18y

“Have you gone into town yet?” one of your co-workers said, leaning against the counter with her head propped up on her hand. The other doctors and nurses replied with yeses and nays, chatting about the different bars or food vendors—commenting about the unique cuisine they get to try for the first time.

“I had this one pastry yesterday that was so good—I forgot the name though. I’m gonna head back there.”

“The alcohol is good,” one nurse said.

“Should you be drinking during the mission?” another nurse chimed in. It wasn’t allowed, but Chris was somewhat relaxed with his crew.

You had the pleasure of being stationed in Europe’s most dysfunctional family: The Balkans. You listened to their conversations, making no contributions as you read through the reports and the mission given by the BSAA—it was classified information. Redfield said it was best to have you informed and prepared for any emergencies. He only seemed to do this with you and not the others—you chalked it up to you relaying the information to the others.

Not many can say they love their job, but you could. With the good benefits, perks of traveling the world, and you get to secretly oogle the men in uniform. One certainly caught your eye: Captain Redfield. The man was an absolute tank. Taller and more imposing than some of his men and built like an impenetrable brick wall—his broad chest and shoulders, and heavily corded arms strained by the tight-forming tactical uniform that revealed every nook and cranny.

And you caught his eye. When Chris first signed you on to be a part of his team, he didn’t think much of it until he saw you in person. He instantly felt something, like something was dragging him into your orbit. It was unprofessional, but he couldn't care. He lingered closer, sharing some classified information, and treating you with special services. He even allowed you to call him by his first name when no one was around—telling you that you’re important and special to him.

The words on the document began to fade and blur. Your eyes half-lidded and relaxed as your mind entered a daydream—conjuring thoughts of Chris and the things you wanted to do with him. From cute and domestic couple things to straight, raunchy sex—feeling his massive body pressed against yours as he pounds you into the mattress during your off days.

“What about you? You haven’t placed your dime.” A male co-worker commented, directing his attention to you. You perked up from your hunched position as the other began bombarding you with their questions and comments.

“Um, haven’t been out yet. Are the locals aware of our presence? You know Captain is gonna dig into—” you wanted to shut down their blabbering, but it only served to your downfall and embarrassment.

“The Captain is definitely gonna fuck your ass. I’m surprised he hasn’t yet.” One nurse said, elbowing the other with a quiet giggle.

“Yeah, seems like he’s edging.” Now their conversation shifted to you and Chris—laughing and commenting about how he hasn’t made the first move or gotten you into bed with him. Everyone was aware of the relationship between you and Chris, some even betting on who would make the first move. A flurry of searing heat filled your cheeks. You leaned back into your chair and groaned—muffled by your hands that latched onto your mouth.

“On a serious note, the locals remain unaware of our presence. They possibly see us as tourists—no wonder they're charging more,” the last part was said under his breath. The conversation and chatter died down as everyone lounged about, waiting for the team to return. You returned to your original position, your cheeks still burning, but it made you wonder if you could be the one.

“It's quiet.” One doctor, Jessica, said. This earned displeased groans and grunts from the other doctors and nurses. “You just jinxed us,” cut through the bellowing groans. You trusted Chris to keep his men in check—although some may be lost, as this mission was of high importance. You assumed there would be tons of security to guard the bioweapons. A pinch in your gut was telling you something was arising.

Speak of the devil, as several men rushed in, informing the medical staff that several men were injured—critical injuries. They require immediate medical attention and will be arriving shortly. The doctors and nurses stood there for a moment before scrambling to prepare for the incoming wave of injured men. Everybody was running around to gather the necessary equipment and put on their unique uniform—it was to protect them from any biohazards that lingered on their persons.

The first wave of injured came through, with each doctor and nurse taking one—an emphasis on those who were critically injured. The ward was filled with men groaning in excruciating pain and the voices of the medical staff dashing around to assess the conditions and the action needed. The beds were soaked with blood gushing from the wounds—one of them was Captain Redfield. He was one of those who needed immediate attention.

Per protocol, he was assigned to your handling and care.

Xxx

You handled Chris with accurate precision and care—solely focused on making sure this man would survive. Everybody left you alone with the captain; they didn’t want to interrupt your careful work. Your calculating eyes rapidly examined every sheet and scan—the gunshot wounds almost punctured vital organs and there was increasing blood loss.

Chris was groaning, gritting his teeth as he tried to resist the painful sensations flooding his body—attempting to ignore the feeling of being stabbed and the knife twisting in the wound. His breathing was labored as you tended to him, his eyes pinching together—gripping the nearest surface with all his strength.

The procedure was simple, albeit frustrating. Chris was lucky the bullets missed any vital organs or nerves. You managed to stop the constant bleeding and remove the tiny metal capsules, cleaning and patching the wounds—some stitches were needed. You supplied the man with antibiotics to prevent infections from blooming and making the situation worse. Chris looked exhausted. He wanted to say something, opening his mouth to speak, but you shushed him.

The other soldiers were taken care of, and that’s when you were informed about what happened during the mission. All combatants were dealt with and neutralized, and the bioweapon was secure—easy and clean. What the team didn’t expect was an ambush as the enemy exploited a blind spot. Another firefight ensued, and this time the enemy was permanently neutralized. Sadly, some didn’t make it and others were severely injured—Chris being one of them.

A soldier said Redfield was a beast. He jumped on the front lines and took out multiple hostiles while saving some of his mates before continuing. During one of the rescues, he was caught lacking and the attacker emptied some bullets into him. You nodded intently, walking side by side with the soldier back to the medical area to check up on Chris and administer medication. You didn’t say anything, trapped in your thoughts. You commended the older man for his heroism and action, but he almost died.

You were aware that Chris harboured feelings towards you—so did he. You never indulged in your caged thoughts, but Chris did, ignoring professionalism and blatantly flirting with you during work. You basked in it, sometimes reciprocating. It was just the line of work. You were scared of the immense heartbreak if you received news that he was killed in action.

Now, you’re shaken. As the soldier continued to give details, your chest felt tight and your breathing was unstable. Flashes of Chris’s bloodied body filled your mind. His hitched breathing and exhaustion were written across his face. Maybe it was time to confess.

Xxx

“Was wondering when you’ll pay me a visit, doc,” Chris spoke in a low, gravelly voice—grunting softly as he tried to sit up. He wore a smile, giving up and resting against the bed. The beeping of the monitor filled the room as you tried to formulate a response, but Chris’s shirtless body drew your attention. His meaty pectorals dusted with some hair and your eyes trailed down the older man’s body to his abdomen.

“At least ask me out when I’m not bedridden,” Chris said, breaking you out of your trance and thirsting over his body.

“Uh, yeah… I’m here to check up.” You laughed it off, but you were screaming internally at being caught. The burning sensation filled your cheeks as you did the manual checkup—Chris let out a deep, hearty chuckle.

“They’re just flesh wounds, doc. A minor inconvenience.” Chris waved off his wounds as if they were an insect.

“Just flesh wounds and a minor inconvenience, my ass! You could’ve died! I could’ve lost you…” You screamed, but your voice wavered and softened towards the end. You paused your examination to look at the older man like you were gonna say something, but the words didn’t want to leave.

“It's gonna take a lot more to kill me.” It was true that it’ll take more to kill Chris Redfield. The older man has suffered extreme amounts of trauma—both physical and psychological. Not to mention he’s been through areas inflicted with powerful bioweapons that would kill anyone else, yet Chris emerged uninfected. Despite these events having negative side effects on his overall health, the older man was still kicking.

You can tell Chris was trying to reassure you that it was fine, but it wasn’t working until he said the special words. Words that you wanted to say for a long time, but didn’t. Guess Jessica is gonna win a hefty amount of money. Chris sat up, ignoring the searing pain just for you.

“It shouldn’t be a surprise that you’re special to me.” His calloused hands intertwined with yours. “During that altercation, you were on my mind. I was telling myself to make it and push through so I could come back and see you again. Cheesy, I know, but it doesn’t hurt.”

“I… I’ve been wanting to say that you’re special to me too. It's just, your line of work is dangerous and… and I didn’t want to bear the emotions of your death. After seeing you like that, it made me realize that I should enjoy my time with you.” You said, squeezing Chris’s hand—a smile and tears prickling your eyes. You leaned forward and pressed your lips to the older man's.

Chris returned it and pulled you closer, but the railing stopped you. “So, maybe after I recover and we return home—would you like to go out with me? Any place you wanna go.”

“I’d love that.”

The End

Author’s note: Hello, my strawberries! I don’t know how to feel about this since I’m hotwired to writing raunchy, gay sex. Fluff is kinda hard. Well, I hope y’all like this! This is the only fluff request.

Special thanks to my proofreader — @sagethegaywitch

𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐋𝐃 be seen stepping out through the house's front door, which still didn't feel completely real.

Your dream home.

Even now, with boxes stacked in corners, furniture half-assembled, and little strips of painter's tape marking where shelves and artwork were supposed to go, the place still made your chest tighten every time you looked at it. It was yours. Yours and Tom's. Not a cramped apartment with thin walls, a rattling dresser, and neighbors who thought sunrise was an invitation to act reckless. Not a temporary place you both kept promising to leave "one day." This was the place Tom had worked himself down to the bone for. This was the goal he had carried through long nights, early mornings, aching hands, and grease-streaked uniforms.

Tom had finally done it.

He had gotten you two a home.

The front porch still smelled faintly of fresh wood and paint, the kind of clean, new scent that came with a place still becoming lived in. A pair of unopened moving boxes sat against the wall near the entryway, labeled KITCHEN — FRAGILE in your handwriting, even though half the fragile things had somehow already ended up on the dining room table. The doormat was new, the lock still had that satisfying firmness when you turned the key, and the little garden bed along the walkway was empty for now—but you already had plans for it. Flowers, maybe herbs, maybe something bright enough to make Tom smile when he came home exhausted.

You paused on the porch for a second after locking the door, letting yourself look back at the house.

The evening light washed over it softly, painting the windows in gold. It wasn't a mansion, but it was perfect. Warm. Private. Yours. A place with enough room to breathe. Enough room for Tom's tools in the garage, enough room for your things without everything feeling squeezed together, enough room for the future you both had talked about in sleepy whispers and tired kitchen conversations.

You smiled to yourself before heading down the walkway, keys jingling in your hand.

The two of you were still in the middle of moving in, which meant life felt like a beautiful mess. One room looked nearly finished; the next looked like a storage unit had exploded. The couch was finally in the living room, but the coffee table was still wrapped in plastic. The bedroom had a mattress, a dresser, and three boxes of clothes that neither of you had the energy to unpack properly. The kitchen was mostly functional, if you ignored the fact that the plates were in one cabinet, the bowls were in another, and the silverware was currently living in a drawer with batteries, tape, and two random screwdrivers.

Still, none of that mattered.

Because it was home.

Your home.

You had just gotten off work, and the day had left that familiar weight in your body—the kind that settled into your shoulders, your lower back, and behind your eyes. All you had really wanted was to get back home, kick off your shoes, maybe unpack one box so you could feel productive, and then collapse somewhere soft until Tom came home.

But before you even made it fully into relaxation mode, your phone buzzed.

You had been standing near the kitchen island, looking at a box labeled PANTRY with deep suspicion, when the message came through.

Tom ❤️:

Love, I'm working late tonight. Something's wrong with one of the main rotation valves. Don't wait up for me, yeah? I'll grab something later.

You stared at the text for a moment, lips pressing together.

Of course he was working late.

Tom Holland, your sweet, stubborn, workaholic boyfriend, could not simply come home at a reasonable hour. Not when there was some broken cosmic mechanism, some busted rotation valve, some daylight regulator, or some nightfall gear that needed his hands on it. As the Day-Night Mechanic, his work wasn't regular work. He wasn't fixing ordinary cars or changing oil for impatient customers.

He worked on the systems that helped keep the world moving.

The hidden mechanics behind sunrise and sunset. The engines that pulled dawn over the horizon. The pressure valves that balanced moonlight. The great moving parts most people never thought about because they expected morning to come and night to fall like magic.

But you knew better.

You knew there were nights when Tom came home with grease beneath his nails and exhaustion in his bones because somewhere, somehow, the sky had needed fixing.

You typed back quickly.

You:

You better not be planning to survive on vending machine crisps and coffee again.

The three typing dots appeared almost immediately, then disappeared, then appeared again.

Tom ❤️:

I would never.

You snorted.

You:

Liar.

A second later:

Tom ❤️:

Maybe a small coffee.

You shook your head, already making your decision.

He was not going to work another long night on an empty stomach. Not after everything he had done to get the two of you here. Not after all those months of saving, sacrificing, taking extra shifts, picking up jobs no one else wanted, and coming home with tired eyes but still enough love in him to kiss your forehead and ask about your day.

So instead of changing into house clothes, you grabbed your keys again.

You moved through the half-unpacked kitchen, stepping around a box of pans and a roll of packing paper that had somehow unspooled itself across the floor. You checked the stove even though you hadn't used it, flicked off the hallway light, and grabbed one of Tom's hoodies from the back of a chair because the evening had a slight chill to it. The hoodie smelled faintly like him—soap, clean cotton, and the metallic trace of the shop that always clung to him no matter how much he showered.

You slipped it on, grabbed your wallet, and headed back out.

The air outside was cool enough to make you tuck your hands into the hoodie pocket as you walked to your car. The neighborhood was peaceful in a way your old apartment building rarely was. No bass rattling the walls. No shouting through hallways. No elevator groaning like it was fighting for its life. Just the soft rustle of trees, a distant dog barking, and the quiet hum of someone's porch light flickering on as dusk began to settle.

You slid into the driver's seat and started the car, already picturing Tom at the shop.

You knew exactly how he would look.

Sleeves pushed up. Hair messy from running his hands through it too many times. A streak of grease on his forearm or along his jaw that he wouldn't notice until you pointed it out. Brow furrowed in concentration, lips slightly parted as he studied whatever massive machine had decided to ruin his evening. He would be tired but focused, probably refusing to admit he needed a break.

Which was why you were bringing the break to him.

You pulled out of the driveway and headed toward your favorite restaurant, the one you and Tom loved because it never missed. It was the kind of place that knew your usual order by now, the kind of place with warm lighting, good portions, and food that could make even Tom stop mid-sentence and close his eyes after the first bite.

As you drove, the sky above you shifted slowly, evening stretching itself across the city in deep blues and soft oranges. You wondered, not for the first time, if Tom had helped tune that color into existence earlier in the day. If some part of the sunset was his doing. If the world had any idea how much of its beauty rested in the hands of a man who forgot to eat unless you reminded him.

By the time you pulled up to the restaurant, your mind was already building the order.

Something hearty for Tom. Something warm. Maybe the pasta he loved, extra bread on the side because he always pretended he didn't want it and then ate most of yours. A dessert too, because he deserved it. Because he had gotten you a house. Because he was still working late. Because loving Tom often meant feeding him before his body remembered it needed food.

You parked, grabbed your phone, and sent one more text before heading inside.

You:

Don't eat anything suspicious. I'm bringing dinner.

His reply came fast.

Tom ❤️:

You don't have to, darling.

You smiled, already stepping toward the restaurant doors.

You:

I know. I want to.

And with that, you walked inside, ready to pick up dinner and take it straight to the Mechanic Shop—straight to the man who had worked so hard to build a future with you, one sunrise, one long night, and one impossible dream at a time.

𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐀𝐑𝐑𝐈𝐕𝐄𝐃 at the shop just as the evening had settled into that deep blue hour, when the last traces of sunlight were almost gone and the streetlights had begun flickering awake one by one. The Mechanic Shop sat at the edge of town with its big garage doors half-open, warm yellow light spilling out onto the cracked pavement in long rectangles. The sign above the building buzzed faintly, one letter blinking slower than the others, and the smell of rubber, motor oil, metal, and old concrete greeted you before you even made it to the entrance.

You stepped out of the car with the bags of food in your hand, the warmth of the containers pressing through the paper and filling the air with the smell of seasoned fries, grilled meat, sauce, and fresh bread. It was a much better smell than the sharp tang of gasoline coming from the shop, though you had grown used to that scent over time. It was impossible not to when Tom came home carrying it on his clothes, his hands, his skin, and sometimes even in his hair after a long shift.

The shop was quieter than usual.

Too quiet.

Normally, there would be at least two or three other mechanics moving around—someone rolling a tire across the floor, someone arguing with a stubborn lift, someone blasting old rock music from a speaker in the corner. But tonight, there was no laughter, no tools clattering from multiple bays, no voices calling across the garage.

Just one sound.

The steady, focused rhythm of Tom working.

You followed the noise deeper inside, your shoes tapping softly against the concrete floor. The main office was empty, the front desk light still on, a half-empty coffee cup abandoned beside a stack of invoices. A calendar on the wall had grease fingerprints smudged across the corner. The waiting area chairs sat untouched, and the vending machine hummed lazily like it was the only thing keeping the building company.

Then you saw him.

Tom was in the main garage bay, bent over the open hood of a 1964 Chevy Camaro, completely absorbed in what he was doing. The car was beautiful, even half-disassembled beneath the shop lights. Its classic body sat low and powerful, all old-school muscle and sharp lines, the paint catching the overhead glow in glossy flashes. The hood was propped open, exposing the engine like a puzzle Tom was determined to solve with nothing but patience, skill, and stubbornness.

And Tom looked unfairly good doing it.

He had on a fitted black T-shirt that clung to his shoulders, chest, and arms in a way that made it impossible not to stare. Every time he shifted, the fabric pulled against his muscles, showing the strength built from long hours lifting parts, tightening bolts, and fighting with machinery that refused to cooperate. His blue jeans hung low on his hips, worn in all the right places, with a faint smear of grease near one thigh. On his feet were brown Timbs, scuffed at the toes from actual work instead of fashion, planted firmly against the concrete like he had no intention of leaving until the Camaro behaved.

Oil was smeared across him in several places. A dark streak marked one forearm. Another smudge kissed the side of his neck. There was a faint line of grease near his jaw, probably from him brushing his wrist there without thinking. His curls were messy, pushed back from his face but falling forward again as he leaned over the engine. The shop light caught the curve of his cheek, the furrow of his brow, the focused set of his mouth.

He was so locked in that he didn't even notice you come in.

You stood there for a moment, just watching him.

There was something intimate about seeing Tom like this—quiet, focused, in his element. He wasn't the sleepy boyfriend you had left in bed that morning. He wasn't the man who had laughed against your forehead after dealing with an obnoxious neighbor. He wasn't even the exhausted dreamer who had worked so hard to buy the two of you a home.

Here, he was all concentration.

Hands steady. Eyes sharp. Body moving with practiced confidence.

He reached for a wrench without looking, fingers finding it by memory on the tool cart beside him. He adjusted something near the engine block, muttered under his breath, then paused to listen as if the car itself was speaking to him in a language only he understood. The radio was off. The entire garage seemed to orbit around the small sounds he made—the scrape of metal, the click of a tool, the soft exhale when something finally loosened.

You set the bags of food down on a nearby workbench, careful not to put them too close to anything greasy. The paper crinkled softly, but Tom still didn't look up.

You smiled to yourself.

Of course he didn't notice.

You crossed the space between you quietly, stepping around a coiled air hose and a tray of sockets. The smell of oil grew stronger the closer you got, warm and metallic, mixed with the faint scent of Tom's soap beneath it. It should have been unpleasant, but it wasn't. Not really. You had smelled it on him too many times for it to feel separate from him anymore. It was part of the Tom who came home late, tired but smiling. The Tom who kissed you at the door with grease still under his nails. The Tom who tried to sneak into bed without waking you but always ended up pulling you close anyway.

So when you reached him, you didn't hesitate.

You slipped your arms around his waist from behind, pressing your chest gently to his back.

Tom jolted.

"Jesus—!" he gasped, wrench clinking against the edge of the engine as his whole body startled. His shoulders jumped beneath your hands, and he twisted just enough to look back at you, wide-eyed for half a second before recognition softened his face. "Love, you scared the hell out of me."

You laughed quietly, tightening your arms around him. "That's what you get for being so focused you don't hear me come in."

His expression shifted into that tired, affectionate smile that always made something in you melt. "I was listening to the engine."

"You were ignoring the entire world."

"Same thing sometimes." Tom replied.

You rested your cheek against his back for a moment, feeling the warmth of him through the black cotton. The shirt smelled like him and the shop—clean skin, sweat, motor oil, and grease. Not fresh-from-the-shower Tom, but work Tom. Dedicated Tom. The version of him who forgot time existed when something needed fixing.

Your hands settled at his stomach, fingers loosely linked together. "You know," you murmured, "most people answer texts about working late and then actually work with other people present."

Tom glanced toward the empty bays, then back at the Camaro like it might rescue him from the conversation.

You lifted your head, narrowing your eyes at the side of his face. "Thomas."

He sighed, the guilty kind, and turned a little more in your arms. "Don't start with the full name."

"Then explain why my boyfriend is the only mechanic in this entire shop."

Tom rubbed at his forehead with the back of his wrist, accidentally adding another faint smear of oil near his temple. "Everyone else went home."

"I can see that.” You stated.

"It wasn't supposed to take this long." Tom pointed out.

"It never is with you." You shot back.

He gave you a look—half amused, half exhausted—before glancing down at your arms still wrapped around him. His own hand came down to cover yours, thumb brushing over your knuckles. "The Camaro's owner needs it ready by tomorrow morning. It's been giving us trouble all week, and I finally figured out what's wrong with it."

"So naturally," you said, dryly, "you decided to stay here alone and fight a vintage car in the middle of the night."

"It's not the middle of the night." Tom murmured.

"It's late enough for me to bring you dinner like a worried husband."

His smile softened at that, eyes warm despite the tiredness beneath them. "You brought the food?"

"I did," you said, leaning around him to look at his face properly. "Because I know you. And I know your idea of dinner when you're working late is coffee, vending machine chips, and lying to my face."

Tom opened his mouth, then closed it.

You hummed. "Exactly."

He chuckled under his breath, turning fully now, carefully keeping his dirty hands away from your clothes even though you were already hugging him. "You didn't have to come all the way down here.”

"I wanted to." Your eyes swept over him again—the oil on his skin, the tired line of his shoulders, the stubborn focus still pulling at him even while he looked at you. "But I'm serious. Why are you here by yourself?"

Tom leaned back against the Camaro, folding his arms loosely, though his gaze flickered toward the engine like it was calling his name. "Because I'm close to finishing. Because if I leave it until morning, it'll put everyone behind. And because..." He hesitated.

You raised an eyebrow.

He exhaled. "Because the house took a lot, yeah? We're still moving in. Still buying things. Still getting settled. Extra hours help."

Your expression softened, but only a little. "Tom."

"I know," he said quickly, already anticipating the lecture. "I know. I'm not trying to run myself into the ground."

"You are literally standing here alone, covered in oil, talking about extra hours."

"But I have dinner now," he said, trying to brighten the argument with a charming smile.

You stared at him.

His smile weakened. "That didn't help?"

"Not even a little."

Tom's shoulders dropped with a small laugh, and he reached for you again, clean fingers carefully catching the edge of your hoodie sleeve. "I'm sorry," he murmured. "I just want everything to be good for us."

"It is good," you said, voice gentler now. "We have the house. We have each other. Boxes everywhere, sure, but we have it. You don't have to kill yourself proving you deserve it."

That landed. You could see it in the way his eyes softened, in the way his jaw unclenched, in the way the mechanic in him finally stopped listening only to the car and started listening to you.

He looked down at you, warm and tired and so deeply yours. "I know," he said quietly. "I'm trying."

"Try harder by eating."

That pulled a real laugh out of him.

"Yes, boss."

You gave his waist one last squeeze before stepping back, pointing toward the workbench where the food waited. "Wash your hands. Sit down. Eat before I start unplugging things."

Tom's eyebrows lifted. "You wouldn't."

"I absolutely would."

He looked between you, the Camaro, and the food, then lifted both hands in surrender. "Alright, alright. Dinner first."

"Good choice."

He smiled at you as he walked toward the sink in the corner of the garage, the overhead lights catching the oil on his forearms and the tired fondness in his eyes. The shop was still quiet, the Camaro still waiting, the night still long—but now Tom wasn't alone in it.

And that, at least, made all the difference.

𝐀𝐅𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐇𝐄 two of you finished eating, you told yourself you were only going to hang around for a little while.

That had been the plan.

You had brought Tom dinner, made sure he sat down long enough to actually eat it instead of picking at fries while standing over an engine, and watched with quiet satisfaction as he leaned against the workbench and tore into the food like his body had suddenly remembered it was starving. He ate with grease still faintly embedded around his fingernails despite scrubbing his hands, his black T-shirt stretched across his chest and shoulders, his brown Timbs planted against the concrete floor. Every few bites, he'd close his eyes like the food was saving his life.

"You needed this," you said, sitting beside him on an overturned crate, your knee brushing his.

Tom gave you a look around a mouthful of food, then swallowed. "I was fine."

"You were one vending machine snack away from passing out dramatically under that Camaro."

He pointed a fry at you. "I would've passed out professionally."

You laughed, shaking your head as he grinned at you, tired but pleased. For a while, the shop felt less like a workplace and more like a strange little after-hours date spot. The overhead garage lights buzzed softly above you. The old Camaro sat in the bay with its hood propped open, waiting patiently like it knew Tom wasn't finished with it yet. Outside, the world had gone darker, the windows reflecting mostly the inside of the shop now—tools, tires, metal shelves, the warm pool of light around the two of you.

You had fully intended to leave after that.

You were going to kiss him, tell him not to stay too late, and head home to maybe unpack one box before collapsing into bed. The house still needed attention. There were clothes to fold, kitchen items to put away, and a living room that looked like a moving company had surrendered halfway through battle.

But then Tom stood up, stretched his back with a soft groan, and returned to the Camaro.

And you stayed.

At first, you told yourself it was just for a few minutes.

You lingered near the workbench, sipping from your drink, watching him fall back into his rhythm. Tom leaned over the engine, bracing one hand on the side of the car while the other reached down into the machinery. His brow furrowed in concentration, his curls falling forward over his forehead until he pushed them back with the inside of his wrist. Every movement was familiar to him. He knew where everything was without looking. He could reach for a wrench, a socket, a rag, a flashlight—all from memory.

You admired that about him.

The way his hands moved with purpose. The way he listened to a machine like it had a heartbeat. The way he paused, tilted his head slightly, and seemed to understand what most people would only hear as clanking metal and stubborn parts.

After a few minutes, he glanced over his shoulder at you. "You don't have to stay, love."

"I know." You replied.

"You've worked all day." Tom continued on.

"So have you." You shot back.

He gave you a look. "That wasn't an invitation to make it a competition."

"I'm not competing," you said, sliding off the crate and stepping closer. "I'm supervising."

Tom huffed a laugh. "Supervising?"

"Someone has to make sure you don't try to survive off vibes and engine fumes."

His smile tugged at one corner of his mouth before he turned back to the Camaro. "Fair enough."

So you stayed.

And somehow, "a little while" turned into much longer.

You didn't crowd him. You knew Tom well enough to understand when he needed space to think, and working on something this detailed required focus. You didn't hover over his shoulder every second or pepper him with questions when his face had that deep, locked-in expression. Instead, you made yourself useful in small ways.

When he asked for a wrench, you handed him the wrench.

When he asked for the socket set, you passed it over.

When he muttered, "Ten millimeter," without even looking up, you scanned the tray until you found it and placed it into his waiting palm.

His fingers brushed yours briefly each time, warm and slightly rough, and every so often he murmured a quiet, "Thank you, darling," like you were doing something far more important than handing him tools.

You liked the sound of it anyway.

You stood near the rolling tool cart, learning the layout as you went. The drawers were organized in a way that made sense to Tom and probably no one else. One drawer held wrenches lined from smallest to largest. Another held screwdrivers, pliers, and little labeled containers of bolts. There was a drawer full of sockets that looked nearly identical to you at first, but after Tom explained the differences, you started noticing the sizes and shapes.

"What does this one do?" you asked, holding up a tool that looked oddly specific.

Tom glanced at it, then smiled. "That's a spark plug socket."

"It has a whole socket just for spark plugs?" You asked him, curious.

"Spark plugs are special."

You arched a brow. "Are they?"

"They're small, important, and annoying when they don't cooperate." He paused, then glanced at you. "Like some people I know."

You narrowed your eyes. "Watch it."

His grin widened before he ducked back into the engine.

Even while helping, you made sure to let him have his space. When Tom needed to lean in closer, you stepped back. When he crouched near the front tire and reached for something underneath, you stayed beside the tool cart and waited until he asked for what he needed. When he got quiet, you let the silence sit comfortably between you.

The shop was peaceful in its own rough-edged way.

The fluorescent lights buzzed softly overhead. Somewhere in the back, an old wall clock ticked with stubborn patience. The concrete floor held the cold of the night, but the garage itself was warm from the work lights and the lingering heat of the car. The air smelled like motor oil, old leather, metal, and the faint remains of dinner. Every so often, a car passed outside, headlights sweeping briefly across the open garage door before disappearing down the street.

Tom worked steadily, his black T-shirt clinging more with each passing hour. The oil smears on his arms had multiplied. A streak cut across the back of one hand. Another dark mark stained the side of his neck, and there was still that stubborn smear near his jaw that made him look both exhausted and unfairly attractive.

You tried not to stare too obviously.

You failed.

He caught you once when he straightened up, rolling his shoulder with a faint wince.

"What?" he asked, amused.

"Nothing."

"That was not a nothing look." He pointed out.

"It was a supportive look."

"That was a checking-me-out look."

"It can be both."

Tom laughed under his breath, shaking his head as he reached for a rag and wiped his hands. "You're distracting."

"I'm literally handing you tools."

"You're doing it distractingly."

You smiled, leaning your hip against the workbench. "Sounds like a personal problem."

He pointed at you with the rag. "It is. And you're the problem."

Still, even with the teasing, there was an intimacy in the way you fit into his workspace. You weren't trying to take over. You weren't pretending to know more than you did. You were just there—present, interested, helpful in the way you could be. And Tom noticed.

You could tell by the soft looks he gave you between tasks.

By the way his hand lingered when he reached for a tool.

By the way his voice softened whenever he explained something.

He showed you parts of the engine, pointing carefully with the end of a screwdriver. He explained what had been giving him trouble, how the old car had been restored beautifully but still had issues hidden beneath the surface. He talked about timing, fuel lines, worn parts, and stubborn bolts like he was telling you a story.

Some of it went over your head.

A lot of it, honestly.

But you listened anyway because it was him. Because his eyes brightened when he explained things. Because every time you asked a question, he answered without making you feel silly.

"So this is the part that's messing everything up?" you asked, leaning in just enough to see where he was pointing.

"Partly," Tom said. "It's connected to the bigger issue. The engine's not breathing right."

You blinked. "Engines breathe?"

"In a way, yeah." He smiled at your expression. "Air, fuel, spark. It all has to balance."

You hummed, looking down at the engine. "So it's dramatic."

"It's a sixty-four Camaro. Of course it's dramatic."

You glanced at him. "Like you."

Tom's mouth dropped open in offense. "I am not dramatic."

"You almost fell asleep in your food fifteen minutes ago and still insisted you were fine."

"That's not dramatic. That's dedication."

"That's denial."

He looked away, fighting a smile. "Pass me the ratchet, please."

You handed it over immediately. "Changing the subject."

"Efficiently," he said.

Time slipped by in small pieces.

A tool passed from your hand to his.

A question asked.

A bolt loosened.

A rag was tossed over his shoulder.

A soft joke was exchanged.

The Camaro is slowly coming back together beneath his hands.

At one point, you found yourself sitting on the edge of the workbench, legs swinging lightly, watching Tom crouched near the engine with a flashlight between his teeth. His eyes narrowed in concentration, and when he reached back without looking, you already knew what he wanted. You placed the next tool into his palm before he could ask.

He paused, glanced up at you, and took the flashlight from his mouth.

"Look at you," he said, voice warm. "Learning."

You shrugged, trying to play it casual even though the praise made your chest warm. "I pay attention."

"I know you do." His gaze softened. "That's one of my favorite things about you."

For a second, the shop went quiet in that tender way that made the world feel smaller. It was just the two of you, the old car, the smell of oil, and the hum of the lights above. You looked at him, at the exhaustion under his eyes and the fondness still shining through it, and you were reminded again why you had stayed.

Not because he needed you to fix the car.

Because he needed someone there who cared enough to make sure he didn't forget himself while fixing everything else.

"You're still not staying here all night," you said softly.

Tom's expression shifted, caught between affection and guilt. "I'm nearly done."

"You said that an hour ago."

"I'm closer now."

"You better be."

He chuckled, rising to his feet with a quiet groan. He stretched his back again, and you saw the way fatigue pulled at him. Before he could fully turn away, you reached for him, catching the hem of his black T-shirt and tugging him gently closer.

He came without resistance, stepping between your knees as you sat on the workbench. His hands landed carefully on either side of you, still mindful of the grease on his skin. You reached up and brushed a curl off his forehead, then smudged lightly at the oil near his jaw with your thumb.

"You're a mess," you murmured.

His eyes flicked over your face. "A handsome mess?"

"Unfortunately."

His grin was tired but bright. "I'll take it."

You rolled your eyes, but your hands stayed on him, one resting against his chest, the other near his shoulder. Beneath your palm, you could feel the steady beat of his heart and the solid warmth of him.

"You know," he said quietly, "I like having you here."

Your expression softened. "Yeah?”

"Yeah." He looked around the shop, then back at you. "Makes it feel less... lonely."

The admission was small, but it landed heavily.

You knew Tom was used to carrying things. Work. Bills. Goals. The future. The house. The quiet pressure of wanting to be enough for both of you. Even when he didn't say it out loud, you saw it in him.

So you leaned forward and kissed him softly, not caring that he smelled like oil and grease, not caring that his hands were dirty, not caring that the workbench was cold beneath you.

"I'm here," you said against his mouth. "But you're still finishing soon."

He laughed quietly, forehead touching yours. "Yes, boss.”

You smiled. "Good.”

Then you nudged him back toward the Camaro, hopping down from the workbench and returning to your post near the tool cart like you belonged there.

Tom went back to work, but now there was something lighter in the air. He still focused on the engine, still listened closely, still moved with that careful mechanic's precision—but he wasn't alone anymore. You were there beside him, passing tools, asking questions, teasing him when he got too stubborn, and letting him have enough room to do what he did best.

And every so often, when his hand reached back for the next tool, yours was already there.

𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐓𝐎𝐌 ended up drifting into one of those intimate moments neither of you planned for. The shop had settled into a strange kind of peace around you both.

Somewhere near the back, an old fan clicked softly as it rotated, pushing warm shop air in lazy circles. The wall clock ticked on, but neither of you were really paying attention to time anymore.

Tom had been crouched near the front of the Camaro, one hand braced against the frame while he checked something beneath the hood. He was tired, but the kind of tired that made him quieter instead of weaker.

He reached blindly toward the rolling tool cart, expecting you to place the next tool in his hand like you had been doing for the past hour.

But this time, nothing came.

Tom glanced over his shoulder, about to ask for it, and then he stopped.

You were sitting a few feet away in one of the rolling shop chairs, one knee drawn up slightly, your foot hooked against the chair's base so you wouldn't drift across the concrete. A thick repair manual was open in your lap, its pages bent and smudged from use. You had a flashlight angled over one shoulder, shining down across the tiny print as your eyes moved line by line. Beside you, a shallow metal tray held sockets, bolts, and small tools you had been sorting through with the intense focus of someone who had fully committed to the task.

And you had oil on you.

Not a lot, but enough for Tom to notice immediately. A dark thumbprint near your wrist. A faint streak along the side of your hand. Another smudge near your forearm where you must have brushed against the edge of the engine without realizing it. There was even the smallest mark near your cheek, like you had absently touched your face while reading. You looked completely focused, brows lightly drawn together, lips slightly parted as you studied the instructions like they personally owed you an answer.

Tom just stared.

There was something about the sight that hit him harder than he expected.

You weren't just standing around waiting for him to finish. You weren't bored, annoyed, or counting down the minutes until he was done. You were there with him. Really there. In his world. In the place where he spent long hours covered in grease and chasing solutions most people would never care to understand. You had come after your own long day of work, brought him food because you knew he wouldn't take care of himself properly, and then stayed—not out of obligation, but because you wanted to.

You had given him space when he needed it. Asked questions when you were curious. Passed tools without crowding him. Let him explain things without making him feel like he was rambling. And now here you were, sitting in a rolling chair, reading a repair manual like the Camaro was a puzzle you were determined to help him solve.

It did something to him.

Something soft and heavy in his chest.

He loved seeing you like this.

He loved you being in his element like it was second nature. Loved that you could fit yourself into his chaos without making it feel crowded. Loved that you knew when to tease him and when to simply be quiet beside him. Loved that you had oil smeared on your skin and didn't even seem to care because you were too busy trying to understand what he was working on.

He loved that you went out of your way for him.

After working all day, after coming home to the half-unpacked dream house the two of you were still trying to turn into a proper home, you could have stayed there. You could have rested. You could have texted him to eat something and gone to bed. But you didn't.

You came to him.

You brought dinner. You stayed. You helped.

And more than anything, he loved that you were his.

Not in some shallow, possessive way. Not like a thing to keep or control. But in the way that made his heart settle. In the way that made the future feel real. You were his person. His safe place. His stubborn, caring, beautiful boyfriend who could fuss at him about food one minute and sit in a garage chair reading engine instructions the next.

The realization softened his entire face.

You must have felt him staring, because your eyes lifted from the manual.

You caught him looking at you.

"What?" you asked, narrowing your eyes slightly, though there was amusement tucked at the corners of your mouth. "Did I pick up the wrong thing?"

Tom didn't answer right away.

Instead, he placed the tool in his hand down on the edge of the workbench, gave the Camaro one last distracted glance, and then lowered himself onto another rolling chair. With one small push of his boot against the concrete, he rolled toward you.

The chair wheels whispered across the floor.

You watched him approach, confused but smiling now. "Tom?"

He rolled right in front of you, close enough that his knees brushed yours. The shop light caught the oil on his forearm, the curve of his jaw, the tired warmth in his brown eyes. He looked at you like the engine, the car, the late hour, and the entire world had temporarily stopped mattering.

"What?" you repeated, softer this time.

Tom reached for the manual in your hand.

You let him take it, though your brow lifted. "I was reading that."

"I know," he murmured.

He closed the manual gently and set it aside on the nearest workbench without looking away from you.

The gesture made your breath catch a little.

His hand came back to you, knuckles brushing lightly against your cheek, careful where the faint oil smudge marked your skin. His thumb passed over it gently, but it only smeared a little more, making him huff a quiet laugh.

"You've got oil on your face," he said.

"You've got oil everywhere."

"Yeah, but I work here."

"I'm helping."

His expression softened even more. "I know."

Something in the way he said it made your teasing fade.

The shop suddenly felt smaller. Warmer. The hum of the lights seemed quieter, the fan more distant, the night pressing gently against the windows. Tom leaned in slowly, giving you plenty of time to pull back if you wanted to, but you didn't. You stayed exactly where you were, watching his eyes drop briefly to your mouth before finding yours again.

Then he kissed you.

At first, it was gentle.

A soft press of his mouth to yours, warm and grateful, tasting faintly of the dinner you'd brought him and the coffee he absolutely had no business drinking earlier. His hand curved along the side of your face while the other settled near your knee, steadying himself as the rolling chair shifted beneath him. You kissed him back just as softly, your fingers curling lightly around the front of his black T-shirt.

But the tenderness didn't stay quiet for long.

Tom kissed you again, deeper this time, like the feeling had caught up with him all at once. Like every hour of exhaustion, every quiet moment of appreciation, every unspoken thank-you had found one place to go. Your hand slid from his shirt to the back of his neck, fingertips brushing through the messy curls at his nape. He made a low sound against your mouth, barely there but enough to make heat bloom through you.

The rolling chairs nudged together awkwardly, wheels shifting.

You laughed into the kiss.

Tom smiled against your lips, then pulled back only enough to look at you. His eyes were darker now, soft but intent. "This chair situation is ridiculous."

"You rolled over here," you reminded him.

"I had a very good reason."

"And what was that?"

His hands found your waist. "You."

Before you could answer, he tugged you toward him—not rough, but firm enough that your chair rolled forward with a little squeak. You caught his shoulders, laughing under your breath as he guided you up and over, pulling you carefully into his lap.

You settled over him, straddling him in the chair, your knees bracketing his hips while his hands anchored at your waist. The chair rocked slightly beneath the combined weight of you both, and Tom tightened his grip with a startled laugh.

"Careful," he murmured.

"You pulled me over here."

"And I'd do it again."

Your mouth curved. "You're supposed to be fixing a car."

"I am taking a very necessary break."

"Is that what this is?"

Tom tilted his head back to look at you, his smile softening into something much more intimate. "Yeah," he said quietly. "It is."

That made your chest warm in a way that had nothing to do with the garage heat.

You leaned down and kissed him again.

This time, there was no pretending it was just a quick moment. His hands slid more securely around your waist, pulling you closer until your chest met his. Yours moved to his jaw, then into his hair, tugging lightly at the curls that were already a mess. He kissed you like he had been thinking about it for longer than he admitted—slow at first, then hungry, then slow again, like he couldn't decide whether he wanted to savor you or lose himself completely.

The chair gave another quiet squeak beneath you.

Neither of you cared.

Your fingers brushed over the side of his neck, feeling the warmth of his skin, the faint slickness of sweat and oil, the chain resting against his collarbone. Tom's hand moved up your back, firm and grounding, while the other stayed at your hip. He kissed you until the shop, the car, the manual, the tools, and the clock all blurred into the background.

For once, Tom wasn't thinking about what still needed fixing.

He wasn't thinking about the Camaro.

He wasn't thinking about the extra hours, the house payments, the boxes waiting at home, or the long list of things he always carried in his head.

He was thinking about you.

The way you fit against him.

The way you smelled faintly like your day, his hoodie, dinner, and now the shop too.

The way you had oil on your skin because you'd stayed.

He broke the kiss just enough to rest his forehead against yours, both of you breathing a little heavier now. His thumb traced a slow line at your waist, and his eyes opened, meeting yours with that open, unguarded look that always made him seem younger and older at the same time.

"You know I love you, right?" he murmured.

Your fingers softened in his hair. "Yeah."

"I mean it." His voice was rough, but steady. "I love you being here. I love that you came. I love that you care enough to fuss at me and feed me and sit here reading instructions you absolutely don't have to read."

You smiled, brushing your nose lightly against his. "Somebody has to make sure you don't marry the Camaro."

His laugh came out low and warm. "Too late. I'm already spoken for."

"By me?"

His hands tightened gently at your waist.

"By you," he said, like it was the easiest truth in the world.

Then he kissed you again, slower this time, deep and lingering, his thumb moving in absent circles against your side. You melted further into him, letting the night stretch around you, letting the old Camaro wait a little longer.

Because after all the work, all the saving, all the late nights and early mornings that had brought you both to this point, Tom deserved a break.

And right then, wrapped around each other in the middle of a quiet garage, oil-smudged and tired and completely tangled up in each other, neither of you cared if that break lasted longer than planned.

Then the shift happened so gradually neither of you could really point to the exact second it changed.

One moment, the two of you were kissing in that slow, lingering way that felt like relief after a long day—warm and grateful and full of everything unspoken. The next, the air between you had grown heavier, thicker, charged with something that made every touch feel sharper and every breath come out a little less steady.

Tom's hands, which had started at your waist like he was trying to keep himself controlled, slowly began to wander. One stayed firm at the small of your back, holding you close enough that every breath you took brushed against his chest. The other slid lower, dragging over the curve of your side before settling at your hip.

Then lower still.

His palm came to rest on your backside, warm and possessive even through the fabric, and the touch pulled a sharp inhale out of you. Not rough. Not sudden. Just deliberate enough to make your whole body react. His fingers flexed there once, like he was testing your response, and when he felt the way you tensed in his lap, his eyes lifted to yours.

There was a heat in his expression now that had nothing to do with the garage.

His gaze dropped to your mouth, then lower, then back up again, and the corner of his lips tipped into the faintest smile—one that said he knew exactly what he was doing.

"Tom," you breathed, though it didn't sound much like a warning.

"Yeah?" he murmured, voice low and rough, his thumb pressing lightly where his hand still held you.

The way he said it made your heart beat harder.

His hand guided you almost absentmindedly, just enough pressure to encourage movement, and your body answered before your brain could fully catch up. Your hips shifted against him, slow at first, a small, instinctive roll that made both of you pause for half a second.

Tom's breath caught.

The sound was quiet, but you heard it.

Felt it.

His head tipped back just slightly, lashes lowering, while his grip on you tightened. Not enough to hurt, just enough to tell you he wanted more. His other hand spread wider across your back, steadying you as the rolling chair gave a faint squeak beneath the two of you.

That tiny noise should have broken the mood.

Instead, it only made the moment feel more dangerous.

More real.

You kissed him again before he could say anything, and Tom met you instantly, like he'd been waiting for permission he was already halfway to taking. His mouth moved against yours with a kind of urgency that made your pulse stutter. The kiss deepened, your bodies drawing closer, his hand still firm on your backside as your hips moved again—this time less accidental, more intentional.

A quiet sound escaped him, half breath and half groan, swallowed immediately by your mouth.

The reaction sent a rush of heat through you.

You could feel the tension in him now—not just in the way his hands held you, but in the way his shoulders tightened beneath your palms, in the way his jaw flexed when the kiss broke for air, in the way his eyes looked darker every time they opened to find your face again.

His forehead brushed yours for a brief second, both of you breathing harder than before.

"You're trouble," he murmured, though the way he said it sounded more like admiration than complaint.

You almost laughed, but it came out softer than that, breathier. "Me?"

Tom's hand pressed at your hip again, urging the smallest motion from you, and when you followed it, his head fell back against the chair with a quiet exhale that made your stomach flip.

"Yes, you," he said, voice strained now in the prettiest way. "Sitting there looking like that. Helping me all night. Then climbing into my lap like this."

"You pulled me here," you reminded him, though your voice had lost most of its earlier confidence.

"I know," he said, eyes finding yours again. "Best decision I've made all night."

His words settled over you warmly, but it was his expression that held you. He looked tired and gorgeous and entirely undone by you.

And the fact that you were doing that to him only made you want to move closer.

So you did.

Your hands slid down from his shoulders to his chest, palms flattening there for balance as your hips rolled again, slower this time, more deliberate. Tom sucked in a breath through his teeth, the hand on your backside tightening instinctively while the one on your back traveled upward, fingers spreading along your spine as if he wanted to keep every inch of you close.

The garage suddenly felt too warm.

Or maybe that was just the two of you.

His mouth found your neck then—not frantic, not messy, but careful in a way that somehow made it worse. Better. His lips brushed just below your jaw, then lower, and every soft press sent another wave of heat through you. You tipped your head back slightly, your fingers tangling tighter in his curls, while his hand at your hip kept encouraging that same slow, maddening rhythm.

Neither of you said much after that.

You didn't need to.

The sounds between you said enough—the catch of Tom's breath, the faint squeak of the chair, the soft rustle of denim and cotton, the quiet little noises that slipped out whenever one of you touched the other just right. It all built into something thick and consuming, something that made the whole world shrink down to his lap, his hands, his mouth, the heat of him beneath you.

At one point, Tom leaned back just enough to look at you again, his hands still anchored on you, his expression somewhere between awe and restraint.

"We should stop," he said, though he made absolutely no move to let you go.

You stared at him, chest rising and falling, your forehead still almost touching his. "Do you want to?"

His laugh was breathless, almost disbelieving. "No."

"Then that's not very convincing."

A helpless smile tugged at his mouth before he kissed you again, harder this time, like whatever last thread of control he'd been holding had finally slipped loose. His hand on your backside pressed more firmly, guiding you once more, and the response it pulled from both of you made the air between your bodies feel electric.

The old Camaro waited nearby. The tools still lay scattered. The repair manual sat abandoned on the workbench where Tom had tossed it. The clock kept ticking.

But for those moments, neither of you cared.

Because the night had already gone off-script, and now the two of you were suspended in it—oil-smudged, flushed, tangled together in the middle of the garage—letting the need you'd been dancing around finally take up all the space between you.

That was until reality seeped back —you broke the kiss first, though it took every ounce of willpower you possessed to do it.

Your lips parted from Tom’s slowly, reluctantly, lingering for one last soft brush before you finally pulled back. The space between your faces felt paper-thin and crackling with electricity, your mingled breaths warm and unsteady against each other’s skin. Both of you were flushed—cheeks heated, chests rising and falling faster than before—and far more aroused than either of you had planned when the evening began in a simple garage. Your fingers were still buried deep in his dark curls, the soft strands wrapped loosely around your knuckles, while Tom’s hands remained planted possessively on your body: one splayed wide at the curve of your waist, the other resting low on your backside, fingers flexed like he was fighting the urge to pull you right back in.

You could feel the evidence of how quickly things had escalated.

The heavy, insistent heat low in your belly.The throbbing ache of pure want between your thighs.The way every point of contact—his lap beneath you, his chest against yours, his hands on your body—suddenly felt electric, dangerous, and far too tempting to ignore.

You swallowed, trying to steady your breathing, and leaned back just enough to really look at him.

Tom looked utterly wrecked in the most devastatingly beautiful way.

His curls were a wild disaster, pushed in every direction by your eager fingers, a few strands sticking damply to his forehead. His lips were kiss-swollen, a deeper pink than usual, slightly parted as he caught his breath. His chest heaved beneath the fitted black T-shirt, the fabric stretched tight across his shoulders and pectorals, clinging to the faint sheen of sweat on his skin. Oil still marked him everywhere: a glossy streak along one forearm, a smudge near the sharp line of his jaw, another faint streak at his temple where he must have wiped his face earlier. Somehow those marks only made him look better—like a perfectly imperfect blend of exhausted, hardworking mechanic and pure, walking temptation. His brown eyes had gone dark and molten, heavy-lidded, fixed on you with an intensity that twisted low in your stomach and made your thighs tighten around his hips.

“Love…” he murmured, voice low, rough, and deliciously gravelly. His forehead nearly touched yours again as one thumb traced slow, distracted circles along your side, like he physically couldn’t stop touching you. “Why’d you stop?”

You let out a shaky breath that almost became a laugh. “Because,” you whispered, “if I don’t stop now, I’m not going to want to stop at all.”

Tom’s mouth twitched—half amused, half beautifully tortured. “That’s sort of the problem, yeah.”

You shook your head, fighting a smile even as warmth continued to pool through your body. “No, the actual problem is that you still have a car to finish.”

His expression shifted into pure, quiet disbelief, eyebrows lifting.

“You’re bringing up the Camaro right now?” he asked, sounding personally betrayed by the words.

You arched an eyebrow, even though your body was still draped intimately over his lap, thighs bracketing his hips in a way that completely undermined any attempt at responsibility. “Yes. I am.”

Tom stared at you for a long second, breathing still ragged, hands still firmly holding you in place. “You kiss me like that, climb into my lap, grind against me until I can barely think straight, and now you want to be responsible?”

“I’m always responsible,” you said, trying to sound firm.

He gave you a long, skeptical look that made heat flare in your cheeks.

You softened, sliding one hand from his messy curls to cup his cheek, thumb gently brushing the faint oil smear there. “Tom,” you said quietly, tenderly, “finish the car first.”

His jaw flexed, and his eyes searched your face desperately, hunting for any crack in your resolve.

“You say that,” he murmured, voice dropping even lower, “but you’re still sitting on me like you belong here.”

That pulled a real laugh from you—breathless and warm.

You leaned in and pressed one more soft, teasing kiss to his mouth, short but lingering just enough to be dangerous. “Because I like sitting on you,” you whispered against his lips.

Tom groaned deeply, the sound vibrating through his chest as he tipped his head back against the chair, eyes closing like he was silently begging the garage ceiling for strength. “You’re not helping.”

“I’m trying to,” you said innocently.

“No,” he countered, lifting his head to pin you with that dark, heated stare again, “you’re being incredibly, unfairly attractive while pretending to be practical. Completely different thing.”

Your smile turned slow and knowing. For a moment the temptation tugged hard—the quiet garage, the late hour, the way Tom was looking at you like he wanted to devour you right there in the rolling chair. It would be so easy to give in, to roll your hips again and let the heat between you consume everything else.

But then your gaze flicked past his shoulder to the Camaro.

The open hood. The exposed engine. The scattered tools and parts still waiting for his skilled hands.

If you let this continue, that car was never getting finished tonight.

You ran your thumb tenderly over his cheekbone and smiled, softer now. “I’m serious. Finish up with the car before we get down and dirty in the shop.”

The moment the words left your mouth, Tom went very still.

Then one corner of his lips lifted in a slow, predatory smirk.

“In the shop?” he repeated, voice dropping into a dangerously low register that sent a fresh shiver down your spine.

You rolled your eyes, though you could feel fresh heat blooming across your face. “Don’t start.”

“Oh, I’ve already started,” he said, gaze dragging slowly over your lips, your throat, your body in his lap. His hands flexed meaningfully at your waist, as if he were already picturing every filthy version of that suggestion. “That’s a terrible, wonderful thing to put in my head while I’m supposed to be working.”

“You were the one kissing me like you forgot your own name,” you shot back.

“I nearly did.”

You bit your lip to hide your smile, but the satisfaction was impossible to hide. Tom carried so much—long hours, pressure, the weight of building a life for both of you—and seeing him like this, a little unraveled, a little desperate, a little lost in you, filled your chest with warm, smug affection.

Still, you held your ground.

You leaned down and kissed the corner of his mouth gently. “Then use that motivation,” you whispered against his skin. “Finish the car.”

Tom let out another low groan—half laugh, half genuine suffering—before dropping his forehead to your shoulder. You felt the warm rush of his breath through the fabric of his hoodie you were wearing. “You are evil.”

“Disciplined,” you corrected sweetly.

“Cruel.”

“Helpful.”

He lifted his head, eyes full of affection, frustration, and raw want all tangled together. “You really expect me to focus after all that?”

“Yes,” you said simply, smoothing your fingers through his curls one last time with tender affection. “I do.”

Tom studied your face for another long beat, then exhaled heavily through his nose in defeat. “And if I finish quickly?”

Your smile turned slow and full of promise. “Then maybe your reward will still be waiting right here.”

His eyes darkened instantly, pupils blowing wide.

“Dangerous answer,” he muttered, voice rough.

“Then get to work, mechanic.”

For a moment neither of you moved, caught in the charged silence. Then Tom’s hands loosened on your waist with clear reluctance, allowing you to carefully slide off his lap. The rolling chair squeaked as your weight shifted, wheels rolling back a few inches while your feet met the cool concrete floor. The sudden absence of his warmth made you acutely aware of how worked up you still were, the imprint of his hands and the press of his body lingering on your skin.

Tom stayed seated for another second, elbows on his knees, scrubbing both hands down his face with a quiet, frustrated groan.

“You alright there?” you asked, folding your arms and giving him your most innocent look.

He laughed—low, breathless, and utterly fond—then looked up at you through those messy curls. “No. Not even a little.”

That made you grin.

He pushed to his feet with a deep exhale, adjusting the hem of his T-shirt and rolling his shoulders like he was physically rebooting into mechanic mode. His gaze bounced between you and the Camaro several times, the internal battle clear on his face.

Work.You.Work.You.

Finally, he pointed at you with mock sternness, though his eyes still burned. “You are not allowed to say anything else suggestive while I finish this.”

“I didn’t say anything suggestive.”

Tom just stared at you.

You shrugged, lips twitching. “Okay… maybe a little.”

“A little?” He shook his head, already walking back toward the open hood with a soft laugh. “You’re trying to kill me.”

“No,” you said, settling back into the rolling chair and picking up the repair manual again, “I’m trying to make sure the car gets fixed before I distract you even worse.”

Tom paused beside the Camaro and glanced back.

You were sitting there once more—manual open in your lap, faint oil smudges still visible on your skin, looking deceptively composed for someone who had just been grinding in his lap minutes earlier. Your eyes dropped to the page, but the small, knowing smile playing at the corner of your mouth made it obvious you were still very aware of the effect you had on him.

Tom blew out a long breath and turned back to the engine. “This is absolute torture.”

You flipped a page innocently. “That sounds dramatic.”

“It is dramatic.”

“It’s a ’64 Camaro,” you said, echoing his earlier words with a grin. “Of course it is.”

That finally pulled a genuine laugh from him.

He bent over the engine again, tools clinking as he got back to work, but the moment hadn’t vanished. It simply simmered.

It lingered in every brush of fingers when you passed him a socket.In every heated glance he stole over his shoulder.In the heavy, delicious tension that made the quiet garage feel alive with promise.

The night stretched on, the Camaro slowly coming back together beneath his skilled hands, while both of you held onto the warm, aching anticipation of what would happen the moment he was finished.

Ever since you have arrived and introduced yourself to the group as Dennis’ partner the two of you had been getting looks. You two pushed it to the side not really understanding what that was about and not really caring for it— That was until the questions came flying in.

Questions about your relationship status, when did you two meet, assumptions that this is a relatively new relationship due to how you interact with one another.

Dennis is grateful that you are a talker and knew how to manage people and conversations because if it were him, he would have snapped by now.

He didn’t expect his coworkers to be acting this way. It’s not like he hid that he was in a relationship or that he was even queer, so this line of questioning was wholly unexpected.

As the night went on, conversations would move onto some other topics and other events from the week; work-related or otherwise, but regardless of that, someone would always slip in a comment about Dennis and yours’s relationship.

And slowly but surely Dennis realised what the source of the issue was:

It seems that his coworkers have this seemingly preconceived notion of what a couple should act like, and Dennis’ aversion to any form of lovey-dovey act big or small seems to really be affecting them. And hence all the questions and assumptions that you guys are not in a committed relationship or actually not suited for one another. — That last assumption making his blood boil.

The thing is, Dennis never grew up in an environment where affectionate displays were commonplace, so in turn it wasn’t in him to display them either.

And regardless of people’s assumptions of him holding back affectionate displays because he is dating a guy, that had nothing to do with it either and frankly he took offence to it. — Dennis is not beyond loving on his partner. He would dote, cuddle, kiss or just simply lay with you simply to stay close and share in your warmth, but that is not for their eyes; that’s just for the two of you to share.

Only because he, personally, finds it awkward to publicly do those kinds of things does not mean he does not love you still. Hell, he can’t even accept a teasing hug or playful nugie from Santos without him stiffening up like a deer in headlights.

Thankfully, you were okay with the boundary that Dennis had set; so long as you can steal a kiss when you two believe no one is looking and are allowed to occasionally speak adorations of your partner to anyone who would listen, you were okay.— Which, though it was threading on the edges of what he is comfortable with, he can’t help the warmth he feels from you doing so.

Dennis is so lucky that you are a talker because every time someone says something about you two’s relationship status, you would jump in and manoeuvre the conversation to alleviate the awkwardness of such a statement. Thankfully, quick enough so that he wouldn’t have to dwell on it or at the very least struggle to figure out how to navigate yet another conversation about how he’s simply uncomfortable with public displays of affection.

As for them, his co-workers are lucky they’re not truly strangers and actually share in the same workspace as him, because if they were anything but, you would have verbally bitten their heads off —though he wouldn’t put it past you to physically do so as well, for questioning your love to your boyfriend and his love to you.

You not figuratively going on the attack was simply to save your boyfriend the awkwardness that would have occurred from you being protective over him and going into work later that week.

Dennis took a deep breath as you, yet again, carry the conversation from one of his co-workers comments.

He glanced beside him at you with an apologetic look to which you responded with a reassuring smile and a squeeze to his thigh, beneath the table and out of sight, telling him that it’s alright.

You smoothly continued back onto the conversation to something other than how you two decide to act around other people.

Dennis placed his hand on yours, squeezing it back before standing and excusing himself from the group.— He needed a break from all of this.

He told the group that he was heading off to the bar to get himself a drink, but you knew better. You look up at him concerned but let him go regardless.— You know he needs some time alone.

Dennis walked away from the booth bee-lining it to the bar.

He ordered himself a simple drink, not that he knows the difference between all the drinks, so he went with whatever the bartender deemed simple. As his drink was getting prepared, one of his co-workers approached him.

“Hey,” they spoke. Dennis glanced over his shoulder at them before turning back to the bar, “how are you doing? Good?”

“Yeah, I’m fine. I’m just getting a drink. I’ll be back in a moment.”

The person hummed in response.

They didn’t say a thing for a while after that.

Dennis looked over his shoulder at them once more and he saw them fidgeting with their hands, moving their weight from one leg to the other end, and glancing every elsewhere in the room before landing their eyes on him.

Dennis looked on perplexed.

He didn’t know what that is about and he didn’t know if he even wanted to push, but the person’s silence didn’t last long, “Hey man.”

Dennis raised a brow.

He did not like the tone that was just used. And he felt like whatever is coming next is not good either.

“I don’t want to overstep.”

“Then don’t.”

“But are you good? Like between you and your boyfriend?”

Dennis tensed. “Why would you say that?”

“I don’t know. You two kind of been acting like just friends and you’ve been keeping a partial distance from him when you’ve been hanging out with him.

“I feel like something is going on. I don’t wanna push. But also kind of looks awkward.— At this point people are wondering if something is going on, or if your that you’re even dating.”

“We are dating,” Dennis corrected.

“No, I know—“

“We are dating.” Now he was glaring.

“You… don’t act like it though? I don’t know just—“

Dennis huffed out annoyed. He was moments away from ripping into them had you not slipped in behind him, leaning over his shoulder and quietly asking if he was alright.

Dennis’ shoulders rose and fell. He eyes wide and nostrils flared.

He did not know what compelled him to do this, but as quick as the thought emerged, he turned around to you, grabbing you by the collar and deeply kissing you.

Your eyes widened, gasping at the kiss, but Dennis didn’t pull away— the opposite actually, he released one hand’s grip from your collar, cradling the back of your neck and deepening the kiss.

You exhaled, surprised, before melting into the kiss. Your one hand coming up to cup the side of your boyfriend’s face caressing his cheeks with your thumb, while the other rested firmly on his hip.

The world melted away for a moment, the both of you forgetting where you were.

Eventually, Dennis pulled away, face flush, still breathing heavily but for a different reason now.

You stared down your boyfriend in shock, eyes blown out. You, too, were breathing heavily. You felt warmth in your cheeks and running down your neck. You brain buzzed from arousal, but also buzzed in processing what had just occurred.

Dennis didn’t respond to your reaction, and had already turned away from you to glare at his coworker who had witnessed this whole ordeal.

“Is that good enough for you?”

The person nodded rapidly before skittering away, embarrassed.

Dennis kept a rageful eye on them as he watched them leave.

“Well,” your breath out, laying your chin on his shoulder, “I came over to check up on you because you seemed bothered but,” you wrapped your arms around him pulling him close to you by the waist. “If all I needed to do to get a kiss like that was let people rile you up, I would’ve let that happen a long time ago.”

“No, you wouldn’t,” he tilted his head back to meet your eyes, having already melted into your touch, “you love me too much.”

“No, I wouldn’t have,” you kissed his neck and sighed into him, "The kiss wasn’t bad though.”

He huffed out amused.

Turning to face you, Dennis brought his arms over your shoulders, pulling your forehead onto his. “Let’s get out of here,” he whispered into your lips.

“Let’s,” you agreed, “I think I much rather spend my time with you alone at home.”

He smiles, “Sounds like a plan. “

Hey chat, it’s definitely platonic to kiss your same gendered homie on the mouth, right?

Author's Note: I wrote this fic solely on the idea that people write Dennis as this little guy™  so I was like “what if I don’t do that? What if I wrote him a bit more assertive?👀” and this is what we got.

“You want to head off to the pool table?” He assumed.

“Oh, more than anything,” you folded your arms, leaning against the bar, staring off at the players around the pool table with this smug look, “I’m sure I can show 'em a thing or two. And I’m pretty sure I can make em pay up for their poor performance.”

Dennis huffed out a laugh. He liked seeing you like this. All playful confidence with a roaring fire behind your eyes. That’s what captured his attention the first time you’ve met. — Admittedly, it was intimidating at first, but after getting to know you, it’s one of your more attractive features; though he could name so many others.

"You can head over there.," He motioned to the pool tables, "I’ll just bring the drinks when they’re done."

“And what? Leave you here by yourself?” You look over to the side where he stood, lips drawn in a thin line, “I don’t know if you know this, but we’re already one member down.”

He rolled his eyes. “We don’t both have to be bored out of our minds. Make something of the night.”

You’ll let out a long exhale from your nose, puffing out your cheeks while pondering. You looked between the table and Dennis, not really wanting to abandon your boyfriend, but then again… you always love the call of a challenge.

And Dennis knew that.

“Come on. Go.” He gestures to the table.

“You sure?” You still seemed torn.

“Yes, I’m sure.” He nudges you with his elbow, “Go.”

You bit your lower lip, scanning his features for any indication that he would much rather you stay. He held your eyes, knowing that you needed that silence reassurance. Realizing that, you released your lower lip and melted into a smile,“Thank you.”

You cupped his cheeks, tilting his head down to kiss his temple, “You’re beautiful, and I love you,” you let go before walking off to the pool tables, “I’ll see you in a bit!”

He waved you off with a smile. A dusting of red on his cheeks that no one can catch in the dimly lit bar.

——

A few minutes passed, and Dennis had delivered your drink over, introducing himself to the man you’re playing against, before he took a seat at a nearby table; one in direct line of sight of where you were playing — Dennis found it amusing that you were holding back on the man, something about “it’s more fun when they think they have a chance.”

You were feigning not knowing how to fully play the game; a miss over here, a scratch over there, and as you wanted, you’ve been written off as some rookie.

You huffed out. Fake Annoyed.

While your opponent pocketed the 20 dollars that you sat down. — It's alright, its about the long game.

“Maybe you should sit the next round out. Don’t want to steal money from a pretty thing like you,” your opponent, leaned on the tip of his pool stick with a smug look on his face.

You rolled your eyes, “or maybe you’re too scared I’ll beat you this time”

“No one believes in this tough guy act, Angel.”

You raised a brow and held his gaze.“20 dollars.”

He raises a brow.

You slowly lifted $20 between your index and middle finger. Waving it in front of the guy before placing it on the table.

The man’s eyes followed the movement. From the dollars up your arm, lingering on your bicep, shoulders, chest and then landing on your face.

You met his gaze raising a brow in challenge.

He held your stare, an amused smile growing on his features.

You huffed at that, “What? We wanting a 40?”

He walked over, backing you up to stand between him and the table. He looked down at you from the bridge of his nose.

You said nothing as you looked up at him.

“How about you keep your 40, and you get me a drink when I win?”

When you win? You scoffed. The only sincere break in character from you.

You frowned up at the man. You didn’t want to get a drink out of him. You were more looking forward to the shame of him having to hand you a 40 but… a win is a win, and you liked winning more than you liked any specific prize.

You sighed. Agreeing to the deal and prepped the table for the next round.

Dennis looked on to this exchange from his side of the room.

His jaw tense as he glared down the man for how he was talking and acting with you.

He is not intervening, though. He knows that you can handle yourself, but sometimes he wishes that you weren’t so tunnel visioned on your goal of winning that you’d rendered yourself blind to how people act around you.

“Hey!” A familiar voice called out behind him. Looking over his shoulder, he watched Trinity make her way to him, patting his back in greeting before taking the seat across from him. She was beaming at him as she took the chair.

“You seemed to have had fun.”

“Oh, yeah,” she waves a napkin in front of him. A series of numbers written, undeniably with lipstick, on it. “Good fun.”

She pocketed the napkin and leaned on the table, “So where’s your boy?”

He lifts up his drink, gesturing to where you are with it, before taking a sip.

“Oh…” She grinned brighter, if even possible, “Your boy’s having fun.”

Trinity looked onto the pool game in front of her, watching how your opponent is standing far too close to you, while also patronizingly explaining how to best take your next shot.

“What’s the bet?”

“A drink.”

“A drink?” Trinity frowned. Confused. “Why would he do that?”

“The guy picked it. He just went along with it. He’d—“

“—much rather the win than the prize.” Trinity continued alongside Dennis.

“And I thought I was too much.”

Dennis rolled his eyes.

He watched as you stepped away from the table, taking a few steps away from the guy. Not for your own personal space, but so that you could get a better look at the game you’re playing.

The guy on the other hand, never took his eyes off of you.

“I might just kill him…” the words just slipped out of Dennis.

Trinity’s snapped her head over. Her lips quivering as she fought back a smile. — She's very entertained by that reaction, “The man is really getting on your nerves, huh?”

“He doesn’t even see it.” Dennis whisper-yelled to Trinity, furiously waving his arm in your direction.

Trinity looked your way once more.

Your opponent missed his second shot of his go, and cussed under his breath. You maneuvered around the table, a satisfied smile on your face. Your eyes fixed on the table as similarly, your opponents eyes were locked on you.

Trinity whistled. “It’s like those two are playing two different games…”

“Exactly!!”

“But it’s not like your boy is doing anything.”

“That makes it worse, actually.”

She raised a brow at that.

“He shouldn’t just let anyone act like that around him.”

“He’s not letting anything happen. It’s kinda just… happening...”

“Well, I don’t like it.”

She breathed out a laugh. “Jealousy is not good luck on you, Huckleberry.”

“I’m not—“

“That’s not jealousy?? You threatened to kill a man earlier.”

“It’s well deserved. If he—“

Dennis was interrupted by hearing a guttural laugh from the pool table.

You were scuffing your cue stick, a cocky, but subtle smile on your lips.

The man next to you, laughing at whatever you had just said. His eyes falling to your hands and their motion before traveling up to your face and your lips.

“Dennis…” the warning fell onto deaf ears.

You leaned over the table, stick in hand, positioning yourself for your next shot. Your opponent matching your pose leaning right next to you, lips barely grazing your ear as he says something or another to you.

Trinity steps infront of Dennis at the scene. “Okay, huckleberry, let’s not rush into anything.”

He pushed Trinity to the side beelining it to you and the man.

Trinity went to grab Dennis’s arm to stop him, but before she could clasp his arm, she stopped herself, realizing that that would not be a good call.

She saw how tense Dennis looked—Shoulders squared, hands balled on either side of his body and marching off to the man like his on a mission; Trinity did not want to get in between that bloodbath.

You leaned on the table looking down the stick for your shot. Your opponent had been whispering taunts to you, and you’ve been attempting to hold back a smirk.

3 shots.

3 balls plus an 8-ball.

Three shots before you could watch that smug look on his face dissipate.

If you’re really wanted to rub it in, you could probably drop the 3 to 2 shots. 1 for the 8 ball next round. He is so behind, he won't catch up. But why show off that much? Let him believe he still has a chance.

You pulled back the stick readying to make the shot, you felt the close presence of his body heat on your back.

You took a deep breath steadying yourself.

You’re not going to let him distract you.

You readied your shot.

Twak.

The noise rang out before you could hit the ball.

You snapped your head to the side.

Your opponent had been shoved up to a wall. Dennis’s forearm on the man’s neck, holding him there.

“Dennis!”

“Hey man!” The man tried to push away from Dennis, only for Dennis to push back against him.

“What do you think you’re doing acting like that to my boyfriend?”

“Boy— boyfriend?” The man struggled out.

“Den…” You approached concerned, but Dennis made no indication that he heard you.

“Hey man, maybe just take it up with your boy. He seems like he was very into—“ Dennis shoved him further into the wall.

“Don’t you fucking dare continue that thought.”

“Dennis,” He felt your hands on his shoulder, “Baby, let him go.”

“Just listen to your boy man—“

“Don’t. Fucking talk.” You snarled at the man through gritted teeth. He was quick to obey.

“Den.” You called to your boyfriend once more. He didn’t move an inch. “Whit, please, look at me.”

He glanced at you at the corner of his eyes.

“He isn’t worth it. Let him go.”

Dennis’ nostrils flared. His shoulders rising and falling with his heavy breathing. He looked over at the man once more, really debating if he’s going to let this man walk unharmed.

Your hands rested on Dennis’ shoulders. Not pulling or urging him, but remaining there, squeezing lightly and reminding him of your presence.

He takes in a deep inhale. Arm tensing up on the man's throat, before dropping down to Dennis’ side.

The man coughed rubbing at his neck.

“Go.” Dennis forced himself to say.

He scoffed, “Fucking bi—“

You shoved the man to the direction of the door, “Fucking go.”

The man stumbled his way to the door. Looking over his shoulder, he saw you standing in front of your boyfriend, your boyfriend who stood behind you fuming like he might just bite this man’s head off if he gives him a reason to.

You both watched as the man left the bar.

You stood there for a while. Before you let out a long exhale before turning to your boyfriend, “What was that about?”

“Are you serious?”

Your eyes widened, “Did I do something?”

Dennis‘s mouth fell open and his eyes grew wide. “Oh my god,” he said your name like a desperate cry, “he was— hitting on you is putting it mildly.”

“He—“ you scoffed in disbelief. “He was not hitting on me.”

“What do you think was happening there when he was leaning over you when you were bent over the table?”

“I—“ You stopped before you could say anything. The image of what he just described playing in your head.

You closed your eyes as realization hit you. You cussed at yourself as you felt warmth climbing up your neck, and taking over your face. — Your burning up has less to do with the... show you put on, for a lack of better word, and more with the fact that it occurred at all; your lack of focus— or where you chose to direct your focus for that whole ordeal making you feel unbelievingly embarrassed.

Dennis called out your name again, exasperated.

“I’m so sorry. I didn’t.. I was so focused on… oh my god. I’m so sorry,” you opened your eyes meeting Dennis’, your upset with yourself being beyond comprehension.

“Did you really notice nothing that was happening?”

You bit your lip not daring to respond.

He walked over to you, forcing you to step back. He forced you to stand between him and the pool table leaving you no where to go; mirroring what he saw earlier that night, “You’re saying if I did this is you wouldn't have noticed?

You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to meet his eyes. “Well, that would be different.”

He huffed. “Really?”

You bit on your lip, “Well, if it was you, I’d be on my knees by now.”

Dennis froze. Eyes wide, and breath caught in his throat.

He saw that glimmer in your eyes once more as you fought back your self dignified grin.

“Oh my god,” he dropped his head on to your shoulder, as you laughed into his. Pulling him into a hug.

You held onto him as he buried himself into your neck, feeling his warm and over heat at the side of your face. — Admittedly, that did make you smile some more.

As your laughter died down, and your boyfriend’s fluster tampered down. You kept your hold on him, “Hey,.. I am sorry.”

“You’ve got to be more be careful.” He hugged you back and squeezed.

“I... will try my best. I make not promises though.“

He sighed. “I guess, that’s all I can ask for.”

Dennis looked over your shoulder at your unfinished game. And you followed his gaze when you realized when he hadn't said anything in a while, “You sure you could have made that shot?”

You hummed, “In 3.” You said matter of flatly. “Narrowed it down to 2 though. One of which is an 8-ball if I wanted to show off. “

“Oh?” He smiled at you, eye brow raised in doubt.

You smiled at the challenge.

You picked up the cue stick, motioning your head at the table, telling Dennis to give you room.

He stepped back, as you leaned up on the table in your previous position. You looked over your shoulder that’s familiar glimmer in your eye.

He huffed. Leaning over you, a breath away from the side of your face, his hand placed between your shoulder blades.

“Does this make it any easier?” He breathed.

“I like the challenge.”

You readied your shot. Dennis’ eyes watch you focus up. Eyes fired up as you pulled out you hand.

Twak.

Cue ball, railing, 13 to left middle hole, 10 to corner right hole, railing, 11 top corner right, and 8-ball in position.

You didn’t move from your position. Your smile wide as you watched the balls fall where you wanted them to.

You glanced over. Dennis eyes solely focus on you, a fire of his own in his eyes.

"Not bad huh?" You grinned.

Dennis pulled you to his side by your waist, burying his face to the side of your neck, “yeah, not bad at all.”

Post Fanfiction Author's Note:

Oh, to not write a husk of a reader character. Oh, to write a reader character with some level of personality. Now, I know that’s not typically the point of a Reader character, but I need something to play off of.

Bucky smirked at your outburst, crossing his arms as you continued to poke his chest while you ranted at him.

“Ouch, doll. You’re hurting my feelings.” Bucky retorted, watching you get even more riled up as he taunted you further.

You rolled your eyes at him before stomping away, Bucky’s gaze following every step that you took back to your room.

“Did you really have to piss him off like that?”

Bucky turned to see Sam giving him a judgmental look, which made him shrug with a smirk on his face.

Sam sighed. “What was it this time?”

“He’s just mad that I saved him from getting ambushed, insisted that he had it all handled.” Bucky replied, recalling an earlier mission where you definitely did not notice the Hydra soldier sneak up behind you while you were fending off another.

Bucky swooped in the last second, knocking the guy out and instead of receiving thanks, you just turned to him with a frown and said that you knew the man was behind you.

That was the start of Bucky poking fun at you the whole ride back to The Avengers Tower via the quinjet.

Sam shook his head in disbelief. “I swear the both of you get into stupid little arguments more often now, it’s getting a little old Buck.”

Bucky scoffed, Sam didn’t know the whole story and quite frankly, he didn’t need to.

The first time you and Bucky got into an argument, it was over Bucky’s constant need to put himself in harm’s way to protect everyone around him.

You yelled at him for five minutes straight while you patched him up. The both of you were left alone in the medical ward of the Avengers Tower, which was perfect for the screaming match you both were having.

One thing lead to another and the both of you ended up kissing fiercely in each other’s arms. After that moment, any argument that was had ended in a steamy make out session.

The relationship between you and Bucky was truly up in the air. It confused the others but Bucky liked that he knew he would have some alone time with you if he continued to rile you up.

Bucky was a little shit, sue him. At least he gets you all to himself.

“Looks like he went to his room, you should go and apologise.” Sam told Bucky, bringing him back to the present.

Bucky rolled his eyes, already planning to do so before walking away from Sam with a mocking salute. “Aye, aye, Cap.”

~~~~~

Bucky knocked on your door, a smile creeping on his face when he hears your feet shuffling to open it.

Bucky was greeted by your displeased expression before you quickly pulled him into the room and shut the door, the sound of the lock clicking behind him.

You pushed Bucky backwards until the back of his legs hit the edge of your bed, forcing him to sit down on it before getting a lapful of your body as you straddled him.

Bucky’s hands rubbing your sides while you stared down at him with hunger in your eyes that makes Bucky grin. “Someone’s mad.”

“You took way too long.” You grumbled, pecking Bucky on the lips and getting a growl in return when Bucky tried to deepen the kiss but you pulled away from him instead.

Bucky’s hands squeezed your hips, getting a sigh out of you. “Blame Sam, told me to apologise to you.”

“Why apologise when our way works better.” You smirked at him before pulling Bucky in for a proper kiss.

Bucky sighed into your mouth, finally getting what he wanted with you in his lap as you both exchanged heated kisses.

You moaned when Bucky slipped his tongue into your mouth, eagerly exploring it as his tongue twists with yours.

This was the most you and Bucky had gone as far as sexual intimacy went but for some reason Bucky felt that you were pushing for more especially when you subtly pushed at Bucky’s chest for him to lie back on your bed.

You leaned back on his lap, your ass sitting comfortably on his hard on. Bucky hissing when you moved your hips swayed in his lap, the friction of your clothed bodies making his cock jump in pleasure.

“Tell me you want this.” You stared down at Bucky, the other man licking his lips before nodding.

He was met with a smirk before you descended till the top half of your body was hovering over his legs as your hands unbuttoned his jeans.

Bucky patiently watched as you pulled his cock out, his jeans and boxers now at his thighs. Your hand wrapped around his hard, aching member as you hungrily eyed it with a lick of your lips that makes Bucky want to ravish you.

Bucky hissed when your lips touched the tip of his cock, your tongue lapping up the pre-cum before taking Bucky’s cock in your mouth.

Bucky moaned when you took more of him into your mouth, your tongue expertly swirling around the length of his cock as you started to bob your head up and down.

A stray thought of you possibly doing the same thing with some other man makes Bucky’s chest feel tight but he quickly shook it off when you decided to take him in deeper.

Bucky feels the head of his cock hit the back of your throat and it took all the strength in him to not suddenly spill his load into your mouth.

“Fuck, sweetheart.” Bucky gasped out, feeling your lips slowly move up his length as you pulled back.

You had tears in your eyes from going down on Bucky but you smirked as you continued to slowly jerk him off with your spit as lube.

“Sweetheart? That’s new.” You teased Bucky as your thumb brushed over the tip of his cock, making Bucky raise his hips in pleasure.

Bucky groaned. “I didn’t think this was where we were headed today.”

“Call it a progression with how much you constantly piss me off.” You squeezed Bucky’s throbbing cock in your hand, smiling when the other man whimpers.

Bucky’s head falling back onto your mattress as he cried out at the pressure. “Fuck, sweetheart. You’re gonna make me cum if you keep that up.”

“That’s the plan.” You murmured before taking him back into your mouth, sucking him vigorously.

Bucky clenched his teeth in an effort to not release his seed into your throat, which caused you to double down.

Bucky felt the familiar heat pool up in his gut, he tries to dislodge your mouth from his cock but you grabbed his hands and pinned them down on the mattress as you took him deeper.

Bucky lets out a cry as he cums down your throat, his body shuddering when he feels your throat swallow his seed down.

Bucky was still shaking when you pulled yourself off his cock with a smug grin, his chest rising and falling from what was probably the best blowjob he’s ever had.

“Give me a few minutes and then I’ll help you out.” Bucky told you, a little breathlessly.

Bucky hears you chuckle before you laid down next to him on your bed, your head resting on his bicep.

“I’m good, I think that definitely helped me release all my anger.” You sighed before turning and closing your eyes.

Bucky stared at you as he watched your breathing get slower, his heart doing a little leap at how peaceful you looked sleeping next to him.

A little part of him wondered if a life with you was possible before letting sleep take over him as well.

~~~~~

Bucky’s relationship with you changed after that.

The petty arguments between the both of you always ending up with some sort of sexual release in the form of handjobs or blowjobs, usually with you taking control of the pace.

Bucky definitely did not mind one bit, especially when he gets to cuddle with you in your bed at the end of the night.

Bucky gets cornered by Tony, your so called big brother, one day in the kitchen of the Avengers’ living quarters after he sees Bucky leave your room in the morning.

“What are you doing with my little brother?” Tony casually asked as he strolled in to see Bucky nursing a cup of coffee by himself.

Bucky’s eye twitched at Tony’s accusatory tone, not liking how the other man was eyeing him with distrust.

“What are you talking about, Tony?” Bucky replied, already tired of the conversation.

Tony squinted at him, folding his arms. “Don’t play stupid with me, Barnes. I’m talking about how you and my brother are constantly at each other’s throats as if you two can’t stand one another, only for me to suddenly see you walk out of his room before sunrise.”

Bucky rolled his eyes in response.

“You’re overthinking it, Tony. He and I were just talking and the night escaped us.” Bucky grunted out, turning his body towards the sink to wash his empty cup.

He could feel Tony’s glare burning into the back of his skull but Bucky opted to ignore the other man.

“Tony, leave him alone.”

Your tired voice called out to your brother as you strolled into the kitchen, amusement written all over your face.

Tony eyed you suspiciously. “What were you and Barnes talking about all night?”

“Oh I don’t know, maybe the fact that you’ve somehow become an overprotective freak of a brother.” You teased Tony, getting an unamused huff from your big brother.

Tony tutted. “Fine but if anything happens…”

“I will ask you to blow Bucky’s arm off again, I promise.” You replied, getting an eye roll from both Tony and Bucky before watching Tony leave the kitchen.

Bucky slides you a cup of coffee, which you took gratefully. “Should I be worried about you taking up Tony’s offer?”

“Nope, Ayo already taught me how to deactivate your arm.” You casually told Bucky as you took a sip from your cup of coffee, your eyes staring at him across the rim of your cup.

Bucky’s eyes were widened with fear before he cleared his throat and nodded. “Noted.”

You smirked at him before walking back to your room with your coffee in hand, leaving a very aroused Bucky back in the kitchen.

~~~~~

Bucky smirks when he sees you minding your business on the couch in the living room, reading some book that he’s seen you holding even after the both of you had been intimate in your room.

Bucky thought you looked stunning. He takes a step forward but pauses when a familiar figure walks in.

Joaquín jogs up to where you were with an enthusiastic smile and talks you up, the new Falcon obviously having come from training with how he was dressed in his shorts and tank top that showed off his powerful arms and legs.

Bucky squints when Joaquín crosses his arms that causes his biceps to flex, it makes Bucky’s jaw twitch.

“So I was thinking maybe you and me could hangout sometime?” Joaquín asked you and a feeling of dread settled in Bucky’s gut before he leaves the both of you alone to retreat to the safety of his room, unable to stomach the possibility of you agreeing to a date with Torres.

Bucky frowns at his makeshift bed on the floor, realising that he’s practically been sleeping with you in your bed for quite awhile.

A weird feeling tugs on his heart and it left him confused.

As far as he was aware, you never once brought up the idea of being in a relationship with Bucky and it makes the metal armed man’s mood sour even further.

So Bucky broods by his lonesome, the daylight now replaced by the dark night sky. He tries to busy himself by sharpening his knives, doing his very best not to think about you and Joaquín on a date.

A knock on his bedroom door startles him, Bucky’s eyes drifting to the digital clock on the wall and he realised it was already eleven at night.

He sighed, putting down his knife before heading to the door and opening it to find you on the other side with your arms crossed.

Your eyes study Bucky for a second before you glance behind him, noticing the lonely mattress on the floor instead of the usual bed frame that every other Avenger has in their own room.

Bucky seemed to realise what you were looking at before blocking your direct sight of his room with his body.

“What do you want?” Bucky grunted out, his voice slightly cracking from being silent all day.

You raised your eyebrows at him. “You’re mad at me.”

Bucky’s eyes widened, surprised by your claim even though it was untrue.

“Why would I be mad at you, doll?” Bucky gruffly asked, leaning his body on his bedroom’s doorframe.

You unfolded your arms, your expression told Bucky that you weren’t buying his words. “I haven’t seen you all day and when I finally do, that’s how you’re greeting me instead of some sarcastic comment to annoy me.”

“Why would I do that when you’re all chummy with Torres?” Bucky replied, not realising that he had completely slipped up.

You gave Bucky a confused look, your jaw flexing as you wondered what the hell he was talking about. “What does Torres have to do with all this?”

“I saw you with him earlier, he asked you out. Don’t talk to me like I’m stupid.” Bucky snarked back at you, the frown on his face deepened.

Bucky sees your face process the information as you slowly nodded, he doesn’t fight you when your hand shoots out to push him back into his room before you shut the door and locked it.

Bucky watches curiously as you turned back around to face him, your face not showing any sign of emotion and it makes Bucky huff out a breath in disbelief at how calm you were.

“You’re an idiot.”

Bucky squints at you, feeling the heat rise in his chest. “What?”

“You’re an idiot.” You stated again, making Bucky take a deep breath in before he does something stupid like yell at you.

Bucky gulps. “You might want to choose your next words carefully, doll or else you can just get out.”

Your mouth twitched at Bucky’s frustration, making the other man’s patience thin even more when he was trying his best to stay calm.

You took a step forward. “If you had stayed for the entire conversation then you wouldn’t have missed out on the fact that I told him that I only saw him as a friend.”

“Oh.” Bucky blinked owlishly at you, realising that he had just made a complete fool out of himself the whole time.

You smirked, walking up to Bucky and throwing your arms around his shoulders. “Didn’t know you had such a jealous streak in you, Barnes.”

“I’m sorry, doll.” Bucky sighed out, hiding his face in the crook your neck while you chuckled against his ear.

Bucky’s arms enveloped your middle in a hug, breathing in your scent and feeling himself calm down.

Your hand rubbing his back in a soothing motion that relaxes his tense shoulders as his body leans on yours for support.

The energy in the room shifts as Bucky’s hands drop down to your waist to give it a squeeze.

He feels your smirk on his neck as you let out a shuddering breath at his touch. “Careful big guy, don’t leave any bruises.”

Bucky groans against your teasing, the vibrations from his voice on your neck causes you to shiver.

“I need you.” Bucky whimpers.

You tug on the back of his head, pulling the other man’s face closer to yours so your lips would brush against his.

Bucky shudders when your tongue darts out to trace the shape of his lips.

“I know but how badly do you need me tonight?” You asked against his lips.

Bucky’s mind was spinning, every one of his senses were shrouded by you. He couldn’t think at all when your lips locked with his in a slow and heated kiss that went straight to his groin.

Bucky’s tongue wrestled with yours, hot puffs of air being exchanged in the deliciously heated kiss.

You broke the kiss and Bucky chased after your lips but you pulled back, much to the metal armed man’s chagrin.

“You haven’t given me an answer.” You teased Bucky, getting a sigh from the other man.

Bucky fixes you with a determined look. “I want you, not just for tonight. I want you every day because I can’t stop thinking about you. Sweetheart, I want to be with you.”

Your eyes dropped to Bucky’s lips before shifting them to meet his eyes again as you smiled.

“Good answer, now what do you want to do tonight?”

Bucky smiled sheepishly, feeling his face heat up at the idea that instantly popped into his mind. “Can I eat you out tonight, please?”

He sees your eyebrows raise in surprise before you nodded, Bucky smiling in response as he followed you to his makeshift bed on the floor.

“I’m sorry that this isn’t comfortable, sweetheart.” Bucky apologised to you, watching as you got yourself comfortable on the floor before stretching your hands out for him to join you.

Bucky’s spine tingled with want when he drops to the floor next to you and was instantly pulled into your arms so he could settle himself in between your legs.

“I’m sure you’ll make it up to me, baby.” You panted when Bucky’s front brushes with yours, the both of you getting into a rhythm as Bucky’s hips move with yours in a steady pace before capturing your lips with his.

Bucky didn’t think dry humping would’ve ever felt so good as his hips met your hips, his clothed cock rubbing against yours in delicious friction.

Bucky his hands hungrily pawed at your clothes, helping you take all of the offending items off your body before he sits up to do the same.

Bucky stares down at your nude form in his sheets, feeling slightly dazed before bending forward so his lips could meet your neck, his lips slowly trailing down your body with kisses.

Bucky pays a little more attention to your chest, smirking when your body shudders. He sucks one of your nipples into his mouth, knowing how sensitive you were.

He feels your hand grip the back of his hair, squeezing when Bucky nibbles on the nub of your nipple.

Bucky then resumes his journey down, passing by your navel and your hard cock. His lips kissing the inner side of your thighs before lifting your legs up.

Bucky hears your breath hitch as he got closer to your hole, blowing on it slightly to see it open and close.

“You look delicious, sweetheart.” Bucky told you, not waiting for your reply before he dives in and licks into your hole.

Bucky felt like he was in heaven as he tasted your inner walls, his tongue pushing past your rim to explore deeper.

You let out a whine when Bucky moans lowly into your hole, the sound of his voice sending vibrations that makes your spine tingle.

Bucky started off slow, pulling his tongue out to circle the tip around your rim and dipping it into your hole to tease you.

Bucky chuckled when you scolded him for playing with you before your voice broke off into a moan as he pushes his tongue deeper.

Bucky starts a slow rhythm as he tongue fucks you, the heat in his gut growing as he listens to your sweet moans accompanied by his tongue getting squeezed in your walls when he pushes in too deep.

Bucky glances up when he hears the slick sound of you jerking yourself off and he’s reminded of his own abandoned leaking cock but he didn’t care, he wanted to be good for you.

Bucky knew you were getting close when your breathing got heavier with some incoherent words being mumbled.

It makes Bucky hungrier knowing that he was the reason for your release. He grabs your legs and pushes them up so your knees were near your chest before he latches his lips on your hole again, devouring it.

Your resulting whines and moans were music to Bucky’s ears as he eagerly eats you out, making sure to rub his stubble to give you beard burn and claim your ass as his.

Bucky feels your fingers tangle up in his hair, pulling his face even closer as his tongue moves inside you.

“Fuck, I’m about to cum.” You gasped out, your breath hitching when Bucky wraps his lips around the rim of your hole before sucking and you let out a cry as the suction causes your orgasm to violently rip out of you.

Bucky feels your body twitch under him as he gently lays your legs back on the floor, mesmerised at the way you were now covered in his saliva and your own semen.

You slowly got up into an upright position so you were facing Bucky before you kissed him, getting a moan from Bucky when you wrapped your hand around his hard and leaking cock.

Bucky shudders when your hand easily strokes him, using his own pre-cum as lube.

You broke the kiss but kept your face close to his, sharing the same air as the both you were practically breathing into each other’s mouths.

“You’ve been so good to me, baby. You get to choose your prize now.” You whispered against Bucky’s lips, noticing how the other man was almost stuck in a daze.

Bucky blinked in confusion. “Prize?”

“Yes.” You nodded. “You get to choose which part me you want to cum in. My mouth or my hole?”

Bucky’s eye dilate at the thought of finally being inside you, his body twitching when your hand strokes his cock in a specific way that makes his spine tingle.

“I want-“ Bucky’s breath hitches when your thumb slides across the head of his cock. “-your hole, please.”

You winked at Bucky with a smirk, pecking him on the lips before releasing his cock from your hand and lying back down on his mattress.

“I’m all yours.”

Bucky felt his heart beat faster at the sight of you with your legs spread open for him before he settled himself in between the space.

Bucky’s cock stands proudly which made it easier for his spit to dribble down on it, slicking himself up before he aligns the head of his cock with your waiting hole.

Bucky sees your face scrunch up slightly when he pushes the tip in for the first time, hearing the uptake of air from you as your hole adjusts to his size.

Bucky shuts his eyes and breaths slowly as you take in more of his length, fighting his natural urge to just push all the way into your warmth.

Bucky opens his eyes again and meets yours when he finally bottoms out, choosing to stay still for you to get used to the discomfort of being penetrated.

Bucky leans his body towards yours to give you kisses to distract you from the pain, which you gratefully reciprocate while throwing your arms over his shoulders so your hands were resting on his back.

“That’s it, sweetheart. Just take your time, I’m not going anywhere. I’m not moving until you’re ready.” Bucky whispered against your mouth, moaning slightly when you squeezed his cock in response.

If there was a way for Bucky to stay inside you forever, he would.

The both of you lazily kissed each other, hoping that it would ease your mind before you meekly told Bucky to move.

Bucky was patient. He eased his cock out of your hole with great practice, making sure to leave the tip inside before pushing himself back in.

“You feel so good around me, doll.” Bucky moans out when he repeats the process, fucking his cock deeper into you.

You responded by hugging him closer to your body, whimpering against his mouth as his hips continues their thrusting.

“Oh fuck you’re so big baby, you’re making me feel so full.” You mindlessly ranted, making Bucky preen at the praise before slightly adjusting his hips in another angle to drive himself further into you.

One of your hands grip the back of Bucky’s hair while the other pawed at his back as Bucky increases the speed of his thrusts.

“You’re taking me so well, sweetheart.” Bucky murmured against your lips, swallowing the whine that came out of it with a kiss.

Bucky gyrates his hips which causes the both of you to moan simultaneously at the new wave of pleasure.

Another squeeze of his cock makes Bucky’s hips stutter, the feeling of your warm hole makes Bucky slightly lose his composure.

“Doll, if you keep that up, I’m not gonna last.” Bucky told you, getting a cheeky smile in response when you squeezed his cock with your hole again.

Bucky moaned, hiding his face in the crook of your neck. “It’s not fair that you’re way too good at this.”

“Isn’t this what you wanted, Bucky? To be inside me?” You teased the other man, getting a groan of sexual frustration in response.

Bucky increased the speed of his thrusts again, feeling the familiar heat in his gut as he captured your lips in a bruising kiss, both your bodies shaking with each thrust of Bucky’s hips against your ass.

“Oh fuck!” You exclaimed against Bucky’s lips as the man’s control slips, thrusting into you even harder as he was chasing his own sweet release.

The tightness of your warm walls around Bucky’s cock was driving him completely insane, he feels the heat from his gut travel to his cock and he knew he was almost done.

“I’m gonna cum.” Bucky grunted by your ear, feeling you grab his face to bring him into another kiss.

Bucky’s hips stuttered as he gasped, his hips going completely still before his cock spills his hot seed into you in short and sharp bursts.

Bucky’s body immediately falling down on top of yours as he rests his face in the crook of your neck, rumbling tiredly when your hand affectionately scratches the back of his neck.

“Seems like you definitely needed that.” You giggled, getting another groan from Bucky before he lifts his head up so he could rest his chin on your chest.

Bucky’s eyes studied your face, a small smile tugging on his lips. “I needed you.”

“You’re such a sap.” You rolled your eyes at Bucky, your cheeks tinted with red, which makes Bucky smirk at how quickly your personality changes back to the softer version of yourself outside of sex.

Bucky feels his heart racing, knowing that he’s privileged to see all sides of you that you don’t show to the others.

Bucky kisses the palm of your hand when your fingers fiddle with the side of his face.

“Did you really mean it? You want to be with me?” You asked Bucky, your voice turning soft and vulnerable.

Bucky responds with deep kiss before pulling back to meet your eyes with his. “I want you in every way possible that you’re willing to give me, doll. I don’t care if I have to fight every single guy here to win your heart because I know I’ll win when it’s you on the line.”

“You’re ridiculous.” You told Bucky with a short huff before pecking him on the lips.

The both of you stayed silent in each other’s arms, only exchanging lazy and soft kisses before you pulled back from Bucky’s lips.

“You know you’re still in me, right?” You raised an eyebrow at Bucky, who only made a non committed noise in response.

You groaned, your head resting on the mattress as Bucky chuckled. “I’ve created a monster.”

Bucky nips your chest in response.

~~~~~

“You’re cheating.”

Bucky raised his eyebrows at you in response, his eyes meeting your accusatory ones over the deck of UNO cards he had in his hands.

“How am I cheating, doll? You can literally see my hands.” Bucky responded, getting a scoff from you.

You leaned forward, resting your elbows on the coffee table in the living room of the Avengers’ living quarters. “There’s no way that vibranium arm Shuri made for you, doesn’t have some hidden feature that lets you hide things in the palm of your hand.”

“I second that.” Joaquín pipes up from the side, making Bucky frown at him.

“Third and you need to teach me how to disarm that metal arm of his.” Yelena pipes up from the other side, the four of you surrounding the table.

You glanced at Yelena with an evil smile. “Only winners get to learn.”

Yelena scoffed at you, knowing that she’s currently in the last place in contradiction to you being in first.

“Can I request my own prize, if I win the game?” Joaquín asked.

Bucky rolled his eyes. “He’s mine, Torres. Your ship has sailed.”

Joaquín shrugged in response, shaking his head with a small smile on his face. “Thought I’d try.”

“You know Shang-Chi’s into you, right?” Yelena added on to the conversation, seeing Joaquín’s eyes widen in surprise before he quickly stands up from his side of the table.

Joaquín drops all of his cards before making a strategic retreat. “I quit. Yelena, will you be my wingman to woo Shang-Chi?”

Yelena’s eyes traveled from your face to Bucky’s and then looks up at a standing Joaquín before shrugging and dropping her own cards on the table, leaving with Joaquín to start their own plan of action.

You shared an amused smile with Bucky before winking and putting down the last card in your hand, winning the game.

“I win.” You grinned at Bucky from across the table, the other man smiling at your adorableness.

Bucky sighed. “Name your prize, doll.”

“You and me in my bedroom?” You teased Bucky, the other man’s jaw shifting at your challenge.

Bucky puts the cards down on the table. “And what would we be doing?”

“Why Mr. Barnes, I didn’t know I had to explain myself to you about our activities in bed.” You retorted, slowly standing up with Bucky’s eyes hungrily raking down your body.

Bucky licks his lips as he stood up and mirrored your stance. “You don’t have to, sweetheart. You just have to tell me what to do.”

Bucky smirks when you grab his hand, pulling him along back to your bedroom.

It was safe to say, UNO wasn’t the only game Bucky enjoyed that day.

*****

Author’s note:

This started off as a non smut fic but somehow smut found its way here anyways

Can you blame me?