigh. He dips his hand under the hem of your t-shirt, skirting his fingers over the warm, soft skin of your thigh before tightening once again over your hip.

He loves you. So much that it sometimes hurts his chest to think about it. So much that it terrifies him. He can’t think of anything worse than a future where he is not inflicted with the constant struggle of waking you up in the mornings.

He kisses your head, smells your shampoo and tries one more time.

“You’re gonna be so mad at me for not waking you up” he says into your hair. “C’mon, make this easy for me. Please?”

You let out a deep breath into his neck. “Sam, it’s okay,” you say, and even this long after knowing you and loving you, his stomach explodes with the sound of his name on your lips. Your voice is thick with sleep. You’re not quite awake, just speaking nonsense. “It’s okay. Let’s just stay here. It’s okay.”

His chest rumbles with a laugh that makes your body move. You frown and nestle in closer to him, as if that will remove the interference to your dreams.

He decides this is too much for one man to bear. He’s strong enough to fight demons and vampires but he’s not strong enough for this. His arms tighten around you, holding you tighter to his chest, and he lets you melt into him.

It’s okay, you told him. Let’s just stay here, you said, and he thinks he might agree.

He will let you be mad at him later. He will let you pout and remind him that he promised to wake you up early. He knows how to fix it anyway.

He looks down at your face, sleepy and soft, and decides that it's not a bad trade-off. 

You’re curled up in bed, face smushed into the scratchy motel pillow. You’re on your side, facing him, one hand draped over his chest and your knee propped up over his leg. 

He likes the way you look when you’re truly awake - the little frown when you’re trying to work things out, the side-glance you throw Dean when he says something gross - but he likes how you look like this too. Soft and unworried. He could look at you like this forever.

He gives you a gentle nudge with a hand on your hip. “Morning,” he says through a smile.

You hum sleepily and shift a bit closer to him but don’t open your eyes. He can’t help the quiet laugh that runs through him. In his peripherals, he sees Dean leave the room. He scoffs before he goes, but Sam can hear a sort of reluctant amusement laced through it.

“C’mon,” he laughs, hand on your hip giving you a little shake. “Time to get up.”

You moan something unintelligible and begin to nestle in to his side, warmth bleeding from your body onto his. Your leg moves further onto his lap as you lie with your chest on his, face nudging into his neck, nuzzling in and breathing a deep, sleepy sigh. He dips his hand under the hem of your t-shirt, skirting his fingers over the warm, soft skin of your thigh before tightening once again over your hip.

He loves you. So much that it sometimes hurts his chest to think about it. So much that it terrifies him. He can’t think of anything worse than a future where he is not inflicted with the constant struggle of waking you up in the mornings.

He kisses your head, smells your shampoo and tries one more time.

“You’re gonna be so mad at me for not waking you up” he says into your hair. “C’mon, make this easy for me. Please?”

You let out a deep breath into his neck. “Sam, it’s okay,” you say, and even this long after knowing you and loving you, his stomach explodes with the sound of his name on your lips. Your voice is thick with sleep. You’re not quite awake, just speaking nonsense. “It’s okay. Let’s just stay here. It’s okay.”

His chest rumbles with a laugh that makes your body move. You frown and nestle in closer to him, as if that will remove the interference to your dreams.

He decides this is too much for one man to bear. He’s strong enough to fight demons and vampires but he’s not strong enough for this. His arms tighten around you, holding you tighter to his chest, and he lets you melt into him.

It’s okay, you told him. Let’s just stay here, you said, and he thinks he might agree.

He will let you be mad at him later. He will let you pout and remind him that he promised to wake you up early. He knows how to fix it anyway.

He looks down at your face, sleepy and soft, and decides that it's not a bad trade-off. 

“You’re squirmy.” He grumbles, glaring at you in the dark. “No one ever teach you to sit still?”

You stick your tongue out. “No one ever teach you to mind your own business?”

“Hard to mind my business when you’re movin’ all the cushions, doll-“

“Then go sit somewhere else, robot man.”

Bucky’s jaw twitches. “I’m not a robot.”

“Uh huh.”

“I’m not-“

“You act like one.” You snap, and Bucky closes his eyes. Like he’s fucking praying.

“I was here first.” He mutters. You don’t balk.

“Congratulations.”

You hold his glare, and Bucky lets out a heavy breath through his nose. He narrows his eyes, tongue flicking over his lips. His full lips. Pretty and chapped, but in the perfect, soft way-

Get a fucking grip.

“There’s a chair over there.” You point across the room, sinking back into the cushions. “Go sit in it, if I’m so squirmy.”

Bucky scowls, and opens his mouth, but whatever jab he’s got for you, you don’t want to hear it. You reach over and unpause the movie—probably another one of Sam’s this is what you gotta catch up on, Barnes suggestions, because there’s no way Bucky picked out the Goonies himself—and fix your glower on the TV screen. You hate this movie. You’re going to watch it all the way through, just to show Bucky that he doesn’t bother you.

You spread your own legs wide, too. If men are allowed to do it, so are you. Bucky grunts as your knee pushes over his thigh, and you smirk at the TV.

It has nothing to do with the thick muscle you can feel under his sweatpants, that you keep your legs like that for the rest of the night. Bucky’s fingers flex a few times, and brush over the inner curve of your knee and the top of your thigh, like he’s thinking about just shoving you away. At one point, you hear him grunt, and look over with mockingly raised brows.

“Everything okay?” You almost simper, and he grunts and nods.

That’s all you get. Bucky fixes his anger on the movie, you win this round, and you get to be close to him without thinking about it.

You’ll think about it later. In the comfort of your own bedroom, you’ll think about it and think about it and think about it all night. You’ll think about it until your wrist hurts. But Bucky doesn’t get to know that.

As far as he needs to be concerned, you never spare him a second thought. It’s all he spares you. And you’re not going to be the pathetic girl who falls for someone who only thinks of her as a buzzing gnat around his head. Who worships the ground of a man who would step on her like a flower into concrete, not because he was seeking to hurt, but just because he didn’t notice you were there at all.

Although Bucky does seem to notice where you are.

The farmer does like to keep track of pests in his crops.

“You skipped the mission briefing.” Bucky grunts in the morning, glaring at you over a cup of coffee.

Something soft in you swells like a prodded bruise. He noticed where you were.

You ignore it in favor of flipping him off.

“I was busy.”

“Too busy for your job?”

“It’s not my job-“

“Your name was on the roster.” Bucky slams the folder down on the table, and your lips twitch.

“Have you been carrying that around all day?”

“That doesn’t matter-“

“Yes, it really does-“

Bucky hisses your name. There’s a fury under his tone, that makes your mouth snap shut. If he notices, he doesn’t say anything.

“You need to be there, Steve was talkin’ about safety shit, and if you don’t know it you could get killed-“

“I know how mission briefing work, I’ve been here longer than you have-“

“Really? ‘Cause you don’t act like it-“

“I don’t act like it?” You snort. “Last I checked I’m ranked higher than you, Sargent.” You raise your chin, letting your lips curl. “Which is why I’m allowed to defer missions, and you’re not.”

Bucky blinks, recoiling slightly. “Defer? What, you-“

“I’m skipping.” You shrug, grabbing an apple from the counter. “And if I’m skipping, I don’t need to be at the briefing. But thanks for checking on me, dad.”

Bucky’s eyes narrow. You expect him to snap something about experience and you not being responsible enough or needing to care more.

But instead his fists curl and uncurl at his side. His nostrils flare. He grabs the counter, his scowl burning right through you. You take a large bite of your apple, and his gaze darts down. Juice drips down your chin, and you wipe it off with light fingers. That only seems to make him angrier.

“Why’re you skipping.”

You shrug. You should say none of your business. But part of you is childish. A very big, loud part that wants him to react to something you know he isn’t actually going to care about.

“I have a date.”

“A what.” It’s not a full reaction. He’s mostly staring at you like he didn’t understand the word. Maybe they called it something different in the 40s.

“A date?” You roll your eyes, a little meaner than you mean to be. He always bring that out in you, though.

Bucky always brings everything out in you. It’s incredibly annoying.

“You know.” You push mockingly. “Where you go out with someone. And flirt like people, instead of robots.”

“Robots flirt.” Bucky grunts, and you snort.

“Yeah, but they don’t have sex-“

The counter cracks. It’s loud, echoing through the kitchen. You start and twitch, and Bucky blinks at his metal hand, like he’s just as surprised as you are. He looks back to you, shakes his head, and takes a large step back.

“What’s-“

“Steve’s callin’ me.” He mutters, and you blink.

“No, he’s not-“

“Have fun.” Bucky ignores you. His words sound pushed through his teeth. “On your human date.”

Then he’s gone.

And you’re left in the kitchen with your apple and a cracked counter, staring at where he’d vanished through the door. You don’t care about the date.

You just need to know what the fuck that was.

There’s a part of you that feels bad, for the man Natasha set you up with. She’d picked him out specifically because he had a vague resemblance to Bucky—because you’ve never told her your secret, but you didn’t need to, she’s Natasha—but it wasn’t enough.

He didn’t have the underlying accent, or the gleam in his eyes. You made a sharper edged joke, and he just laughed. He didn’t spar. He didn’t push your buttons in a way that made you light up. He just smiled at you all night—wrong smile, too—and then didn’t pay. Bucky would’ve paid.

You have no evidence of that. It’s just a feeling, that comes from how he still opens doors for you, even when you’re at each other’s throats. All polite and handsome and insufferable. You hate him.

And there’s not a single point during the night, where you’re not thinking about him.

“We should do this again.” The Date—you’ve forgotten his name, and it’s certainly not a good time to ask—says at the end of the night.

You’re shivering. Bucky would’ve offered you his jacket. He did once, on a mission in the Andes. You got all cold and he rolled his eyes and muttered that he told you to bring another layer, but still gave you his jacket all the same. This man is just grinning at you after not calling you a cab and saying he wanted to stand outside in the misty, chilly night. He said he wanted fresh air, and now your freezing, and he thinks he’s getting a second date.

At the very least, you feel a little less guilty about only thinking of Bucky and the mission the whole time. He deserved it.

“Sure.” You smile, because even with superstrength, it’s easier to tell a man yes and then vanish than it is to deny them to their face. “Have a good night.”

He tries to hug you. Your phone buzzes, and you duck away to check it.

The mission is over.

Two days early.

Your jaw tightens.

Most people would think that a job being done early is a good thing. That it means the team was just so focused and coordinated that they sped through every single step, and ended in a total victory. But you’ve been on this job too long. Early mission conclusions only ever happen for one reason.

Something went wrong, and they have to come back.

You rush back to the compound with barely a goodnight to the Date. It’s mostly because you forget, in the blur of worry. You’d skimmed the mission files before they left, just to make sure it wasn’t anything too dangerous. Bucky had been mad about you not going with them. Maybe he’d thought they’d need the hands, but it had just looked like a retrieval mission. Old Hydra facility with some data Tony wanted. Nothing too hard.

But they’re back early.

And if someone’s hurt, you could’ve stopped it. You could’ve been there, instead of on that stupid fucking date. Which also means that Bucky was right, and that’s incredibly annoying. He’s going to weild it over your head, and the mocking is going to turn you on more, and you’ll have earned it which isn’t going to help anything at all. 

You get back to the compound, and it’s not in lockdown. There aren’t med staff flooding the grounds or emergency sirens blaring. You go right to the hanger, and find that it’s already been cleared out. The jet isn’t being quarantined.

Maybe they really did just… Finish early.

You’re heading back to your room when you slam right into them.

Steve and Bucky, standing in the middle of the hall, arguing in hushed voices.

“You need to go, Buck-“

“I’m fine-“

“No, you’re not. You can lie to the docs, don’t lie to me-“

“I ain’t lyin’, I’m fine-“

Your too lost in your own head, barely even hearing what they’re saying. You barrel straight into Bucky’s back.

He goes rigid. You stumble a little, and he grabs your upper arm.

His hand is hot.

Not sexy hot—although it’s also that—but literally, physically hot. Almost searing, against your shivering skin. You look up at him, and swallow.

He’s flushed. There’s sweat clinging to his brow, and an exhausted shadow over his features. His eyes are so blown out they’re almost fully black. You blink at him, and his mouth falls open in a ragged pant.

“Hi.” You whisper.

His throat bobs. “You’re back.”

“I- I got the alert.” You glance over to Steve, who’s gone oddly pale. “Did the mission go okay? It was fine that I wasn’t there, right-“

“Yep!” Steve almost shouts, and you blink. “I mean- We were all good. Wish you were there, we all missed you, but- We were fine. Right, Buck?” Steve grabs Bucky’s shoulder. “We were all good.”

Bucky doesn’t look away from you for a single second. He grunts, and his grip tightens on your arm.

“Let go.” Steve mutters, and Bucky shoots him a glare.

He releases you like you burned him, then wipes his hand on his pants. You scowl. He was the one touching you.

“I was gonna.” He grumbles, and Steve sighs.

“I know, but-“ You get a weary look. Like Steve doesn’t want you to hear their conversation. “I think- You know what I think-“

“Steve-“ Bucky cuts himself off with a groan, running a hand over his face.

He still hasn’t looked away from you. Or moved that far out of your proximity.

“I’m fine.” He says, low and under his breath. You’re rooted to the ground under his gaze, unsure what you could even think of to say. “It’s- I’m fine.”

Steve’s lips press in a thin line. Bucky takes a large, jerking step back. Like he’s dragging himself away.

“How was your date?” He grunts.

“Bucky-“

“I’m just askin’ a question.” He snaps, still not sparing Steve a look.

The attention is getting to be too much. Bucky is looking at you like he wants to eat you alive, and it’s making your body almost buzz in anticipation. You want to jump on him and feel those hot hands all over your body. His nostrils flare like he can smell your arousal. If he can, you might jump off a bridge.

You hope he’d catch you, then fuck you until your can’t even walk.

Get a fucking grip.

“Bad.” You cross your arms over your chest, trying to keep your heart from bursting out of your chest. “He sucked.”

And that’s the kind of thing Bucky would usually mock you for. Skipping a mission just for a bad date.

But a low, rumbling growl falls from his chest. His tongue darts over his lips. He takes a half-step forward, and you lean in to the gravity of his stare.

“We have debriefing!” Steve shouts, grabbing the collar of Bucky’s suit. “Bye!”

Before you can even register it, Steve’s dragging Bucky down the hall. You swear you hear another feral noise, and a crash after they turn the corner.

Something had to have happened on the mission. You just have no fucking clue what.

Bucky’s only been acting stranger. You’d pretend it didn’t bother you, if you could get away from it for a single fucking second.

You walk through the compound, and he’s somehow more everywhere than he was before. Around every corner, in the library, on the grounds, even in the control room while you’re going through the mission files.

“What’re you doin’.” He grunts, and you sigh.

You’re not surprised he’s there. It’s the fifth time today that he’s snuck up on you.

“I’m going through the reports on the mission.” You drawl. “Don’t you have better things to do than follow me around?”

Bucky grunts. It seems to be a no. You roll your eyes and go back to poking through the system. It’s hard to pretend that you can’t feel his presence behind you. There’s heat almost rolling from his body, and thick, spicy and musky scent that’s filling the room. It’s making you a little dizzy. It’s all you can do, not to look back at him.

That would be dangerous. He probably still looks feverish and animalistic. You might moan.

You find the files for the mission, and try to open them. Big, read access denied, contact your handler for permission to these files flashes over your screen. Your mouth falls open, and you whip back to glare at Bucky before you can think about it.

Mistake. Just like you’d thought, big mistake.

He looks even worse and better than you thought. He’s wearing just a t-shirt and sweats, and they’re clinging to his sweaty body. His eyes are hooded and his lips are parted. His attention is so wholly fixed on you that it almost makes you fall out of your chair. You almost forget you’re annoyed with him. Every single nerve in your body is alight, and your fingers are itching to comb through his sweaty hair.

You somehow—just barely—fight it.

“Why can’t I access these files.”

Bucky leans over you, his nostrils flaring. If you reach up, you could trace the stubbled line of his jaw. It’s hard to maintain your glare.

“Barnes-“

“You weren’t on the mission.” He mutters. “Not your files to see.”

You scowl. “I can access the files of every other mission I was on-“

“Steve should change that.”

God, you wish he wasn’t so pretty. It would be easier to think about punching him.

“I know something happened out there.” You hiss, sitting up a little taller. “You can’t hide it from me. I’ll figure it out.”

Bucky chuckles. It’s a low, raspy sound that runs through your body, making you shiver.

“Sure, doll. Have fun with that.”

You shoot to your feet, and Bucky lurches back. Another one of those deep, rumbling growls rolls from his chest, and for a second you think he’s going to pounce on you.

And then you blink, and he’s gone. Leaving you with only that hazy smell, and desire rolling through your veins.

You wish that was the extent of it, but it’s barely the start. And it only gets worse.

Bucky doesn’t do his movie nights anymore, which means you get the TV all to yourself. You watch what you want, and try not to look at the spot next to you. Where your body feels like he’s supposed to be. You stretch out your legs, but they ache strangely without his touch. You get more restless without him. Around midnight, you shuffle to the kitchen, hoping one of those soothingherb thingys that Wanda says help with her nightmares will be there.

Instead, you find Bucky. 

He’s drinking a glass of ice, with a little bit of water. He freezes when he sees you, and moves further behind the counter.

You sigh. You’re too tired to fight him.

“Can’t sleep?” You mumble.

He just nods.

You sigh, and walk over the cupboard.

“You want hot chocolate?”

A grunt. Better than silence. You make two mugs, one for you, one for Bucky.

And maybe it’s just that you’re really starting to worry, but you don’t bother pretending to hate him. Your fingers brush when you pass him his mug, and his body seizes like you shocked him, but you just offer a tiny smile.

His mouth falls open. He stares at you like he’s spent years only looking at the muddier reflection of stars in the water, and has finally thought just to tilt his head up. You let out a small, shaking breath. He’s still burning up. You can feel it from your place a foot away. But you don’t dare to push it.

Not when he’s looking at you like this. The way you’d always, secretly and shamefully, dreamed he would.

“I’m watching Star Wars.” You mumble. “You wanna…”

You trail off, and Bucky’s throat bobs.

He nods again. A new tendril of worry blooms, overlapping with the growing tangle of them in your gut. He might not be able to speak.

But he follows you to the living area, and takes his place on the couch. His knee pushes against yours. He’s breathing awfully shallow, but you’re a selfish coward that wants him close, so you don’t mention it.

You barely pay attention to the movie. All you can focus on is Bucky at your side. How he doesn’t even seem to be sparing the TV a glance. He’s not really touching you, save for that place where your thighs are always pushed together, but every time you shift he grabs your knee. You blink at him, and his throat just bobs. He still hasn’t said a word. You’re afraid that when he does, it will break this fragile illusion.

That he wants to be here.

Near you.

He passes out near the end of the movie. His head falls against your shoulder and his body goes limp, almost a blanket over yours. You don’t move, just staring at a lit up, black screen. He looks more peaceful than you’ve ever seen. His fever isn’t breaking, but it does seem to be easing. You run your fingers through his hair, and he makes a low sound like a purr.

Then he takes a deep inhale, right against the crook of your neck, and a different noise leaves him.

It’s almost a moan.

You swallow. Suddenly you need to move. You don’t know what’s going on with him, but this can’t be what he actually wants. To be asleep almost in your arms, purring and moaning. That’s not a part of him you get to have.

But when you try to move, his grip around you tightens.

You feel almost sick.

It takes almost an hour, to roll off the couch without him pulling you back. When you’re free, you still cover him in a blanket and press a hand to his brow. Just to check. You can’t really help it.

His fever is building again.

You wish he would just tell you what was wrong. Even if he thinks you hate him, he can’t think you wouldn’t care enough to help.

When you start to walk away, he moans again. You could swear it sounded a little like your name.

You force yourself to go to bed. You’re not sure if you want him to remember in the morning.

If anything, you just pray he gets better. It’s hard to hide your undying care for him, when he’s in pain. Impossible to ignore how much it bothers you, that he’s hurting. ‘

But it is Bucky.

And he’s never going to make anything that easy.

You walk out of your room in the morning, and he’s right there. Lingering in the hallway, staring at you with those blown-out eyes, working his jaw like he’s trying to bite his own tongue off.

“Hi.” You say lamely.

He stumbles back like you punched him. “You- You’re-“

“Bucky, are you-“

“’M fine.” He says it mostly to himself again. There’s sweat gathering on his brow and bags under his eyes.

You’re not going to tell him, but you’re getting worried. This is the third morning in a row you’ve found him here. The first night you asked if he’d slept there, and he’d scowled and stomped away.

But from the look of him, you don’t think he’s been sleeping at all.

“Do you need something?” You ask. You sound soft, but you can’t help it. The worse he looks, the more your heart tightens. “I can call Steve-“

“Don’t get Steve.” He steps back. The same jerked movement from the first night. It’s the only way he’s been moving around you, lately. “I’m fine.”

You give him a doubtful look. His tongue flicks over his lips. You take a step forward, and he takes another step back. Like you’ve got a polarity field around you. Like he can’t even stand to breathe the same air.

And yet he’s here. Outside your door, and breathing through his mouth like an animal.

“Bucky-“

“Don’t.” He shakes his head, stumbling another step back. “Just- Don’t.”

You swallow, and don’t give chase when he walks away. Jogs away. He yanks himself away, then runs like he thinks you’re going to catch him and drag him back. You won’t.

But you do go right to Steve.

“What happened on the mission.”

Steve flinches, gagging on his sandwich. You’re glaring down at him with your hands on your hips, and you think he knows his little charming smile isn’t going to work on you here. That doesn’t seem to stop him from trying anyway.

“Hey, um- Do you want a cookie-“

“Steven.” You hiss, and he swallows. “What happened.”

Steve winces, avoiding your gaze. “I’m not supposed to tell you.”’

“What do you mean you’re not supposed to tell me-“

“I mean I- I can.” He mutters. “But then Bucky will kill me. And I don’t want Bucky to kill me.”

You scowl. “Tough shit, because guess who’s going to kill you if you don’t tell me?”

Steve sighs. “Is it you?”

“Yep.”

He stares at his sandwich, like it’s somehow going to get him out of this situation. You wait for him to realize it won’t. You have plenty of time.

“I’m really not supposed to tell you-“

“I really don’t care.”

“Well- You will.” Steve looks up with a sad little puppy eyes.

You don’t have the same reservations about punching him in the face, that you have with Bucky. He’s basically asking for it right now.

“Steven, I swear to fucking God-“

“I can’t tell you.” He cuts you off with a shake of his head, and you scoff.

“No, you just won’t tell me-“

“That’s not- I can’t, okay? Please stop asking me to-“

“Why, because Bucky doesn’t want you to?” You leer. “Because last I checked, you’re the Captain. And if Bucky is your friend, you should be telling his teammates he’s in danger so they can help-“

“That’s the problem!” Steve shouts, and you blink. “You- Look, you’re going to want to help, and I can’t let you.”

“You can’t let me help?” You echo, and Steve winces.

“I know how it sounds-“

“Do you? Because what I’m fucking hearing that your best friend is in danger, and you won’t let me fucking help-“

“Why do you even want to help?” Steve fixes you with a pointed look. “All you ever do is complain about Bucky and how he’s annoying you. I would’ve thought you didn’t care.”

You narrow your eyes, and Steve raises his brows. You know what he’s doing. Smug fucking asshole. 

“That won’t work on me.” You grunt, and he shrugs.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Steve-“

“But,” he says causally. “If I did, I’d say that’s why I can’t tell you. And you know that.”

You hate it when he speaks in riddles. Like you’re just supposed to read between the lines when your brain is fogged with worry about Bucky.

“I- I don’t-“ You let out a slow breath, looking down to your shoes. Heat is flooding your cheeks. It’s annoying. “It’s not- I’m just- Please.”

Your voice cracks suddenly. You’ve been losing more sleep over this than you’re ever going to tell anyone. You almost feel ill with it—like the worry is an infection, knotting up your stomach and making your heart pick up—but that might just literal exhaustion. Something happened. No one will tell you what. It’s making you feel useless and hopeless and torn up to tiny, useless shreds.

“Bucky.” You say slowly. “Is- He’s not okay. I know he’s not okay.” You force yourself to meet Steve’s gaze. “Just- Lie to me and say he’s fine, and fix it, or tell me and let me help. But I- I can’t just-“

You don’t even know how to finish the sentence. There’s a burning feeling behind your eyes and a lump in your throat. You’re so worried. Worried this is something that’s going to kill him, and you’re going to lose him forever.

And there’s pity, in Steve’s gaze. It’s enough to make him break, his voice softening completely.

“Alright.” He murmurs. “But- You can’t tell him I told you.”

You nod quickly. “I’ll say I just got into the files, or- Something- Please.”

Steve sighs. “Okay. Okay.” He shakes his head. “It was on the mission. Bucky was distracted the whole time, and when we got jumped he wasn’t being controlled with his punches. He swag to hard on an Hydra agent. Knocked them back into some vials, and- Well they burst. All over both of them. We put the agent in containment, but he was displaying worse symptoms. Bucky- I think it’s the serum, or just… Bucky. But he’s been controlling it better.” Steve grimaces. “But that doesn’t mean he’s not still knocked up with stuff.”

You nod slowly. That’s not that bad.

But Steve didn’t want you to know for a reason.

“What are the symptoms?”

Steve won’t meet your gaze. “Fever. Nausea. Hormone flares. Um- Increased… libido.”

Your eyes widen, your mouth falling open. “What.”

“Hydra makes some weird stuff. Tony thinks this was, um- A breeding drug. We don’t know why they were developing it, but- There’s no other name.” Steve’s nose wrinkles. “The agent- His cell is disgusting.”

“But- Bucky-“

“I told you, he says he’s got it under control.” Steve shrugs, but doesn’t really sound like he’s convinced himself. “The agent has been, ah… begging for anyone. Bucky doesn’t have the same liberty with what will help. He says it’s going to pass, and he’ll be fine.”

“And will it?” You breathe. “Pass?”

Steve shrugs. “It did for the agent.”

“Before or after the mating?”

Steve’s silence is an answer. You swear under your breath.

“Why wouldn’t you tell me this, Steve? We- We need to get him to someone, this could fucking kill him-“

“I know that!” Steve snaps. “I know that just as well as you do! As he does! But- Jesus.” He shakes his head. “He won’t take anyone. He’ll only- Well- You know.”

“I know? I don’t fucking know, none of you have been telling me shit-“

Steve says your name plainly. You blink.

“What-“

“Nothing. Just- Why do you think he’s been lingering around you?”

You stare at him. He raises his brows, and you swallow.

“Steve-“

“I didn’t say anything-“

“Yes, you did-“

“Nope.”

You press your lips in a tight line. He can’t mean what you think he means. That would be to easy. Too good. “Bucky- He doesn’t- That’s not how he feels about me.”

Please don’t say it is. It’s not fair if you’re lying.

“Funny.” Steve shrugs. “He says the same thing about you.”

This is a bad idea.

Bucky hasn’t left his room in a day. You’d spent all of last night replaying your conversation with Steve, trying to pick it apart for a single reason he didn’t mean what you thought he did. What you hoped he did. What you’d always hoped for, only in the dead of night where no one would ever find out.

But it didn’t matter how you turned or picked at Steve’s words. There was only one conclusion. The beautiful, horrible one that you can’t even fully wrap your head around. It would mean you spent years hating him for no reason. Year thinking about kissing his stupid face, when you could’ve been actually kissing him. If Steve’s right, you’re going to kill Bucky.

After you fix this for him.

If Steve means what you think, you can fix this for him. He just has to let you.

Which is why this is a horrible idea. If Bucky turns you down, you’re going to have to quit your job and change your name and  move to Indonesia.

But if he doesn’t turn you down…

You steel yourself and knock on Bucky’s door. It’s worth the risk, just for him. Always just for him.

“Fuck off, Stevie-“

“I’m not Steve!” You call, and for a second there’s no response. 

Then there’s a muffled banging, and you almost fall forward when Bucky yanks the door open.

He looks even worse than before. And better. And hotter, and oh God, your knees are already weak.

His shirt is gone, and his broad, muscled chest is shining with sweat. His hair flops over his eyes, mussed up and soft looking. He’s breathing through his nose, even as his swollen mouth hangs open. His metal fist is curled against the door, making the wood crack under his fingers. Standing through his sweatpants is the long, proud outline of his cock.

You swallow, your mouth watering. Bucky says your name, and you can’t tell if it’s supposed to be a plea or a prayer.

“You shouldn’t be here-“

“Steve said you need me.”

You stare at each other. Bucky’s tongue flicks out, and you chew on your lower lip. This is it. If he turns you down, you’ll walk away and live. A new life, across the world. You’ve never been to Indonesia, but you hear they have good food and community, and you’re sure you’ll be able to fit right in over time, and if you don’t at least Bucky will never find you to make you relive this humiliation, because it’s been almost two full minutes and he hasn’t said anything, so you should probably pull out your phone and start researching Indonesian names-

“Steve shouldn’t have told you anything.” Bucky growls, and you swallow.

“I- I made him.”

He sighs. You could swear his dick twitches. “Of course you did.”

“I was worried about you-“

“You don’t have to be, doll. I’m-“

“If you say I’m fine, I’m going to fucking punch you.”

Bucky scowls. You scowl harder. You have a feeling neither of you are going to back down.

“You’re sick.” You say plainly, and Bucky lets out a sharp exhale through his nose.

“Maybe. But it’s not the kinda sick you can help with-“

“Steve says it’s the kind of sick only I can help with.”

He’s silent again. You risk a tiny step forward, and he takes one back, muttering your name. It’s a warning. A plea.

“Don’t do this.” He mutters, fists balled at his side. “Not outta pity, not for me-“

“It’s not pity.” You stop in his doorway, making your voice soft. “I want to help, Bucky. Let me help.”

He shakes his head, squeezing his eyes shut. “No, you- You just- You don’t feel like that for me-“

“You don’t feel like that for me.” You breathe, and Bucky’s body locks up.

“Who says?”

“You’re an ass to me-“

“You’re an ass to me.”

“I don’t mean to be.” You whisper. “I- I don’t- I’m not good at… You know.”

Bucky’s throat bobs. He still doesn’t move.

“Me neither.”

You nod. “But…”

“Yeah.” He swallows. “Yeah. I do.”

You take a deep breath. His whole room is filled with that musky, spicy smell. The heat is almost rolling off his body.

“Please ask me to help.” You don’t bother to hide the desperation in your voice. He needs to know that you mean it. “I- I want to, Bucky, I want you so bad-“

Bucky muffles your pleas, crashing forward and pressing his mouth over yours.

It’s not the soft, loving kiss of your fantasies. It’s rough and desperate, the kiss of a man finally letting his leash snap. He grabs your neck and scrunches his fingers in your hair, dragging a moan from the back of your throat. It turns into a hungry cry, when he pushes his tongue between your lips. Your knees wobble from the bruising force of it. You grab his shirt for balance, scrunching the fabric between your fingers.

Bucky grunts, pressing further over you. One arm drops to wrap around your waist, and the other slide up to cradle the back of your head. The touch his shockingly gentle, for the demanding way he’s almost eating your kisses. You’re standing nowhere near a wall, but he’s caged you all the same. There’s nothing to do but feel the way his cool, metal fingers dig into your hips, and the unrelenting heat of his mouth.

You kiss until your breathing is ragged. He tastes like mint and salt, and it’s a little addictive. Even after you’re light-headed and whimpering, Bucky sucks on your lower lip and takes just a little more. You whimper, gasping for air that he doesn’t seem to need. He tugs on your hair, forcing you to tip your neck back, and he plants open, hungry kisses over every place he can reach.

“You gotta be sure.” He murmurs against your skin. “Tell me you’re sure, doll, ‘cause- I don’t think I can go easy.”

And oh God, isn’t that lovey thought. Bucky not going easy. Combined with his tongue flicking over a pulse point, you almost fall over from the pure thought of it.

But he’s asking real permission. His hold on your hip is getting tighter, and his shoulders are squared and tense. He’s keeping himself from taking what he really wants, until you give him total permission.

You didn’t know you could want him more.

“I- Oh-“ Your eyes flutter, as he nips on sensitive skin under your jaw before kissing away the hurt. “I’m sure, Bucky, I- I don’t want you to go easy.”

For some reason, that only makes him more tense. He takes an uneven breath, pressing his brow against your head and almost pulling you off your feet as he hugs you tighter. You wait, slowly wrapping your arms around him and dragging your nails soothingly over the nape of his neck.

Bucky draws himself back, his expression unreadable as he scans over your face. You offer him a tiny, nervous smile, and he lets out a shaky laugh.

“You- You got no idea, do you?”

Your face falls to a pout. “I have a lot of ideas-“

“No, you don’t.” He drops his brow over yours. “You got no fuckin’ clue, what you do to me.”

And your brain stalls. It gets all gooey and soft, as you just blink up at him. You’re already on unsteady legs. You never thought he’d catch you if you fell, but with the way Bucky’s looking at you right now, you think he’d dive off a cliff to be at your side.

“Bucky…” You breathe, and he drops his forehead against yours. Your noses bump. His gaze darts between your lips and eyes, and you think you might be burning alive.

“You smell so good.” He mutters, before leaning down to press a soft, sweet kiss to your lips. “Taste better than I imagined.”

“You-“ You almost whimper, when he pulls away. “You imagined?”

He chuckles, kissing just your upper lip. You’re already putty under his hands, and you might turn to just a steam of desire if he doesn’t stop kissing you so softly.

“Didn’t you?”

You nod, and Bucky’s lips twitch.

“Bet I imagined more.”

And you doubt that, but Bucky’s kissing you again before you can tell him that you imagined so much it scared you sometimes. The way you were sure that you’d never be able to recover, from an addiction to a drug you’d never even taken.

You’re certainly never going to recover now. Kissing Bucky is even better than you’d let yourself dream about. His lips are just as soft as you thought. Even with the way he’s holding himself back, his touch is possessive. He traces your sides like he’s trying to memorize them, and kisses you the same way.

“Got no idea what I’m gonna do to, either.” He rasps against your lips. “If you let me, doll… You shouldn’t- But-“ He groans, pushing his nose into your cheek, kissing over the slope of your jaw. “Fuck, I want you to.”

You want him to. You want to feel those sloppy, devout kisses everywhere, to get that infernal tongue between your legs. His cock is almost bursting through his sweats, protruding into your thigh. He’d be heavy on your tongue, and split you better than the toys that you’ve used in his place before. The ache in your core throbs from just the idea, and you can feel your heart trying to burst all out of your throat with confession of desire and adoration. But you’re not sure if he’s going to believe them.

“Tell me.” You whisper. “Tell me what you’ve dreamed about doing to me.”

Bucky pulls back, and you worry you’ve stepped on an invisible landmine. That you’re going to be shoved out of the room, the door slammed in your face instead of behind you, locking you out of the room you’ve longer to be in since you met him. Bucky stares at you. You open your mouth to apologize and take it back, but he loves to move faster than your lustdrunk mind can understand.

You squeal as he walks you backward, but not out of the room. He kicks his door shut as you pass it. It slams, right as Bucky pins you between against the wall. He kisses you before you can protest or ask questions, and keeps going until you’re squirming against him and unsure if you should pull him closer or push him away. His kisses wander your cheeks, over your nose and hairline and back down to your ear.

“I wanted you just like this.” He chokes out, and your swallow. He sounds wrecked, and you’re not even kissing anymore. “Wanted you everywhere. Would see you in a meetin’ and think about bending you over the table. You’d get under me on the training mats and I’d wanna get in a headlock between your legs. Bet you taste so good.”

He shudders, pressing his face into the crook of your neck. His dick has shifted to push right near your core, and it’s almost too much pressure, while not being nearly enough.

“Would sit next to you on the plane and think about gettin’ on my knees.” He rasps, beard ticking against your skin. “Worshipping your pussy like it deserves. Makin’ you- Fuck- Call my name-“

Bucky moans, his hips jerking forward. A tiny moan escapes your lips, and Bucky almost whines and does it again. You don’t think he can help it.

“Wanted to stuff your pretty little lips with my cock.” He thrusts again, his whole weight almost collapses over your body. “You’d get all mouthy and I- I jerk off to the idea of puttin’ you over my knee or gettin’ you lying in my bed. I’d- I’d fuck you so nice, doll, I swear I’d be good, but- Fuuuck-“

He’s rutting between your thighs, and seems to forget the story he’s supposed to be telling you in favor of sucking on your neck. You whimper, pushing your hand between your bodies. Not to stop him—never to stop him—but to wrap your fingers around his cock through his sweats.

Bucky moans, his voice breaking with raw, starved relief. You try to pull him back to kiss him, but he just wraps closer around you. He’s almost shaking. You think he’s trying not to fuck your hand.

You can’t have that.

“It’s okay.” You drag your fingers over the line of his cock, and he whimpers against your neck. “I- I’ve thought about it too.”

Bucky slams forward, and you smile at the air.

“Wanted you to shove me down and fuck me stupid. Wanted to ride you until I passed out. I bought a dildo, baby, just to pretend it was you.”

You use your free hand to pet the back of his head, slowly sliding his sweats down to give yourself better access. Bucky’s thick and heavy in your hand. Your fingers don’t even come close to wrapping fully around, and whenever your nails graze his balls, he bucks forward with a strangled moan.

“Wasn’t as big.” You breathe, stroking his dick in long, tight motion. “You’re so big, Bucky, I don’t think it’s gonna fit.”

He grunts, his teeth grazing your neck. “Gonna- Fuck-“

You squeeze him at the base, and he doubles over. He’s almost fully collapsed against you. You want to feel him come apart.

“Gonna make it fit.” He hisses in your ear, and you hum.

“How?”

“Open you up.” He mutters, words slurred like he’s drunk. “Get you all over me, doll- Wanna watch you cum over and over and- God-“

His dick is twitching, and you giggle. He’s working himself up.

“You think this is funny?” He rasps.

You smile, swiping your thumb over the weeping slit of his dick. “A little. You wanna make me cum but you won’t even touch me.”

He makes an annoyed sound, and tries to push off of you. You tug his cock a little harder, and he falls back over with a moan. You giggle again.

“You- You’re a fuckin’ brat-“

“I’m helping you, Barnes.” You whisper in his ear.

He chuckles, and the sound rolls through your body. “Helpin’ me would be sitting on my face- Fuck-“

Bucky’s whole body shakes, when you squeeze him one last time, and his control slip. You pet him through his orgasm, unsure if you want him to notice how you press your legs tighter to try and get more stains of his cum. He pants and groans against your skin, his lips latching back around that one bruise he seems to be obsessed with.

There’s so much cum. Bucky grinds into your fist, and it just keeps coming and coming and coming until your fingers are sticky and drenched. The idea of him doing that inside you is almost a little terrifying. You’ve never wanted anything more.

A choked sound like your name comes out, muffled against your skin. You smile, leaning back to try and meet his gaze.

Bucky seems to need a second. You hope you didn’t already wear him out.

“You okay?” You whisper, and he tenses.

Bucky pulls back, and your pulse picks up into a drum.

Whatever he’d been before, it had been tame compared to this. His jaw is clenched, his attention fixed on you like a predator. His chest heaves, his hands limp at his side. You swallow, feeling a lot smaller than you did a second ago.

You can’t stop yourself from looking down. It only makes things worse.

He’s bigger than he felt. His cum is dripping down his thigh, and it’s barely been a minute, but he’s already getting hard again. You drag your eyes up the expanse of his chest—all flushed skin and muscle—and realize he hasn’t stopped staring at you. You lick your lips. He mimics the movement.

“It won’t fit.” You says again, but your tone has lost all the teasing mockery of before.

And Bucky’s smirk is dangerous. A thrill rushes through you at the sight of it. You’ve gotten exactly what you wanted.

“Gonna make it fit.” He growls.

You yelp, as he grabs your wrist and yanks you forward. You don’t even slam into his chest before he’s lifting you off the ground with another mind numbing kiss. It’s a distraction. You know that. You don’t really care, though, returning it in a second.

Bucky carries you like you’re a doll, your knees bent like some princess and his warmer arm locked around your waist. He leans over, lowering you to the mattress with a shocking care. For a second you’re fully lost in him. The gentle motion of his lips over yours, the way his hands wander and map your body as he settles you into the mattress.

“So soft.” He mutters. “All that bite, doll, but I knew you’d be so fuckin’ soft for me.”

You’d like to protest, and say that you’re not soft. But Bucky’s kisses are making your head spin, and no single, clear word can make it out of the daze. All you manage is a high, long whine.

Bucky chuckles. His hand pushes under your shirt, almost tickling over your sides.

“You like that?” He tease, his knuckles tracing over the underside of your boobs. “You like bein’ my sweet girl?”

You are not sweet. You try to snap that, but it mostly just comes out a feral grumble. You don’t know how he’s the one with a sound mind right now. You’re not under a sex drug.

You’re just under Bucky. Where it’s very, very warm, and sticky, and nice. His cum is dripping over your clothed core and midriff. You shiver as it hits bare skin, and Bucky smirks against your lips.

“Say it and I give you more.” He rasps. “Say you like it.”

And it’s a game. You know that you like it. He does too. But he’s poking and teasing you, trying to get you spar with him. To get you to play.

So you glare at him when he leans back, spreading your legs wider at the same time. You keep your mouth stubbornly shut.

Bucky grins. He traces the curve of your hips with massive hands, his thumb angling to smear his cum over your navel.

“Look at you.” He mocks. “Beggin’ for me and then can’t even admit she likes it.”

You wrinkle your nose, turning up your chin. Bucky smacks your inner thigh, then rubs his metal palm right over your pussy. The sudden sting then harsh pleasure make your hips push off the bed with a cry. Bucky takes his hand away to splay it on your abdomen, shoving you back down.

“You like gettin’ tossed around, too?” He laughs, and heat floods right to your core. “I’ll toss you around, baby. Make you into a nice little cockslut for me, even let you put my in that pretty mouth.”

He grabs your jaw, and you part your lips in a second. Bucky groans, his cock getting impossibly harder.

“Already listen so well.” He mutters, teasing his two forefingers over your mouth. “Just can admit you fuckin’ love it, do you? Can’t be a good girl and tell the truth.”

You narrow your eyes in defiance, and pretend to bite down on his fingers. It’s not a real bite. Just teeth grazing knuckles. But Bucky understands what it means.

Permission to go further.

His eyes gleam. His cock is already leaking with pre-cum.

“Alright, babydoll.” He rubs your thighs, a dangerous smile playing on his lips. “Have it your way.”

In a single second, Bucky rips off your clothing like it’s paper. You barely have time to feel the cold of the air before he’s grabbing your waist, flipping you onto your stomach, and dragging your ass up in the air. You yelp, fisting your hands in the sheets, and try to twist and see where he is.

A dazed part of your brain that doesn’t remember his hands on your hips sees no one behind you, and almost freaks out.

Then the first stroke of Bucky’s tongue hits your pussy, and you collapse fully into the sheets.

“Oh my-“ Your eyes roll back, as he teases the very tip of his tongue around your clit before dragging it through your folds. “Oh my God-“

“Sensitive fuckin’ pussy.” Bucky muses, and you feel the stubble of his cheek pressing against you thigh. “Barely even touching it. Wonder if I-“

 His thumb drags circles just around your clit, and you squeak. He kisses the curve of your ass, going a little fast. You whine trying to drag your own ass in circles to match his motions. You can’t see him. Can’t know if you’re doing well outside of his lips tracing your thigh, and the pleased hums against your skin.

Bucky jerks his thumb suddenly to the side, pushing directly over your clit. You scream, your knees sliding back. Bucky grabs them and pushes them back up, fully exposing your pussy to the air.

“Look at you.” His breath is warm, over that most sensitive spot. “Bet I don’t even need to fuckin’ prep you. You’re so wet, you’d just…”

He makes a deep, rumbling sound, and you almost sob as he drags his tongue right back between your puffed pussy lips. You clench around nothing, his stubbled scraping your clit. Bucky angles his face, letting his tongue flick over your clit. It goes back and forth and back and forth, toying with it before pressing flat. He sucks, hard like a lollipop, and you almost sob into the mattress.

“Sweet.” Bucky whispers, his metal arm wrapping around your legs. “So fuckin’ sweet.”

“Bu- Bucky-“

“Shhh.” He kisses right over your pussy. “Wanna taste, pretty girl. I gotta fuckin’-“ He moans, and the vibration shoots right up your spine. “Gotta taste-“

Bucky presses his face fully into your cunt, and the sound that leaves you almost isn’t human.

He’s good at this. So good at this. It’s a little unfair. Your mouth can’t do anything but hang uselessly open, as Bucky works his jaw against you. He eats you like he’s starved for it. Like he’s a man that wants to drown of an insatiable thirst.

Two hands hold you up in the air, as his tongue plunges ruthlessly in and out of your cunt. You keen, trying to push further back, and the warmer hand wraps up to your spine and shoves your stomach down. It’s a tighter fit like this. Bucky drags his tongue around, and it hits every sensitive area. His beard tickles and scratches, and cold fingers tease your skin.

You get more and more sensitive, with every flick and suck and groan. You’re so wet it’s almost drooling down your legs, mixing with the stains of cum he’d gathered from your midriff and smeared over your legs. The dual heat with his cold hand makes all your nerves stand on end. You pussy clenches again, and Bucky chuckles.

“That’s right.” He mutters, making out with your clit as you gasp for air into the bed. “That’s it, baby, you’re already lettin’ go, aren’t you.”

You whine, and Bucky nips at your ass.

“Aren’t you?”

“Ye- Yes.” You mumble. “’S good, Bucky- So good-“

“I know.” He grunts, pressing his cold, metal thumb down into your clit. “Fuck, baby, I know.”

You whimper, and Bucky starts up on your dripping pussy again. He’s lapping at it, pushing his tongue into your tight hole as he plays with your clit, and white lines your vision.

“I- I’m gonna- Fuck- Bucky-“ You scratch at the sheets. “I’m gonna- Oh God-“

He smacks your clit, spits onto your pussy, and resumes with double the effort. You cry his name, as your orgasm wracks your body. You can feel yourself seizing around him, twitching and writhing in his tight grip as your vision lines with white.

And Bucky doesn’t stop. You’re making a mess all over his face, and he’s rising up, but it’s just pushing you further into the mattress. You whimper, your cunt too sensitive, but he doesn’t even come up for air.

“Shit- Bucky- Oh- Ohhhhh-“

The ache quickly fades into pleasure again. Blinging pleasure that’s just on the wrong side of too much, but pleasure all the same. You squeal, and Bucky just moans against your cunt.

Then you hear it. The slam of his fist against his cock.

He’s jerking off while he eats you out.  He’s fucking himself so hard you can hear it, hear the slap of skin, feel all his little moans and grunts right against your pussy, and the thought sends you right over the edge again.

Bucky moans louder, as you cum on his tongue. Just like before, it seems to make him more and more feral. You have a feeling what lucidity that let him tease you before is gone. He’s eating you out the same way he’s kissed you, with rough lips and a fervor that’s almost animalistic. You’re boneless and whimpering into the sheets, taking it over and over as Bucky just keeps working his mouth against your cunt, and fucking his hand.

Then, suddenly, he’s gone. You whine from the lose, trying to roll over and look at him, but he just shoves you back down with a growl. The sound of his hand is getting faster and faster, and a hot weight drops over your back. Bucky presses his face into your neck, and takes a deep breath. You whimper, and he groans. His hips must be rocking, with how the bed is shaking.

“Smells good.” He rasps. “Gonna- Fuck-“

Bucky snaps back up, and you feel him cum more than you even hear it. Hot ropes spurt over your ass and back, seeping down the back off your thighs and into your pussy. You moan at the sensation, pushing back on trembling hands. There’s always just more of it, until you’re so marked up with him you’re sure you’ll never be able to wash it off.

You don’t want to.

With how Bucky grabs your hips and spreads the stain over your skin, you don’t think he does either.

“Shit.” He breathes out, and you hum in agreement. “Gotta- Flip for me, c’mon-“

Bucky helps you roll over. His touches are gentle again, but the gleam in his eyes hasn’t faded. You blink at him, flat on your back with your legs spread. Bucky traces the lips of your cunt, then slowly pushes two fingers inside you. Fucking his cum back into your tight hole. You mewl, eyes fluttering. Your head tosses back, and Bucky smiles

“Good girl.” He coos.

You try not get all gooey and weak just from the praise. Bucky laughs, and you think you might’ve failed.

“Strangling my fingers, doll.” He teases, pulling them right out.

You whimper. You’re too wet and ready not to take something. It’s really not fair to make you wait.

“I know.” He kisses your brow, voice rough. “Trust me, I fuckin’ know. You just gotta tell me you like it, then-“ His cock drags between your folds, and you keen. “All yours.”

You blink at him, opening your mouth to comply.

But you’re at an advantage.

Bucky’s hard again. His body is wound so tight above you, and his every word is thick. Like it’s an effort to speak. He’s still trying to fight against the drug running through his veins.

You want him to give in.

So you close your mouth, and give him a defiant glare.

Bucky growls again, and there’s no more teasing.

His mouth pushes over yours, and it’s not a loving kiss. It’s rough and quick, stealing your breath in seconds and distracting you as Bucky grabs your knees and shoves them back. You try to chase his lips, when he pulls away, but he shoves you back down with a grunt.

“Wanna be a brat.” He grunts. “Gonna get fucked like a brat.”

You almost beam. Yes, please.

Bucky folds you under him, your knees pressed to your chest and your cum-stained pussy on full display. He doesn’t waste time, tapping the head of his cock against your clit before slamming right inside. You’re so soaked you take it with only a hitched breath, but that doesn’t mean your eyes don’t roll back.

He hits right against you pelvis, when he bottoms out. His heavy balls sit on your ass, and the stretch of him is just enough pain to heighten the pleasure. Bucky kisses all over your face as he lets you adjust, but your pussy is greedy. He’d prepared you too well. You’re more than ready within seconds.

“Bu- Bucky-“ You gaps out, and he growls against your neck. “Move.”

If he’d told you to wait, you wouldn’t have been surprised.

But the drug seems to have overtaken him again, and all you get is a noise like a snarl against your throat before Bucky draws almost all the way out, and slams back in.

The air is knocked clean from your lungs. This time, he hit right against your g-spot, and your whole body seizes up. Bucky makes a low, deep noise, and repeats the motion. Again, he drives right into that gooey spot deep inside of you. You clench around him, and he doubles over, rutting deep inside of you.

“The- There-“ You whimper, fingers scrambling in the sheets. “Fuck, baby, right there-“

Bucky grunts an agreement, and starts to fuck you into the mattress. The angle is so deep you’re worried he’s going to permanently rearrange your guts. Every slam of his cock into your makes you see heaven, and Bucky pants over your, his eyes locked onto yours as your face contorts with pleasure.

He’s not even fucking you like a brat. He’s fucking you like a doll. He grabs at your limbs and moves them below him like you’re just a sleeve for his dick, and he needs you into just the right spot. One hand fists in your hair, forcing your neck a little up so you can watching your arousal gleam on his cock every time he pulls out. He moans every time he pushes back in, and you watch your cunt swallow his dick whole. A wet, smacking sound filling the room as he drills into you. He bends you even further to kiss over your neck and breasts, his tongue dragging in rhythm with his dick.

You try to clench around him every time he bottoms out, but your head is sort of empty, and now you’re just a drooling pussy around his massive cock, moaning his name and happily milking every bit of pleasure.

“Oh- Oooooh-“ You mewl, smiling like a cockdrunk idiot at the air. “Buuuucky-“

His mouth presses back over yours, and the kiss is strangely soft. His fucking hasn’t slowed or relented, but there’s a care with how his lips move over yours that makes you feel worshipped.

That’s what he’d said he’d do. Worship you. And you can really feel it here.

Bucky draws back, and the hand that had been fisted in your hair moves to your jaw. He squeezes again. You open for him easily, and his lips twitch.

“Good girl.” He coos, even if the words are tighter than before.

He spits into your mouth. You swallow obediantly, and open again when he squeezes your cheeks. Bucky slams forward with a groan, looking like a man wrecked.

“You fuckin’ like it, don’t you-“

“Love it.” You gasp, unable to even think to deny him again. “Love you, Bucky- Oh- Oh my god-“

Bucky makes a ragged, choked sound, and cums almost without warning. Your mouth falls open in a silent scream, as he pumps you full of his release. It feels like even more than before. Like you’re going to burst with how full you are, spurts of it still being forced out as Bucky fucks you through. You’ve never felt so totally claimed, with him all over every inch of your skin. He kisses you and you giggle, dazed and almost high on the feeling.

And he’s not even done.

The period of lucidity between orgasms gets shorter before it gets longer. Bucky’s ability to control himself almost vanishes all together. You get a kiss and broken mumble of your name before you’re being flipped back onto your stomach and fucked from behind. There will be handprints on your ass and thighs in the morning, and the sheets are stained with your drool from how Bucky railed you from behind.

You’re dragged into his lap right after, and he pushes his thumb into your mouth, then ruts up into your gaping cunt. You’re all moans and ditzy smiles by that point. When rolls you back onto your stomach and sits up on his knees, you just take it with moans and giggles and cries of delight.

He hasn’t just ruined you. He’s pulled you apart a million times over, until you’re just a puddle that sings his name.

You don’t even fully realize he’s done, when he kisses pulls out that last time. You whine, and clench around nothing, but expect to get filled right back up.

Then Bucky kisses you, and it’s slow. Savoring and sweet. Romantic. His voice is hoarse, but it’s lost the strained quality. He’s fully teasing again, smiling against your lips.

“So soft.” He coos, rubbing your thoroughly abused pussy with his warm hand.

You writhe, trying to get further and closer at the same time. Bucky chuckles, and kisses the corner of your mouth.

“Jesus, doll. You’d think you were the one that got sex drugged.”

You try to glare at him, but forget why the moment you see his pretty eyes, shining on yours.

They’re blue again.

“You’re back?” You breathe, and Bucky grins.

He ducks down, and presses another quick kiss over your lips.

“I’m back.”

 You’re ordered not to move, while he cleans up. You don’t think you could if you tried. Your body is jelly, everything is sore in the best way, and your head is spinning with too many thoughts of what the fuck happened.

You told Bucky you love him. You told Bucky you love him. You’d never even fully admitted it in your head and he just fucked it right out of you. You said it fast, too fast, he thought you hated him four hours ago and now he must think you’re some kind of freak for just saying you love him.

He makes you drink water and go to the bathroom. Draws you a bath and brings you a snack and changes the sheets. You manage to find the strength to stand out of the tub and dry yourself off, wrapping the towel around your body before shuffling out in the center of his room.

God, he’s so handsome. All tan muscles and scars you want to trace with your tongue. Too bad you fucking blew it, and now you’re never going to get to touch him again-

Bucky turns, and smiles when he sees you. You swallow, bracing for the worst as he crosses the room.

He takes your face between his hands and kisses you. Deep and gentle and maybe he just forgot-

“Love you too.” He says against your lips. “Just- Uh- While we’re saying it.”

Oh.

Or that. That’s nice.

You throw everything you have into kissing him back, but end up tackling him down onto the bed with the sudden surge of strength. Bucky chokes out a laugh in surprise, wrestling you over onto your back with kiss and wandering hands. You giggle, trying to push back, and he nips at the tip of your nose.

Then he pauses, and pulls up with a small, worried frown.

“You’re stayin’ the night, right?”

You almost snort. There’s no getting rid of you now. You’re going to stay forever, and as long as he’ll allow after that.

“Yeah. I’m staying.”

✦End note: this was longer than my college thesis btw. and i. put more effort into it.✦

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

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

He's so high. Eyes glossed in the way only Dean's can be, sparkling in the dim motel light. You're not fairing much better, only slightly more lucid because you smoked less, cautious of your early start tomorrow. Sam's expecting research from both of you, and instead you've been getting high and reading poetry- the exact thing Dean promised wouldn't happen.

"Do another one..." Dean murmurs, moving back up your leg.

"I've read all the ones you like-"

He laughs, "I like any you read, doll."

"Fine but I've read your favorites!" You open your legs wider, making room for his body to fit between your thighs.

He grins up at you, puckish, "Read me that other thing."

You roll your eyes, "The first thirty times today not enough?"

"You need to learn it, angel."

"You just like hearing me say it."

He smiles, "Kill a guy for getting turned on by his smokin' hot girl, why don't y'?"

You flick to the back of the book, Dean's handwriting scrawled on the inside of the back cover, where you'd made him write it down. You eyes glance over it, trying to memorize the shapes of the words, the letters dancing together.

"Read it, darlin', let me hear you."

You laugh, "You're no better at this than me!"

"So we learn it together, come on- read it-"

You swallow, looking down at him, then back at the words, "Ex- exorcizamus te- omnis... immundus spiritus?"

"Atta girl- doing so good-" he moves his body to relax between your legs.

"-omnis say- satanica- potestas... omnis incursio..."

"My girl speaks latin, huh?" He chuckles, lifting his hand so he can push the tips of his fingers into you.

You gasp, hips reeling off the mattress to reach him.

He kisses your thigh again, slowly pushing his fingers further in as he stares up at you, "Didn't tell you to stop, darlin'-"

You try to relax back against the sheets, giving him a stern look- you know better than to argue back, Dean always wins when it comes to you reading more, "incursio infernalis... adcersarii..."

He keeps going, curling his fingers inside you until they're buried to the hilt. Your breath stutters, unable to speak, blinking hard to try and keep yourself together. He doesn't move them, just keeps them inside you, getting you used to the feeling of him stretching you out, holding off on giving you more.

"Dean this is..." You sigh, small smile spread across your face. You know better. "...omnis legio- omnis congregatio- et secta diabolica-"

He starts to move again, dragging his fingers out slightly and then pushing them back in harder. Your eyelids fall slightly, your body so desperate for more.

You can barely read the words on the page through your eyelashes, "ergo drago... malesicte? I think?"

He nods, small, clearly still listening despite his attention now seemingly focused on his actions. You just want to finish now, no longer caring about the words, but you know Dean will keep pushing until you do.

"...ut eclesiam taum secura- tibi facias libertate... servire-"

He smiles up at you, eyes dancing, so captivated by your voice it's like he doesn't care you're reading an exorcism, for all he cares this is poetry.

"-te rogamus, audi nos."

"Good girl- you read it so pretty, doll- always do-" he pushes his fingers back into you, leaning down so he can kiss your clit.

You drop the book, hips lifting back off the mattress as your head rolls into the pillow, your arms stretching out above your head as you push against the headboard, slowly grinding yourself up against his face.

You feel him grin against you as he follows your movements, tongue pressed against you as he keeps fucking you with his fingers. He curls against your clit, then laps at you lightly, keeping his actions focused on everything he knows you like.

You reach down, tangling your fingers into his hair. You've been meaning to cut it, it's longer than he's used to- though he's not complaining now your tugging at it, pulling him closer in. He just smiles wider, speeding up his movements.

He sucks your clit, fingers curling into you, a groan escaping his lips, clearly enjoying what he's been desperate to do all day, "Taste so good, angel- fuck-"

His free hand grips your thigh tight, grounding himself for long enough that he can keep going, tongue dancing over your clit, fingers hitting that sweet spot that makes your breath stutter. Your hips lift higher, grinding against him, begging for more as you feel your orgasm rising inside you.

"De- baby- I'm so-"

"I know, doll, y' doin' so good-" he pushes his fingers in deeper, moving back over your clit, rapid and craving, gripping you tighter.

Your whole body reels off the mattress as you come, tugging at his hair, letting out a needy moan. He keeps pushing you through it, tongue and fingers working over you to thread every piece of pleasure out of you. Only when your body starts to relax does he pull back, kissing along your inner thigh.

He sits up, staring down at your body stretched out across the bed with a smile spread across his face. His cock is achingly hard inside his boxers, a wet spot of precum just from going down on you. He doesn't make a note of it, just moves next to you, picking up the joint he'd only just finished rolling before he got distracted by your legs and poetry.

You turn your head to look at him as he lights it up, his face still glowing with his previous high.

"Y'so pretty-" he murmurs, taking a drag as he looks across your body, "-I wanna taste you all over again."

You laugh, turning away from him and looking back up to the ceiling. You wouldn't put it past him, he's done it before.

He pulls your body closer, until you're laying against him, the heat from his body burning into yours. Only then does he hold the joint out to you, "Let me tempt you."

"We're supposed to be finding out what that thing with all the teeth is!" You laugh.

"You've done all the research recently- let Sammy do some work for once."

You roll you eyes at his exaggeration, "And when are you going to do the work?"

"Hey- I didn't see you complaining about my work ethic when I got you out of that whole vampire thing last month!"

You take the joint from him and he smiles, accomplished.

He watches carefully as you take a drag. A year ago he'd have used this as an opportunity for one of those deep conversations you know he hates trying to instigate- 'Are you okay? Is this too much? You don't have to stay, if this isn't the life you want.' Questions that would spin on for hours with assurances and understandings, Dean trying to make sure you still want to hunt with him, that you're safe and content and happy. All those questions now just fit into two words, "We good?"

You hand him back the joint, laying your cheek against his chest, "We're good."

He smiles, kissing the top of your head, "I love you, angel."

"I love you too, Dean."

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Part of the tarot series - 22 unrelated short stories exploring different Dean x Reader archetypes.

Asked to tag: @pieolsen @bitchinwallaby @icedteabee @angel1withacigarette @lydia-caldwell-writes @eddiemunsonistheloml @bearymuchso @magic-sprinkled-daydreams @leysol @angrydragon90 @globetrotter28 @robynn9436-blog @3ricaa

☀️ As always- I'd love to know your thoughts ❤️ Comments are very much appreciated ☀️

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