what a wicked thing

You and your dad always had a plan for the Fourth of July weekend.

In the morning, you both would go to the 24-hour diner just a few blocks away in your pajamas and order the classic All American Breakfast. It was a tower of buttermilk pancakes with a side of bacon and sunny side up eggs cooked to perfection.

By noon, you’d be swimming with friends and family under the bright, burning sunlight while your dad took over the backyard. He would have the grill ready, making the best burgers— the kind that were a little burnt at the edges, and hot dogs that were charred and crispy on the outside but soft and juicy on the inside.

Beers and seltzers would already be chilled in the coolers, the ice nearly melted because it couldn’t keep up with the summer heat, and you’d crack a cold one just as the sun went down and the fireworks began to light up the sky.

Fourth of July weekend was the holiday you looked forward to most—so when your dad told you he wouldn’t be home for it, you could only imagine your disappointment.

You were lying in your bedroom with every intention of sleeping in since every plan for the weekend was out window, but the sun piercing through the glass window and the sound of rustling in the living room downstairs woke you up.

Climbing out of bed tiredly, your bare feet padded softly down the wooden steps. You were still rubbing the sleep out of your eyes by the time you reached the kitchen.

“Dad?” you mumbled sleepily. “You’re home already—?”

Once the sleepy vision fog cleared, what you found in your kitchen was not your father, but rather...

“Not your daddy,” Steve said, turning to face you from the kitchen island. He set the mail he’d just picked up and his spare keys down on the counter. “But someone better.”

The spare keys.

The ones your dad had lent to Steve for ‘emergencies’—which he never actually used them for but instead used them to come over whenever he wanted, watch TV, and crash on the couch. But you didn’t mind, because you liked and respected Steve.

Plus, it had been a while since you had last seen him.

“Well, are you just gonna stand there and gawk? Or are you gonna give your good ol’ Steve a hug?”

You flashed a droopy, sleepy grin as you met him at the counter. Getting up on your tippy toes, you raised your hands to wrap them around his neck, and he returned the gesture with a tight hug around your waist.

“Mmm,” he hummed with a squeeze. “There she is.”

“What are you doing here, Stevie?” you asked as you pulled away.

“What? You don’t like seeing your dad’s favorite best friend over?” he asked with a playful grin and a matching head tilt.

You chuckled tiredly. “That’s not it, and you know it. It’s just… what brings you here? My dad isn’t even in town.”

“That’s the point, sweetie.” He leaned back against the counter, folding his large arms over his broad chest.

You swore he was too old to be wearing shirts that were always one size too small for him.

“I know how much celebrating the Fourth of July means to you—and since he’s out of town… well… I figured I’d take over the celebration.”

You crossed your arms and raised a brow, half suspicious yet half amused. “Did he make you do this?”

“What? No. I’m doing this out of the kindness of my old heart,” he chuckled lightly. “And besides, I wouldn’t want to celebrate my birthday alone this year. So… how ‘bout it? A fun weekend with just you and me?”

Hanging out with Steve on the Fourth of July weekend was far better than doing nothing all alone. And by hanging out with Steve, it meant he’d pay for everything—breakfast and all. You knew you couldn’t turn him down—not that you wanted to—but you still wanted to try and pull his leg.

“I don’t know,” you sighed dramatically, running a finger along the tile of the counter. “You should’ve asked me a lot sooner. My friends already planned something this week.”

You didn’t even need to look up to see Steve’s frown.

“But it’s also my birthday,” he said pathetically. “You wouldn’t leave me all alone on the Fourth of July now, would you?”

You had to bite back a smile. He looked like a kicked golden retriever. It was never a question of how or why your dad became friends with Steve Rogers—he was just too much of a likable guy all around.

“Well, since you’re asking so nicely—I guess I’ll spend it with you.”

His smile was so wide it was contagious.

“That’s my girl.”

Steve swiped the keys off the counter and twirled the keychain around his rough finger. “Your dad told me all about your guys’ adventures over a beer one time. Wouldn’t shut up about it. So the only right way to do this is by starting off with breakfast at a diner, right?”

Your lips quirked into a half smile as you bit your lip. “Not just any diner. It’s Mama Joann’s, just a few blocks away. And not just any breakfast, either. We get the—”

“—All American,” Steve finished with a smug grin. “I know. Your old man talks a lot.”

He pocketed his phone and wallet into his jeans and nodded towards the front door. “I’ll get the car started. Go on and get dressed now.”

When you didn’t move an inch, he paused and raised a brow at you.

“Guess my ‘old man’ forgot to mention during his ramblings that we actually go in our pajamas,” you explained, waving a finger at him. “So technically—you’re the one who isn't dressed.”

Steve’s face was unreadable as he scratched at the stubble on his chin.

“Honey, if you wanted to see me in nothing but my underwear, you should’ve just told me.”

Your face immediately warmed at his bold statement. “Y-you—! What—!”

But before you could even stammer out a coherent sentence, Steve was already walking out the front door to wait for you.

A red 1966 Ford Mustang was parked at the curb of your house. It was an old thing that made more odd sounds than it did distance.

It was Steve’s pride and joy—that typical man project he was always working on in his garage. He rarely ever took it out, occasionally driving it around the neighborhood just to keep the engine breathing. You guessed he had actually planned on spending time with you this weekend before today, because he’d gotten it all fixed up and ready just for you.

The car creaked and groaned as it made its way to Mama Joann’s, the radio connected to an aux cord playing Bob Dylan—his favorite.

He had the top down, leaving your hair to whip wildly in the wind. You caught him glancing at you through the side mirrors.

“What are you staring at, Stevie?” you asked without looking at him.

Steve held the wheel with one hand, while the other rested casually on the gear shift. “Nothin’,” he said, a grin evident in his tone. “It’s just… your pajamas.”

“And what about them?” You looked down at yourself, peering over the rim of your sunglasses. You were wearing a soft white tank top and a pair of light pink plaid sleeping shorts. “Did you take me out to breakfast just to make fun of my sleeping clothes?”

He chuckled—deep and raspy. He glanced over at you, blue eyes dancing over the rim of his own dark sunglasses as they traced the curve of your bare leg up to your tank top. You realized just then that you weren’t wearing a bra, since you never slept in one and hadn’t bothered to put one on.

“Not making fun of you, sweetie,” he said, pinning his focus back on the road. “Just think the shorts are cute and all.”

Despite the wind blowing in your face, you still felt warm.

Finally pulling into Mama Joann’s busy parking lot, Steve stepped out of the car.

When riding with Steve, he never let you open the doors yourself. He would quickly park, scramble over to your side, and hold the door open for you. Every time he did it, your dad would always say, “See what Uncle Stevie does for you? This is why I won’t let you settle for anybody less.”

“Thank you,” you said with a smile, grabbing his hand. “But you know you don’t have to do that when my dad’s not around, right?”

“When has your dad being here ever mattered?” he asked genuinely, raising an eyebrow as he shut the door behind you and locked it.

You shrugged. “You know how he is—he’ll always be like, ‘Look at Steve! When you get a boyfriend, make sure he respects you like Steve does,’ yadayada.”

A short snort left his lips as he held the diner door open for you. “Honey, I don’t think there’s any man out there who’ll be respectable enough for you anyway. It’s best you save yourself from the disappointment and stay single.”

You raised a brow at that. Sometimes, you found him acting more paternal than your actual father did with how often he lectured you.

The bell chimed with a welcoming jingle, and Steve stepped in right behind you.

As always, Joann was walking around with a black apron wrapped around her waist, refilling the coffee cups of everyone seated at the booths. The bell chiming caught her attention, and she smiled upon seeing you.

“There you are!” she greeted so loudly it caused the customers to look up at you and Steve. “You had me believin’ for a second that you’d be missin’ out on a yearly tradition.”

She set the pot down, motioning to the booth by the window that she always gave to you and your dad.

Speaking of which…

“Now, this handsome man next to you ain’t your daddy,” she said, nodding to the six foot two man standing right beside you. “Who’s this? And is he single?” she asked shamelessly.

Steve chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. “I’m Steve—a good friend of her dad’s.”

“Hey, Joann,” you waved with a smile. “My dad is out of town for a work trip, so Steve insisted on taking me out for the Fourth of July weekend.”

You two slid into the booth as Joann laid two menus over the sticky wooden table.

“Well, ain’t he sweet,” she cooed. “I know you and your dad always get the All American, but in case your friend here wants somethin’ different, I’ll give you guys some time to look over the menu.”

Then, before leaving, she threw a wink in Steve’s direction, though she was talking to you. “And if Mr. Steve wants to hang out with someone more… age-appropriate—just know that the folks in town call me Mama for a reason—”

“—Okay, thanks, Joann!” you quickly dismissed her with a burning face and an embarrassed wave of your hand.

Steve chuckled, lifting the menu and leaning back in the booth. It looked way too small for a man his size with the way he filled the space.

“She’s a sweetheart, isn’t she?” he joked.

You blew a raspberry and gave him a look, glancing at your own menu despite already knowing what you were going to order. “Should I invite her back over to have breakfast with us, then?”

Steve grinned wolfishly. If he didn’t know any better, he might’ve assumed you were jealous. His eyes raked over the menu. “So, the All American, you said?”

You nodded enthusiastically, looking giddy as you smiled brightly over the top of the menu. “It’s the best thing here. Joann’s buttermilk pancakes are the best—better than anything you can get from a chain.”

You pointed to where it said ‘with a side of bacon and sausage’ on the menu, and tapped on the bacon text. “And make sure to get the bacon extra crispy.”

“Geez,” Steve huffed a laugh, the corners of his blue eyes crinkling up handsomely. “Sounds like you and your dad know what you’re doing.”

You laughed at the fond memory of your father taking you to this same diner since you were a little girl. The fact that he wasn’t here to celebrate was saddening, but you couldn’t have asked for a better man to spend it with than Steve.

You watched as he reached for his coffee mug, his large hands cradling the ceramic. It looked tiny and weightless in his grip, the tight hold emphasizing the veins and roughness of his hands. He lifted the mug to his lips, blowing on it gently before swallowing in slow gulps that made his Adam’s apple bob.

You swallowed hard and tried to avert your gaze so he wouldn’t catch you staring. But instead, your eyes trailed lower to his built chest and the way his stomach slightly pushed against his tight shirt.

He set his mug down and glanced up.

He caught you staring, and he smiled.

You quickly tried to save face.

“Yeah, um—I bet the calorie intake will probably throw off your entire game,” you stammered out with a chuckle that sounded awkward and nervous. Jesus. What were you saying?

‘Nervous’, however, wasn’t in Steve’s vocabulary.

Awkward? Probably.

“What?” he frowned.

Steve glanced down at himself, noticing his slouch and the way his belly seemed… a bit softer as of late. He had one too many steaks and far too many beers.

He looked back up at you, his grin turning slow and lazy. He rested his large forearms on the edge of the table, leaning in just enough to make himself look even more imposing.

“What’s the matter?” he murmured, his voice dropping deep and gravelly in a way that made your nerves dance. “A girl like you doesn’t like a man with a little meat on his bones?”

Your breath hitched and your eyes widened. Before you could even stammer out a response, he continued.

“Besides,” his blue eyes twinkled with amusement as he maintained eye contact, “don’t you think I need a little extra fuel if I’m gonna keep up with you all weekend? Unless you’re planning on keeping me busy enough to burn it all off, that is.”

It was way too early for Steve fucking Rogers, of all people, to be making you feel this way.

This unexpected, flustered and butterflies-in-your-stomach type of feeling caused by your own father’s best friend.

You had never seen Steve in any light other than as your father’s highly respectable, closest friend. At this point, you couldn’t tell if he was just taunting you like he normally did, or if he was actually flirting. But with the way he was looking and smiling at you—no.

Surely, he wouldn’t take that risk.

Then again, with your dad out of town, maybe there was a side to Steve he usually kept hidden—one you knew nothing about, but was now curious to unravel.

Desperate for a distraction, you grabbed your own coffee mug, which had cooled down enough for you to swallow it in big, hasty gulps.

“Easy, girl.”

“Just…” you wiped your lips, “…thirsty.”

Steve grinned. “Coffee is a diuretic, silly goose.”

And there was the taunt. You mentally groaned, wanting to kick yourself for even entertaining the possibility that Steve would ever blur the line between himself and his best friend’s daughter.

“It’s too early for you to be teasing me like this, Stevie,” you mumbled shyly, tracing your finger along the wooden table.

Steve wore a wolfish grin, resting both of his large arms on the table as they crossed over each other, taking up even more space in the tiny booth. “Sorry, I can’t help it,” he snickered. “Especially when you react the way you do.”

“Hey! What’s that supposed to mean—” you started to say, but your words died in your throat as a large presence that was hard to ignore fell over the booth.

“What do we have here?”

The voice was gruff and deep, lacking the playful warmth you and Steve had just been exchanging. You and Steve both froze, staring up at Bucky, who stood at the edge of the table holding his own coffee mug. His expression was unreadable, his sharp eyes glancing back and forth between the two of you as you sat there completely dumbfounded.

He raised a brow at your silent, wide eyed stares. “There a party going on that I don’t know about?”

While your father was best friends with Steve, you didn’t know how your father also managed to become best friends with a man like Bucky Barnes.

Growing up, Bucky had his share of good moments—he helped you learn how to drive, despite snapping at you impatiently whenever you hit the curb. He picked you up from parties whenever you were too drunk to get yourself home, and he would often spoil you with sweet treats or something he found at a store, always with a simple, “Saw this running errands, thought you might like it.”

But, in return, Bucky also had plenty of bad moments.

He was incredibly specific about how he liked things. If you ever tried to help him or your dad with something—like the grill or fixing a drink— Bucky would already be over your shoulder, nudging you away and taking the tongs right out of your hands.

“I got it. You’re just making a mess.”

There were times where you would be dressed up to go out with friends, and he would be sitting on the porch with your dad for a smoke. He would look you up and down, eyes lingering, and say something like, “You’re really going out looking like that? Go put a jacket on.”

Or sometimes, when your dad was away and you needed a hand around the house whether it be checking on the locks or fixing a leak, Bucky would show up, but he’d be short tempered the entire time. He would constantly scoff while he worked, acting like he had a million better places to be.

Your dad always told you that Bucky was part of the family—that it was just how he was, and that was how he showed his love.

But you didn’t buy it.

You felt like he had something personal against you.

And… it also felt like he might have something personal against Steve, too.

“Bucky,” Steve greeted, though it sounded more like a warning.

Or maybe, it was Steve that had something personal against him.

Bucky’s eyes flickered down to meet Steve’s, holding his gaze for a long moment. “Steve.”

While the two men stared at each other in a silent competition, you took this opportunity to take in Bucky. He wore a dark leather jacket that had seen better days with a white tank top—that strained against his thick lower belly—tucked beneath his belt and jeans.

Bucky tore his gaze away from Steve to look down at you.

“Well?” Bucky’s lips tugged into a lazy, tired smirk. “Aren’t you happy to see me?”

There were times when Bucky would disappear, going M.I.A. for weeks at a time. It had gotten to the point where even your father had gotten involved, leaving late at night, scrambling out the door with nothing but a hasty, “Don’t wait up for me, okay? Uncle Bucky is… uh, going through something and he needs me right now.”

It hadn’t taken you long to piece together that your father kept having to pick him up from bars, or even the police station. Yet despite his recent wrongdoings, just like your father, you still had a soft spot for him that you could never push away, no matter how much he worried you.

“Of course I am,” you finally said.

Even with your lack of enthusiasm, Bucky seemed pleased with your answer. His leather jacket creaked as he gestured with his coffee mug to the empty spot on the bench right next to you. “Mind if I sit? Or is this seat reserved for someone else?”

“Sit down, Buck,” Steve said. All the warmth he had shared with you gone and thrown out the window now that Bucky was here. “We were just about to order.”

Bucky glanced at Steve, pursing his lips as he gave a short nod. “Good.”

He set his mug down on the wooden table and slid right next to you in the booth. His denim clad knee brushed roughly against your bare leg, making you shudder and feel even smaller. “Because I’m starving.”

Bucky rested his hands on the table, intertwining his fingers. He looked like he worked with his hands, and he smelled like Marlboro Reds.

You could see the dirt trapped underneath his fingernails, his skin calloused—the rough texture of someone who spent his life either fixing things or breaking them. He scratched the stubble on his chin.

Just like Steve, it looked like he hadn’t shaved in weeks.

He caught your gaze and smiled, letting his eyes trail down to your legs. “Cute pajamas.”

Steve’s eyebrow twitched.

“Thanks,” you said shyly, looking down and playing with a stray string that had come loose from your shorts. “My dad—well, when he’s actually in town—likes to take me to this diner on the morning of the Fourth of July weekend. It’s usually our tradition.”

While Steve already knew your tradition with your father like the back of his hand, Bucky had no clue.

“Ain’t that sweet,” Bucky hummed in amusement, giving you his full attention. “What else do you and your dad do? I wanna hear all about it.”

You smiled just thinking about it. “We always host—”

“—a party in their backyard, grilling burgers, drinking beer, and swimming,” Steve cut in, taking a sip of his coffee as he glared a sharp dagger straight into Bucky’s eyes. “The one he hosted last year was fun. And the one before that too. It’s a shame you missed it, Buck.”

Steve wasn’t being sympathetic at all, and both of you knew it. He was being petty, even immature, throwing it in Bucky's face that he hadn’t been around for any of the holidays—or that he didn't even know your father was out of town, for that matter.

Bucky’s jaw clenched, but he kept his smile up, trying to save face just for you.

“Is that right?” he murmured. “Guess I had some important business to take care of last summer. But I’m here now, Stevie. So why don’t you fill me in on what else I missed?

Steve had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from saying something offensive.

“You missed a lot, Buck,” Steve said flatly. “More than you think.”

You sat there, sandwiched between a tension that was rapidly becoming suffocating.

It was clear that whatever Steve and Bucky had going on—which you had no clue about—they never communicated or resolved. You figured it might have had something to do with Bucky and his recent downward spiral—traveling down a wrong, bumpy path with signs that led to nowhere. But you weren’t going to sit here and become their mediator.

Clearing your throat, you caught both of their attention.

“I have to use the bathroom,” you announced. “If Joann comes by, you already know what to order for me. Bucky, will you excuse me, please?”

Bucky nodded before sliding out of the seat. He offered his hand to help you out of the booth, and the two older men watched you walk off towards the restroom. As you left, Bucky wore a grin that Steve knew all too well—a smile that meant nothing but trouble.

“Look at her,” Bucky said, watching you from afar with a soft look in his eyes. “Our baby is all grown up.”

Steve scoffed in disbelief. “Our baby?”

The smile Bucky was wearing quickly dropped into an annoyed frown now that you were no longer there to witness it. He slid back into the booth, leaning across the table as he glared at Steve.

“What the hell is your problem?” Bucky hissed, ditching his good boy facade entirely.

“My problem?” Steve sneered, leaning across the table to meet Bucky halfway. “My problem is that you show up after months of silence whenever it’s convenient for you—bringing all sorts of trouble with you.”

Steve kept his voice low, trying to maintain enough control to avoid drawing attention to their booth.

“What the hell have you been doing these past few months?”

Bucky’s brows drew together so closely as he glared back at his childhood best friend. Before your father came into the picture, Steve and Bucky had been two peas in a pod. They were inseparable growing up, but as they got older, they naturally drifted into their own separate lives, with only occasional chatter here and there.

Steve had already gone through the whole marriage routine. He had tried to start a family with his ex-wife, Peggy, but after she cheated on him, he went through a heartbreaking divorce. Meanwhile, Bucky had suffered a string of devastating losses.

Bucky had always prided himself on being a family man, and when he lost it all, he felt like he had nothing left. His mother, Winnie, and his sister, Rebecca, had both passed away in the same year. From there, Bucky fell into a dark stupor, finding comfort only in solitude and alcohol.

Over time, Steve grew to despise the way Bucky coped—hating to watch his best friend drink himself silly and end up in places he shouldn’t be. Bucky, on the other hand, hated being lectured by Steve. He believed that a true friend should support him at all costs, through all the good and the bad.

Eventually, they both just kept their distance, leaving you and your dad as the middle ground.

“I’m in recovery, Steve,” Bucky protested weakly, his fingers digging into his palm as he tightened his fist.

“Yeah?” Steve scoffed with a bitter smile. “And how’s that working out for you?”

Regret washed over Bucky’s blue eyes, and for a split second, Steve nearly softened. But he couldn’t. His friend had pulled his leg for far too long. The mental reminders of Bucky taking advantage of him over the years were enough to make Steve push down his guilt.

“Look, I’m trying, okay?” Bucky muttered, staring into his half-empty mug. “I just wanted to pay a quick visit to town—see how you and her dad are doing.”

“See how he and I are doing?” Steve folded his arms across his chest, sitting back. “Or see how she’s doing?”

Bucky’s jaw clenched. He kept his head down but raised his eyes to glare back at him. “And if I was, is there something wrong with that?”

Steve really tried his best to keep his composure. Bucky knew exactly how to get under his skin—using a voice that could pass for innocent when it was anything but.

“You have no right showing up back in town after all the bullshit you pulled. Did you even know her father was out of town? Or did you take advantage of him being gone just so you could spend time with her?” When Steve realized how loud he was getting—catching the attention of some of the diner staff—he dropped his voice to a harsh whisper.

“If you’re still involved with whatever shit you were getting into, leave it behind. Don’t drag her into this—”

“—Jesus. Where the hell is the waitress?” Bucky muttered, throwing his arm over the back of the seat and looking behind him.

Steve snapped his fingers to yank his attention back. “And don’t think for a second I didn’t notice you checking her out. Are you fucking kidding me, Buck? She’s your best friend’s daughter!”

“Hey—all I did was call her shorts cute.” Bucky turned back to Steve. “I was just being nice.”

Steve ran out of scoffs to give. “You’re a lot of things, Bucky, but you’ve never been subtle.”

Bucky could feel his own patience frying. “Wanna know what’s funny, Stevie?”

“What?”

Now, it was Bucky’s turn to lean in so no one else could eavesdrop. “To an outsider, you look like an old, perverted man taking a young, respectable lady out on a date. Come on, Steve. How old are you again?” he tilted his head with that taunting tone that made Steve’s blood boil. “You’re drilling me so hard over something so trivial, but you’re no saint either.”

Steve slammed his hand on the table, causing the wood to shake and making the family of four at the next table gasp. So much for being discreet.

“What the hell kind of person are you trying to make me out to be?”

“Don’t act like you haven’t thought about it,” Bucky shot back. “A pretty girl like her—looking up at you the way she does, with that cute smile of hers.”

Steve opened his mouth, his face turning a furious shade of crimson. “What are you saying—!”

Bucky held his gaze, his eyes boring deeply into Steve’s. “Look me in the eye and tell me you haven’t thought about fucking her, Steve.”

Neither of them had noticed Joann standing there, her pen poised over her notepad. She stared at them completely dumbfounded, her mouth slightly agape in shock.

“Uh,” she drawled, her gaze shifting slowly between the two grown men. “What’ll it be, boys?”

Both Steve and Bucky blinked up at her.

They cleared their throats rapidly and sat back, trying to put as much distance between each other as the small booth allowed. Steve forced his charming smile back onto his face, acting as if he hadn’t just slammed his hand down and yelled a second ago. Across from him, Bucky crossed his leg and turned his head, pressing a hand over his mouth to hide his frustration as he forced himself to look out the window.

“We’ll have the All American,” Steve said.

Joann jotted down their orders—along with an extra chocolate milkshake added by Bucky, which earned him a side-eye from Steve, since Steve was the one paying for it all.

On your way back from the bathroom, you bumped right into her.

“Oh, hey Joann. Did you already take our orders?”

“Sure did, but honey, you better be careful with those two,” Joann warned, pointing her pen over her shoulder toward your booth with a worried expression. “They look like they bite.”

The chance to elaborate was long gone as she was already walking off towards the kitchen. Turning your attention back to the booth, you saw Steve pressing his cheek against his palm, staring morosely out the window, while Bucky casually sipped his coffee.

You smiled to yourself, oblivious to all the tension.

From where you stood, it looked like they had gotten along just fine while you were gone.

The breakfast platters were already cleared away, leaving nothing but a pile of crumpled napkins and Bucky’s drained milkshake glass.

Up front by the old cash register, Steve stood with his back to the booth, digging into his wallet as Mama Joann rang up the bill. Even from behind, Steve’s broad shoulders were still stiff from his earlier irritation.

Breakfast had gone by smoothly enough—though it wasn’t quite as fun as it normally was with your dad, you still appreciated their company. The entire time, however, it felt like they were talking to you rather than to each other. Every time Bucky asked you a question, you would answer, only for Steve to immediately grab your attention next. Once you replied to Steve, Bucky would subtly try to fight for your focus again.

The whole dining experience felt more like a job interview than spending time with close family friends.

Now, you were left alone in the booth with Bucky. With Steve away from the table, Bucky’s shoulders eased up just slightly.

“So,” he drawled. “What are you and Stevie going to do after this?”

You thought about it for a moment, realizing you and Steve hadn’t actually planned much of anything.

“I’m… I’m actually not sure,” you replied with a shrug. “Breakfast was all we talked about today.”

“Sounds boring, and sounds just like Steve,” Bucky said, leaning back against the seat and draping his arm over the top as he looked down at you.

Under his cold stare, you always felt so small.

You knew Bucky was the kind of man who just took what he wanted—and right now, it felt like he only wanted you.

“You remember Becca’s old house? The one by the lake?” he asked.

You blinked, caught off guard. Ever since his sister’s passing, your father had strictly warned you never to bring up Bucky’s family. It was only safe to do so if Bucky brought them up first, and even then, you had to be careful to avoid any painful triggers.

“I do,” you nodded, keeping your response brief to let him control the conversation.

“It’s been a while since I’ve been over there,” Bucky explained, his blue eyes studying your face. “I think I can fix up her old boat in the shed. Maybe we can take it out for a spin on the lake.”

Your mouth parted slightly with a loss for words. Bucky was inviting you to his late sister’s house? To ride on her boat, no less? He rarely ever spoke about Rebecca, let alone extended an invitation to her place. You were pretty sure not even your dad had ever been invited over there.

“And considering it’s been some time since I last saw you, I think it’d be a great opportunity for us to catch up,” Bucky added.

“Catch up on what?”

Both you and Bucky looked up to find Steve standing at the edge of the booth. He was pocketing his wallet in the back of his jeans, taking in your wide eyes and Bucky’s slouched, unbothered posture.

Bucky kept his arm draped casually over the seat behind you. “Just telling her about Becca’s old place,” he said with that smug tone. “Thinking about going down to the lake later. Get some fresh air. You know, since you didn’t make any plans.”

Steve’s jaw clenched so hard you were sure you heard his teeth click. He crossed his arms tightly over his broad chest, glaring down at Bucky.

“Oh, is that so?” Steve huffed. He then shifted his gaze to you. “And what did she say about it?”

Being put on the spot made your stomach drop. It felt like there was no right answer.

Your eyes flickered back and forth between them. You could understand Steve’s apprehension—Bucky’s reputation hadn’t been... the best, as of late. But looking at Bucky, seeing as much hope as he could muster in those tired blue eyes and the vulnerability of him sharing a piece of his late sister’s memory with you, you already knew your answer.

“I’d love to check out Becca’s house and ride on the boat,” you finally said.

Bucky let out a quiet breath of relief, while Steve’s brows pinched together in disbelief.

“…But,” you added quickly, “I think it’d be fun if Steve tagged along, too.”

The disgruntled noise that left Bucky’s mouth would’ve made you laugh, but the way Steve’s eyes nearly bulged out of his sockets beat you to it.

Bucky pulled his arm back, throwing you an incredulous look that he didn't even bother trying to hide. “Sweetheart, I was actually hoping it would be just the two of us—”

“I would love to come,” Steve interjected, a shit-eating grin spreading across his face that Bucky wanted nothing more than to wipe off.

A smile broke across your face. You knew there was still an underlying tension between them, but the prospect of visiting Rebecca’s old house for the first time and riding in a boat was far better than sitting around doing nothing.

“Yay!” You clasped your hands together, your enthusiastic gaze flickering between the two of them. “Steve and I will stop by the house first so I can change—”

“No,” Bucky interrupted, waving a hand dismissively. “You already extended an unwanted invite to Steve, and I’ll only forgive you if you don’t keep me waiting.”

He kept his eyes locked on Steve as he slid out of the booth, rising to his full height to meet him face to face.

“You remember the way to Becca’s house?” he asked.

“‘Course I do.”

“Good.” Bucky spared a quick glance down at you as you began sliding out of the booth yourself, before turning his attention back to Steve. He leaned in, voice dripping quietly so only Steve could catch it.

“Don’t have too much fun with her on the way, yeah?”

Steve only glared harder.

On the drive to Rebecca’s house, you noticed Steve’s grip on the steering wheel was tight, his knuckles taut. One of his favorite songs came on the radio, and he didn’t even care to acknowledge it.

There was something deeply wrong between him and Bucky—something you had missed entirely while you were in the bathroom.

Finally mustering the courage, you decided to address it. “Steve—”

“There’s something you should know about Bucky,” Steve cut you off, deciding to it for you.

“Okay,” you murmured, prompting him to continue.

“I don’t know how much your dad has told you,” Steve said, letting out a deep breath through his nose. “But Bucky’s been through a lot. He isn’t the same guy he used to be. I know he’s… family to you, and I know your dad trusts him. But Bucky’s been running with a bad crowd lately. Getting into things he shouldn’t be, making promises he can’t keep. He’s reckless.”

You leaned back slightly in your seat, your right arm propped on the window sill as you watched Bucky’s truck ahead of you. Everything he was saying to you wasn’t exactly new.

“Where are you going with this?”

“He treats everything like a game. People, relationships,” Steve continued.

He paused for a moment, chewing his bottom lip in apprehension as he tried to find the right words.

“I recognize the way he’s looking at you, and I don’t like it one bit. He’s looking at you like a distraction from his own mess. I just... I don’t want to see you get hurt, or caught in the middle of whatever trouble he’s dragging behind him.”

You slowly let out the breath you had been holding.

For the most part, you were grateful that Steve was actually being open with you about Bucky and his bad habits. Whenever Bucky’s name came up around your father, your dad was always quick to beat around the bush, never addressing anything seriously.

“Ah, Bucky is just going through a rough patch right now.”

“He’s just in another one of his moods. Leave him be.”

“I invited Bucky to your birthday party, but he… he couldn’t make it. You know how he is.”

Even though Bucky was everything a girl like you should avoid, at the end of the day, he was like family. And the idea of him being alone this weekend while he was back in town killed you.

He had his ups and downs, and as much of a grumpy old man he could be now, you weren’t going to throw away all the good times just because of the bad.

“I’m a big girl, Steve,” you reassured him, glancing over. He kept his gaze locked on the road. “I can make my own decisions. Bucky invited me to his late sister’s boat—and despite everything, I couldn’t refuse that. You know why.”

Up ahead, Bucky’s truck slowed down, turning left onto a narrow, gravel driveway lined with overgrown pine trees. The reflection of the sun hit the lake and shone through the branches in the distance.

Steve pulled up right behind him, shifting the car into park but keeping his foot firmly on the brake. He turned fully in his seat to look at you, his blue eyes searching yours with earnesty.

“I know. It’s just… promise me you’ll stay close to me today,” Steve pleaded softly.

You unbuckled your seatbelt and gave him a reassuring smile. You nodded towards Bucky’s truck, where he was just hopping out of the driver’s seat and slamming the door shut.

“You act like he’s going to murder me.”

Despite your attempt at a joke, Steve’s expression didn’t waver.

“Your dad left you under my watch, so in a way, I feel responsible for protecting you—”

“—protecting her from what?” Bucky asked, slapping his calloused hands against Steve’s window and leaning over. “Woah—this car is still running? You know, my sister used to love this thing. Coulda’ sworn you were gonna win her over with it every time you pulled up to the house.”

Steve gave Bucky a deadpan look. With a grunt, he pushed his door open—forcing Bucky out of the way. But just as Steve started walking around to your side to open your door, Bucky beat him to it.

“Watch your step,” Bucky said, holding your hand to help you out of the seat. “Lots of rocks.”

“Since when did you get so sweet?” you teased, sandals stepping down onto the crunching gravel.

Bucky chuckled—a low, raspy sound as he shook his head. “Geez, you really think I’m an awful guy, don’t you?”

You gave him a small smile, which he returned with a gentle one of his own before letting go of your fingers.

Steve kicked a pebble with the toe of his boot. He didn’t like this interaction one bit, but he swallowed down his pride for your sake.

He looked around the property, taking in the overgrown grass and the faded paint on the siding of the old house. The place hadn’t been maintained in what looked and felt like years. The fences had once been painted a bright coral blue—Rebecca’s favorite color—but now, they were stained with dirt and weathered from years of neglect.

Steve glanced at you, knowing you were thinking the same thing. A solemn look settled into your eyes. You knew how close Bucky and his sister had been, and leaving this house to him had obviously been more than he could handle.

Bucky stood there stiffly, hands shoved into the pockets of his worn leather jacket. The playful twinkle his eyes had held for you just moments ago slowly faded the longer he stared at the house.

“It hasn’t changed much,” Steve said quietly, clearing his throat. He was trying to ease the tension, even though they both knew it was a lie.

Something between a snort and a self-deprecating laugh left Bucky’s lungs.

He nodded towards the path wrapping around the side of the building. “Come on. The shed’s down by the dock.”

The three of you fell into a single file line, with you taking the middle spot. As you approached the shed, Bucky fished around in his pocket for the keys. It took him a moment to find the right one, but when he finally pushed the door open, it revealed an eighteen foot wooden motorboat right in the middle.

The deep emerald green paint on the hull was flaking away in brittle scabs, exposing the gray, sun bleached wood underneath. Inside, the white oak ribs were coated in dust and cobwebs, and the stagnant rainwater pooling in the bilge smelled faintly of rot, causing you to wrinkle your nose.

Bucky took the first step inside, his hand reaching out to gently touch the worn steering wheel.

“We’ll get her fixed up today,” he murmured. “We’ll take her out on the lake.”

He spoke so softly you weren’t sure if he was talking to you, or to himself.

“I don’t know, Buck,” Steve hesitated, dragging a finger along the side. “She might leak like a sieve if you put her in the water right now. You’re gonna need a miracle to get this thing to turn over, let alone idle.”

Bucky’s shoulders dropped, his expression turning somber. He knew Steve was right, and seeing that defeated look pulled at your heart. He was already carrying so much emotionally, it ached to watch him rarely try to plan something special, only to see it fall apart.

“Chin up, you guys,” you spoke up enthusiastically, breaking the silence. “It doesn’t look that bad. Especially since there’s three of us—we can fix this in no time.”

Steve raised a skeptical brow at you. “You’ve never even touched a boat, sweetheart. There’s a lot of heavy lifting to be done here.”

“Well—it’s a good thing I’ve got two strong men by my side!” you joked, hopeful eyes flickering between the two of them. “Even if we don’t fix it completely, even if we just end up floating out there,” you shrugged, a smile tugging at your lips, “at least we got it on the lake, right?”

That, at least, managed to pull a small smile from Bucky.

And with the soft spot Steve always had for you, he knew he couldn’t deny your wishes.

With a reluctant sigh, he started moving around the shed, scanning the shelves for the tools they would need. “Well? What are we standing around for, then?”

For the rest of the afternoon, the three of you worked side by side to bring Rebecca’s old boat back to life.

Steve and Bucky took turns with the heavy lifting, hauling out the rusted battery and helping each other realign the heavy parts of the inboard motor. Bucky insisted on handling the delicate mechanical work—scraping away layers of rust, cleaning out the gummed up carburetor, and replacing the brittle fuel lines.

You did your best to help where you could, taking a wire brush to the flaking paint on the hull and wiping down the dusty wooden benches. Mostly, you acted as their mediator, passing wrenches and screwdrivers back and forth while they worked in relative silence.

By the time the sun began to slip behind the trees, painting the sky in beautiful shades of orange and pink, the boat was far from perfect, but it finally looked cared for again.

Bucky stood over the engine block, hands on his hips. He had discarded his leather jacket hours ago, and his shirt was now thoroughly drenched in sweat.

He looked over at you with a grin. “Think she’s good enough to take for a spin?”

Your lips started to tug into a smile. “Yes—!”

Steve shook his head, shutting you down. “No. The bilge pump is shot. It needs to be replaced before we put her in the water.”

Sitting on the wooden bench inside the boat, you glanced over your shoulder and met Steve’s eyes with a frown. “But we worked on it all day. Are you sure we can’t take it out? Not even for a little bit?”

“Without that pump, water is going to leak through the planks like crazy,” Steve explained.

But caught between your crestfallen look and the disappointed crease between Bucky’s brows, he sighed and gave in.

He checked his watch, tapping the glass. “It’s just past five. The auto parts store in town closes at seven on Fridays. If I leave right now, I can grab a replacement pump and be back before it gets dark.”

“Really? You’d do that, Stevie?” you beamed, your excitement returning in an instant.

Steve’s eyes softened. He hated how easily he gave in to you. “Yeah. I’ll be quick—just stay here, alright?”

Bucky shifted, rocking back on his heels with a rare and slightly sheepish look. “Thanks, Steve.”

Steve stepped away from the boat, fishing his car keys out of his pocket. Before he turned around, he pointed a stern finger at Bucky. “Don’t do anything stupid until I get back.”

To anyone else, that saying could have passed as typical, lighthearted banter between two old friends. But you knew Steve well enough to hear the real warning underneath it.

Bucky just shrugged, unbothered. “How can I? When you’re taking all the stupid with you.”

Steve was already walking briskly up the path towards the driveway, keys jingling in his hand. He muttered something under his breath and shook his head, ignoring Bucky’s comment entirely.

The two of you watched him get into his car and drive off. The moment the sounds of Steve’s engine faded away, Bucky turned back to you.

A slow, mischievous grin spread across his face—it was a look that insinuated he was up to no good.

“How ‘bout we take her out anyway?” Bucky asked, nodding to the lake. “Just to see how long she’ll float?”

You gasped. “Bucky, no! Steve literally just said she’ll leak—”

“Steve worries too much,” Bucky scoffed, clicking his tongue. He stepped over to the stern and began pushing the boat towards the lake, ignoring the fact that you were still sitting inside. “It’ll take time for the water to really start coming in. We’ll just go out a hundred yards, turn around, and come right back.”

You knew Steve would be furious, and logically, sitting in a boat that was destined to take on water was a terrible idea. But looking at the sudden, bright spark of life in Bucky’s eyes—the first real glimpse of the carefree guy your dad used to talk about—you found yourself softening.

“A hundred yards,” you bargained, pointing a stern finger at him. “And the second my feet get wet, we turn right around.”

“Deal.”

Before you could change your mind, he shoved the boat down the wooden launch ramp. “Hold on tight!”

The cedar hull hit the once calm glassy surface of the lake with a splash, sending a hard ripple across the water. Bucky tied her off to the dock quickly, then vaulted over and immediately went to work on the flywheel.

He wrapped a pull rope around the starter, took a deep breath, and gave it a hard yank.

The engine coughed, sputtering out a cloud of blue gray smoke, but failed to catch.

“Come on,” Bucky muttered to the machine, wrapping the rope again. He gave it another tug.

This time, the engine sputtered, groaned, and then loudly chugged to life. Bucky laughed triumphantly, the sound so raspy and genuine— it made butterflies swarm in your belly.

He unhooked the mooring line from the dock and tossed it into the bow, then hopped back to the center of the boat to take the steering wheel, gliding the boat away from the dock and further into the water.

The cool lakeside breeze greeted your face, a godsend from working under the sun for hours. Surprisingly enough, the engine and boat remained stable while the sun turned the lake into a pretty pool of liquid gold.

Bucky had a gentle look on his face, the lines around his eyes creasing slightly as he wore a soft smile.

“My sister and I used to ride this boat all the time,” he explained softly, eyes boring into the sun dipping past the lake line. “We would go fishing—and she’d always hate me for catching the biggest fish.”

You smiled softly. It wasn’t often that Bucky shared a part of himself, but every time he did, it was beautiful.

“We should go fishing one day,” you said. “My dad loves fishing, and it’s been a long time since he saw you. Maybe we could do it when he gets back.” You chuckled quietly to yourself at the idea. “He’d probably be so jealous if he found out I got to ride your boat before he did.”

Bucky hummed, the corners of his lips quirking up.

The two of you stayed quiet for a moment as he steered the boat deeper into the lake. Compared to you and Steve, your conversations with Bucky weren’t as lighthearted or enthusiastic. Majority of the time, it’s just you sitting in awkward silence—well, awkward for you—while Bucky just basks in the moment.

“I’m sorry I haven’t been around these days,” he suddenly murmured, back still turned to you as he kept his focus on the sunset. “I’ve been caught up with a lot of things. I’m sure your father has told you, and I’m also sure I lost all his respect for me.” He huffed a self-deprecating laugh as he added, “Not that I deserve it, anyway.”

“You’re being too hard on yourself.” Even though he wouldn’t look at you, you kept your eyes on his back. “He still respects you.”

Then, Bucky slowly looked over his shoulder, eyes half lidded and tired.

“And what about you?” he rasped. “Do you still respect me?”

You tilted your head and raised a brow, not expecting him to care about your respect for him of all things.

“Of course I do, Bucky.”

“Good,” he nodded, looking back at the lake. “That’s good…”

While on the topic of respect, you couldn’t help but wonder…

“What about you? Do you respect me?”

Bucky’s lips curved up into an even bigger impish grin. “I don’t know yet,” he teased.

Your eyes bulged. “Huh? What’s that supposed to mean—!”

But the already short teasing interaction got cut even shorter, a wet sensation seeping through your sandals and between your toes.

You glanced down, catching the way the water was bubbling up through the gaps in the floorboards like tiny miniature fountains. The dark pool in the bilge had risen past the soles of your sandals, and with every small wave that hit the hull, the water level crept higher toward your ankles.

“Bucky,” you gasped, lifting your foot. “Bucky! Look down!”

Bucky glanced down, that impish grin stripped off his features as he lifted his boot, now dampened with water. “Shit.”

Your eyes flickered in a panic around you. The dock looked tiny in the distance. The shoreline was far away—way further than the promised a hundred yards. In the middle of your conversation, Bucky had kept driving obliviously and you were now stranded right in the deep center of the lake.

“Bucky, we’re too far out!” you shrieked as you lifted your knees to your chest, trying to keep your feet out of the freezing water.

The bilge was filling fast, making the boat feel heavy and sluggish.

“Turn it around!” you urged.

“I’m trying—” Bucky grabbed the lever, but the moment he shifted it into reverse to swing the boat around, the engine made a startling noise with a sputter that choked on the rising water. And died.

“Shit. It’s not turning—can you swim?” He met you in the center of the boat, where it rocked dangerously, and he grabbed your wrist.

“Oh, God,” you felt your heart race in horror. Being stranded in the middle of a lake with no life vest was a far reach from your usual swimming capabilities that only belonged in a swimming pool.

“Bucky—I don’t know how—”

“It’s okay,” he tried to reassure you, grabbing both your wrists, which only caused you to panic even more. “Just hold still—”

He tried to widen his stance to keep his balance, but your flailing caused him to hiss impatiently, pulling you closer to his chest with a harsh and sudden tug.

He was strong—strong enough to cause you to collide into his chest, and without the engine running to keep the boat steady, the sudden movement tipped the vessel. The momentum caused you to fall over, bringing Bucky down with you.

A shriek managed to escape your lips before you were engulfed completely under the freezing lake water.

You flailed your arms, trying to figure out which way was up. Bucky found your wrists again, pulling you upward with him as your head broke the surface. You gasped for air, blinking the dirty lake water out of your eyes.

“I got you—I got you, okay? Just stay with me,” he reassured, his deep and asserting voice overriding your panic momentarily as his long, dark hair hung wet over his gruff face. “Don’t let go.”

You stood in the middle of the first floor bathroom with Bucky. He was frantically rubbing you down with a towel, ruffling your hair into an even wetter mop than it already was as he kept mumbling things about not wanting to get you sick, and how both your father and Steve would kill him if he did.

“I’ll be okay, Bucky,” you grabbed the towel from his hands, pausing him. “You need to take care of yourself too. You’re drenched.”

“Right. Well, I was only able to find one towel in here—” He started browsing through the other cabinets, his large hands shifting through expired bottles and dusty toiletries out of the way.

As he rummaged deeper, his movements started to slow.

Hidden behind a stack of old soap bars was a small, dusty bottle of vanilla perfume and a faded pink hair ribbon—things left abandoned by Rebecca years ago, who was… no longer around to use them.

His shoulders dropped as he just stood there, staring at them.

You frowned softly, watching the change in his expression. “Are you okay?”

He closed the cabinet door slowly and shrugged, trying to shake it off, but there was no use. “I couldn’t find another towel, so I’ll just air dry.” He answered instead.

Your frown deepened as the water droplets from his hair hit the cold tile floor.

He was soaked from head to toe, and he was shivering. You knew there might have been a spare towel somewhere in the house, but you knew Bucky didn’t want to look. It had been clear that there weren’t any signs of life in this house after his sister’s passing up until now, and if he got shaken up from just seeing the perfume bottle and hair tie alone, then you could only imagine what he’d go through if he walked through the rest of the house.

“Don’t be stupid,” you murmured softly, gathering the damp towel and pressing it against his hair.

Bucky went still, his breath hitching as you began to dry his wet strands. You wiped the back of his neck, then moved down to gently dab at his broad shoulders and the damp fabric of his shirt.

“You should take your shirt off,” you explained. “You’ll get sick.”

He huffed a short laugh, glancing subtly over his shoulder down at you. “I could say the same thing to you, but that’d be inappropriate.”

Pausing, you quickly glanced down at yourself and realized just how inappropriate this already was—even with your shirt still on.

Your white cotton tank top was soaked right through, your cold and perky nipples poking against the fabric obscenely. Your shorts, completely damp, clung tightly to the curves of your body, riding up as water drippled down your thighs.

The entire sight was improper, and you were sure Bucky was thinking the same thing—he just didn’t want to address it.

Slowly, he turned around to face you, his hands finding your wrists and gently catching them to stop you.

“Thank you for riding the boat with me,” he murmured, gently guiding your hand with the towel over his damp and stubbled cheek.

Your breath shuddered. Bucky—your dad’s friend, who was usually always walking around with grumpy frown lines and his arms crossed—looked so utterly small and vulnerable in the small space of this cold bathroom.

“Of course,” you whispered.

Bucky’s grip on your wrists loosened, his large hands sliding slowly up your forearms, past your elbows, until they found comfort on your waist.

Even though he was drenched, his hands felt warm against your skin. Pulling you closer, his thumb brushed against the bare skin of your hip bones where your tank top had rose up.

“Every time I leave town, my mind always screams at me—telling me to come back to one thing,” he spoke quietly, his eyes tracing the vulnerable column of your neck. “Not even to your dad, or to Steve, or even… this house.”

He stepped closer, one strong leg finding its way between yours as he pushed you gently back against the sink’s counter.

“But to you. Isn’t that so wrong of me?”

You didn’t even realize you were holding your breath until you found out he was actually waiting for an answer.

“I don’t see how that can be wrong,” you spoke, more timidly than you’d like. “We’re like family, aren’t we?”

Bucky’s brows furrowed so deep it should’ve scared you.

“That’s what makes it so wrong,” he murmured, one hand coming up to cup your cheek, letting his thumb glide over the curve. “Because I have these thoughts—thoughts a man like me shouldn’t have for a girl like you. Like how badly I want to kiss you.” Bucky rasped, his voice conflicted as he pulled you closer against him, until no space was left. “I know I shouldn’t. But hell, everything in my body is telling me to.”

The look in his eyes matched the conflict he poured into every single word.

His hands held you tight, keeping you trapped between the counter and his body, but the look in his eyes was begging himself to let you go.

You knew you shouldn’t encourage this. You knew this wasn’t right.

And yet…

You reached up, your fingers tangling into the wet strands of his hair, and pulled him down and met his lips with yours.

The gasp that caught in his throat was overcome by the warm sensation of your mouth. Shock paralyzed him, but the longer he felt your lips press against his, he lost all the resolve that was screaming at him to stop.

Bucky took the control he wanted to have over you for a long time. His hands gripped your waist, meeting your first gentle kiss with a rough, demanding one. He slipped his tongue in as he lifted your body up until you were sitting right on the edge of the sink counter. He stepped closer, forcing your legs to open and let him in.

He didn’t want this moment to slip away, or even grace you with the opportunity to change your mind. His hands explored all over your body, large palms sliding to cup the curve of your ass, rocking the erection that grew in his pants within seconds just from being close to you.

“Fuck—we shouldn’t do this,” he rasped against your lips before pulling away to catch his breath. “We shouldn’t—shit—”

“I don’t care,” you whimpered, your pleading eyes meeting his hungry ones. “I want this.”

A dark, raspy chuckle left his lips. “You’re gonna get me in trouble.”

His mouth trailed down your jawline to bury his face in the crook of your neck. He bit and suckled at your sensitive skin, making you arch your back as his hot breath and wet tongue sent shivers straight down your spine. His hands slid up, fingers hooking under the hem of your soaked white tank top and pushing the fabric up until it was bunched beneath your chin.

You shuddered as the cold air hit your skin. Bucky’s eyes were dark and hungry, staring at the water dripping down between your breasts like a taunt.

“Christ, look at you. Looking like every man’s dream,” he groaned, greedy hands coming up to cup your tits before pressing both of them together. “I’ll take care of you. I promise.”

He leaned down to capture one cold, perky nipple between his lips. He swirled his tongue around the peak, sucking it deep into his mouth with a tug that had your fingers gripping his shoulders in pleasure, your hips rolling up against the bulge of his lower stomach as you filled the bathroom with the slutty sounds of your breath.

You arched your back, tugging at his hair while his tongue feverishly licked and sucked at the sensitive bud. While his mouth gave its attention to one nipple, his rough fingers would play with the other. Then he would switch between the two, giving your body all the love he knew it was lacking.

Bucky pulled his face away with a wet pop of his mouth, a string of saliva connecting to your chest as he licked his lips clean.

“This… this is so wrong,” his words drifted uselessly in the air as he broke the space again, his nose to your neck as his tongue found something new to play with.

His warm mouth danced around the skin of your neck, sucking, biting, and groaning with every nibble.

He was sure to leave marks, but you didn’t have the strength to tell him to stop—you didn’t want him to.

“Keep going,” you said breathlessly, your head rolling to the side while he made love to your neck and memorized your body with his hands. “Don’t stop, Bucky—”

Suddenly, all the tension in the room shifted into something far more wicked than what was transpiring between you and Bucky.

The door slammed open, hard enough that the knob left an indent on the wall, and right there, standing in the doorframe, was Steve—who had once been holding the brand new bilge pump that had fallen and hit the floor.

“What the fuck is going on here?”

if you've made it this far, as always thank you so much for taking the time to read my work. interactions are always appreciated, I love reading every bit of them!

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A/N: well well well... what a cute way to launch the requests for my 1.5k followers celebration 🥹 (already 40 followers away from 2k, this is insane thank you so much 🫂). this one is especially dear to me because it comes from a real-life friend of mine and is actually inspired by a true story (minus the love story part lol). one of their classmates has a baby and would occasionally bring her along to lectures, and knowing that I often take inspiration from real life, my friend suggested it could make for a cute bucky fic 😭 you may also notice that the layout for requests (and shorter stories in general) is a little different. partly because I’m running out of pictures for moodboards 🥲 but also because I want to differentiate them from my longer stories since I’m trying to improve my summarizing skills 😭 I really hope you’ll enjoy my shorter one-shots as well!

Universities function on rumor as much as fact, and Professor Barnes has acquired a reputation long before many of his students ever stepped into one of his lectures. He is demanding, precise, uninterested in excuses. Assignments submitted late are graded late, if they are graded at all, but questions are always answered thoroughly—provided they aren’t an attempt to compensate for poor preparation.

By the middle of September, punctuality has become an unspoken rule in his class. Late arrivals are met without comment, only a brief pause and a solemn look that lingers just long enough to make the entire room shiver.

It’s therefore difficult to imagine a classroom less suited to your situation.

Your son fell asleep in the car. That, in itself, is quite unfortunate. Had he remained awake, you would have sat outside with him a little longer, gathered your thoughts, considered whether attending at all was worth the anxiety currently twisting your stomach. Instead, Milo sleeps peacefully against your shoulder while you stand in the corridor outside the lecture hall, alone, staring at the door and trying to not think about the fact that you are carrying a diaper bag covered in cute cartoonish lions, and moments away from walking into a room filled with people who would undoubtedly have opinions and speculations about you and your son.

Everyone’s eyes fall on you the moment the door opens subtly beneath your careful hand. As much as you try to be silent, it would have been impossible to not notice you.

Curiosity proves far more common than judgement, though. Students glance up from laptops and conversations, register the baby, and immediately start wondering whether Professor Barnes had already been informed.

The answer becomes obvious a few minutes later.

He stops just inside the doorway, gaze moving across the room only to land on you almost immediately. His blue eyes remain there long enough that several students abandon any pretense of looking away.

You rise before he can speak.

“I’m so sorry.” Your voice carries farther than you intend in the suddenly silent room. “My babysitter quitted.”

You swallow. “I couldn’t find anyone else.”

Professor Barnes listens in complete silence and that only makes the exchange incredibly uncomfortable. He doesn’t interrupt, nor does he reassure you. Instead, he stands with both hands by his sides, his expression giving away so little that half the room starts preparing for the worst on your behalf.

Perhaps he expects more explanation. Perhaps you feel compelled to provide it.

“I didn’t want to miss another lecture.” The admission seems to embarrass you as your voice wavers a little.

The baby shifts slightly against your shoulder at that exact moment and you adjust him instinctively.

“If it’s a problem, I’ll leave.”

Professor Barnes glances toward the child with plain reluctance, then back toward you.

“How long?”

You blink. “Pardon?”

“How long is this arrangement supposed to last?”

The question seems reasonable enough. Unfortunately, even reasonable questions occasionally require uncomfortable answers.

You look down, almost in shame.

“I don’t know.” The honesty escapes before you can soften it. “I’ve called a few places, but most of them have waiting lists.”

Nobody in the room appears particularly eager to be in your position. And Professor Barnes seems to find this information exactly as inconvenient as everyone expected him to.

The slight tightening of his jaw suggests a man being presented with circumstances he neither likes nor approves of, yet can’t argue against. For a few moments he says nothing at all. Then, he finally exhales quietly.

“Sit down.”

You stare at him in disbelief.

“What?”

“You can stay, but take the baby outside if he starts fussing.”

Your lips part in relief so quickly that it’s almost painful to witness.

“Thank you so much, Mr. Barnes.”

The Professor gives no indication that gratitude interests him and simply glances at the digital clock above his desk.

“Class started thirty seconds ago.” He states louder, throwing a stern look at the rest of the class, too busy staring at you.

The soft murmur reprises normally as everyone frantically starts reaching for their notes.

The matter, as far as he seems concerned, is closed.

At first, your presence in the lecture hall attracts attention. People look up when you arrive, track your progress toward your usual seat near the front, and observe with a curiosity they rarely bother hiding. A baby simply isn’t something anybody anticipates finding in Professor Barnes’ lectures, and for the first couple of weeks there is the persistent conviction that things would soon return to whatever passed for normal.

Instead, Milo keeps showing up and the lecture hall adapts accordingly.

Your classmates learn to move their bags when they see you approaching with your arms already full; somebody always seems to have a spare pen when yours disappears into the seemingly endless depths of the diaper bag, and more than one person has kindly shared lecture notes after discovering that trying to write while simultaneously preventing an increasingly fast infant from eating paper is a task bordering on impossible.

Milo, meanwhile, thrives under the attention.

He likes brightly colored pens and would become completely absorbed by them, tracking their movement with remarkable concentration as soon as the familiar clicks reaches his small ears. He inevitably falls asleep about twenty minutes into every lecture, regardless of how noisy the room happens to be. Your classmates also learn that laughter produces immediate excitement, his legs kicking enthusiastically while he looks around in search of whatever seems to be making everybody so happy.

Most notably, however, they learn that Milo has developed a favorite.

The first sign is the smiles. At seven months old, he smiles frequently enough that nobody considers it unusual. Babies smile at strangers, at ceiling lights, at absolutely nothing at all... but soon the pattern becomes difficult to ignore.

Every morning, without fail, Milo’s attention drifts toward the door shortly before Professor Barnes arrives. Sometimes he is playing with his favorite plushie—a small, soft bunny your best friend gifted him when he was born. Sometimes he is busy trying to pull your notebook from your hands. Sometimes he is halfway through a bottle.

None of that matters, though. The moment Mr. Barnes appears, Milo’s face lights up.

Every. Damn. Time.

“Oh, no.” You mutter one morning as your son nearly twists himself out of your arms trying to watch Mr. Barnes cross the room. “We’re not doing this.”

Milo responds by grinning even harder.

“You don’t even know him!”

False. At this point, Milo sees Professor Barnes with more consistency than he sees his own grandparents.

The problem is that his interest doesn’t stop at smiling.

Unfortunately for everyone involved, the focus of that fascination appears to be Mr. Barnes’ vibranium arm.

At first, the fixation seems harmless: Milo watches it move whenever the Professor gestures, his big eyes following it in awe even as he writes across the whiteboard. If he passes nearby, your son instantly tracks the motion with the unwavering concentration of somebody witnessing a miracle unfold in real time.

“Oh my God.” You whisper exasperated one afternoon after catching him staring openly for nearly ten minutes. “Stop looking at him like that, baby.”

Milo ignores you, of course, and Professor Barnes remains apparently oblivious.

Or, perhaps, chooses to not acknowledge it.

Weeks pass and the fascination only intensifies.

By the middle of October, Milo has started leaning toward Mr. Barnes whenever he walks past your row. By the beginning of November, he is actively attempting to reach for him whenever the opportunity presents itself.

The inevitable finally happens on a rainy Thursday afternoon.

The lecture has been underway for nearly half an hour, most people having settled into the comfortable rhythm of note-taking and occasional distraction. Professor Barnes is moving through a complicated explanation that occupies nearly the entire whiteboard, his handwriting spreading neatly from one side to the other while students hurry to keep pace.

You are trying to copy a diagram one-handed while your son, who has apparently decided sleep is no longer part of his afternoon plans, occupies your lap and often attempts to interfere with your efforts.

The moment Mr. Barnes approaches the front row, his attention shifts completely.

His eyes immediately lock onto the vibranium hand and a few nearby students notice immediately.

Milo leans forward and you adjust your grip automatically. He only leans farther. Only then do you glance up from your notebook and realize exactly what has captured his attention.

The embarrassment makes your neck burn.

“Oh, baby.”

Several students look away in a futile attempt to hide their grin.

“Don’t do that.” You feel like crying, but Milo doesn’t care at all. His entire focus remains on the arm.

Professor Barnes, noticing the unusual silence that has settled across the room, finally looks over.

His gaze follows the direction of Milo’s, landing directly on his left arm.

You really hope the floor could open beneath your chair.

“I’m so sorry, Mr. Barnes.”

The apology emerges instant and desperate.

“He’s… a very curious baby.” You try to go for a smile but you are pretty sure it resembles a grimace.

Professor Barnes says nothing.

Milo, encouraged by the fact that his target is finally looking at him, immediately stretches both chubby hands forward.

The gesture is so earnest, so hopeful, that a few people can’t fight back their smiles anymore.

You look horrified.

“Milo.” You choke out, eyes wide and scared.

For a brief moment, Professor Barnes simply stares down at him. Until your son smiles: a proper curve of his lips that lights up his entire face. The kind that makes complete strangers smile back without meaning to.

The whole class gasps collectively, because Mr. Barnes nonchalantly extends his hand, allowing Milo to grab his fingers at once.

The victory is apparently everything he has hoped for as his delighted squeals echo through the lecture hall.

You drag your unoccupied hand down your face.

“Jesus Christ.”

Professor Barnes glances at you. “He’s fine.”

The statement should not, under any reasonable circumstances, make the situation more embarrassing, but somehow it does.

Milo continues holding onto the offered finger with obvious satisfaction, until the Professor turns back toward the whiteboard.

“As I was saying…” He clears his throat lightly, gesturing at the diagrams.

The lecture resumes, Professor Barnes continues teaching as though a toddler hasn’t just left traces of his own saliva across his hand… and Milo keeps clutching his fingers whenever he wanders close enough.

You spend the next forty minutes with mortification written all over your face.

By the time class ends, not a single person can confidently explain what the lecture has actually been about.

Everybody has become used to a version of Milo that rarely causes any trouble. He babbles, certainly. He occasionally attempts to steal pens. Once he managed to grab an entire page of somebody’s notes and crumple it beyond recognition before anyone could stop him.

Actual tears, however, are rare enough that the sound draws every eye toward the front row.

You want to disappear.

Your eyes widen so fast that it’s obvious you have been dreading this exact moment since the first day you brought him to class.

“No no no, please wait just a second.” You mutter, frantically gathering your things.

Milo only cries harder.

The notebook on your desk snaps shut, one hand reaching for the diaper bag while the other tries to soothe a baby who has apparently decided that nothing short of complete misery would properly express his feelings.

“I’m really sorry,” you fret, rising from your seat. “I’ll take him outside.”

Professor Barnes sets down the marker calmly. In a room currently distracted by a crying infant and an increasingly distressed mother, the movement attracts considerably more attention.

“Where are you going?”

You freeze at the sound of his deep baritone.

“Outside.”

“Why?”

The question catches you completely off guard.

“Because he’s… crying?” You reply unsure.

Mr. Barnes glances at Milo’s crumpled features and fat tears wetting his cheeks, then looks back at you, before sighing and simply holding out his arms.

“Give him here.”

You stare at him with your jaw slack.

“What?” You squeak out.

“Give him here. He’s clearly tired of sitting for hours.”

The rest of the students watch the scene unfold in disbelief.

“And you need to take notes.”

You are still staring at him as if he just started speaking another language.

Mr. Barnes lifts an eyebrow. “Unless you’ve suddenly decided you don’t need them to pass my exam.”

Your mouth opens and closes helplessly, before carefully transferring Milo into his arms.

The crying doesn’t stop immediately. It does, however, begin losing conviction.

Mr. Barnes adjusts his grip with surprising familiarity, settling Milo against his right side before turning back toward the whiteboard.

“The problem with this interpretation is that it assumes the conclusion before the evidence has actually established it.”

The marker moves steadily across the board, and Milo hiccups.

A few minutes later, your son has reduced his complaints to occasional sniffles, until he falls completely silent, his head tucked against Mr. Barnes’ shoulder while he discusses course material with the same seriousness he brings to every lecture.

Nobody recovers.

The sight of Professor Barnes pacing slowly across the front of the lecture hall with a sleeping baby resting against his shoulder is significantly less unsettling than how natural he makes it look.

Once the semester has reached its final stretch, the idea that Professor Barnes merely tolerates Milo has quietly stopped making sense to anyone who was lucky enough to see the three of you interact.

It’s no longer unusual to hear him use the baby’s name as part of the natural rhythm of his speech.

“Milo,” he would say without looking up from the board when the baby starts to wriggle too close to the edge of your lap.

The sound alone is enough to calm him, which in itself has become one of those things students notice but don’t quite understand how to talk about.

Several colorful objects start appearing around his usually dull desk without comment. A teething ring in a muted blue kept inside the top drawer, pulled out automatically whenever Milo grows restless. A small cloth elephant with one ear slightly bent, usually resting near the stack of graded papers, which your son would immediately reach for the moment he is close enough to see it. A soft book with stiff pages and bright illustrations that makes a faint crinkling sound when handled with curiosity by his chubby hands.

Sometimes, he knows what’s happening to Milo before you do.

The lecture has ended five minutes ago, but you are still at the front desk with your latest assignment. Milo keeps squirming in your arms, not settling no matter how you shift him. Your eyes squint at the corrected paper, not really understanding what your professor did to reach the right result.

Mr. Barnes stands beside you, one hand on the desk while skimming the paper without any urgency. The room is mostly empty now, just the three of you and the faint sound of chairs being dragged somewhere down the hall.

You point at the problem set. “I kept ending up with two different answers here depending on how I handled this step, but I don’t understand where I went wrong.”

He gently leans forward and places his index finger on the sign he’d circled.

“Here.” He taps the bracket. “You’re only applying the minus to the first term. It has to go across everything inside.”

You exhale through your nose, half frustration, half acceptance.

“Right. Okay.”

He doesn’t comment and just slides the paper slightly back toward you.

Milo twists again in your arms, letting out a small irritated sound and your hand smoothes his back without looking away from the paper.

Barnes glances down at him.

“He’s uncomfortable.”

“Yeah,” you murmur, still focused on the problem set. “He’s been like this for days.”

“He’s teething.” Mr. Barnes states calmly.

You finally look up at that, eyebrows lifting slightly. “How are you so sure, Professor?”

He looks at Milo for a second longer this time, then back at the assignment as if the answer isn’t complicated enough to deserve emphasis.

“He’s always chewing his hand and drooling a lot more than usual because his gums are probably swollen.”

You shift Milo higher against your shoulder again, watching him stare at your professor as he settles briefly. “That’s… annoyingly observant.”

That earns you the faintest glance from him, like he isn’t sure if you are complaining or just acknowledging a fact.

“Cold cloths help,” he adds eventually. “Not ice, just cool water. Wring them out properly.”

You go still, briefly throwing him a curious glance.

“You’ve dealt with this a lot.” You mention off-handedly.

He doesn’t look up immediately.

“No,” then, after a beat, “just paid attention when it happened to my younger sister.”

The chair beside his desk appears the following week without announcement, and nobody would have thought much of it if it hadn’t immediately become the place you end up during breaks, sitting with Milo while trying to breathe for a moment between lectures.

The first time it happens, you look at it uncertainly, hovering for a second too long before Mr. Barnes simply looks up from his papers and repeats, without hesitation, “Sit.”

He doesn’t speak much while you are there, but he doesn’t shut you out either. When you say something, he answers without looking up right away, usually just a few words before going back to what he is doing.

Sometimes you speak more loosely, just thinking out loud about how tired you are or how your day has gone, and he’d respond with a short comment or a quiet hum of acknowledgement. A bottle of water would be set within reach without comment, a granola bar placed beside your notebook as if it had been part of the desk arrangement from the beginning. When Milo squirms too much or reaches toward him from your lap, Mr. Barnes would take him without waiting for you to offer.

If he calms down, he would keep him there. If he starts fussing again, Mr. Barnes would walk a few slow steps around the desk area, still listening to your voice.

Most of the building has already emptied out, the usual echo of footsteps and distant conversations fading into a soft murmur. A new academic year has begun a few weeks earlier, bringing new classes, new students, and different routines to adapt to.

Kate is only passing through on her way back to the library after a quick coffee break when she notices that Professor Barnes’ office door isn’t fully closed, which in itself isn’t unusual during the day, but feels slightly different now, at this hour, when most doors have already been shut and locked into the night.

It stands ajar just enough to let the light spill out into the corridor in a thin line, and something about it makes her slow down without quite knowing why.

You are on the couch near the window, turned toward the coffee table, a stack of notes spread across your lap and the space beside you like you have tried to organize them into something manageable and then given up halfway. Your pen moves every so often, pausing in your fingers while your gaze drifts across the same line over and over again.

Milo is asleep against Professor Barnes’ chest, finally surrendered to exhaustion. One small hand is curled into the fabric of his white shirt as though even unconscious he has to make sure he’s still there.

Mr. Barnes is sitting beside you on the couch rather than at his desk, leaned back enough to give himself space while still holding your son securely, his other hand busy grading a stack of papers balanced across his knee.

Every so often his fingers adjust slightly against Milo’s back without looking down—small, automatic corrections that come too naturally, like his body has memorized the child’s weight by now.

Kate should have left then. Finding the three of you together isn’t particularly surprising. She has spent most of the previous semester sitting beside you, and after a while it became impossible to not notice things.

Mr. Barnes knew which songs made Milo stop crying, which foods he would immediately throw on the floor, and exactly how long he could sit through a lecture before getting bored. More impressively, he knew when you hadn’t slept. Kate had seen him arrive more than once, take a single look at you, and set a coffee beside your notebook before he’d even taken attendance.

She is ready to walk away, but Milo shifts.

A small movement, a restless ripple through sleep, followed by a soft whine tinged with the faintest edge of discomfort. His face tightens, brows drawing together, and his grip on Mr. Barnes’ shirt instinctively changes, fingers curling a little more firmly as if searching for something safe.

The Professor moves at once.

“Hey buddy,” he says quietly, voice dropping to a mere whisper. “It’s alright.”

He brings Milo closer against his chest, his other palm settling between the baby’s shoulders in a slow, steady rhythm. The papers on his knee remain untouched, his pen resting loosely between his fingers as he focuses entirely on the small toddler in his arms.

“It’s okay,” he murmurs again, almost absently. “You’re fine. I’ve got you.”

The tension leaves his body in gradual stages until there is nothing left, except the faintest lingering sound of his steady breathing. He doesn’t immediately go back to his task, instead gently leaning down to press a brief kiss to the top of Milo’s head.

That should have definitely been her cue to leave.

But Mr. Barnes stays like that for a moment longer, eyes on Milo as if confirming it has actually worked, then leans back into the couch.

“You are staring.” He mentions, but there is no edge to it.

You roll your eyes but it doesn’t land properly because there is still a soft smile on your lips. “You’re imagining things again.”

Mr. Barnes tilts his head just enough to look at you properly.

“Yeah?” He murmurs with a little amused smirk.

Milo decides to make a small sound in his sleep again, and Professor Barnes promptly glances at him, before looking back up.

At that point, his arm comes around your waist as he moves closer, pulling you in until your head lands on his free shoulder. His thumb brushes your belly once.

“You’re tired.” He mumbles.

“I’m fine.” Your answer is automatic, too quick.

That gets you a small, disappointed exhale from him.

“Hey.” He whispers, his fingers squeezing your hip once, causing you to slowly look up. Mr. Barnes just nudges his nose lightly against yours—an absent, almost teasing gesture that brings a hint of a smile on your pretty features.

Before you can open your mouth, though, he is already leaning closer, his forehead brushing against yours.

Your breath hitches at that, yet your hand still rises, cupping his jaw as your thumb lightly strokes the stubble on his cheek.

“What?” You whisper, softer now.

His eyes watch yours for a moment—shiny with exhaustion yet still so beautiful—then they flick down to your mouth, the lipstick from this morning now completely gone.

“C’mere, sweetheart.”

The kiss is very different from the one you shared last night in your bed—a simple, warm press of lips that gradually deepens as the grip on your waist tightens in response to your cute, soft breaths. Your fingers curve more firmly against his face, holding him there as his mouth languidly move against yours.

The moment you slightly pull back, Mr. Barnes follows your lips once more, your faint giggle muffled against his mouth as he kisses you again, firmly.

His forehead rests on yours when he finally relents, his thumb gently stroking the sliver of skin that peaked out as the hem of your shirt shifted with you.

Your hands eventually wrap around his forearm, squeezing the muscle slightly before relaxing again. It’s only then that Mr. Barnes lets out a little relieved sigh as your head falls back on his shoulder and you finally allow your eyes to flutter shut.

Kate purses her lips in a poor attempt to hide her smile, and finally keeps walking.

— ⟢ END NOTES: I guess if I get better at this I might open requests for some of my stories! thank you so much for reading 🤍 my masterlist → winteryn's masterlist

You had scrolled through the backed-up list of numbers in your phone, most not even named and countless stale conversations having died after a horrendous first date. You never actually expected to receive a text back from any of them - so, when your phone finally buzzed against the stained wood of the coffee table, a fistful of popcorn halfway to your mouth, you froze.

The fluffy, white kernels slowly fell back in the bowl as you set it aside and you leaned forward to grab your phone. Your hand was shaking, and your heart was pounding. Who in the hell was crazy enough to text you back?

Someone horny enough, you supposed.

You sighed, opening your texts and staring at the grey bubble longer than you needed to, the white letters slurring together from the excess of alcohol.

Everything okay?

You laughed - like, actually laughed aloud. The sound, sharp and sudden, echoed off your living room walls. Why the fuck did this man care if everything was okay? You were looking for a hookup, not therapy. You texted back, autocorrect doing the heavy lifting for you.

I just asked if you wanted to come over. Could use the company.

It marked ‘read’ instantly and your heart stopped for just a second. And then he was typing…For a long damn time. Finally, a little ‘whoosh’ came across as his response popped into the chat.

Why don’t I, instead, take you to dinner while Becca is at volleyball practice?

You blinked. Your brain was running on booze and a crippling fear of meeting God. You had to reread it a few times. Becca…Becca…Becca…What the hell did your best friend have to- Oh. Oh no. No, no, and hell no. You panicked, instantly sobering up at least halfway. Your fingers were quick to type.

Oh! Wrong number, sorry!

Okay. Deep breaths. Maybe that would work. Ping. Or not.

What’s going on, doll? You and Becca not friends anymore? She was just talking about you the other day and finals…

Oh god. Yeah. No way to ‘wrong number’ this one. Okay, no problem. Just another deep fucking breath…Ping.

I insist. Dinner. I’ll pick you up. You still live just off campus? Birch and 44th?

You let out the bundle of oxygen you’d been hoarding in your lungs. You had just wanted a good time and now your best friend’s dad was offering to take you out. On what? A date? How old was he again?

Your thumbs hovered over the keyboard so long your screen shut off. You looked at yourself in the dark reflection of the glass - hair messy, cheeks tear-stained, eyes puffy and dark. Fuck. Maybe you did just need to get out of the house for a little while.

You tapped your screen back awake.

Yeah, that’s still the address. What time?

Your finger was shaking as you hit ‘send’.

He started to type.

Be ready by 6 P.M. Make yourself feel pretty :)

Your heart fluttered a little. Oh. He wanted you to make yourself look pretty. Well…Alright then! You had quite a lot of work to do so you switched off the TV and headed straight for your bedroom. It was time to put yourself first and have a hell of a time doing it.

6 P.M. rolls around. A steady knock on the door.

You were just securing your final diamond earring and slipping on your last heel. You felt very…Nice. Cocktail dress, stockings, heels, and the only diamond set you owned. Makeup and hair done to the nines with a spritz of your favorite perfume. As you grabbed your clutch, you couldn’t help but wonder if it was a little too much.

You opened the door, eyes widening a little as Becca’s father, Bucky, stood there just outside the doorway looking mighty damn fine. Gray slacks, white dress shirt unbuttoned in a casual yet polished manner. Gray sport jacket slung over his shoulder and that beautiful salt-and-pepper hair brushed back. You’d never really given him much of a second thought before - I mean, how could you? He was your best friend’s dad, and you and Becca had been friends since senior year of high school.

But, you just couldn’t help the way your eyes lingered on every part of him - his strong facial features, stunning blue eyes, and the way his stubble danced along his chiseled jaw. Then there was the way his dress shirt clung to his chest and arms in a way that should have been a sin - tight in all the right places to show off the work he’d always put into his body since his Army days. It felt a little aggressive to say, but you wanted to chew on this man.

“Hi there, doll,” he said, voice sweet and low with something you’d never heard before. Something akin to the floral sweetness of honey dripping across cragged gravel.

You tried not to melt right then and there as he held out his hand to take yours. “Are you ready or do you need a minute?” He smiled and you felt your world tilt and your stomach churn. No one had the right to be that attractive. No one had the right to look this good and smile at you like that.

“O-Oh I…I’m ready,” you said, clearing your throat a little before giving him a polite smile and daintily placing your hand in his. His palm was practically twice the size of yours and you had to really put effort into not thinking about how good they’d feel inside you right about now…

The thing about Bucky, which had always been the thing about Bucky, was that he was a proper gentleman through and through. You often thought about how Becca ended up with much better men than you did - and it was probably because she was raised by such an exemplary man to begin with. He was the ultimate blueprint.

He walked you to his car, never a pace ahead nor a hair behind until he took a few strides in front of you to open the passenger side door for you. Your dress was a little on the short side, so as you dipped into his car, he used his sport jacket to shield you from prying eyes - he even looked away himself. How chivalrous!

The ride to the restaurant, itself, was great. A little awkward considering how the situation had manifested, but he was skilled at moving the small-talk along and making you feel like the center of attention. You discussed the weather, finals, and after-college plans with the ease of someone who’d done it a million times over with someone his age. It was the typical experience, just with far less lecturing and more mutual understanding than you’d come to expect.

Once you were pulled up to the valet, it wasn’t the valet worker who opened your door for you. No, it was Bucky shielding you again with that damn sport coat until you’d adjusted yourself and grabbed your clutch off the seat. You wobbled a little in your heels against the uneven cobblestone ground and his hand left the car door to catch your waist.

Your breath hitched, his touch so gentle and warm. Your gaze immediately flitted up to his face where he smiled in amusement. “Careful there, doll. Ground’s got teeth,” he murmured, making sure you were steady before he closed the car door and then slipped his sport coat on before offering you his arm. Of course, you obliged.

He lead you to up the little stone pathway to the restaurant door - the inside was dimly lit but you found yourself met with opulence beyond anything you’d experienced before. Crystal chandeliers gleaming and twinkling against candlelight that buzzed from the white clothed tables. You swallowed thickly. This place was expensive and you weren’t so sure you were worthy of it.

“Table for two, should be reserved under James Barnes,” you heard him say to the hostess at the stand.

“Says here you’d prefer the balcony view. Is that still correct?” the hostess inquired.

Your brows furrowed a little as you looked up at him. That sounded…Pricey. Exclusive. “Bucky…” you started to protest.

In the most polite way possible, he shushed you and spoke instead to the hostess. “Yes, please. Should you have anything available.” He gave you a sideways glance, one that silently read as ‘shut up and watch’. Watch what?

The hostess lead the two of you to a semi-private table on a balcony overlooking the city. It looked beautiful from this far away - so quiet and so peaceful. The air was crisp, but not at all too cold and the fireplace lit beside the table added a nice bit of coziness.

Bucky pulled your chair out and you took a seat after only a moment of hesitation. You weren’t used to this kind of treatment and couldn’t recall the last time a man ever gave this much of a shit about chivalry. He pushed you in close to the table and then seated himself politely across from you. That was just the thing wasn’t it? He was so polite.

The hostess left you two the wine menu and the prix-fixe menu detailing the night’s exclusive offerings before disappearing back inside the main restaurant. Outside, it was just you, Bucky, and one other couple seated several feet away. For the most part it was…Quiet. Peaceful. All except for the incessant pounding of your heart.

You picked up the wine menu, still trembling. He cocked an eyebrow as he glanced up at you over the top of his menu. “Why don’t you order a bottle, sweetheart? Seems like your nerves could use it.”

Your eyes flicked up from the tiny booklet, cheeks turning scarlet. “I’m not nervous,” you defended.

“Mmm…” he hummed, blue eyes focusing back on the menu. He was reading it for far too long for something so short. It seemed maybe he was nervous too.

“Mmm what?” you asked, setting the wine menu down and then mirroring his prior expression - cocked brow and a sharp gaze.

He didn’t look back up at you as he answered. “You’re awfully shaky. It’s like you’ve never had a real man take you on a proper date.”

You scoffed. “I’ve been on plenty of proper dates.”

He chuckled. “Doll, Olive Garden doesn’t count and neither does splitting the check.”

Your cheeks continued to bloom red. “In my defense, I’m a broke college student. We all are.” You bit your bottom lip as your eyes flicked down towards the prix-fixe menu.

Bucky finally set his own menu aside and leaned forward, his large, warm palms finding your forearms and resting there. You looked up. His gaze was almost too much and not enough in the same breath. “And that’s why we’re here tonight,” he said, voice low again in that tone that sent heat pooling straight between your thighs. Shamefully.

“So that I can show you how a real man treats a lady.”

You swallowed hard, eyes flicking down towards his hands and the only thing you could think of was how he could easily hold both your wrists above your head with no issue. Back pressed to the wall. His lips on yours. Fuck, where was your goddamn mind at?

He smirked. “Doll, where’s your head at?” Like you were an open book and he was reading it faster than you could write it.

You about choked. You cleared your throat. “Nothin’ just…You’re right. You’re right, I’ve never been on a proper date,” you mumbled, still avoiding contact with those beautiful blues that had you feeling like you were losing your mind - which, in your defense, you sort of were.

To your relief, your waitress for the night appeared to take your drink orders. For him, it was a glass of scotch. For you, it was a bottle of rosé because he’d insisted. She ran you two quickly through the courses on the menu before whisking away to work on the drink orders. And then there was an awkward silence that fell between the two of you. Him staring at you and you fidgeting with the bottom hem of your cocktail dress like if you rubbed the ruby fabric enough times it would send you home.

“You’re staring,” you muttered, deciding it was time to say something. Anything.

He laughed. “People tell me I’ve got a problem with it,” he said, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms over his chest. You could feel his gaze boring into you. It was like you could sense he was on the verge of saying something but wasn’t sure if it was appropriate.

Hell, was any of this appropriate at all? Probably not. The age gap screamed very much not. But, part of you really wanted this. The older man. The experience. Someone who knew what the fuck they were doing.

“So, why are you trying to hook up with your best friend’s father?” His voice cut through your thoughts - the dreaded question that you’d been waiting for him to ask.

You blinked. “I’m sorry?” You tried to play dumb.

He smirked again. A slight tug at the corner of his lips but it was there. “You heard me, doll,” he said, voice dripping sinful honey that had your tongue feeling too big for your mouth and your thoughts racing beyond a speed you could comprehend.

“I…I…I didn’t…I didn’t know it was you,” you choked out.

Bucky’s expression turned puzzled. “You didn’t know it was me?” He almost sounded offended. Well, at least the night had gone halfway perfect.

You sighed. “I was just…I was buzzed. Okay, maybe a little drunk…”

“Uh huh…”

“And I…Well…I just texted a bunch of numbers hoping someone would answer…”

He hummed, expression still puzzled like he wasn’t quite sure what to make of your confession. His voice was…Concerned, though. As he spoke again, “Why are you drunk at ten in the damn morning and texting men who you don’t even know who they are?”

And then it all came crumbling down and the only thing left to do was pray your mascara was going to hold on tight. “Brad…I…I caught Brad cheating on me last week…” you said quietly, your eyes beginning to water. You fanned yourself with the menu, hoping you could hold it together and not seem like an absolute mess.

Bucky’s expression softened. All he could do was reach out across the table, palms up and inviting your own to meet his. Slowly, you set the menu down and placed your palms in his. Once again, his hands were twice the size of yours, practically swallowing them whole as he held them firm and gentle.

You sniffled, a tear falling down one cheek and then the other. Oh great. The waterworks. How lovely. But…He didn’t seem to mind. In fact, he pulled one hand away, grabbed the linen napkin from across his lap, and brought it up to gently dab the tears away.

“Doll…” he started slowly, softly. “That doesn’t mean you go searching for answers at the bottom of a bottle and texting men who aren’t any better for you than him…”

As if on cue, the waitress brings back your bottle of wine in a bucket filled with ice. She places a glass on the table, thin and dainty and made for sparkling wines. She popped open the bottle and poured your first glass to a perfect height. “Enjoy. The first course will come out shortly,” she said, leaving Bucky’s scotch at the end of the table before whisking off again.

Once she was gone, you blinked. “But…But you’re better than him.”

He laughed as he swirled the scotch around in the beveled crystal - amused. “Oh, I know I am. But what if one of those other boys had responded, hmm? Where would you be at now?”

You sighed. Not at a fancy dinner, that’s for sure. Probably getting drunk in your apartment and letting Jake from Hinge hit it from the back. And this was far better than that.

“That’s what I thought,” he said, voice breaking through your loud, mess of a mind. “Now, let me show you how a real man should treat you, okay? I don’t want to see you hurt like this, doll. You’re too good for that.”

And so, you sat across from him and let Becca’s dad, Bucky Barnes, show you how wining and dining really worked. You let him lead the pleasant conversation. He complimented you tastefully, reaching across the table to brush a hand across your cheek but not daring to move an inch lower. His gaze was respectable, kind. The warmth of the rosé was flowing through your veins and while you tried to flirt with him, he was always so polite. So reserved.

When it came time for dessert, a stunning display of comforting bananas foster, you two had decided to share the course. His spoon would clink against yours occasionally, a red flush covering your cheeks and your heart doing somersaults like a high school girl on a first date.

You hadn’t even noticed, but some of the caramel sauce that had come atop the ice cream was dribbling down your chin after a misguided, wine-drunk bite. He was quick to the rescue before it soiled your ruby dress.

He carefully leaned across the table, napkin outstretched in his hand as he very gingerly wiped the caramel from the corner of your mouth with a gentle smile upon his lips. “Careful there. Wouldn’t want you ruining that pretty little dress.” You felt like you could swoon, like your eyes would turn to hearts at any given second.

Bucky hovered there for a moment, over the table, hand outstretched and his face just close enough to smell the warm scotch and the sweet caramel on his breath. Your eyes flicked down to his lips and then back up to those piercing blue eyes that you swore would be the death of you.

You watched as his eyes mirrored yours now, flicking down once and then up almost too quick to catch. But then he was retreating, sitting back in his chair and quickly throwing up his hand as the waitress passed by. “Check please, ma’am?”

Bucky drove you home. He made sure to shield you again from prying eyes, although you caught it this time when he glanced down once to see the curve of your ass peek out from beneath your dress as you lowered yourself into his car.

He walked you up to the door, taking you by one hand and leading your waist with the other as you were very clearly drunk. Once you got to the door, you fumbled in your clutch for your keys, fingers trembling and causing you to drop them onto the welcome mat.

You moved to stoop down, but he stopped you with a chuckle. “Sweetheart, if you bend down right now, I’m not gettin’ ya back up off that concrete.” Yeah, he probably had a point there.

He bent down and grabbed the key - and, as he stood, his shoulder brushed against your arm and your breath hitched. Bucky’s eyes met yours, inches away from your face, and he took the key and pressed into your palm with a close-lipped smile. “Careful, doll.”

You felt like a deer caught in headlights for a good fifteen seconds, although those seconds felt like years. You blinked and then turned your attention back to the lock.

The world was spinning as you lined the key up and pushed it in, turning it over with a thump that nearly echoed the frantic pulse of your heart in your ears. You pushed the door open and he stuck one foot in to follow before you turned around, shocked.

He tilted his head. “Relax, sweetheart. I’m just makin’ sure you make it past the threshold. Honest,” he said with a light chuckle.

And you let him. You let Bucky Barnes walk you to your couch and sit you down. You watched as he kneeled in front of you and very carefully guided your heels off your blistered feet - in your defense, you didn’t wear heels often.

Bucky fluffed up one of your decorative pillows that had seen better days, and then gently helped you lay down. The ceiling was swirling around and around, and in the same breath it felt like your body was on a boat rocking back and forth. You squeezed your eyes shut, feeling ten seconds away from turning green.

The next thing you felt was the weight of his sport coat as he laid it across you, a makeshift blanket to ensure you didn’t go cold - or, a cruel souvenir for you to remember him by. For you to stare at every day from now on and think about his face. The way he bit his lip if he stared you up and down for a moment too long. The way you could feel his lips linger, dying to leave a kiss on your cheek, but then retreating cowardly.

“I gotta leave, doll,” you hear him say through the fog. “Next time, call me.”

And the click of the door closing behind him was the very last thing you heard before you blacked out.

The grey morning light is what woke you, streaming in through the sliding glass door all cheery and bright as if you weren’t currently crawling your way out of rock bottom. You groaned, the weight of his sport coat still on your body. The scent of him lingered there on the woven fabric. Sharp, woodsy, masculine. Driftwood and gunmetal.

You slowly sat up, bringing the collar of the coat to your face and inhaling deeply. Had you not had this tangible piece of evidence, you would have thought the prior night was nothing more than a drunken dream fueled by a bottle of Malibu.

You saw your clutch placed on the coffee table and you opened it, pulling your phone out. No new texts. You sighed.

You moved to start the routine you’d gotten in the habit of the over the last week. Tylenol, number one. Shower, second. Booze, third. Except, as your head pounded and your stomach growled with the craving of something other than liquor, you could hear Bucky’s voice in the back of your head. The one telling you not to drown your feelings in a bottle. The one telling you to call him.

So, you put the bottle of vodka down and picked up your phone instead. You tapped on his contact, which you made sure to actually label that morning, and called him. Your heart was beating a mile a minute as you waited for him to pick up…

No answer.

You huffed and threw your phone down onto the table. Not like you expected an answer anyway. Just then, you heard a knock at the front door. Brows furrowed in confusion, you quietly padded over and peeked through the peep hole. All you saw was a rather stout man holding what had to be an entire bush of bright red roses.

You opened the door and the man set the bunch of roses down on the ground. They were in their own little golden vase, fanned out and pretty for display. “Got a delivery here from a Mr. Barnes,” the man said with a smile, reaching into his jacket pocket and pulling out an envelope. “Enjoy your morning, miss.”

You ran your fingertips across the heavy weight of the cardstock envelope, a gold wax seal holding closed all its secrets. You hauled the roses inside before sitting at your kitchen table and fumbling with the envelope as your fingers trembled.

You slipped out a short letter, hand-written with a good pen, paper, and ink. Thoughtful.

Doll, I hope you enjoyed yourself last night. Take care and I’ll see you tonight at 8:00 P.M. You don’t need to be fancy, and you know the address.

Your heart stopped dead in your chest for what felt like minutes, but in reality it was only a second or two. Your head was reeling now. Why did he want to meet you at his house? Your best friend’s house? Was she even going to be gone this evening?

You quickly checked your texts. Becca had been fairly MIA for her finals, which tracked considering she took her schooling so seriously. You scrolled up, glanced at the date on your calendar, and then your cheeks flushed crimson. Becca would be gone. Most of the night, actually. Her boyfriend, Cole, had his last baseball game of the school season and it didn’t start until seven.

Was he inviting you over for…? No. No, he couldn’t be. Even with the tension between you two the night before, you knew Bucky. You knew he wasn’t like that. You knew he didn’t think of you like that. Not at all.

As you folded the letter back up and tucked it neatly inside its envelope, you turned to take in the magnificent sight of the multiple dozens of roses that were bloomed as red as your cheeks as they sat there on the kitchen counter like a neon invitation. An invitation to see how far you could push Mr. Barnes that evening.

The house wasn’t anything special. A quaint little brownstone in Brooklyn that screamed home sweet home in the midst of corporate chaos and brightly lit billboards that never slept. The street was quiet, lined with old street lamps that gave it a sort of charm that felt captured in a different time.

You knocked at the deep red door, nervous as you tugged your coat in tight around you. You heard the deadbolt unlatch and then the door creaked open. There was Bucky, in blue jeans and a blue Henley with his hair messier than the night before - he looked much more lived-in and casual and less like a posh Ken doll fresh from the box.

“Come on in,” he invited warmly with a smile, stepping aside.

You gave him a curt, polite nod and a mirrored smile as you ascended the last two steps and crossed over the threshold. You were immediately greeted by the sobering smell of coffee brewing, and the sound of the TV playing the local news at a low volume. You jumped slightly when you felt his hand rest against the small of your back as he came around your left flank. “Can I offer you some coffee?” he asked, glancing down at you with irises that reminded you of endless blue skies on a clear June afternoon.

You glanced nervously between him and the television a few times before you decided you were much too jittery to drink any level of caffeine - so, you declined. “No, thanks,” you said quietly.

Your eyes widened as he moved to take your coat off for you. A red-hot blush flooded your cold cheeks with crimson as his hands brushed along your arms - the cool autumn air didn’t stand a snowball’s chance in hell against the heat of your own embarrassment. “O-Oh I-“ you stuttered, watching as he placed your coat on the rack just beside the door.

“I believe the word you’re looking for is ‘thank you’?” Bucky quipped teasingly, beckoning for you to follow him into the kitchen.

You followed, leaning against the kitchen island while he poured himself a cup of coffee into one of those cheesy ‘World’s #1 Dad’ mugs. He leaned back against the dark granite countertop across from you, eyes flicking up to meet yours over the brim of his mug as he took a sip of the piping hot liquid.

You cocked an eyebrow. “I’m assuming you didn’t summon me here with a bush of roses just for me to watch you drink coffee,” you said, breaking the tensioned silence that had fallen between you.

He laughed a little, setting the mug to the side. “Guilty as charged,” he said, half-heartedly throwing up his hands before his expression shifted to something more serious.

“I asked you over because I wanted to tell you, in person, that this-“ he gestured from himself to you “-cannot be a…A thing.” His tongue darted out to wet his lips and his jaw ticked, clearly nervous.

You laughed. “Bucky, this was never meant to be a thing,” you said, mirroring him as he crossed his arms over his chest. You got the feeling he was backpedaling, like he realized something at the restaurant the night before and was now trying to build a wall to keep it out. “I was looking for a hookup, not a boyfriend.”

“Well, maybe since you’ve seen how a proper man treats a lady, perhaps you’ll rethink that.”

“I’m really not ready to get back in the dating scene…”

“Then wait.”

You paused. This was your life. Not his. Why in the hell did he care so much? “What’s it matter to you if I wait or not?”

His jaw ticked and his eyes briefly darted to the side, fixating on a point in space you couldn’t quite locate. “I don’t want you playing with fire so much you burn yourself,” he muttered, gaze going downtrodden.

“Why do you care?”

“Seeing you hurt, hurts me.”

“And why do you care that fucking much?”

Your question lands on him like a bullet to the chest. He picks up his coffee, mug trembling a little, and takes a sip like it’ll magically cure the ache in his chest. “It’s what Steve would have wanted me to encourage you to do.”

You sighed. Steve was your father, a military vet and close friend of Bucky’s who’d been killed in action many moons ago. You only found out about their connection to each after about a year of being close friends with Becca - at your high school graduation when Bucky gifted you a letter your father had left for you.

“He isn’t here and he doesn’t get to dictate what I do,” you mumbled, avoiding his gaze because it’d only remind you that he was doing this to isolate himself.

“But I can still try to fulfill his wishes,” Bucky said, taking a couple steps forward and inserting himself into the awkward little bubble you’d built. It felt like he was taking up too much personal space but not enough at the same time.

Your breath hitched as he reached forward and pressed his metal palm to your cheek, something cold and shocking against the constant flush that reddened your skin. “And it’s so I no longer want what I can’t have.”

Your heart was pounding. You. He meant you. You were what he couldn’t have. You were the guilty pleasure, the reason he probably answered your text in the first place. And you were right - he was trying to build a wall. A wall between your heart and his.

You nuzzled against his palm, eyes fluttering shut. The touch felt holy. “What if I want it too?” you whispered, opening your eyes and looking up at him. “What about my own wishes?”

“It’s not the right thing to do…”

“I don’t want to do the right thing, Bucky!” you exclaimed, frustrated. You pushed yourself off the counter, standing closer to him now - almost chest to chest. “You don’t understand that all I want right now is something wrong! I want to feel something, Bucky. Anything. Anything other than this pain.” Your voice was beginning to crack and those beautiful blues of his were starting to well up with tears.

“I…” Bucky’s hand lingered on your cheek. You could tell by the way his fingers twitched that he was thinking. That he was trying to figure out if he had the strength to go against his own morals. “I…I can’t…”

You reached up and cupped his stubbled cheek with your own palm, thumb running along the plane of his cheekbone. “You can.”

He looked like he was about to break, about to shatter completely. The tension was thick enough to feel, heavy and suffocating. His eyes flicked from yours and down to your lips. Back up to your eyes. Back down to your lips. “This isn’t a good idea…” he murmured, leaning in close enough now that you could smell the mix of coffee and whiskey and mint on his breath.

You took a shuddering breath, eyes closing again because you couldn’t stand the weight of his gaze. “I don’t want it to be good. I just want to feel…” you breathed, shaky hand coming to rest against his muscled chest. “I just want to feel you.”

You could see it in the way his jaw ticked - you could feel it in the way he wasn’t sure if your hand burned him or comforted him. Bucky was trying so hard to resist the temptation in front of him. “Please, doll…I can’t,” he pleaded brokenly, but it was weak and he made no attempt to pull away from your touch.

You leaned up, nose nudging his and lips so close to brushing as you murmured, “Then why are you still here?”

It could be heard in his chest, something deep and guttural and longing all pulled together into a groan he couldn’t hold back. And suddenly, both of his hands were holding your face - one metal, one flesh. The way his lips smashed into yours would be forever imprinted in your mind. You could only imagine how long he’d waited to have this. To have you.

The kiss was everything - teeth, tongue, breath, and heat. He nipped playfully at your bottom lip and you growled, which elicited a deep chuckle you’d never heard before - amused and pleased. His tongue explored your mouth like it was trying to map it, and yours did the very same to his. Nothing about this was normal. But you didn’t want it to be.

When he broke the kiss, it was only because one of you needed to fucking breathe or you’d both be dead on the floor. Panting, he whispered, “Is that what you wanted?”

You nodded wordlessly and pulled him right back in, trying to drown him under the weight of how much you craved him. His hands found your hips and gripped at the soft flesh, picking you up like you weighed nothing and perching you atop the granite.

His flesh hand snaked its way up your blouse, unclasping your bra with a practiced ease that shouldn’t have turned you on but it did. He pulled the garment off and tossed it on the kitchen floor, the silk of your blouse cascading in cool puddles across your tits. You shivered, only cold for a moment before his palm was kneading at the mounds of flesh like he’d been dreaming of how good they’d feel.

You moaned out, breaking the kiss as you tossed your head back when his thumb and forefinger began to tease and roll your nipple between calloused skin. “Fuck,” you groaned, hands scrambling from purchase at the edge of the countertop.

You barely had time to react before Bucky was ripping your blouse from your torso, a shocked gasp falling from your lips. “Bucky!” you scolded, but he remained unbothered and on a mission.

“I’ll buy you another one,” he muttered, stooping down and taking your neglected breast into his mouth as his hand continued to work the other.

The feel of his hot, wet mouth and tongue across your nipple was enough to have you keening up off the counter and further into his touch. It felt so fucking good that you were convinced you’d cum just from the way he worshipped your tits.

He pulled back, lips glistening with saliva and pupils blown as he glanced up at you. He looked feral - hungry and ready to feast. You watched as he dropped to his knees and rucked up your pencil skirt to reveal the lacy panties that clung to your dripping wet core.

“This what I do to ya, doll?” he breathed, practically drooling at the smell of your arousal as it assaulted his senses. He just needed to taste you. Devour you.

You whimpered and nodded. “Y-Yes,” you nearly whispered, brain short-circuiting as you felt his fingers hook in the waistband of your panties and peel them away.

He watched, mesmerized by how your glistening folds clung to the lace, groaning as he could now see how drenched and pretty you were for him. He tossed the panties somewhere in the same direction as your bra, and then his hands were prying you open to make way for his head as he leaned in and licked a slow, warm stripe straight up the center of your heat.

You felt your toes curls and your back bow a little as the tip of his tongue traced devastating circles around your clit before diving back down and straight past your entrance.

“Bucky!” you gasped out, head thrown back as your hands found purchase in that gorgeous salt-and-pepper mane of his. “Fuck-“ you groaned, listening as the sounds he made were so obscene they had you blushing. Licking, slurping, sucking…He was like a man starved and you were the best damn meal he could’ve been served.

Bucky hummed against your core, sending vibrations straight through your clit as his lips closed around the sensitive bud and began to suck. You were already trembling from the overload of pleasure, but that wasn’t enough for him. No, he needed you screaming for his mercy.

You felt as he teased your entrance with his forefinger, just barely pushing it in and then retreating. Nothing he could’ve done in that moment would have prepared you for when he plunged two fingers deep inside you and curled them with such ease it was almost second nature.

You could feel yourself clench around his digits with his name on your lips as you let out a whorish moan. Between his mouth and tongue working your clit and his fingers quite literally beckoning you to cum for him, you were in pure, blissful heaven.

That burning coil in the pit of your stomach began to wind tighter and tighter, and he could tell. He hummed in approval, fingers bullying into your g-spot now with a precision that was, frankly, unfair.

“C’mon, doll,” he urged as he lapped at your clit. “Cum f’me. Lemme have it all…” The way his voice was so deep, so smooth…It was like silk over gravel. And it had you coming undone the second he begged for you like that.

Your body arched forward as you moaned his name, nails digging into his scalp as your toes curled and your entire body felt like it was trying to levitate off the damn counter. But he didn’t stop - even as you pulsed and gushed around him, he kept on fucking going.

“B-Bucky,” you whimpered out as it was bordering on overstimulation. “B-Buck please…” You were pleading with a man who was too damn happy with where he was. If you’d let him, he’d live there between your thighs and die a very satisfied man.

“One more f’me…Please,” he begged softly, warm breath ghosting across your core before he dove back in and began sucking at your clit again.

You could feel tears blurring the edges of your vision, and you weren’t even sure if your first orgasm had ended before the second begun - but, you still felt it all the same. The overwhelming tidal wave of bliss that caused your body to clench around his fingers like your cunt was trying to trap him there. You let out something between a moan and a sob, grip faltering on his hair as your body collapsed back against the shockingly cold granite.

Your head was spinning, vision blurred and hearing muffled. You weren’t sure you’d ever cum so hard in your whole goddamn life.

“So, so good f’me, doll,” you heard him praise you through the haze. He slowly pulled his fingers out, your dripping cunt fluttering around nothing at the absence of him. He gladly lapped at the slick release you’d rewarded him with, earning a very fucked-out groan from you. “Tastes like heaven and ya sound like it too when you’re cummin’ f’me like that,” he drawled, getting to his feet.

As he rose, you could see just how hard he was against the stiff denim of his jeans, and that only filled you with a new wave of want - of craving.

A smirk tugged at the edges of his lips when he noticed you were staring - not that you were trying to stare, it was just there. “Not right here, doll,” he murmured like he could read your mind, a finger hooking under your chin and gently bringing your lips up to his as he kissed you with the remnants of your release still glistening on his skin. The taste of you and him combined was intoxicating, a drug that you only wanted more of…

But then he was pulling away and you were left pouting. “Hey, don’t you pull that with me,” he teased, pressing a chaste peck to your forehead before you found yourself being lifted into his arms - bridal style - like you weighed no more than a feather. “You’ll get what you want. Just gotta be patient, sweetheart.”

The sickly sweet kindness in his smile was almost cruel in this scenario, but you silently snaked your arms around his neck as he carried you through the narrow foyer and up the short staircase to the second floor. The house wasn’t cramped, necessarily. But, with him carrying you through the tight halls, it felt rather cozy with just the two of you alone.

His foot nudged the door open to the master bedroom, old brass hinges creaking softly. You found yourself being laid so gingerly onto the mattress you could almost feel the tears welling again in your eyes. He treated you like something special, something fragile. It made your heart swell a little.

“May I?” he asked, nodding to your skirt. It was your last remaining article of clothing. You nodded back in permission, cheeks flushed crimson in the low lamplight that streamed through the window and illuminated everything in a heavenly, golden glow.

Bucky shimmied your skirt gently down your legs and tossed it aside before he made zero show about stripping down himself - but, it was a delicious sight to you all the same.

Watching as the layers of clothing were peeled away, revealing nothing but rippling muscles and silvery scars. The scar where metal met man was particularly bad, but still beautiful it’s own devastating rite. His dress shirt the night before hadn’t left much to your imagination, but even then, this was far beyond what your mind had conjured - he had the appearance that God himself carved him from the finest marble. An aged artwork that only grew finer with the weather and the years.

“You’re staring again,” he murmured lowly, crawling over top of your body and caging you in with solid forearms and beefy biceps you swore one day you’d take a bite of.

Heat rushed across your cheeks and you brought your hands up to rest against his biceps, fingers gripping flesh one side and brushing across whirring metal plates on the other. “I’m just admiring what you’ve been keeping from me,” you whispered.

“Well, it’s not polite to stare, doll,” he said, dipping down so your lips were brushing dangerously close.

“It’s not polite to keep a girl waiting,” you quipped back, feeling your breath hitch a little just feeling his bare chest pressed so intimately to your own.

“See? You’re learning,” he chuckled softly, ducking down and beginning to kiss and suck at the suppleness of your neck. “Good girl,” you heard him mumble against your skin.

You arched up into his feather-light touch, lips trailing from neck to collarbone to breasts to torso as soft purple bruises began to bloom in his wake. And then he was sitting back on his knees and you took another unashamed moment to fully appreciate him. To admire his cock, impossibly hard and gorgeously flushed, leaking precum like he’d been edged for hours.

He opened his mouth and you interrupted him. “Yeah, yeah. Staring again. I get it, Barnes. Just let me eye-fuck you, yeah?” you muttered, and that got an actual laugh from him.

Reaching his flesh hand down, he gripped himself at the base and started to stroke his aching length. “You like what you see?” he breathed, angling his hips a little so his precum dripped along your thighs like a sinful, pearlescent trail that lead to your core. “You imagining what it can do to ya, doll?”

You nodded, more than eager. “Wanna feel it inside me…Please,” you pleaded, practically drooling as you watched him rub the head of his cock through your slick folds. “Please…”

“Mmm…Please who?” he asked, gaze flicking up to your face as it was contorted in desperation for him.

It took you a split second to think about what he might’ve been asking. And then it popped into your mind and you couldn’t help but giggle a little. “You’re a dirty man, Barnes,” you purred, only to feel the grip of metal meet your throat. Your eyes went wide.

“I asked you a question,” he growled, and the gravelly rumble of his voice went straight to your cunt as your walls fluttered around nothing.

“Yes, Sergeant,” you said, pushing your throat up further into his hand and smirking.

Bucky groaned, swearing in the back of his mind that you were going to be the death of him. He squeezed at your throat one last time before posting the same vibranium palm right beside your head. “That’s right, doll,” he muttered, and your eyes nearly rolled to the back of your skull as you felt him begin to push inside you.

The stretch burned, but the way he so perfectly filled and dominated every inch of space was immaculate - let alone the way you could feel every pulsing vein and soft ridge brushing along your walls as he eased in inch by brutal inch. He paused about halfway, concerned by how your features were twisted. “Doin’ okay there, doll?” he asked, flesh hand coming up to cup your cheek. The way his thumb ran along the high plane of your cheekbone was tender, loving.

You nodded, gazing up at him through half-lidded eyes and wet eyelashes. “More than fucking okay,” you managed to choke out with a small laugh. It was hard to put into words just how good he felt buried so deep inside you that you swore he was pushing the very oxygen from your lungs.

Bucky let out a soft grunt once he was fully sheathed, already appearing wrecked. “Fuck, doll,” he breathed, nearly panting as his forehead dropped to your shoulder. “So fuckin’ tight, ya know that? Squeezin’ me…Milkin’ me dry already and I haven’t even started…” He let out a small, breathless chuckle.

You let out a laugh just as breathless as his. “Sounds like you’re not gonna last very long, old man,” you jeered playfully.

His cheeks flushed bright red, but he didn’t reply. He only slowly began to pull out, groaning raggedly as he felt the way his cock dragged along your walls - the way your body was actively trying to pull him back and keep him in.

He pulled out nearly all the way and then pushed himself back in all at once. You moaned so loudly when he bottomed out that you were certain the neighbors three doors down heard you. And that wasn’t the last time they would, unfortunate enough as it was for them. Because he pulled out and then pushed back into you again, forcing the same exact whorish moan past your lips before you could catch it.

“You like what I do to ya, doll? Like when I give it all to ya? When I bury my cock so deep ya feel it here?” he drawled, a smug little smirk tugging at his lips as his flesh hand pressed down against a small bulge in your lower abdomen and you just about levitated off the goddamn bed.

The pace he set was steady and calculated. One that allowed for him to achieve the same depth of penetration each and every time - the same devastating attention to making sure he hit all the right spots. It wasn’t brutal because it was fast - no, it was brutal because he took his time and holy fuck it was a borderline religious experience.

It felt as though you had no idea where your body ended and his begun as he rucked your legs up over his shoulders and you found yourself with nails raking down his back as your ankles were pushed back damn near close to the sides of your head. The position was passionate, intimate. Sweat began to pool where your bodies were melded, chest to chest and forehead to shoulder. You couldn’t help the way you moaned his name, and he couldn’t help the way he panted yours like he was begging for mercy.

“Takin’ me s’well…Atta girl,” he breathed out, his praises sending sparks of red-hot pleasure straight to your cunt. “Gonna fill ya up, doll…Claim ya…Make ya mine like I shoulda done a long time ago…”

You whimpered at his words, nails digging crescents into the tops of his shoulders as you clung on for dear life. “B-Bucky~” you moaned out weakly, head fuzzy as your mind was actively being fucked stupid. “Please…” you begged, pulling at him and trying to encourage him to go faster. Harder.

“You sure, doll?”

“If you don’t fuck me into this goddamn mattress-“

He cut you off with a sharp snap of his hips. Then another. And another. You could feel the head of his cock bullying into that soft, spongy spot inside you and you cried out. “Yes! Yes! Yes!” you exclaimed with each thrust, eyes lolling shut and your head hitting the pillow as the pleasure began conjuring stars across your vision.

Bucky groaned, something deep, guttural, and primal - something you hadn’t expected from someone who seemed so…Quiet. “It’s like you were made f’me, doll,” he whimpered, his rhythm beginning to falter. “Ya gonna cum f’me? Can feel ya grippin’ me…Know you’re close, sweetheart. Need ya to give it to me…”

He was begging for you in the same way someone would pray for forgiveness - reverent and wrecked and desperate. You could feel that coil in your lower abdomen tightening, pulling taut until your orgasm snapped through your body unyielding and violent.

“B-Bucky! A-Ah~!” you barely managed to squeak out as you felt your spine arch off the mattress and your body seize beyond your control. He groaned again as your cunt clenched down around him, and you could feel as he began to throb and pulse ropes of white, hot cum inside you at the exact same time.

“Shit-“ he grunted out, stilling inside you and partially collapsing his weight on top of you as his chest heaved and gleamed with sweat.

Your head was fuzzy, warm. The afterglow rolled over your body like something soft and comforting - floaty like you were resting on a cloud of your own pleasure. “Mmm…Bucky?” you asked, trying to catch your breath.

“Yeah?” he murmured.

“Is that how a man should fuck me proper?”

He laughed, turning his head to pepper soft kisses on your cheek. “Yeah, doll. I’d say so.”

He slowly pulled out and then flopped onto the bed beside you. The loss of him inside you felt almost great enough to mourn, but his strong arms wrapping around you and pulling you close quickly filled that void. “And now I’ve ruined you for all the boys,” he teased, kissing your forehead before gathering you in close to his chest - he was like a furnace, and he held you like his greatest treasure.

You giggled. “S’okay,” you mumbled against his skin, lazily tangling your legs with his. “‘M yours now anyway.”

A sixth one comes through, your phone buzzing angrily. You roll your eyes, and for a long second you seriously consider drowning the damn thing in the abandoned beer glass next to you.

He doesn’t get to call you, like you’re some wandering child. He doesn’t get to get angry about you being out, when he’s the reason you’re here in the first place. And you told Sam to tell him that you’d be here. So really, this is Dean’s fault, then Sam’s, then yours.

The call goes to voicemail. You flip the screen back over, and take a long drink. If it’s really that big a deal that you’re out without him, he can put on his pants and come get you himself.

And he won’t. And that’s part of the problem.

Dean’s going to lecture you about safety when you crawl back in the morning, and you’re going to roll your eyes. He’ll ask you if you think something’s funny, sweetheart? You look him dead in his pretty eyes and say I don’t know, is it? He’ll get angrier. You’ll get angrier. Sam will try to mediate, and you’ll throw something at him before stomping off. Dean will chase after you, and wrestle you back into the room while calling you a brat.

When you get tossed down on the mattress, you’ll sink your nails into his shoulder, because you do every time. You want to drag him down with you, to make him feel this the same way you always have.

To big, too much. Too soft in all the wrong places, and too spiked everywhere else. There’s a sharp, angry shell around your heart that’s grown like an exoskeleton. It’s got wires and teeth that snap, whenever Dean gives you a little too much attention. You can never tell if it’s trying to eat him or latch onto him anymore. You don’t think it really matters.

Dean hates you. He thinks you hate him. He’s going to grab your knees and pin them to your chest, and you’re going to be the only woman in the world who he doesn’t notice flush against him. He’ll hiss that you can’t just go running around alone. That it’s not like you, to be reckless. You spit a fuck you, his grip will get tight, and he’ll shove you away to go take one of his long showers.

Sam will tell you to stop testing him. You’ll tell Sam to eat himself, and go back to sulking like a child in the corner.

Only Dean can do that to you. You hate and love him for it.

When you met—on a hunt that didn’t matter, until it did—he made you all giggly and dumb. Years of training and a mind that could never slow down, turned to goo from one roughish, lazy smile.

“You like trouble?” He’d asked you, trying even then to talk you out of a hunt.

“No. No one likes trouble.”

Dean had chuckled. “I don’t know about that, sweetheart. Most girls like you love it.”

You’d snorted. “Girls like me? What’s a girl like me?”

“Gorgeous.” He’d smirked, like he’d been dying for you to ask. “Smart. Mouthy-“

“Mouthy?” You’d cut him off, rolling your eyes. “Are you from the 60s?”

“No. But you’re provin’ my point.”

“You didn’t have a point. You were just trying to sleep with me.”

Dean had raised his hands in mock surrender. “Guilty. But- Is it working-“

“No.”

It had been. If Sam hadn’t come back to the car two seconds later, you would’ve climbed into Dean’s lap like a whore. Which wasn’t what you were. It wasn’t what you did. Sex with a half-stranger, sex in general, you didn’t toss your body around easily. You’d never been able to do the removing emotions part of casual sex. You’d always managed to come up with a million reasons not to, most of them looking something like have a hookup, get pregnant, the father’s already gone, the baby’s born with cancer, you love it anyway and it dies in your arms, if you’d been more responsible the baby would’ve solved climate change, everyone dies in a fiery explosion.

But you’d looked at Dean, and seen no death or path out that didn’t end in light. He’d grabbed your thigh in the dark of the car, and you’d flushed and smiled to yourself like a schoolgirl.

“You wanna know my middle name?” He’d whispered to you, later that night.

“That’s the worst pick up line I’ve ever heard-“

“It’s not a pick up line! I’m askin’ you a question-“

“But it’s going to turn into a pickup line.” You’d said flatly, and Dean had given you a boyish smile that almost made you forget that he was covered in vampire blood.

“You already know me so well,” he’d cooed, and you’d snorted.

“You’re predictable.”

“So you’re never gonna wonder what I’m thinking.”

You’d shoved his face away with a hand, still giggling. This was usually the point in a hunt where you started thinking about what came next. How long you had to get out of town, how much food you’d need to eat now before you got to your next stop—if you eat too much, you’re going to overstuff and get sick, if you don’t eat enough you’re going to be weak and pass out behind the wheel and cause a fifty car pile-up—and if there are any strings you needed to wrap up on the case.

But Dean had been smiling at you. And that had felt like the only thing that mattered.

“C’mon, ask me what my middle name is-“

You’d covered his mouth with a hand, shooting him a stern glare. His eyes had gleamed with affection, and something deeper you try not to think about now. It hurts too much. It makes you mourn for something that was never even yours to have.

“Only so you shut up,” you’d whispered. “What’s your middle name.”

You’d dropped your hand, and Dean had touched his lips like he was in some telenovela. You’d fought a smile. You’d never known someone could be so handsome it made your heart ache, and so cute you thought you’d explode.

He’d puffed out his chest, and grinned at you like he won the lottery.

“It’s Trouble-“

“It’s Adam.” Sam had called from the table. Dean had looked at  him like he’d just murdered a puppy, and you’d laughed so hard you almost fell off the bed.

And you’d thought something was growing. You’d been a foolish girl, who thought the dorky, handsome hero in front of her would give chase, when she turned him down.,

If you could go back, you’d slap yourself in the face and tell you to get it together. Dean Winchester is Dean Winchester. You listen to the what the shadows whisper. You knew his reputation before he smiled at you in the low light of his car. You’re smart. Sam goes to you for research advice, you’ve come up with whole new ways to kill demons and trap angels. You fucking knew better, than to fall in love with Dean.

You should’ve known better.

You didn’t.

So you attached yourself to them like a little, leeching parasite. You followed them around, the Winchester’s shadow, and fell more in love with Dean, and got your heart broken every night when he slipped out of the bar with another woman on his arm.

You’d gotten mean. You’d started getting short with him, and he’d fueled the fire building in the cavity of your chest by being a dick. Suddenly you were too inexperienced for every hunt. Too young to be out alone—you’ve had that fight more times than you can count—or too tense and tightly wound to think clearly.

He’s the one who doesn’t think clearly. He’s the one who drinks himself to death after a hunt and has literally fucked monsters because he can’t be bothered to plan ahead. He drags you and Sam to towns because he’s got a good feeling about them. He tells you to just relax, princess, and you want to punch him in his stupid, pretty face.

But you still love him. You love him so much you think it’s going to kill you. And you keep that locked in the deepest chamber of your heart, because he never needs to know that you still get stupid and soft for him. If he finds out that the first time he tried to leave on a hunt without you, you almost started crying in the middle of the bunker kitchen, he’ll look at you like you’re crazy.

And you are crazy. You know that. You’re a fumbling, wild ball of worries and sneers, and Dean would never want a nagger. He’d never want a younger woman who acts like she knows better—even though you do—and who needs him to be perfectly attentive and affectionate every second of every day.

You’re in love with a man who hates you. And if you had to listen to him fuck that secretary through the wall all night, you were going to kill yourself on their bed.

So now you’re at this loud, disgusting bar, drinking something that you’re praying numbs the pain, and smiling so wide it hurts your face.

The abandoned beer’s owner came back. He’s a broad shouldered, smirking man with a clean cut face, and lighter hair. If you get a little more squint, he looks just like Dean. If you get a little more buzzed, he’ll sound like him too.

You hate causal sex. It doesn’t count if you’re pretending it’s Dean. It doesn’t count if it makes this stop hurting.

“What’s a pretty thing like you doin’ here?” The man drawls, leaning across the bar.

You giggle, and it sounds distant to your ears. “Drinking.”

“Yeah?” The man smirks. “You like drinkin’, doll?”

You shake your head, swinging your feet and spinning in the bar stool. The man raises his brows.

“You sure you don’t? You’re goin’ through that thing fast.”

“It tastes bad.” You wrinkle your nose. “Feels good.”

The man’s smile turns wolfish. Your phone starts to buzz again, and you glare at the screen before shutting it fully off.

“Boyfriend?” The man asks, and you shake your head.

“He wishes.”

No, he doesn’t.

That’s the problem.

And you keep flirting—if it can even be called that, because you mostly babble about hating the drink you got and hating Dean and loving the man’s drink because Dean likes that one too—and the man’s hands find their way to your lower back and thigh.

“Why don’t I help you forget about Dean?” He winks at you, and you shrug.

The world is mostly just blurred colors and lights now. Everything feels awfully light, in a way you’re not sure you like.

But you like forgetting about Dean more. So even though you want to tell this man that it’s impossible to forget about Dean, you’re also just lost enough to want help finding your way out.

“Okay.” You beam at him.

You make it to the parking lot—his arm around your waist, herding you like a lost lamb—before Dean ruins everything. He always ruins everything.

There’s a shout of your name, almost ripping through the hazy fog of your drunken mind. You were feet from the man’s car. Just a few more steps from having fun, which you’re bad at doing, but maybe if you practiced, Dean would like you more.

From the look on his face when you turn around, it might’ve actually made him like you less.

“I’ve been looking everywhere for you.” He marches across the lot with a scowl, hands balled into fists and gaze fixed solely on you. “I almost made Sammy file a missing persons report-“

“’M not missing.” You stick your tongue out at him. “’M right here. Stupid.”

You mutter the last word under your breath, and Dean freezes. He blinks slowly, gaze raking over your body. That’s not fair. It makes you feel all warm and puddley. Your core floods with heat, and your knees get weak, and he’s get looking at you.

Dean takes a half-step forward, his voice dropping low and rough. “Are you drunk?”

“No.”

There’s a larger gust of wind. Dean’s eyes gleam in the golden light of the parking lot. He looks a little like an angel. You trip standing up, then giggle when the man pulls you back up. Dean’s jaw drops, his brow knitting tight.

“You’re fuckin’ wasted.” He mutters, shaking his head. “Jesus, sweetheart- C’mon.” He steps forward, reaching out a hand. “Let’s go.”

“Nuh uh.” You pout, shaking you head. “I’m not drunk-“

“You’re standing like we’re on a freakin’ ship. Come on.” He flexes his hand, and you cross your arms over your chest.

He doesn’t get to win. “I’m having fun.”

“We can have fun back at the room-“

“The lady said she’s having fun.” The man next to you pulls you tighter into his side, fingers curling on your hip like a lock. “Screw off, pal. I got here first.”

And Dean recoils, looking at the man like he’s noticing him for the first time. You can’t read his expression in the low light, but it seems angry. Or just annoyed. Or indifferent. His jaw looks sharp and clenched. You want to lick it.

“Listen, bud.” Dean snaps, glaring down at the man. “This ain’t a who got here first thing. My girl’s drunk. I’m takin’ her home, or I’m punching you in the face.”

The man is silent for a moment. He and Dean glower at each other, and you frown between them. There’s something poking at your drink addled brain, but it’s spelling a word you can’t read. All you can really figure out is that they’re being weird.

“You Dean?” The man asks.

Dean’s eyes narrow. His shoulders square, the way they do before he’s about to swing at a demon. “Yeah. And?”

“Nothin’.” The man smirks. “Just… Thought you’d be God, based on how she was talkin’ about you. But,” he chuckles, tipping his chin. “You’re just a little bitch.”

Dean’s jaw ticks. You don’t need the lighting to figure out what he’s thinking now. You can almost feel it, rolling off of him in waves.

He’s pissed.

He looks the man up and down, and if he throws a punch, you know he won’t be the one who goes down. You’re drunk enough not to worry about the violence of it. All your useless thoughts can spin around is the idea of Dean fighting for you. Of his massive arms flexing as he knocks down the other man—who, the longer your Dean stands in front of you, looks less and less appealing—and scoops you into his arms like the princess he mocks you with being. Then he can wrap his arm around your head and fuck you against the hood of his car, until you’re drooling all over his cock.

You giggle at nothing, a unignorable heat pooling between your legs. Dean’s attention snaps back over, and you beam at him.

Something in his gaze shifts. He lets out a slow breath, and stretches out a hand.

“Let’s go, princess.” He beckons with two crooked fingers, and you almost stumble forwards. “We can watch whatever you want, alright? I’ll get you some of that ice cream you like, and- Sammy can watch with you, if you don’t want me around. Just-“ He sighs, running a hand over his face. “Get over here. Please.”

He sounds so tired. Tired and almost sad. Your feet move without your permission, and you reach to take his hand.

The man yanks you back, and you yelp.

“Remember what you told me, doll.” He drawls in your ear, loud enough for Dean to still hear. “Remember how he treats you.”

Dean scowls. “You stay out of this-“

“He doesn’t care.” The man ignores him. “You told me, he doesn’t love you.”

Dean opens his mouth, something stricken flashing over his features. You feel a little sick.

“C’mon. I got you.” The man rubs your hip, smiling gently. “Show him what he’s missing. He can bitch about it, alone all night while you get fucked real good.”

Dean’s face is a shade of red you’ve never seen before. He has an expression like someone just punched him in the gut.

And it’s not the fucking real good that steels you. It’s the reminder that Dean won’t be alone. He has his secretary. And you’re allowed to have your random bar man, and there’s nothing he can do about it.

Dean rasps your name. “Come here-“

“You come here.” You snap, and it’s meant to be a sharp, killing blow that makes him sigh and give up.

If you were a little less drunk, you would’ve known that was never going to work.

Dean’s throat bobs. He exhales like he’s going through the trials of Hercules, rather than arguing in a parking lot. He rubs his jaw, looks up to the sky like he’s praying, and chuckles. It’s dry and flat, but so deep and rough. You shiver at the sound, and almost fall right into him again.

“Alright.” Dean mutters, shaking out his arm. “Fine.”

He marches forward, clocks the man across the jaw, and throws you over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. It happens so fast your body is still catching up with it, by the time he’s halfway back to the car. You realize you should be thrashing and shouting when you hear the Impala door unlock. Your body doesn’t seem to want to cooperate though. Dean’s back is warm, and his hand is resting near your ass, and it’s making you putty for him to play with.

He did it so fast. He didn’t even break a sweat or give the man a chance to fight back, before he grabbed you. When he lowers you into shotgun, he does it so gently. Like even after getting on his nervous, you’re precious cargo. He brushes the hair from your face, hunched over as you settle into the bench.

You blink at him, still drunk and confused. Dean still has that strange look in his eyes, his lips parted as you just stare at each other. His hand lingers on your cheek. You lean into the touch, and his nostrils flare.

Across the parking lot, there’s a roar of his name.

Dean sighs, and stands up. He walks around the hood of the car, slides into the driver’s seat, and starts the car. You watch his fingers move like a starved woman. You want him to put them in your mouth, and you almost tell him when there’s a slam on his window.

The man is shouting at him, veins bulging and eyes bugging. He looks nothing like Dean now.

And Dean doesn’t even flinch. Doesn’t even look at him. He just puts the car in reverse and pulls out of the lot. If the man gives chase, you don’t see. You’re too busy staring at Dean.

The first half of the drive is silent. Low music plays on the radio, and you watch Dean in the moving light of the road. Long shadows and dim streetlamps make him look like he fell out of a dream. Your arms twitch to wrap around him. Your eyes are heavy, your head intoxicated by the rich, amber and smoke smell of his cologne. If you lay your head in his lap, you wonder if he’d shove you away.

“You weren’t actually gonna go with him.” Dean mutters suddenly, and you blink.

“Huh?”

“That douchebag.” His fingers flex on the wheel. “You weren’t gonna fuck him.”

You frown. Useless, exhausted tears prick at your eyes. You don’t even know where they’re coming from. Just that you feel small, and you’re tired, and Dean’s dragging you back to the motel just so he can fuck another woman with peace of mind.

“He’s not even your type-“

“You don’t know what my type is.” You grumble, sinking into your seat.

Dean huffs a laugh. “I’ve seen what kinda guys you find hot on TV. He was ugly.”

“He wasn’t ugly-“

“Yeah, he was.”

“You’re ugly.” You snap, and Dean laughs. You get why. You didn’t even convince yourself.

“Only on the inside, sweetheart.”

Your lips wobbles. For some reason, that pushes the tears out of your eyes. You sink into the bench, wrapping into a tight little ball that Dean won’t be able to pry apart. You can’t stop the tears, but he doesn’t get to have more leverage.

Dean clears his throat. “Are you crying-“

“Shut up.” You sniff, wiping your nose with your sleeve.

He murmurs your name, voice softer than before, and you lean against the window.

“Shut up-“

“You’re fuckin’ crying-“

“Dean!” You glare at him through the blur of the tears. “Just- Leave me alone!”

Dean’s silent for a second. But only a second.

“Did he hurt you?” He grunts, something hot and angry lining his words. “Before I got there, did that son of a bitch-“

“He barely even touched me, you just- You fucking-“

“I what? What the hell did I do-“

“You hate me!” You shout, and Dean goes horribly still. 

“Don’t be insane.” He mutters your name, glaring out at the road. “I don’t hate you.”

You scoff, hugging your knees tight to your chest. “Yes, you do. You hate me, and you- You never let me have any fun-“

“That wasn’t fun, that was a lawsuit.”

You don’t even have a good comeback to that. He’s probably right. It just makes you angrier.

You turn away from him all together, watching the trees blur past in the window. You’re certain you’re going to be sick now. You close your eyes, the tears still flowing, and hide your face behind your hair and in your knees.

Dean sighs. His voice gets softer again.

“Listen, you’re drunk, alright? You’re gonna feel better in the morning-“

“No.” Your words are muffled, but you know he’ll still hear them. “I won’t.”

“Yeah, you will. I get a million of these drunken… feelings.” He says the word in an oddly tight tone. “You just gotta sleep them off.”

You laugh, wet and weak. “Whatever, Dean.”

“I’m trying to help-“

“No, you’re not.” You hug yourself tighter. “You just wanna get back to her.”

He’s silent again. You can hear his fingers drumming on the wheel. Almost hear the frown in his voice when he finally speaks.

“Who the hell are you talking about.”

“Your secretary lady.” You grumble, bitter and tired.

“You mean Katy?”

You grunt. “I hate her.”

“I- Princess, I sent her home like- Two hours ago.” He pauses. The air in the car feels oddly heavy. “Moment Sammy told me you were gone.”

You huff, but don’t respond. You can’t think of anything. You can barely understand what that means.

“You hate her?” Dean’s voice is so quiet you almost miss it.

“Mhm.” 

“You barely even talked to her-“

“I don’t care.” You mutter, rubbing away the tears on your cheeks. “I hate her.”

“Why-“

“’M tired.” You pull your face out of your knees, and find Dean staring at you.

He clears his throat, and looks back to the road. You think you’re going to start sobbing again, when he stretches out an arm around your shoulder.

Neither of you say anything, when he slowly pulls you into his side. You haven’t been this close to him in a while. He’s just as warm as you remember. You’re already half-asleep, just from a few seconds of his fingers tracing circles on your shoulder and your face pressed into his neck.

“I didn’t like him that much either.” Dean mutters suddenly. “Your bar guy.”

You hum, nosing at his jaw. He smells good.

“I wish you’d tell me.” He adds. “When you were goin’ out. I’d come with you-“

“I don’t want you to come with me.”

Dean tenses. He doesn’t pull away. “I’m fun at bars, sweetheart..” His voice is too casual. “We’d have a good time-“

“You’d have a good time.” You grumble. “I’d be alone.”

“I wouldn’t- If we went out, I wouldn’t ditch-“

“Yes, you would.” You yawn, and you’re crying again, but it’s softer.

Even now, Dean makes everything easier.

You wish you could hate him more than you love him. You don’t think you’re ever going to manage.

“You hate me.” You whisper, sleep already pulling on the corners of your brain. “’S not fair.” 

Dean swallows. His fingers still on your arm. “Why not?”

“’Cause I-“

You cut yourself off with a yawn. Dean mutters your name, and you shake your head, burrowing further into his side. You need to be as close as possible. You need to sink something into him that he can never wipe away, the same way he did with you.

“I love you,” you mumble. “And you hate me. And- It’s not fair, Dean.” You tremble, letting out a soft, pained breath. “Not fair.”

And sleep drags you under. But right before the world fades, you could swear you hear Dean’s low voice, and it floats through your dreams.

“I don’t hate you, baby.” He murmurs. “I couldn’t if I tried.”

Dean hasn’t spoken to you since last night.

You get up in the morning with a migraine and shame burning your face. You remember all of it. Every painful, whiny moment. You acted like the lovesick, annoying girl he accuses you of being. You told him the thing you swore you’d never say aloud. Once Sam tried to make you admit it, and you dumped a glass of iced tea over his head. You’d whimpered Dean’s name into your pillows while you touched yourself, and you’ve told yourself to get it together in the bathroom mirror, but you’ve never said it aloud.

And you just told.

You ruined everything.

He gives you meds and a glass of water to help the hangover, but he doesn’t look you in the eyes. You pack up the rooms and hit the road, but he doesn’t look in the rearview mirror to check on you even once. You bite the inside of your cheek and refuse to cry again. That will just make you seem more pathetic than you already are.

“What’s going on with you two.” Sam mutters when you stop at a gas station, hanging over your shoulder in the candy aisle.

“Nothing-“

“Don’t lie.” He gives you a flat look. “You’re not even fighting, which means you’re fighting.”

You peer up at him with a flat expression, and he sighs.

“You know what I mean. What the hell did he say to you.”

“He didn’t say anything.”

Sam mutters your name, and you grab a candy bar, flipping him off over your shoulder.

“Just drop it, okay?”

“No! I can’t drop it! I live with you guys, and- This is so much worse than when you were acting like you hated each other-“

“Sam-“

“You can’t see his face while he’s driving.” Sam hisses, grabbing a pack of almonds. “He’s either going to punch himself or cry, and that’s gonna be a whole freakin’ thing. Just- Talk to him-“

“He can talk to me.” You grab a pack of jerky. You can’t help it. Dean must be hungry too, and despite all your common sense, you still love him so much the world is slipping out from under your feet. 

Sam pleads with your name. You shake your head.

“Please. Drop it.”

He examines you for a moment, then sighs. He agrees to drop it. It doesn’t make anything better at all.

Because Dean’s not even being mean or overbearing or annoying. He’s just silent. And Sam’s right.

It’s so much worse.

Normally by this point in the ride, you’ve been fighting so much that Sam turns up the radio until you can’t hear each other. You’ll poke his neck to annoy him, and he’ll swat you like a fly before cornering you against the car when you stop for food. You’ll shove him and march into the diner. He’ll stomp after you and sit too close in the booth, making you press your thighs together with every mocking word. He’ll flirt with the waitress, and you’ll daydream about throttling her every time she bats her eyes. Dean will keep your knees against each other’s, while he gets her number, and you’ll pour a bunch of salt over his pie when he goes to the bathroom.

You’ll shove at each other, until one of you snaps and stomps away. You’ll cry yourself to sleep that night, because he hates you, he hates you, he hates you.

But you don’t even have any tears left, and Dean doesn’t hate you.

He just can’t stand to look at you, now that he knows you love him.

Sam gives you worried looks, while Dean glares silently at the road. His fingers drum on the wheel, and you hug yourself tight. He might not be looking at you, but you can’t stop looking at him. If he asks you to leave, it will kill you. If he doesn’t ask you, but never speaks to you again, you’ll just wither away into nothing. But you can’t be the one to break the silence. You’ll only make it worse.

You stop at a diner, and the waitress has the biggest boobs you’ve ever seen and the kind of honeyed smile that usually makes Dean smirk.

Today he doesn’t even look at her. You have to order for him, which makes the waitress glare at you, as if you’re responsible for him sulking so much he doesn’t care about boobs—and you are, but she has no way to know that—and you give her a tight smile.

Dean doesn’t thank you for the food, but he looks at you for the first time all day. You blink at him, biting back the pout threatening your lips. You’re not going to break here, in broad daylight, with Sam right there.

Dean lets out a slow exhale through his nose, and looks back to his food. You blink away the useless sting behind your eyes, biting your inner cheek until it’s swollen. Sam gives you a pitying look. You shoot him a glare.

“He still sat next to you.” Sam mutters while Dean checks you into a motel, that night. “Whatever happened, he’s not that mad at you-“

“Sammy!” Dean calls from the desk. “The lady needs our IDs!”

Sam sighs, going through his pockets as he walks over.

Dean’s gaze meets yours, and you flush. You can’t read the expression on his face, and you fucking hate it. You thought you knew all his expression. You thought you knew him. You thought he’d at least have the guts to turn you down like a man.

Instead his tongue flicks over his lips, and he rips his gaze back to the desk attendant. You hate her. You hate him. You love him. Your head hurts, overflowing with too many thoughts that you can’t even pick them apart. You want to scream and cry and run and sink into the floor. It’s not fair of him, to do this to you. You’re going to be sick. You want to drown your sorrows in as many drinks as you can find.

You settle for curling into your bed, hiding your face in the pillows, and crying until your body is limp and your throat is sore. He knows you love him. He hates you. He’s never going to look at  you again, and you’re going to turn into a ghost. An evil, angry ghost. One of the ghosts that he has to kill. Then he’s going to kill you, and you’re going to turn into a demon, then you’re going to start the apocalypse again, and everyone ever is going to die because you told Dean you love him.

You cry until you can barely breathe, then a little while after. It was silent. There was no way Sam and Dean would hear it, even through the door joining your rooms.

But there’s a creak, and you sniff, turning your head just enough that Sam will be able to hear you.

“I’m fine, Sam-“

“Not Sam.” Dean mutters, and you freeze.

You don’t move. You don’t dare. Dean clears his throat, and you hear him shifting on his feet. He’s close enough to be fully through the door. You hear it close behind him, and bunch the sheets in your arms.

“I- Uh- I was hopin’ we could talk?”

You still don’t move. Dean coughs. His voice is even rougher than usual. Normally, if you had the brainpower, you’d be worried about him.

“Can you look at me?”

You scowl at the pillow in your face. “No.”

Dean mutters your name, and you cut him off with short words.

“Go away, Dean.”

“No, we need to- I got some shit to say, alright-“

“I don’t care.”

“Trust me, princess, you’re gonna care about this-“

“Stop calling me that!” The words rip from your throat, sudden and broken.

You flip over, moving to your knees, and Dean stumbles back like you punched him. His face is red, and there are bags under his eyes. He’s still handsome.

Asshole.

“I-“

“Shut up.” You hiss, narrowing your eyes at his slack expression. “Stop- Stop calling me princess and sweetheart and- and acting like you fucking care about me! It’s fucking cruel, Dean, it was a dick move before and now- Now you know.” Your voice cracks. You can’t even say it again. “Now you know, alright? You know what I- How I am! And I’m sorry, okay? I shouldn’t have told you, but I was drunk, and I- I was tired, and you were being nice and you’re never nice to me-“

Dean opens his mouth, and you chuck a pillow right at his chest.

“No.” You spit, pushing up higher on your knees. “No, you don’t get to talk now. I don’t want to hear it, I don’t need- You don’t have to tell me! I get it, I know what you’re going to say!” You thought you were out of tears. You were wrong. “I’m just a stupid little girl, and you see me like a fucking sister or whatever, I don’t know what I’m talking about and I don’t know how I feel and you- You’d never-“ You choke on your own words. “You’d never feel-“

He moves quickly. You don’t even get the chance to throw another pillow.

Dean grabs your face between his hands, pulling right up into his. Dean kisses you, and your sharp words dissolve into a surprised sound, then a tiny moan.

His mouth is demanding. Your lips are already parted, and when the moan pushes its way up from your chest, Dean pushes his tongue over yours with a grunt. It’s a messy and desperate, noses bumping and spit mixing. You try and shove back, but Dean just pushes further over you, and you dissolve into his touch. 

You’re panting, when he pulls away. He keeps his hands firmly planted, his thumb tracing the swollen line of your lips and his shoulders heaving. His fingers are tangled in your hair. You feel small under his gaze, but not in the painful, ignored way like before. It’s like you’re being shielded. Like he’s trying to protect you from your own, spiraling thoughts by sucking them out of your face.

It’s working. You stare at him with an open awe you can feel in your chest, bubbling and light.

He kissed you.

His lips were soft and chapped in the best way, and he was even better at kissing than you imagined. He tasted a little sugary from the pie he had with dinner, and something richer that was just Dean. His touch on your is almost reverent, and you want to suck on his thumb to see if it tastes as good as his lips. You want to suck on every part of him. For science. You want, you want, you want. Dean kissed you, and now all you can feel—thundering through your bloodstream—is want.

He murmurs your name, scanning over your slack features. Your eyes flutter. His throat bobs.

“I’m gonna talk now.” He says, and you nod.

You should be shoving or fighting him, but he’s looking at you like you matter. And you’re far too tired to bother with anything but tears or pleas for more kisses right now.

“I thought-“ He shakes his head, huffing a low, dry laugh. “I thought you hated me.”

“I don’t-“

“Yeah, I got that now.” He gives you an amused, tired look. “But- Sweetheart, you called me a seductive manwhore last week.”

Your face burns a little. He’d been flirting with another waitress, at another diner. You’d wanted to slit her throat.

“Seductive is a compliment.” You mumble weakly, dropping your gaze to his chest. Dean chuckles.

“From where I was sittin’, it felt like you wanted to kill me.”

 You shake your head, the movement small between his hands. “You looked like you wanted me to fuck off. You always looked like you wanted me to fuck off-“

“No.” His grip tightens, and your attention shoots back up.

And you think you understand that expression. It’s heavy, and you have seen it before. But it’s always been a dull glint in his eyes, before he looks away.

Longing.

“Dean…” You whisper, and he leans down, pressing his brow to yours.

“I never want you to fuck off.” He mutters. “Never. Please- Don’t.”

His voice breaks. You reach up to grab his wrists, and he squeezes his eyes shut.

“I know I ain’t perfect. I know I’m old, and a dick, and I don’t got much to offer-“

“I like what you have to offer.” You whisper. His brow knits tighter. “I always liked it.”

Dean chuckles. “You shot me down. First time I offered it.”

“You wanted a hookup, I- I can’t do that-“

“I couldn’t either.” He looks at you under hooded eyes. “Not with you.”

You press your lips in a thin line, years of anger and sparring fading into a blur of a dull, bruising ache. He was always a wound you refused to heal. If he cuts you open any wider, you don’t think you’re going to have the option anymore.

“You didn’t seem interested.” Dean rasps. “You started- Lookin’ at me all weird and calling me names and-“

“I loved you.” You say it before you can think. Dean lets out a sharp breath, his weight pressing further down.

“But- I- You too.” He winces, like he hates the words. “I didn’t- It was never- Son of a bitch-“

He looks like it’s paining him to try and say it. And you know. You know he can’t, because he doesn’t even say it to Sam. 

But he looks like he’s going to cry. Dean never cries.

He means it. The thing you never let yourself dream of, he means it.

“I- You just- I wanted shit, and you seemed like you wanted nothin’ to do with me, so I-“

You move carefully, tugging that collar of his shirt down into the kiss. Dean goes rigid for a single, horrible second.

Then he almost melts.

His fingers dig into your skin like he can’t bear to let go. His body collapses over yours, his kisses going from the soft ones you started to fast and desperate. He kisses you like he’s trying to leave a mark, and you meet him with every bit off passion.

Dean folds you down, until you’re flat on the mattress. Your legs fly up to wrap around his torso, and he grabs one of your hands, tangling your fingers together. The kisses turn slow. A little more certain and controlled, Dean sucking on your lower lip before kissing the corner of your mouth, then your upper lip. You smile into the kiss, and a broken sound rumbles from his chest.

He pins your hands next to your head, squeezing once before he breaks away. He looks wrecked. He stares at you like you’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen, and your head buzzes, nice and clear of what ifs.

All that matters right now is Dean above you, and the electric heat in your body. How his hand fits so perfectly in yours. How your bodies are already molding together, and you’re both still fully clothed.

“You deserve better, baby.” He mutters, and you almost laugh.

There’s nothing better. There’s Dean, glorious and unreachable, and there’s everyone else.

“No.” You whisper, beaming up at him. “I don’t.”

Dean’s throat bobs. He lowers himself down slowly, pressing his lips slowly over yours. Like he’s still not fully sure. You hum happily into the kiss, and he takes the cue easily.

You lose yourself in him quickly. His lazy, passionate kisses and his hands, slowly tracing over your body. He starts with light touches near your hips and waist, every brush of his fingers making you shiver. You arch into it, when his thumb grazes the bare skin of your midriff. Dean groans, testing the waters with another slow graze of his fingers.

“Deeean…” You breathe against his lips, and he grunts.

“You’re so soft.” He mutters, slipping his hand under your shirt. “So fuckin’ reactive and soft.”

You whimper, heels digging into his back as he teases his fingers up your spine. “Don’t- Don’t tease-“

“Not teasin’.” He nips at the corner of your mouth. “Just sayin’ things that are true, baby. Not my fault they make you all stupid.”

Your breath hitches, your head tipping back as your legs spread slightly. Dean hums, interest flashing in his gaze. He noticed. Of course he did. He notices everything.

“You like that?” He drawls, kissing over your cheek, then down your neck. “You like bein’ called baby? Or called stupid.”

His hand drifts up your side, until his thumb is grazing under your breast. The sensation, combined with his dirty words, makes your hips roll. A dizzy, pleased sigh escapes your lips. Dean chuckles, rubbing his thumb in a tight circle. His lips graze a sensitive spot on your neck, and your hips roll again.

“I think you like both.” He murmurs, squeezing your hand. “Dirty girl, bet you’re already wet for me.”

You whimper, the sound turning to a sharp gasp when Dean shoves his knee right between your thighs. You buck off the bed at the sudden pressure, eyes glazing and mouth hanging open.

Dean sucks on that sensitive spot, and your whole body shivers. You can’t stand to not move, not with the heat of him all around you. His thumb drags up, brushing over your nipple right as his tongue flicks against your skin. You start to mindlessly grind against his knee, chasing just a little bit more friction. Dean chuckle, biting softly at your neck before bullying his knee further against your clothed cunt.

“That’s it.” He growls in your ear. “Messy fuckin’ girl, already humping my leg. You need it that bad, sweetheart? Can’t even wait for me?”

“I- I’m sorry-“ You whine, trying to stop your body from moving.

It doesn’t seem to want to cooperate. Dean slips his hand from under your shirt and grabs your jaw, forcing your gaze onto his, and his attention just fuels the wildfire under your skin. You need him, and form of him you can get. You need him harsh and all over your body, until there’s are marks you won’t be able to wash away in the morning. You need him to claim you so deeply neither of you can back out.

Dean watches you with a gentle, but sharp awe. Like he’s trying to memorize the scene below him, that you’re sure is quiet a sight. You fucking his leg like a dog in heat, your adoration and love finally allowed to pour all over your face.

“Need you,” you breathe out, grabbing his wrist. “Need you so bad, Dean.”

A low rumble leaves his chest, his eyes getting darker with every tiny moan from your lips. His attention is almost too much. You try and turn your face into the sheets, but he tugs it back with barely a flick of his wrist.

“Dean, please-“

“Look at me.” He taps your cheek with one finger, slamming his knee forward.

Your glossy, tear-stained eyes dart to his, and he smirks. It’s soft, but dangerous. He smiles down at you, and another breath of his name escapes your lips.

“What do you want, sweet girl?” He murmurs, squeezing your hand. “Use your words.”

It takes you a second to remember how. “You,” you breathe out, and Dean’s jaw ticks. “Want you, Dean, always wanted you-“

“I know, baby,” he coos, leaning slowly down. Your noses bump, and you whimper, closing your eyes. “You want me so bad it hurts, don’t you. Bet your little pussy is fuckin’ calling my name, begging me to stuff her up.”

“Yes,” you nod, bobbleheaded and dizzy. “Oh my god, yes-“

“But how.” His voice turns stern, the heat of his breath making you shiver. “Do you want me? Soft? Or,” he pushes your further down onto his knee, and your eyes roll a little back. “Hard?”

Dean drags his thumb over your lips, squeezing your cheeks into a tiny pout. You try to keep fucking his knee, but he’s got you pinned so hard against it that you can’t move. You’re trapped in a cruel kind of heaven, with everything right on the brink of falling, and Dean holding you over the edge by the nape of your neck.

“Hard,” you whisper, dragging your eyes open to meet his. He needs to see it. How bad you want him. “Wanna- Ohh-“ Your lashes flutter, as Dean starts to slowly grind his knee against your core. “Wanna feel you. All of you. Don’t- Don’t hold back.”

His grip on your jaw tightens. His voice drops a full octave. “Baby, are you-“

“Yes.” You smile at him, already a little drunk on his everything. “I trust you.”

And that seems to be what gets him. Dean blinks at you for a second, the façade of pure control slipping. You know it’s a game, and that when you’re done he’s going to coddle you like a princess. But you’re not sure he knew you knew. Not sure he understood that, even when you thought he hated you, you would’ve placed your life in his hands without even a beat of hesitation.

Dean leans down, and kisses you slowly. Sweetly. His hand pulls from yours, and he wraps his arm around your lower back. His fingers tickle your sides a little, teasing the side of your breast, and you giggle. Dean grunts, pushing you further into the mattress. It just makes you giggle more.

“Somethin’ funny?” He mutters, and you can hear it again. He’s back in this. It sends a shivering thrill through your body.

You need more. And you shake your head, trying to test just how much it takes him to snap.

“You’re laughin’ like something’s funny.” Dean leans back up, glaring down at your lovedrunk, giddy expression.

There’s a dangerous glint in his eyes.

You’re about to be fucked into next week.

“Look at you.” He mutters, palming at your breast through your shirt. You gasp, arching into the touch, and Dean chuckles. “You’d do anything I told you, huh. Just to make me fuck you.”

You shake your head, and Dean chuckles.

“Don’t lie, princess. Good girls don’t lie to me.”

Your breath catches. Your thighs press around Dean’s knee, the grind of your hips short and uncontrolled. He lets you writhe below him, smirking at the pants that escape your lips.

“Does it hurt?” he coos, smearing some spit over your cheek. “Your pussy aching, baby girl? Already can’t take it?”

“N- No.” You choke out. “I can take it-“

“Doesn’t seem like you can.” He mutters, scanning over your limp body. “I’m not even touchin’ you and you’re about to cum. Can’t believe you’re that fucking easy.”

You whimper, shaking your head. “I- I’m not easy-“

“Yeah?” Dean mocks. “How many other guys you fucked?”

“Two. Just two-“

“They make you feel like this?”

“No- Never-“

“Damn right. They don’t.” Dean grunts. “You’re mine, princess. My fuckin’ girl.”

You whimper, heat rushing through you at the possession in his voice. You are his. He has no idea, how completely and totally his you are.

“Say you’re mine.” Dean orders, and you nod.

“Yours. All yours, Dean, I’m- Fuuuck-“

He pinches your nipple rolling it between two fingers. Your hips try to buck off the bed, but he’s pinned you down too well.

“Fuck- Dean- You can’t just-“

You moan, and he chuckles.

“Oh, baby.” He leans back down, brushing a featherlight kiss over your lips. “I can do whatever the fuck I want.”

Dean nips on your lower lip, then rises back up, patting your cheek.

“Open.”

You do, without a thought. He chuckles, leans down, and spits right into your swollen lips.

“Swallow.” He grunts, and you obey.

You lick your lips for good measure. Just to see how he’ll react. His mouth falls a little open, a deep, possessive sound rumbling chest.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, almost fully to himself. “So fuckin’ eager. You ready to listen, princess?”

“Yeah,” you whisper, and add for good measure. “Please.”

 Dean’s lips twitch. “Beggin’ and I don’t even have you naked yet. We should fix that.”

“Fix what-“

“Stand up.” Dean drags you upright with steady, but firm hands.

You follow his lead, letting him move you off the mattress and onto shaking legs. He keeps you between his spread knees, smirking up at your confused expression. He’s got one hand, steadily rubbing the back of your thigh.

“Strip.” He orders, and your cheeks burn.

“Dean-“

You cut yourself off, when he just raises his brows. God, if he wasn’t begging you for attention fifteen minutes ago, you’d be putting up more of a fight. Just for the show of it. To prove that you’re perfectly capable of thinking for yourself. That you don’t need him at all.

But you think he knows that. And for once, you don’t want to have to think at all.

You peel off your clothing slowly, burning under Dean’s gaze. He’s tracking every movement, dragging over every bare inch of skin. Your top goes first, and his hands fly right up to palm your breasts. His hand is big and warm, and you bite back a tiny moan.

Dean smirks, leaning slowly forward to trail open, wet kisses over the valley of your breasts. You weave your fingers through his hair, your breath stuttering. You fumble with your bottoms. It’s a little hard to focus, with his tongue swirling around your sensitive, peaked nipple.

“Shit- Dean-“ You take a deep breath, tugging at his soft, short locks. “That’s- Mmmm-“

He sucks lightly, and you lean fully over his chest. He chuckles, flicking his tongue back and forth, and all you can think of is that sinful mouth against your core.

“I- I can’t-“

“Yes, you can.” He kisses your nipple, before switching to the neglected one. “For me.”

You swallow, grabbing at the hem of your bottoms and tugging them down. Dean grabs a handful of your ass, slapping it once before dipping his fingers down between your thighs. You collapse over him with a weak noise, and Dean just laughs. The shame in how quickly he’s unraveling you, how wet you know you are, it just makes you ache for him more. He’s got you, needy and in the palm of his hand. He knows it. And still, he touches you like he’s been waiting to his whole life.

“That’s my girl.” He mutters. “Son of a bitch, you’re so fuckin’ wet. You been walkin’ around like this? Waiting to get bent over and turned into my little cockslut.”

“Ye- Yes.” You press your face into his hair, nails scratching at his neck. “Oh my god, Deean-“

 “Yeah. That’s right.” Dean hums as you grind down onto his fingers, teasing between the lips of your pussy. “Barely even fuckin’ touching you, and you’re soaking my hands. Jesus,” he laughs, the sound vibrating against your chest. “You’re getting wetter every time I talk.”

You keen, when the tip of his forefinger grazes your clit. It’s like being struck by lightning, making your whole body rush with pleasure and your pussy clench around nothing. He flicks it, just that once, then pulls away. You hug his head tighter, begging between your every moan.

Dean doesn’t budge. He rubs over your pussy without touching your clit again, muttering dirty words against your skin.

“Look at you,” he kisses your shoulder. “My pretty fuckin’ girl.”

“Dean-“

“Come on.” He slaps your ass again, and your knees give a little. “Like I couldn’t make you cum just from talkin’ to you.”

You flush, wrapping your arms around his neck as he pulls you fully into his lap. Dean pauses, at the way you shiver, and pulls back. You try to avoid his gaze, but he isn’t having it. He grabs your jaw and forces your gaze back to his, eyes gleaming and playful.

“Oh, I could, couldn’t I.” He smirks. “You’d cum for me just sittin’ here, letting me call you names.”

“No.” Your protest is short. Weak. Dean looks at you like he’s just pulled the sweetest bunny into his trap, and he wants to eat you alive.

He pulls you down for one of those kisses that’s too slow and sweet. It’s almost mocking, with how his cock is straining against his jeans, pressing into your thigh. You dissolve into it, lowering your guard against your better judgement. Dean squeezes your ass, rubbing where he’d spanked before. Your knees are jelly, your core pressed right against his denim-clad bulge.

Jesus, he must be massive. Just the idea makes you shiver, and Dean smiles against your lips.

“You’re bein’ so patient,” he coos, massaging your hips. “You trust me, don’t you? You know I’m gonna fuck you real good.”

You hum an agreement, smiling from the praise. Dean combs his fingers through your hair, sucking on your lower lips before pulling slightly back.

“You’re ready, aren’t you? I could fuck you right now and you’d take me like I was lubed up.”

You whimper, and Dean pushes you further onto his bulge.

“You gonna let me own you, sweet girl? Let me make you the dirty fuckin’ cumslut you wanna be.”

“Deaan-“ You gasp weakly. “Don’t be mean-“

“Why?” He kisses your cheek. “You like it. You’re the one who said you wanted it, baby. And fuckin’ gush,” he runs his hand between your thighs. “Every fuckin’ time I call you my dirty little girl.”

He’s right. Your pussy clenches, arousal dripping down your thighs. Dean laughs, manhandling you to stay upright as moves fully onto the mattress and lies flat on his back. You stare at him for a second, unable to move with his hold on your hips, but unsure what to do with yourself. You’re straddling him, watching with an open mouth as he pulls off his shirt and settles fully into the pillow. His cock is pushed right against your pussy. You grind down, and he hisses.

“Not yet.” He mutters at your pout. “Need to taste that sweet pussy. C’mere.”

He beckons, and your mouth falls open when you realize what he means.

“Dean, I can’t- You’re going to suffocate-“

“Nobel death.” He grins, and you scowl.

“I don’t want you to die the first time we have sex.”

“First time?” He wiggles his brows. “You’re gonna let me come back for seconds?”

“Dean, I’m serious-“

“So am I, can we do an all you can eat kinda situation-“

“Dean Winchester.” You shove his chest, and the idiot just laughs. “I’m not- I’m not doing that. I don’t want to hurt you, that’s- I’m not-“

“Hey.” Dean grabs your hand, squeezing it gently. You meet his gaze, and it’s a million times softer than before. “It’s okay. This ain’t gonna hurt me, I swear, but if you just don’t wanna, I have a lotta other ways to make us both feel good.”

He drags his thumb over your knuckles, and you take a deep breath. You hadn’t realized it. You were about to cry again.

You peer at Dean through your lashes, and he offers you a boyish, gentle smile.

“Promise it won’t hurt you?” You whisper, and he nods.

“Swear on your life.”

You nod, slowly and carefully. Dean opens his mouth—probably about to ask if you’re sure—but you’re already crawling up his chest.  

He smiles, rubbing your thighs as you settle them on either side of his head. You take a deep breath, your hands fidgeting and unsure where to rest. Dean grabs them and guides them into his hair, before kissing the inside of your thigh. Your breath hitches, and you almost collapse straight over him.

He laughs, digging his dull nails into your ass. “Sweetheart, point of this is you sitting on my face.”

“I- I am-“

“You’re hovering. That ain’t sittin’.”

“I don’t want to crush you-“

“You won’t.” He sighs, kissing the opposite thigh. “I got you, right?”

You nod. He trails the kisses upwards, close to where you’re sure you’re dripping on his beard. His eyes never leave yours.

“You trust me?” He rasps, warm breath fanning over your pussy.

“Of- Of course I trust you-“

“Good.” Dean kisses your clit, sloppy and using his tongue to flick the little button back and forth.

You almost shriek, the sensation overwhelming. You squirm, unsure if you’re trying to get closer or wiggle away. Dean makes the choice for you.

“Hold on.” He grunts, right before yanking you right down onto his face.

And oh.

Oh god.

You’ve been eaten out before. Even by people who were good at it. Who enjoyed it. You came before, and walked away with no complaints.

Compared to this, they might as well have just spat on it and walked away.

Dean eats you out like he’s on a personal mission for honor between your legs. Like he lost something in your pussy and he’s trying to shake it loose. His jaw works like he’s devouring the finest food of his life, his tongue dragging and pumping in and out of your sensitive opening. His nose is pressed right against your clit, and he moves it with his full face, rubbing and rubbing and rubbing.

“Fuuck- Fuck!” You cry out, yanking on Dean’s hair. “Dean- Oh- Oh my God-“

He moans, and the vibration makes it better and worse all at once. You’re trembling, no way to escape it, no way to feel it less. Dean massages your ass as he works, keeping you pinned to his face, to the pleasure he’s slowly dragging out of your body.

You pull his hair again, and his time he smacks your ass with his moan. Your back arches. You have to grab the bed frame to stop yourself from collapsing.

“Dean- Deeaaan-“

You chant the word like a prayer. It’s all you can remember. The infernal man below you laughs, and you push down harder into his wet, open mouth. He grunts, and doubles his efforts. His tongue traces around your pussy before shoving back into your tight cunt, and you clench around him with a whimper.

He tightens his grip on your hips, dragging them slowly back and forth. Guiding you into fucking his face. You follow his rhythm, and swear you can feel him everywhere in your body. Your nerves light up, with every stroke of his tongue and bump of his nose on your clit. Your mouth hangs open, and you pant as you try to hold off your orgasm, building up and up and up in your core.

One of his hands disappears from your body. You’re too lost in his mouth below you to notice, until you hear it.

The sound of slapping skin, mixed with Dean’s increasing moans below you. You manage to find enough of a mind to look over your shoulder, and the sight shoots straight to your pussy, gushing on Dean’s face.

He’s fisting his cock, thick and long and a little curved. He beats it into his hand, the head angry and red, coated in a thick layer of pre-cum. You twist back around looking down at his face between your thighs, and find him staring back.

He’s been staring the whole time. Eyes dark and wrecked, fixed on you as you writhed and moaned above him. He’s getting off to it. To having you like this.

Dean moans—fully, totally moans—into your pussy, his eyes never leaving yours.

And you can’t hold it off.

“Dean- I- I’m gonna-“

He squeezes your ass, moaning against your pussy again.

Permission.

You cum with a cry of his name, grinding down onto his face through your orgasm. Your vision goes white, your whole body shaking and seizing up as Dean’s tongue strokes you through it. He doesn’t stop when you’re a trembling, dazed mess above him. He slowly shifts you backwards, cradling your body as sits up, forcing your back into the sheets, between his legs.

He kisses your clit gently, eyes shining on your unfocused, glossy ones.

“Taste better than I imagined.” He murmurs, slowly moving you further up the bed. “And trust me, baby. I lost a whole lotta sleep imagining.”

You swallow, eyes darting to his still hard cock. Dean follows your hungry gaze, then laughs, angling it to rub between the lips of your pussy.

“You’re really that needy, huh.” He teases. “Not enough for just my mouth. Gotta have my cock, too.”

You hum, too lost in the feeling to even protest. You’re flat on your back, legs hiked up in the air and over Dean’s shoulder, fully exposing your poor, swollen pussy to him. He slides his cock right between the slick lips, the tip bumping your clit. You pout up at Dean, spreading your legs wider to try and urge him on. He raises his brows, pausing with his cock pressed over your clit.

“Already too fucked out to talk?”

You nod, and pride and worry mix in his eyes.

“Baby, if you need me to take it easy-“

You shake your head frantically. He promised no holding back. You want to be sore from him in the morning.

Dean sighs, lowering your legs so he can lean over your face. You glare at him, grinding your hips up against him. He pins you back to the bed with a single hand sprawled on your abdomen and a stern look.

“There’s gonna be more time for it to be rough.” He murmurs. “I been plenty mean tonight. And I love it, sweetheart, I do, but I’m gonna love anything-“

“Dean.” You push out, your voice wrecked and hoarse. “Hard. Please.”

“Are you-“

You push up on weak elbows, capturing his mouth against yours. Dean leans down, kissing you with every bit of adoration and softness he’s about to rip away for the sake of pleasure. You smile against the kiss, boneless and happy, and Dean grunts. 

“Alright.” He mutters, the darkness in his voice sending a chill down your spine. “You get what you ask for, baby girl.”

Yes.

You’d say it, if he hadn’t already stolen most of the words from your body. And you thought that it was bad before.

Dean slowly shoves himself into your dripping cunt, and you can’t remember your own fucking name.

He’s big. So big you’re not sure how you’re fitting him. His hand on your abdomen pushes you deeper into the mattress, forcing you to take every thick, veiny inch of him. You whimper, and the sound gets swallowed by Dean’s lips.

“Feel that?” He hisses, tone harsh in the way that sends a thrill to your core. “Feel my cock, filling up your tight little pussy?”

You nod, mouth hanging open. Dean bottoms out with a grunt, pulling your hips roughly up to let him hit a deeper angle. You mewl, eyes rolling back at the burning, perfect stretch of him.

“That’s right.” He mutters, rutting into your wet, hot channel. “This is what you fuckin’ begged for, princess. To be a brainless little cockslut. You can’t even talk right now, can you? Just gonna lay there and look pretty while I do all the work?”

Tears prick at your eyes. You’re so full you almost don’t think you can handle it.

Dean isn’t going to give you much of a choice.

“Damn right you are.” He mutters to himself, dragging almost fully out of you before slamming back in, knocking the air from your lungs.

You sob with pleasure, reaching up to grab at his face. Dean kisses your wrist, repeating the motion with an even harsher thrust than before.

“That’s it.” He grunts, pushing over your as he finds a brutal pace. “That’s my girl. Fit me like a glove, sweetheart. Tightest fuckin’ pussy I’ve ever fucked, so good for me, so fuckin’ good-“

Dean groans, crashing his lips over yours. You wrap your arms around him, holding on for dear life as he fucks stars behind your eyes and lightning through your body. If you weren’t ruined for him before, you are now. There isn’t another man in the world, who could reduce you to such a sobbing, wrecked mess while fucking you like a doll, then kiss all over your face like you’re the most important thing in the world.

He’s handling your body like it only exists for him to fuck. Grabbing your hips and breasts like they’re toys, positioning in the best way for him to hit you deeper. So deep he’s finding burning, pleasurable spots in you that you hadn’t known existed before, that make your whole body light up with pleasure. You can feel him in your throat, though every single inch of you, his muscles flexing and chest heaving and cock drilling into you until your pussy is drooling and he’s just sliding in and out.

But he kisses you like he’s a soldier being sent off to war. Rough and desperate, but loving. With all the fervor of a man who’s trying to something both of you have lost the words for. You return his every kiss, and his thrusts get sharper. Deeper.

You make sounds that are supposed to be his name. The room fills with the obscene sound of his cock, pounding into your cunt. You tip your head back and he starts to bite and suck on your throat, like he really can’t find enough of you to worship.

“Shit, baby-“ He presses his nose against your jaw, voice cracking as the bed creaks beneath you both. “Gonna- Gonna fuckin’- Where’d you want it-“

You grab his shoulders, yanking him fully down. Dean groans, doubling over and pressing his mouth back over yours.

“Come with me, sweetheart, c’mon- Milk my fuckin’ cock-“

His thumb slips between your bodies, rubbing your clit in tight, unforgiving circles. You scream silently, as your orgasm hits you like a train. Dean fucks you through it, moaning your name as he chases his own release. White hot cum paints your inner walls, and Dean fucks it back into you with rough grunts and shorter thrusts.

You think you might be floating. You’ve never been this stuffed up, this warm. All the mocking and harshness from Dean is gone, replaced by worshipful hands that caress your face and gentle kisses over every spot he played with. Neither of you seem ready to know. You know you aren’t at all, and Dean’s curled over you like a very heavy blanket.

You rub his back, smiling up at the ceiling. It’s quiet. You’d like to stay here for a while. Maybe forever.

Dean rises over you, still not pulling out. His eyes are glazed, his expression wrecked. You reach up to cup his cheek, and he leans into the touch.

“My girl.” He mutters, and even if he doesn’t say it like one, you know it’s a question.

“Your girl.” You whisper.

You’ve never seen him smile so wide, than before he leans back down to kiss you again.

And if you make him smile like that for the rest of your life, then you know you’ve done something right.

✦End note: the good thing about writing these fics is that it's fun. the bad thing is that i've set my standards WAY too high. ✦

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