Since Uh When👆🏻

"Hey, man," he manages with a strained voice like he'd ran a marathon.

You lean forward, bracing on his chest, and pick up speed, your breasts swaying as you fuck yourself on his dick. The headboard thumps rhythmically against the wall. Steve clears his throat, disguising a whimper as a cough.

"What's... uh, up?"

Eddie's voice anxiously crackles through, sounding a little rushed. "Steve, dude, I need advice. This date tomorrow... Chrissy's friend, you know? The one with the killer legs. What if I fuck it up? She's way out of my league, man. Rehearsal's got me wiped, and now I'm overthinking every riff I play."

Steve's free hand clamps your hip, trying to still you, but you swat it away and clench your pussy around his hard length, milking him deliberately.

"You'll be fine," Steve says, his abs contract as you slam down extra hard, grinding your clit against his pubic bone.

A soft whine escapes from him, and he turns it into a high, brittle laugh.

Well, he tries. But to no avail.

"Just... play it cool. Chicks dig confidence." His cock throbs inside you.

His thick veins pulse against your fluttering walls. Sweat beads on his forehead, dribbling down his temple.

Eddie continues, oblivious to the situation on Steve's end.

"But what if she hates metal? Or thinks I'm a freak for the whole Hellfire thing? I mean, last date ghosted me after I mentioned demodogs. Should I tone it down? Wear something less... me?"

The phone nearly slips from Steve's grip as his sweaty, shaking hand tries to hold it.

You hold his knees and bend them, changing the position, now his cock drags directly over your g-spot with every plunge. Your arousal soaks the sheets. Steve bites his lip so hard enough to draw blood, his hips bucking up involuntarily to meet your pussy.

"N-no, own it," he forces through clenched teeth, the words hitching on a gasp.

You cover his mouth with your hand, muffling the noise that follows as you ride him viciously, your ass cheeks rippling from the impacts. His eyes roll back, muffled moans come out against your palm. He removes your hand off gently, panting.

"Eddie, she's into you. Trust me. Just... don't overthink the kiss or whatever."

"Kiss? Shit, what if I go for it too soon? Or my breath is bad after practicing? I got mints, but..." Eddie's rambling intensifies, words tumbling fast and you roll your eyes again, in annoyance.

But you don't stop riding him.

Steve's replies start to break.

"Hmm, yeah, timing is key."

You twist your hips as you bounce, stirring his cock deep inside, and he coughs violently to cover the sudden groan, pounding his chest with his fist. His balls draw up tight, slapping wetly against you. Pre-cum floods your cunt, mixing with your slick walls.

You rake your nails down his hair, your nipples nearly brushing his mouth. Steve's back arches, driving his dick even deeper.

"Dude, you're golden," he rasps with a shredded voice. A whimper escapes between his ragged breath. "Gonna... crush it."

Eddie pauses. "You sure you're okay? Sounds like you're dying, man. Working out or something?"

'Yeah– dumbbells. Brutal set." Steve is lying through his teeth.

His face contorts in ecstasy as you speed your pace, your pussy spasming erratically around his throbbing shaft. His free hand sneaks between you, bringing his thumb to find your clit and rubbing furious circles.

A retaliation that sends sparks up your spine. You retaliate back by squeezing your inner walls in circles, from base to tip.

Eddie sighs. "Alright, thanks man. Owe you one. Talk tomorrow?"

Steve nods frantically, though Eddie can see it. It's desperate. "Y-yep. Later."

He shoves the phone into the cradle aggressively, both hands squeezing your waist. "Fuuuuck, baby"

Then, it bursts. You slam down relentlessly, chasing your peak. Steve thrusts up savagely, his cock battering you deeply. Your orgasm hits like lightning. Pussy convulsing, walls clamping his length in pulses, gushing hot fluid down his balls.

He roars, hips snapping as ropes of thick cum blast into you, filling your pussy with creamy rivulets leaking out with each aftershock.

You collapse onto him, chests heaving in sync, his softening cock still twitching inside your cunt. Steve's arms wrap around you, and he brushes his lips against your ear.

"That was torture... best fucking torture. Eddie's clueless ass almost ruined it." He nips your shoulder.

It was cold out, the wind funnelling through the concrete ambulance bay, but his adrenaline kept him warm. His curiosity even more so. He stood waiting for your car to roll in or you to come strolling up, grumbling that the staff parking garage was far too far to walk especially in the pitch black of night.

But he didn’t see any of that.

Instead, he saw a classic car peel in, black as the night just beyond the ambulance bay with headlights so blinding he was forced to step back as it came to a screeching halt in front of the doors so he didn’t get clipped. Still, as the driver’s door swung open Jack rushed to help, expecting to see a harried looking mom or a panicked teenager. Instead, he saw you. You pulled yourself out, and Jack felt a sudden surge of panic as he saw your front covered in blood.

‘Sweetheart,’ he breathed, his hands immediately reaching out and trying to assess the damage. You were up. You were breathing. And seemingly fine, at least physically, but not in the desperate way you grabbed him, your hand tight on his arm as you pulled him around to the other side as he tried to ask, ‘what is-’

But you were across the front of the car in a second, yanking the passenger side door open. There was a man there, young, around a similar age to you and absolutely bloodied. His leg was in shreds, blood oozing through torn denim, and soaking up toward his abdomen. Some of it was already dried and tacky, but fresh waves were still coming.

‘Help me,’ you said, your voice cracking.

Jack would like to say that he asked questions.

Who was he? How did you know him? What the fuck were you doing with a mangled man in a car he didn’t recognise in the middle of the night when he’d left you less than twelve hours ago ready to change into your pyjamas and head to bed?

But he didn’t do any of that. He just kicked into gear. Assessment. Questions that were relative to the man bleeding to death on the passenger seat.

‘Can we get a gurney!’ Jack shouted, clicking his fingers at a couple of EMTs standing around by the back of an empty rig just up the ramp. As they rushed to help Jack assessed. The man had his eyes open, but his mouth was clamped shut, like he wasn’t daring to make a sound in case that made the pain feel worse. He breathed heavy and he winced as Jack leaned in, scanning his eyes down him with a, ‘can you move?’

‘Maybe,’ the man grunted, reaching a sticky hand out onto the dash but grimacing as an electric wave of agony flowed through him.

‘What’s your name?’ he asked.

‘Dean,’ the man replied.

‘Alright Dean, forgive me,’ Jack said as his hand went under Dean’s back the other moving his legs to dangle out the side where you rushed forward, holding the weight of them so they didn’t tug on anything and make the bleeding worse. By now the EMTs had rushed over and after some jostling and a lot of grunted, heavy breathing he was out and placed on the fresh gurney as they rolled him into the Pitt.

‘Hit me,’ Jack said, looking to you as the team ran to a bay, like he would in any case. Normally, this was the part where you’d rhyme off what you knew flawlessly and effortlessly. Only right now you didn’t look like a professional. No, you had that unmistakable, panic-stricken look of a relative. Your face was pale, your hand gripping Dean’s tightly as they wheeled him into trauma one.

‘Uh male, twenty-five, bear attack,’ you said stumbling over your words. Jack felt it instantly. The lie, clean as anything but not convincing. Like when you’d told him you liked his lasagne and hated it or when Robby had asked you if you thought motorbikes were cool.

‘Injuries from his right shin up to his abdomen,’ you forced out trying to regain your footing, ‘the wounds are pretty deep, but they missed the femoral from what I can see. I managed to patch up some, but they’re too deep, I had to…’

‘She made me… come… that’s what she’s stumblin’ over…right sweetheart?’ Dean said, forcing a smile through each pant.

‘You get mauled by a bear and don’t wanna run by the hospital?’ Jack asked, the hairs on the back of his neck standing up when you looked down, avoiding his gaze as Dean’s smile widened.

‘Eh, I hate the Jello,’ Dean said sarcastically, grunting, ‘son of a bitch,’ as he was roughly slid across to the trauma bed.

‘Let’s get a line in him. Start with fifty of fent for the pain,’ Jack said, casting his eyes over Dean’s remarkable vitals given the circumstances. It was only then you kicked into gear, like the order had landed and kicked you into a pavolvian response as you went into work mode, your hands, still covered in Dean’s blood, headed for the stacker behind you.

‘Uh, not you,’ Jack ordered. You looked like you wanted to protest, but you forced yourself to step back, retreating into the shadows of the room as the trauma team did what they did best. You watched as Dean’s layers were cut away. He even managed a weak quip about buying him dinner first when Javadi snipped through his underwear, causing the resident to blush furiously. You heard orders being shouted and saw his wounds cleaned and dressed, what could be. You saw lines started and blood hung to try and replace what was over your clothes and the front seat of Dean’s baby. You heard him in pain and tried not to let tears spill over. You heard things that worried you and things that made relief flood through you.

And then it was gone. The wave of chaos. The panic.

Dean’s vitals got better and his pain got less, thanks to each hit of painkiller he took which had dangerously been left in his control. And as the crowd thinned and the quiet came in, it allowed you to come forward and sit by his bedside. And with the pandemonium gone you quickly slipped back into that old feeling.

You stopped seeing the broken man who’d called you in the middle of the night and begged you to come down from your apartment. You didn’t see the man who’d declared ‘no hospitals’ when you panicked because you couldn’t get the blood to stop gushing out of him onto his precious car upholstery. You didn’t see the man who’d made you cry in countless fights about him going back out on the road. You didn’t see the man you’d asked not to come back because you couldn’t keep doing this. You saw Dean.

The real Dean.

Soft, quiet, and still putting on a show despite the trauma. The man who made you mix tapes and called you when he was lonely. The man whose eyes lit up like a little boy when you bought him a slice of pie. The man who laid you down and made love to you, promises whispered in your ear and eyes adoring before another call, another set of coordinates, another reason not to stay home and you were fighting and screaming and crying and asking him to stay away.

‘It won’t need surgery,’ Garcia said, poking at the deep gash on Dean’s thigh lightly and earning herself a, ‘doesn’t need your fingers in it, either.’

‘Dean,’ you whispered warningly, but Garcia just grinned, snapping her gloves off and giving back as good as she got with a, ‘hey if you don’t want to be poked maybe don’t poke a bear.’

‘I thought it was friendly. Like Yogi,’ Dean quipped. Garica rolled her eyes and you put your head in your hands knowing there was no winning with him and being stupid. You should’ve known, after all, that’s why you were here. But she didn’t carry on, maintaining some professionalism as she talked to Jack. Jack who’d been watching you the entire time. Jack who you kept your gaze away from because you didn’t have answers.

‘I’ve got a patient upstairs, but I can close if you want once I’m done,’ she offered.

‘No, it’s okay, I’ll do it,’ Jack said quietly, finally getting your attention. The declaration made you feel heady. Like words colliding in a way that set you off kilter.

‘Aren’t you busy?’ you asked finally looking at him and finding his face tight, his mouth pinched, and his eyes narrowed on your face. And the weight of Dean’s gaze on you both. He wasn’t stupid, and neither was Jack. But in all the chaos there were no questions to be asked, just buried until now.

‘Patients a patient,’ Jack shrugged, looking to Dean with a professional smile, ‘you sit tight I’m gonna get supplies.’

‘Great,’ Dean nodded, his smile tight and guarded. Jack nodded back, but as he turned toward the exit, he gestured slightly with his chin, ‘mind giving me a hand? Might need help finding everything.’

You could’ve said no. You weren’t on the clock, and he’d benched you from helping anyway. But you knew this was nothing to do with work. That the supply closet where you two stole quiet, frantic kisses and moaned about how you’d not got a minute to see each other would now become an interrogation room. You looked at Dean and then patted his arm softly before you rose, following behind Jack towards the supply room.

He let you go in first, the door shutting and locking a moment later though you pretended you didn’t hear it, going to the shelves and pulling things that he might need out and onto one of the metal carts he would work from. Jack watched and you ignored him. You pretended that you couldn’t feel his eyes on you, that you couldn’t feel the weight of a spare pair of his scrubs and the remnants of Dean’s blood clinging to your fingernails. Old and new. Jack enshrouding you. Dean embedded.

‘You want nylon or prolene?’ you asked, your hand hovering between the boxes of suture packs, the weight of Jack’s gaze on your back, ‘I doubt he’s gonna take it easy so a 3-0 prolene is probably your best bet.’

‘Are you gonna tell me what’s going on?’ Jack said, his voice flat. Commanding. You turned, the suture pack you’d grabbed a hold of tight in your hand before you dropped it on the table, avoiding his eyes. Jack didn’t let up, ‘because the last time I saw you, you were crawling into bed for an early night.’

Again, you stayed quiet.

‘Do you need me to ask as a doctor?’ he pressed, stepping closer, ‘as the attending on this night shift-’

‘He showed up,’ you whispered, looking up at him through your lashes, your gaze dropping when his jaw tightened, ‘he showed up and he was hurt, Jack…what was I supposed to do?’

‘Who even is he? You’ve never mentioned him,’ Jack pressed, you sighed, ‘is he a-’

‘He’s Dean. Just…Dean, okay?’ you said, moving away to start pulling other random items he might need onto the table. Because it was easier to say when you didn’t have to look at him. Easier to lie, ‘we’ve been friends forever, it’s not a big deal.’

You weren’t friends. And it was a massive deal.

‘He almost bled to death in a car you were driving, claiming to be attacked by a bear in the middle of a metropolitan city. You know this is reportable right? That animal control will ask questions? Prying cops will have questions. That the nurses haven’t stopped whispering about oh, what was his name on his insurance card, Dean Houdini,’ Jack ranted, valid in his concern and yet making your stomach knot with bile and anger as he carried on.

Because he was right.

This wasn’t you, not anymore. It was a life you’d chosen to leave behind and yet you slipped back into it so well. It was probably why you were one of the ERs best employees. Why you slipped into lies and deflection without issue. Why you could push through. Through pain. Through fear. Why you could drive one handed across town with you hand pressed to Dean’s shredded abdomen whilst formulating a cover story. Whilst relying on Jack to lie for you. Pulling him in like Dean would to you.

Jack waited for something, but when nothing came, he forced his voice into something low and serious, somewhere it hardly ever went even in the depths of chaos on shift, ‘if he has you wrapped up in something dangerous-’

‘You don’t know what you’re talking about,’ you snapped.

‘Then tell me!’ he snapped right back. You glared at him, the silence stretching between you like a live wire.

‘Okay, fine, don’t,’ Jack said, shaking his head, ‘you two sit in your lies and have everyone ask questions that you can’t answer. But tell me something. What happens when upstairs gets hold of this? Gloria? What happens if you lose your license?’

‘It won’t come to that,’ you said quietly. And that was the truth. Because Dean wouldn’t be around that long. He’d get patched up and he or both of you would get him out the door. Into his car, to a motel. Away from questions and curious glances. For him at least. Not that it mattered. The nurses could think what they wanted because by morning you’d have your story straight, by the time anyone from upstairs bothered to come down and verify what had gotten the floor abuzz.

Jack let out a long and exhausted sigh, ‘Doll… I just wanna understand it.’

‘I can’t explain it,’ you whispered, finally looking up at him, your lip trembling, ‘we’re…it’s like if your army buddies turned up. I’m out, of that life. I’m not going back but-’

‘He’s family,’ Jack finished for you. You nodded.

Jack sighed again, moving to pull you deep into his chest and you let him. You allowed yourself to be wrapped in his strong arms, absorbing his warmth, listening to the steady, uncomplicated rhythm of his heartbeat. Always there, like it always was. Grounded. Safe.

‘I, um…I should go check on him,’ you whispered, suddenly feeling smothered enough to force yourself back, an apologetic look on your face that he nodded at, patting your shoulder as you dipped from the room.

Dean was asleep when you went back in the room, your eyes casting over his vitals just in case and finding them fine enough to soothe your hammering heart just a little.

He stirred though, when you took your seat on the stool beside his bed, your hand resting on the mattress beside his, not touching, but close enough to feel his warmth.

Then he opened his eyes, groggily at first until he realised it was you, before he turned his head on the pillow to look at you. Neither of you said anything. You kept your eyes on his hand, your finger toying under the bracelet you’d given him years ago. It was something that you’d picked up years ago at an old curiosity shop, from a woman who was trying her absolute best to sell herself as a real witch but failing miserably. Supposedly, it was forged to bring the wearer luck, but it had never really delivered on the promise. Evidently.

Dean studied you. Your tired eyes, the worry that tugged your pretty mouth downwards, the smile you offered him when you caught him staring unapologetically. Because he always was unapologetic, just like the words that came out of him next.

‘You look good,’ he said, as if you were just old friends catching up for a coffee. Like he actually meant it and it wasn’t just something he always thought, because he always did.

‘You look like crap,’ you countered, your voice flat and hollow and followed by a gentle sniffle.

‘From the waist down, maybe. Still got the face to work with,’ he joked, nudging your wrist with his finger and flashing that dazzling smile he always did. You breathed a laugh and then silence fell. The monitors were silent now he was ranging near normal. The hum of the ER finally retreating into something steady now that the witching hour had been and gone. You looked at his leg, the half of him not covered by the gown he’d been helped into. You saw the bright white dressings and gauze pads taping him up from shin to rib. You tried not to visualize the deep, ragged gashes all clinging together beneath the bandages, save for the one that had been too wide to close without specialist intervention. Kind of like the wounds inside you. Old, healed or patched up, most of them done by the same hands that had patched Dean up. Yet there was still that one massive, festering tear—the one you had almost managed to heal until he rolled back into town tonight. Uninvited. Unapologetic. Never unwelcome.

‘How are you doing?’ you asked quietly after a moment.

‘Fine,’ Dean said, because there was no other answer he’d ever give you.

‘What was it?’ you asked, looking closely at his face.

‘Kitsune,’ Dean said, countering your fallen expression with a dismissive, ‘it was a lucky shot.’

‘For them or you?’ you challenged, your voice hollowing out when you added, ‘you could’ve died, Dean.’

‘Didn’t though,’ Dean countered, a cheeky smile tugging at the side of his lips that only made you scowl and drop your eyes back to the bed, to fiddling with that bracelet around his wrist. Dean looked away, letting you do it, trying not to get drunk on how your fingers danced across your skin, the headiest drug he’d had all night, which was saying something seeing as he was tanked up on the good stuff.

Instead, he changed the subject. To you.

Not to hunts. Not to nearly dying. To the thing that made him feel like he was, hearing about your normal life. How you were out of the life. How you were happy. Happy without him.

‘You work here?’ he asked.

‘You know I do,’ you said softly.

Exactly how was a miracle. Your dad had been fine with you not hunting, he’d encouraged it even. But it still tugged you back in here and there. A request for back up on occasion. A phone call from some hunter who couldn’t get hold of your dad and ended up with you looking up whatever they needed without thinking.

And then Dean.

College summers and spring breaks became road trips with a dose of blood, guts, and gore. You took long weekends and neglected your studies. You made him come home with you for Christmas. But eventually, real life had pulled you one way, he had pulled the other, and you’d been forced to choose. Seeing strangers at their absolute worst in an emergency room was one thing but watching the man you loved with all your heart get broken down time and time again was a weight you couldn't carry anymore.

‘Got enough on the job training huh?’ he commented, you didn’t answer and he cleared his throat, ‘they seem…cool. The staff.’

‘They are,’ you said.

‘Not so different from hunting, I guess. Case rolls in, you deal with it and send ‘em on their way,’ he said.

‘Except I don’t get hurt in the process,’ you said snarkily.

‘Don’t you?’ he asked. He was right, and you hated it. He knew you far too well. He knew that every cancer patient, every paediatric code, and every stupid, reckless accident would eat you alive from the inside out. How many hunts had you come home from where you desperately needed him to hold you together?

Only now, that job belonged to someone else. The exact someone who knocked on the glass door and opened it without waiting for an answer, forcing you to roll a couple of inches back like you hadn’t had your hand under Dean’s, his green eyes penetrating into your face, scrutinising every inch. Not just of the job. Of your life here. Your life without him.

‘Sorry, to interrupt,’ Jack lied smoothly, wheeling the cart to the other side of the bed and pulling a chair up beside it, his eyes entirely on Dean as he said, ‘you ready to get this thing sewn up?’

‘You got a bottle of whisky on that cart?’ Dean asked. Jack chuckled and started setting up and you immediately reached for the button that controlled Dean’s analgesia, handing it to him and muttering something about loading up before Jack was ready. Jack watched as you placed it in his hand, wrapping his fingers around it in a way you never would a patient. It was one of the things he’d always liked about your bedside manner. You’d do anything for anyone but boy oh boy you were determined to make them help themselves first. Push through the pain. Do what you're told, and I'll be right here to catch you if you fall. You were the absolute epitome of 'do no harm but take no shit.' But watching you now, something told Jack that boundaries were a lot easier said than done when it came to the people you called family.

After the beep echoed and the green light turned off signalling there was another five minutes before he could take his next hit Jack cleared his throat, catching both of your attention though he didn’t look up from unwrapping his equipment.

‘Lena’s asking for you by the way, something about his insurance paperwork,’ Jack said casually.

‘Don’t you need help?’ you frowned, your hand hovering protectively over the trauma pads Jack was beginning to peel away. Dean winced slightly as the medical tape yanked at his skin.

‘You know me, could do this in the dark,’ Jack said. It was easy going and the same teasing he’d normally have with you and his patients, but no one laughed. You just nodded and stood, your hand hesitating over Dean’s before you said, ‘I’ll be back soon.’

‘My uh, info is in the glovebox,’ Dean said, his eyes flicking to Jack who pretended not to hear.

‘Yeah, I know,’ you said before you trailed from the room, the door clicking softly closed after you.

Once you were gone, Dean leaned his head back, staring up at the crisp white ceiling tiles as Jack surveyed the wound. Jack forced himself to maintain his professionalism. He tried not to analyse the rugged, heavily muscled frame of the man on the table, or the deep ridge of his hip—marred by old scars but still possessing the kind of allure that usually made you stare when Jack's own scrubs rode up on shift. He tried not think the roughness of his hands; how young they looked in comparison to his. How big they’d look in comparison to you; in places he touched.

Jack shook the thoughts from his head and stared at the facts. The two smaller wounds on either side of his thigh had already been patched up, along with the deep gash just above his knee which had been glued and was now bandaged. But the main slash across his thigh was deep, down to the muscle. But it was clean. Remarkably so and not like any bear or cougar attack Jack had ever seen in his career. But it wasn’t his job to play detective.

In fact, now that he was forced to think about it, Jack realized he knew very little about your past. He knew you as you were right now. He knew you were originally from South Dakota and had moved east for college. He knew your mother was gone but that you kept in touch with your father, though you rarely went home to visit. He knew exactly how you liked your eggs, and that you barely functioned in the morning without at least one cup of black coffee. He knew you absolutely hated dressing up, preferring to live outside your hospital scrubs in a simple t-shirt and jeans, a bloody pile of which now sat abandoned at the bottom of a plastic trash bag in the corner of the room.

But you never really spoke about anything else. Not that he could blame you. He didn’t either. He didn’t talk about his army days or his wife in any way that got deeper than surface level because it hurt too much. That and he didn’t need to. You just accept everything at face value. You didn’t push each other’s boundaries; you were both just sort of there for each other in a way he’d never felt before. Easy, comfortable, and entirely undemanding.

Dean hissed as Jack anchored the needle. There was no way he could feel the sharp bite of metal, the block the team had set was not liable to falter,  but the sudden pressure had taken him by surprise and the tugging was unpleasant, like there was a string connected up from the stitch to his belly button, pulling tight every time that Jack moved. Dean checked his button again and found it grey and useless and so he tilted his head across the other way, his eyes landing on Jack who was focused on working but not oblivious to being watched. If he couldn’t have a shot of morphine he needed a distraction to keep his mind off it.

Dean cleared his throat. Jack didn’t take the bait.

‘You the boyfriend?’  he asked after a moment. Jack didn’t answer straight away, pulling the thick suture smoothly through the deep tissue, drawing the edges together before looking up over the rim of his glasses, which sat on the bridge of his nose. ‘Yeah, I am,’ he said, his hands moving with practiced efficiency to tie off a neat square knot, ‘and you?’

‘Pain in her ass,’ Dean said which felt most like the truth these days.

‘Yeah, looks like it,’ Jack commented dryly. Again, the room went quiet though Dean was betrayed by another wince as Jack laid another suture. This was no good. Not painful, but not pleasant and if he was going to get through another couple dozen he needed a distraction. So, Dean went for the thing that was sure to make his mind swim.

‘You love her?’ he asked roughly.

‘Do you?’ Jack challenged, not missing a beat.

‘I asked you first,’ Dean replied.

‘Yeah, I do,’ Jack said, looking up at him.

‘Good,’ Dean said evenly, but Jack just watched him, narrowing his eyes because he knew there was an answer waiting to be given whether the other man wanted to or not. Dean swallowed, a tiny, guarded shrug rolling through his shoulders, ‘s’not about what I want.’

‘You keep coming back though,’ Jack challenged. When Dean looked shocked, given that Jack hadn’t even known about him until tonight he carried on, ‘I know the type…. I used to be one.’

Dean felt his mind whirring, trying to put together how this put together, middle aged guy was anything like him. He was smart, Dean wasn’t. He was quiet, Dean shouted at the world. He didn’t hurt people, Dean couldn’t seem to stop.

But he stopped thinking about that when his heart twinged worse than his leg.

‘Yeah? You got a checkered past I should be worried about?’ Dean levelled, ‘cause I’m trusting you with my leg here doc.’

‘Reformed,’ Jack said with a breath of amusement, ‘but let’s just say…my late wife wasn’t exactly thrilled with two tours of Afghanistan.’

Dean said nothing, the jealousy and hatred he wanted to have for the guy dying out like it did with any vet he met. Like his dad would want.

‘But I kept showing back up anyway…just enough…just when she’d got her life to something normal without me,’ Jack said, no longer looking at him, his tools working cleanly and evenly through stringy sinew.

‘This you warning me off her?’ Dean asked. Jack shrugged.

‘Like you said. It’s not about what I want.’

Dean watching him stitch for a minute, the rhythmic methodical nature of his work. Nothing like the sloppy hand he had. Whiskey as a disinfectant and his teeth to cut the strings if needed. Neat not rough. Sure, not chaotic. Good instead of good enough.

‘She make you give it up?’ Dean asked curiously, earning himself a glance, ‘your wife, I mean.’

‘Wish I could say she did but, um,’ Jack paused. He wheeled himself back and grabbed a clean piece of gauze off the table so that he could pinch the fabric of his scrub pants and pull them up. Dean leaned over just enough to see the glint of metal shine under the fluorescents and nodded softly.

‘By the time I realized there was more to life than being reckless as shit,’ Jack said, releasing the fabric and rolling back into place, ‘we didn’t have much time left together.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Dean said. Jack shrugged like a man who’d heard sentiments like that long enough to know to accept them and also that they didn’t mean anything.

Silence fell again as he went back to working and Dean flopped back looking at the ceiling again as his words echoed through his brain. They were words he didn’t need to hear because it was all stuff he knew already. They just somehow sounded worse than he’d anticipated. Because Jack didn’t even sound angry. Anyone else would be furious if some mystery guy rocked up in his girlfriend's life in the middle of the night and pulled them into something dark and dangerous, but Jack just seemed to completely understand the gravity of the pull. Only to him it wasn't a competition at all.

‘I never mean to, you know,’ Dean admitted quietly, his eyes glued to the ceiling tiles though he felt Jack look up, ‘bother her. I can go for a while…working jobs…keeping my distance. And most the time I’m totally fine…then something like this happens… and I figure, if I’m gonna die…’

‘And what happens to her if you do?’ Jack asked, his voice tightening significantly. Dean finally turned his head to look at him, his face guilty and sad.

‘Guess you’ll get to find out.’

Jack stared back at him for a tense second, then let out a heavy sigh and returned to the final surface stitches. He had the first couple of sewn up by the time you came back in, Dean’s leg now resembling something that actually looked like leg at least. Dean opened his eyes the second he heard the door handle click, a warm smile instantly breaking across his face as you shuffled back in and sat down, casting a wary eye between the two of them.

‘How’s it going?’ you asked gently, your question nothing to do with suturing.

‘Fine,’ Jack said, offering you a reassuring nod.

‘Yeah, you might’ve been demoted from my favourite stich-giver,’ Dean chimed in.

‘That’s cause you’re tryna act tough instead of whining like a bitch,’ you countered smoothly.

‘Sweetheart, if you wanted to hear me whi-’ Dean started though he stopped as Jack moved his leg roughly into a better position without looking up. You rolled your eyes but then conversation took hold. Nothing deep or serious. You asked about his dad and got the same vagueness he always hit you with. He asked about your work and proudly told you which of the nurses he’d already managed to hit on. He even struck up a conversation with Jack about the Pirates current season, though you were entirely certain Dean hadn’t watched a baseball game since he played T-ball as a kid. It was so easy, so familiar. Like it always was with him. Like it was with Jack.

Except you knew Jack would still be here tomorrow. That you could talk about work and he’d listen. That if you wanted to pry into Jack’s life, his wife, and his army days and all of the horrors you were both content on ignoring, he would. That he’d take you to a baseball game if you asked because there was nowhere else he’d rather be than with you.

You’d just been telling Dean about a broken bone you’d helped reset last week, an anecdote about that time in Tampa he reset your shoulder bubbling into the room that you could tell Jack wanted to ask more about, when he pulled back, the sound of metallic tools hitting an empty basin as he declared, ‘done.’

‘Not bad,’ Dean said, his fingers touching just above Jack’s handiwork before he placed a clean dressing over the top, ‘thanks doc.’

‘Thanks Jack,’ you said, offering him a deeply grateful smile. Jack nodded and started packing his things away.

‘So, what now?’ Dean asked looking to you before remembering it was Jack who was supposed to be creating the plan, since he was his doctor.

‘Well, standard protocol means we need to get you assessed by our on call physical therapy team. See how you tolerate weight-bearing and monitor the site for any signs of dehiscence or active bleeding. It also wouldn’t hurt to keep you on a scheduled IV pain regimen before we even consider a formal discharge. And, of course, animal control has to be formally notified, and the state troopers will likely want to conduct an interview so they can log the incident location. Since, you know... black bears aren’t exactly native to downtown Pittsburgh,’ Jack rhymed off effortlessly, like he would with any patient. To the point. Route one, best plan of action.

‘Right,’ Dean drawled, doing a terrible job of pretending that he had any intention of listening to a single word of it.

You played along too, already making a mental tally of everything you’d need to coordinate. If you could get Jack to write up his discharge now, with some good painkillers included, you could get some supplies together, grab something from the pharmacy drawer and get him out. If he would hold off on his referrals, go against the system that wanted beds as soon as possible, they’d have one because you’d have Dean out of here before he was due. Before anyone could ask any more questions.

Because you didn’t have the brainpower for it right now. Not after a night of no sleep. Not after hours of worry. You weren’t even sure the lies you’d fed to Lena about his insurance card were coherent but it was all you had until you could get out. Of the hospital, away from nurse’s gossiping and Jack’s unbelievably forgiving gaze. Back into your old life, where there was no explaining or scrutinising. Just what had to be done. Just until Dean was okay. You just needed Jack to get that.

‘But,’ Jack continued, pausing to look at the chart, ‘I suppose I could write up your discharge summary right now. Get your take-home supplies ready so that once you’ve completed your evaluations, you're cleared to go.’

 ‘Uh, yeah. That works,’ Dean said, exchanging a subtle look with you before you looked at Jack, eyes curious.

‘And uh, sweetheart,’ Jack said, his eyes filled with a quiet understanding, ‘I know you’re not on the clock, but I’m going to take my break right after I input this discharge. I probably won't get around to submitting those state referrals until I get back onto the floor.’

‘Right,’ you nodded, the relief washing over you in a massive wave, ‘you should take a minute. I bet your backs killing you.’

‘And don’t worry about your shift tomorrow, today, I’ll square it with Robby and Dana, so you’re covered,’ he promised softly.

‘Thank you,’ you said, offering another grateful smile.

Jack gave a quiet nod and headed for the exit but he turned back just before the door swung shut, finding the two of you already locked in each other’s orbit. The conversation was hushed but intense. Low murmurs of wheelchairs, cash-only motels, and clean gauze bounced between you in ways he didn’t want to know about officially.

So, he left you to it.

Jack knew it was probably foolish. That old age and a bad leg had softened his edges. When he’d been Dean’s age, fresh off a deployment and full of lightning, he probably would’ve fought harder, dirtier. He would’ve hurt people the way Dean seemed to do. But he didn’t need to do that anymore. He didn’t need love to be an all-consuming, blinding fire. He didn’t need to constantly prove his worth.

He proved it by staying. By showing up for the shift.  By holding you when you needed it.

And he knew one day the shine would dim. One day the gaps would get longer between visits. One day Dean’s demons would catch up to him like Jack’s had to him.

But Jack also knew he’d be the one standing right there to pull you through the wreckage when it happened.

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supernatural tags

@greenery-stings@elisabethturner1919@caitlin1996@amara-liu@samwchsgf@robynn9436-blog

dean winchesters tags

Not much thought comes into it, not used to wearing them if not in the comfort of your home late at night but simply a necessity now. You don't not use them for thinking that they look bad, but because they used to bother you more than help you and now you've simply gotten used to the contacts.

Once you arrive at the bullpen, you're only five minutes late and don't seem to be the last one arriving. You let that be a victory.

With your morning drink close by, you finally start working on the mountain of files pilling up at your desk.

"Good morning." You're only half an hour in when the familiar voice sounds behind you, steps sounding closer as Aaron comes to stand beside your chair.

"Hey." You greet back, leaning your head to look up at him.

"I don't mean to put even more in your plate but i really need you to fill these out." It's only now that he looks away from the papers and at you, eyes widening for one second in surprise.

You try to ignore it, though it settles something in you. It's a strict rule that have to act professional around each other at work — all an atempt to not have Strauss ripping your heads off.

"No problem." You take the files from his hands with a polite smile, setting them in front of you to start working on them.

Aaron lingers on his spot, clearing his throat. "You're wearing glasses."

“I am.” You state carefully, not sure where he’s getting at. Though you find yourself shifting on your seat a little subconsciously.

You don’t think you’ve ever seen him so dumbfounded.

“Since when?” His eyebrows are furrowed as if wondering if he’s missed this trait, sweet Aaron.

“Always?” You say with confusion, “I just usually wear contacts. Was a bit late today and forgot them.”

Your boyfriend nods at your explanation, eyes still fixated on you with concentration as you feel your skin grow hot under his gaze.

“You look good.” His words are gentle as he speaks after a moment.

His hand comes to tug a little on his tie — something you’ve noticed he does when nervous. It’s hard to believe you’d be the one to make him nervous.

“Thank you.” You answer just as soft, a little like a question.

It didn’t cross your mind that he’d never seen you with your glasses when you put them on earlier. But you suppose his reaction makes up for it.

Aaron’s lips pull into a small, “Anytime, honey.” Even lower than before. And then he’s walking back into his office like he didn’t leave you melting.

You almost forget about it as you distract yourself with work, getting up from your chair once you’re done and knocking on the door to Hotch’s office.

Once you’re given the green light to come in, you slip inside and close the door behind you before heading to his desk.

“Here you go.” You leave the files on it, moving to get back outside.

But before you can reach the door, you feel his hand catch your wrist. A gasp leaves your lips as he turns you around and presses his own to them in a hard kiss.

Aaron’s hand are on your face as he kisses you, a sight escaping his nose as he gets the first taste of you in the day. Instinctively your hands come to rest on his arm, fingers slightly gripping his button up.

He tastes of coffee with a mix of the mints he always has while working. The bump of his nose against the rim of your glasses has him pulling you closer, one hand moving to your waist to help with doing so.

You let your own hand wonder to his shoulder, feeling the muscles relax under your fingers as you softly massage them.

“You’re driving me crazy, sweet girl.” He mumbles after pulling way, lips still dangerously close to yours.

“What?” You giggle with curiosity.

To prove his point, you feel his fingers tap the rim of your glasses with care. “These are the reason.”

Your heart thumps furiously, shy grin on your lips as you keep him close. “You like them?”

“Love them.” Aaron corrects with an arm tightening around your waist, eyes set on every detail of your face.

“Not too nerdy?” You muse, mostly teasing compliments out of him.

“Just enough.” He reassures nevertheless, lips to your cheek for a sweet peck. “So pretty.”

You squeeze his elbow in return, not surprised when his lips chase you for another kiss. Not that you can complain, relished by the attention.

This one is softer, as if he knows you should get back soon and not wanting to get himself worked up.

“Wear them to our date tonight.” He practically begs, lips shiny from you.

“Pervert.” Your joke earns a grin from him.

“Can’t help it when it comes to you.” Aaron says with honesty. His grip loosens, mouth pressed to your temple.

“Pervert and corny. Wow, Hotchner.” You snort, hitting his chest with your pointer finger.

He catches it with ease, bringing it to his lips for a quick kiss there before reaching to adjust your slightly crooked glasses. “There.”

You freeze. 

What the—

He must not register the utter shock on your face, because he’s already moving towards you. The silky tie snaps through the air as he rips it from his neck. God, he must really be wound up. He didn’t even take his shoes off at the door. 

“Excuse me?” You manage to choke out. 

“Don’t freak out, I just really need to try something,” he grunts, rounding the couch. “Just for a second.”

The moment his knees hit the carpet in front of you, your jaw goes slack.  

“Harrington!” You scramble back into your mountain of pillows, nearly knocking your mug off the side table. You reach out and steady it with one hand, suddenly very aware of how your tank top has ridden up with the movement. “What the hell are you—?”

“…can’t believe she said that,” he mutters, ripping back the blanket thrown over your lap. 

“Who said what?”

He doesn’t respond, eyes locked on your short sleep shorts. They’re a cute set you picked up recently at the mall. Navy blue with white flowers. Innocent-looking. Sweet. 

But he’s staring at them like he’s going to rip them off with his teeth. 

Heat rushes to your cheeks. 

While you can’t deny what that look is doing to you, there’s something else trapped in his gaze. Sadness? Not quite. Disappointment, maybe? You’ve only been roommates for six months, but you already know him well enough to know when he’s upset. 

Reaching down, you grab a fistful of his hair and tip his head back. His eyes snap to yours. 

“What did she say?” you ask again, firmer this time. 

Steve’s lips form a thin line before he sighs heavily. You drop his hair. 

“She said I was bad at sex. Specifically, bad at...this.” He gestures unhelpfully between your legs and your stomach swoops as his finger almost brushes the seam of your shorts. 

It takes you a second, but then your brows pull together. “She actually said that?”

“Not exactly,” he groans. “The date was fine. It was our third, so when she invited me upstairs, I figured…well, you know. And then we got to making out and it was hot. I guess…”

You swallow hard and gesture for him to continue, even if the thought of his lips trailing down some other girl’s neck feels like a knife in your side. 

“And then I went down on her and she said—” He cuts himself off with a miserable little huff before resuming. “She said it wasn’t doing anything for her. At all. Like it wasn’t good enough or something. Can you believe that? I could’ve lived if she said my thrust game needed work or something, if we had even gotten to that point, but this? This is, like, my thing.”

Oh. Okay. 

Yeah, you could’ve gone the rest of your lease without knowing that eating pussy is your hot roommate’s thing. 

That is not good for your little crush you have going on that you refuse to talk about. Or think about. Ever. 

You nod quickly and clear your throat. “S-so, what exactly does this have to do with me?” 

Steve just shrugs. “We’re friends, right?”

“Right.”

“Right.” He levels your gaze, brown eyes soft and playful in the lamplight. “So…”

The moment stretches between you, an invitation, an ask, and a dare all rolled into one. 

“So, because we’re such good friends, we just…give each other oral sex?”

Steve sighs. “Look. I just want a second opinion, okay? I mean, this is bad. Really bad. If Cindy didn’t like it, then what if other girls didn’t either? Then I’ve just been lied to all this time—”

Your gaze drops to his fingers digging into the couch cushion beneath you, and despite yourself, a smile creeps across your lips. “Oh my God, this really got to you, didn’t it?” 

“What?” He balks. “No! It’s just…I need to set the record straight.” He taps your knees with a knuckle, playful but firm. “Spread ‘em.”

You bark an unbelieving laugh that ends in a sound too close to a whimper when his hands come down on your thighs. 

You cannot let him do this to you. If you do, you’ll never be able to get over your secret-no-good-very-bad-crush on your roommate. 

You force yourself to breathe. “I…I don’t want thinks to get weird.”

 His eyes flick up to yours. “Weird?”

“Between us.”

Steve seems to take a second to understand what you’re saying, and you watch as an emotion you can’t place crosses his face. 

Suddenly, he moves to stand. “You’re right. Sorry. God, I’m an idiot. What am I thinking, I just—”

Panic spikes and you snatch his wrist before you even really know what you’re doing, cutting him off. “No, wait. It’s like you said. We’re…friends, right?”

He nods quickly. Too quickly. “Yeah.”

“So, we don’t let it get weird.” The words spill out of you before you can take them back. But you don’t want to. “I’ll give you an unbiased review. A one time thing.”

You watch as his lashes drop again to your legs, and his pupils widen as your knees fall apart a little on instinct. 

“You’re sure?” he asks, voice thick. 

In an effort to appear nonchalant, you shrug. But you’re salivating when his tongue darts over his bottom lip. 

 “Yes,” you breathe. 

He doesn’t waste a second dropping back down to his knees, and your legs widen immediately to give him space. 

“So, you’ll tell me the truth, right?” he rasps, eyes jumping between your face and your hips. “Be honest. I can take it.”

“Honest,” you agree, but the word comes out in a whisper as his fingers slip under your waistband. 

Your face burns as he pulls down your shorts and panties in one smooth motion, baring you to him. His hands gently ease your thighs farther apart, and you fight the urge to squirm under his gaze. 

“Steve! Stop looking at it like that,” you gasp.

“Why?” he asks without glancing up. “It’s pretty.”

Shit. 

You’re not strong enough for this. 

But when he finally looks up, you recognize the silent question in his eyes. He’s asking for permission. You could stop this right now, and he would let you easily. He’s probably never even bring it up again. No harm done. 

And you should. 

God, you should. 

But you don’t want to. 

So instead, you just nod, not trusting your voice to speak. 

As he leans in, you brace for the feeling of his tongue, but you’re surprised when he starts by just…kissing you. 

His lips are soft against your folds, and your breath catches at the tenderness there. His eyes find yours before he goes lower, and the moment his nose bumps your clit, your body jolts in his hold. 

He makes a muffled sound and his eyes drift shut, large palms moving to your hips, pinning them to the cloth couch beneath you.

 Then there’s that wet heat. 

His tongue slides over you with just enough pressure, starting slow and exploring your entrance. 

“Oh, God,” you whimper. 

His hair is so soft against your inner thighs, and when he makes a sound of encouragement against you, and his tongue swirls higher, catching the underside of your clit, your mouth drops open in a silent moan. 

He’s hardly done anything yet, but the way he’s doing it, so confident, and steady, it’s unlike anything you’ve ever felt before.

“See? Good, right?” he mutters, the words muffled and slick against your core. “I know what I’m—mmm, fuck, you taste good.”

Before you can respond, his hands wrap up and around your thighs, and he hauls you closer. Your tank top rides up even higher as you slide down into the cushions, but you don’t reach up to fix it. 

Mostly because Steve Harrington is going down on you, and that thought alone is nearly making you lose your fucking mind. 

His lashes flutter shut as he makes out with your dripping cunt, his throat bobbing as sucks gently, swallows, and goes back for more. 

You’re surprised to find there’s no performance to his actions, but more of a genuine enjoyment. 

Steve eats pussy like he wants to. 

You watch, transfixed, and you can’t help but roll your hips once against his mouth, smearing your slick all over his pretty fucking face. 

Too pretty for his own good.

A sound escapes his chest, something caught between a moan and a whine, and he nods against you, peeking up from beneath his lashes. 

The carpet whispers as rises higher on his knees, mouth traveling up your mound and over the soft, sensitive skin below your belly button. 

But you whimper at the loss, pushing his head back down. 

His throat vibrates against you with a chuckle, but he follows you obediently. “Oh, yeah? So definitely doing something for you then.”

“Shut up,” you groan, but the sound dies out harshly when his mouth latches to your clit and sucks. 

Hard. 

You gasp, back arching as your core clenches instinctively. 

Then, without warning, he pulls back. 

You look at each other, chests heaving. Suddenly, you’re afraid he’s done. That you now have to give a report based on that. 

“Is that it?” You squeak. 

“What? God, you think I would just leave you like that? No, I was just thinking—” He draws in a breath, like he needs to physically rearrange his thoughts. “Well, I haven’t even kissed you yet.”

You just stare down at him, chest heaving, bare and slick from the waist down. 

He takes one look at your face and clears his throat. “Right. Later.” He leans in again, but pauses before glancing up at you one more time. “Yes?”

“Yes, Harrington, I will kiss you, later,” you whine pitifully, canting your hips into his hands. 

He seems pleased, and wastes no time picking up where he left off. 

And this time, he doesn’t tease you. 

Your head hips back, a moan tearing from your throat as two of his fingers spear deep inside and his mouth closes over your clit.

As you threaten to fall apart beneath him, Steve just watches. 

Every little whine and whimper. Every jerk and arch of your back. Every wriggle of your hips and curl of your toes. 

He studies you like a map, surveying everything that makes you soak his face, everything that makes you clench hard around his fingers, his tongue, and finding new routes to all those destinations. 

The tension between your hips pulls tighter, and when he reaches up to palm your breast, slipping his hand underneath your tank top, you wonder if he can feel it. 

The way your heart slams against your ribs. 

A silent, helpless confession. A call for him to see that this will not, in fact, be a one-time thing. 

That you’ve been thinking about this—about him—ever since the day you moved in. 

That ache builds like a tidal wave, threatening to break, and your fingers fly to his arms for stability. He’s warm, and strong, and his muscles shift under his dress shirt. 

It’s honestly impressive how quickly he responds, how easily he reads every subconscious signal your body gives him. Because when that breathy, urgent whine starts to leave your lips, his thumb replaces his mouth on your clit, rubbing firm, perfect circles that drive you higher. And then he dips lower, tonguing your entrance, devouring you in thick, broad strokes, pushing you to the fucking brink. 

“Yeah, you gonna come for me?” He slurs against your aching cunt. “Just like that. That’s it. I’ve got you—mmhm—”

The second his tongue spears deep inside, the tidal wave breaks. 

Your moan fills your quiet apartment, and you nearly come off the couch with the intensity of it. The rush is unlike anything you’ve felt before. You have no option but to surrender fully to it as it pulls you under, shamelessly riding your orgasm out on Steve’s tongue.

Steve’s ready for it though. He goes with you easily as your hips rise and fall, strong hands holding you to his mouth, unwilling to let you slide away. 

When the pulsing eventually fades to shuttering jolts, he pulls back, but his hands stay on your hips, caressing you softly, bringing you back down to earth. 

You bite your lip, looking down at him panting between your knees. Your body aches, but in a good way. Like you need more, but somehow, it still won’t ever be enough. 

“God, Steve—” you whine, but you’re cut off by him lunging up across your body and pressing his lips to yours. 

You laugh into his mouth, tasting yourself on his tongue as he kisses you eagerly. 

“You have no idea how long I’ve been waiting to do that.” He murmurs, pulling back a little.

Something catches in your chest at his confession, and you thread your fingers through his hair, pulling him back down for another kiss. 

This one is different. 

Deeper, and softer, and…meaningful. 

He sinks back down onto his knees, squeezing your thigh, your waist, like you’re something precious. 

“So, tell me , honestly, was it good?” He urged, gazing up at you.

You blink dumbly, throughly flushed. “Yeah, uh…no notes.”

He smirks. “Yeah, that’s what I thought. Five out of five stars.”

“I don’t know, Harrington. That literally means no room for improvement.” You’re not sure his ego is ready for that. 

“Oh?” His lips tilt in a crooked smile that makes you want to kiss him again. “What would you have me do to earn that fifth star, huh?”

His lids go heavy as you tighten your hold on his hair and urge his mouth back down where you want it. 

“You could do it again.”

a/n: It's my canon that his date, Cindy, was just hung up on her ex, and Steve was the unlucky rebound that night. Plus, Steve wasn't that into it. Because he was thinking about you, obviously. Also, here is the fluffy version sister fic if you care lol

A/N: this one-shot is extremely self-indulgent, sorry 🥲 I'm so happy it's finally up again, it's just so important to me. I think this is porn without plot? well, there’s a bit of plot I guess, lmao. the smut part might be a little all over the place because l wrote it while studying for an exam and getting ready for a little trip. hope you’ll enjoy 💛 ps: I apologize to all the interstellar fans for eventual mistakes, I've never seen it but I needed something to match bucky's love for physics and space.

Bucky is halfway through a problem set in the library, equations spread out in messy sheets all over the desk and coffee going cold at his elbow, when he checks the time on his phone and feels that familiar tug in his chest. He’s not even close to being tired, could easily grind through another two chapters, but his focus has thinned to a thread. So he closes his notebook a little too decisively and mutters something about calling it a night, about being exhausted. 

Steve looks up slowly, deeply unimpressed. His eyes are screaming do you think I was born yesterday? but Bucky refuses to meet them. He shrugs, trying to appear casual, and shoves his laptop into his backpack like he’s annoyed at the implication.

Steve’s mouth twitches knowingly. His friend’s body has been betraying him for a while: knee bouncing incessantly, jaw tight, eyes landing back to his phone every few minutes.

Bucky has been pulling this move for years and usually Steve would drag it out by raising a brow, asking if he should send flowers already. Sometimes he’d start humming a wedding march under his breath until Bucky’s ears burn red and he threatens to blacklist him from future study sessions. But tonight, his friend just watches him for a second longer than necessary, taking in the barely concealed anticipation in the way Bucky adjusts his puffer jacket, then checks his phone twice in the span of two minutes, clearly hoping for a text.

Steve just nods once and Bucky perceives the mercy like a gift.

The walk back to the dorm is automatic at this point; his feet know the path too well, from the shortcut through the nearby park—technically closed at night but still accessible thanks to the worn patch in the bushes—to the way the lights flicker near the humanities building every fifteen seconds. And the exact amount of steps it takes to reach your floor. 

The rhythm of his footsteps carries just enough weight that they draw a satisfying echo from the tile. Although Bucky thought about surprising you after not seeing each other for almost a week, he wants you to notice the noise. You hate unexpected knocks, always have. He remembers you mentioning it to him once, shrugging like it was no big deal, but he is too observant when it comes to you. Something simple like a knock rattling the silence never fails to make your shoulders tense up and your heartbeat accelerate, eyes widening just slightly. That’s why he ensures each footfall is deliberate, loud enough for you to acknowledge a presence in the hallway but soft enough not to hurl your brain into panic.

When he finally reaches your door, Bucky lets his hand linger on the frame. He knows you’re inside from the quiet tapping of a keyboard and the occasional muttered curse over some paper you’re clearly taking too seriously.

The knock is gentle, barely there. “Open up, doll. Campus security’s doing a wellness check.”

“Bucky?” Your voice comes soft, but cautious. Once the door is opened, he takes a step forward and tugs you into a hug, your arms wrapping around him without thought. 

“Hi, sweetheart. Hi, angel. Hi, my little overachiever.” He murmurs into your hair, pressing a kiss there, then another to your temple.

Your surprised laugh is half-muffled by his chest. “What are you doing here?”

“Rescue mission.” He promptly exclaims, pulling back just enough to study your tired features. With his hands cupping your cheeks, he looks into your eyes with a feigned frown. “I could feel you stressing from the library, baby. It was like a disturbance in the stratosphere." 

You roll your eyes. “I’m not—”

He narrows his eyes, and you hesitate just for a second.

“... That stressed.” Your voice fades into a whisper.

“Mh-mh.” He leans down and presses a long kiss on your forehead. “Keep telling yourself that, doll.”

Bucky nudges the door shut behind him with his foot while guiding you backward into the room, as if he’s lived here with you his whole life. His backpack drops to the floor, forgotten, only for him to engulf you back in his arms. 

“You’re freezing, sweetheart.” He murmurs. “Why is your dorm always a sauna in the summer and an arctic tundra in winter?”

You giggle quietly, pulling back just enough to brush a little bit of snow off his shoulders. “It’s just particularly cold these days.” 

“Just these days?” He scoffs. “It’s inhumane. I’m having a very serious conversation with your RA about this.”

You grab his sleeve reflexively. “Please don’t.”

He blinks down at you, an eyebrow suspiciously raised. “Why not?”

“Because she already scowls at me every time we pass in the hallway after you cornered her about the radiator in the bathroom.” You mumble. “I told you it wasn’t that big of a deal.”

“It clanked in the middle of the night, and then you would jolt awake and never fall back asleep.” Bucky defends instantly.

“Still... she looks at me like I personally filed a lawsuit against her.” You argue weakly.

“Good. Maybe she’ll think twice before ignoring the pipe orchestra in your bathroom at three in the morning.”

“Bucky.” You reprimand him jokingly, squeezing his torso once.

“Shh.” He whispers, his gaze alert as it scans the room. He immediately spots your laptop and a pile of books and binders stacked like some kind of intellectual barricade on your bed. “You’re really going to bury yourself in all this tonight?”

“I have a paper due next week.” You admit, sitting on the edge of the mattress. Bucky doesn’t miss the way your shoulders suddenly slump, as if resigned. “I… just wanted to get a head start.”

He crouches in front of you after carelessly throwing his jacket on your desk chair, his hands blanketing yours perfectly. “Sweetheart, look at me.”

You peer at him through your eyelashes, noticing the exact moment his expression melts into something softer, something only you are allowed to witness. Cupping your face gently, his thumbs brush your cheeks with such tenderness you almost tear up. “When was the last time you took a break?”

You sigh. “Buck—”

“Not a ‘I-scrolled-on-my-phone-for-five-minutes’ break. I’m talking about a real one.”

You look away, suddenly feeling a scorching heat taking over your neck. You know how much he hates when you overwork yourself to the bone, and the thought of disappointing him of all people makes your stomach churn with shame. 

Bucky exhales dramatically, pulling you back into his chest with a swift move that makes you yelp. “You’re working too hard, baby. Way too hard. You’re gonna burn yourself out if I don’t intervene.”

You are always three steps ahead, always prepared for some invisible emergency no one else has even considered yet. And not just on an academic level. He’s watched you fix things for others for years. You dig through your bag without looking and somehow produce exactly what is needed. Band-aids in three different sizes—yes, three. A little pouch of medicine: painkillers, allergy tablets, something for stomach aches because “campus food is unpredictable”. Extra pads tucked into the side pocket; two packs of tissues; hand sanitizer clipped to the zipper. A tiny sewing kit because one time someone’s button popped off and you decided that would never happen again in your presence. Mints. Lip gloss. Hair ties. Bobby pins. A small comb. A portable charger that’s always somehow fully charged. A granola bar “in case someone forgets to eat”. Bucky literally recoiled when some tomato sauce fell on Kate’s jeans last month and you were handing her a stain remover pen before she could even acknowledge the stain.

He’s seen you pull each of those things out at least once, along the relief on people’s faces when you quietly fix their problem before it becomes embarrassing. You never make a big deal out of it, always ready to reassure them with a smile. 

You also remember everything, from birthdays to when your friends have their exams. 

Natasha gets migraines when she’s stressed, so you make sure to always carry that specific brand of painkillers that works for her. You keep peppermint gum too, because you once read online it helps, and you don’t even like peppermint. 

Steve forgets to eat when he’s buried in his art projects, so you text him reminders and shove protein bars into his hands without ceremony. You’ve memorized his deadlines better than he has, and you once stayed up proofreading his paper even though you had your own due the next morning. 

Sam swears he never gets sick, yet you still bring extra throat lozenges when he starts losing his voice—the consequence of him being president of several clubs and giving one motivational speech after another. 

Kate is very confident in herself, but she panics before every presentation. You sit in the front row each time, smiling and nodding at her like a proud mom. You never dwell on the mistakes or the stumbles; instead, you point out the strongest parts of her speech: the clever phrasing, the insights she came up with on the spot when the professor started asking questions, the arguments that actually landed. You always highlight the good things, the moments that matter, and she leaves the room feeling lighter, even when she doubts the quality of her work. 

Wanda pretends she doesn’t get cold, but you pack an extra scarf in your bag anyway. You also walk slower when she’s overwhelmed, never pushing, just hovering gently in case she needs you. 

Yelena acts all fearless, but you always suggest ordering something sweet at the end of a meal, because you know she won’t unless someone tags along. 

Every preference. Every weakness. Every tiny crack people try to hide… you smooth them over without them even noticing. And you do it without expecting anything in return, like it’s nothing. 

Your brain is constantly scanning, ready to cushion the fall before it happens. You’ve somehow made yourself responsible for the comfort of everyone around you, and Bucky loves how capable you are, how steady your presence is to the point everyone gravitates toward you without even realizing. You’re the calm center, the one people trust, the one who fixes things.

But sometimes… sometimes it makes his chest hurt, because he sees the cost. You don’t sit down until everyone else has, nor you relax unless someone forces you to. You’re always the one refilling glasses before your own, the one staying behind to stack chairs or wipe down tables even when it isn’t your responsibility. In study groups, you’re the last to pack up, double-checking that everyone understands the material before you even glance at your own notes. You answer texts at two in the morning because someone’s panicking about something, and somehow their anxiety becomes yours, sitting heavy in your chest until you’re sure they’re okay. If a friend is upset, you carry it with you for the rest of the day, replaying their words, wondering what else you could’ve said, what more you could’ve done.

You have this way of absorbing other people’s burdens and slipping them into your own pockets as if they belong there.

And Bucky wants—selfishly, desperately—to be the one place where you don’t have to take care of anything.

With him, you don’t need your emergency kit.

With him, you don’t need to think ahead.

He carries the snacks; he argues with the professor; he deals with the guys who don’t stop staring. He drives, fixes, calls, confronts, handles. You are free to flop dramatically across his lap, and steal his fries. You can let your eyes squeeze in frustration and complain about your professors without trying to solve anything, or fall asleep mid-movie, because you know he’ll carry you to bed.

You trust him to handle the world so you don’t have to.

He wants to take the weight off your shoulders so permanently that you forget it was ever there, because his affection does not sit politely in his chest. It calls for you. It rattles through him like something alive that needs to breath.

Bucky has loved you for so long that he can’t remember what it felt like before. He tries, sometimes, to pinpoint the exact moment it shifted from childhood attachment to a blade pressed under his ribs, not deep enough to kill him, but the wound pulses every time he breathes, as a reminder. 

Maybe it was the day you grabbed his hand on the playground and refused to let go when another kid tried to tease him for the scar on his left arm, the one he got trying to prove he wasn’t scared of the ramp behind the old basketball court. Maybe it was during your first ever movie night in middle school, when he sat completely still for three hours after you fell asleep on his shoulder to not wake you up. 

Or maybe it was gradual. Like erosion. Like water carving into stone until there’s no version of the rock that ever existed without the river running through it.

He only knows there’s never been an end.

Bucky often reflects on the fact that he’s the safest place you’ve ever known. You trust him in a way that is almost sacred. You curl into him without hesitation. You change in front of him without thinking twice. You press your cold hands under his shirt because you know he’ll yelp and then immediately tug you into his chest to warm you. Bucky finds himself more often than not lying in his own bed and thinking about this, about the way you trust him with your entire body, with your happiness, your quiet and your sadness. But not with your heart. At least, not in the way he wants.

You look at him like he’s home, like he’s already yours. Like there’s no risk of losing him—and he would never give you a reason to think otherwise. That’s the cruelest part. Bucky would stay even if you never loved him back. He’s been staying since he was fourteen and realized that the reason he wanted to punch that boy at the school dance wasn’t because the kid stepped on your shoes, but because he made you laugh too hard. He’s been staying since you cried over your first breakup and let him hold you as he tried to ignore the way his jaw clenched every time you said your ex’s name.

Taking care of you comes so easy to him, maybe too easy. Sam once told him it borders on ridiculousness. But you have no idea what it costs him. You sit in his lap and kiss the corner of his mouth by accident, giggling, looking away too fast to notice how he freezes for a second too long.

You have never kissed him on the lips, though.

Bucky thinks about that more than he should.

He’s prepared for everything: skipped meals that make you dizzy in the middle of a lecture; all-nighters where your eyes get glassy and you insist you’re “fine” as your fingers tremble around a pen; the way you grind yourself down for grades like your worth depends on them. He’s prepared to sit at the kitchen table while you bake and pretend not to want to smooth the wrinkle between your brows when you frown in concentration; or to kiss your lips after you feed him a dollop of custard, because you trust him enough to tell you if it sucks.

He’s also prepared for every guy who thinks your softness means easy access. For every hand that lingers too long and every flirtatious grin thrown your way.

He is not prepared for the possibility that one day, you might actually want one of them.

Bucky watched it happen more often than not. Smiling politely while some guy leans a little too close, and pretending he’s not tracking every movement, cataloging whether the guy’s hand drifts lower than it should.

He never interrupts. He simply waits. Because if you step back even half an inch, he’s already beside you. If your smile falters, he’s glaring at the idiot. If you look even slightly uncomfortable, he’s casually sliding an arm around your waist.

Possessive enough to send a message, but not enough to claim you.

And sometimes... it’s just unbearable. 

You call him dramatic when he scowls, laughing as you remind him that you can handle yourself just fine. And he knows you can. He was the one who taught you self-defense in high school, for fuck’s sake. It’s just that Bucky wants to be the only one who gets to see that soft little grin of yours when you’re on the brink of sleep, to hear your muttered curses when your fingers fumble through a tangle of yarn. Or watch you get genuinely angry over a dumb misunderstanding while reading one of those romance novels of yours that leave you sighing dreamily at the end.

The territorial edge of these thoughts leaves a bitter taste in his mouth, but the shame dissipates as soon as one of those guys smiles at you, making room for something ugly and hot that crawls through his chest and makes his jaw ache.

Bucky has imagined telling you.

It never gets far.

In his head, the words sound steady, confident. 

But you’d blink, go quiet… look guilty. And he would rather cut his own heart out than see you blame yourself for his own feelings.

So he keeps quiet, and pours his love into other things, like gently drying your hair after you shower, and giving you little forehead kisses—Bucky knows you adore those because you unconsciously shiver each time. But also calling you sweetheart and angel and doll, and all those other pet names Natasha deems ‘corny’ with a grimace. Like they don’t mean anything deeper. He touches you, constantly. Not because he’s careless, but because he’s greedy. The contact reassures him that you’re still here, that you’re still choosing to be by his side, even if it’s not in the way he yearns for.

From time to time, when you fall asleep in the crook of his neck, Bucky presses his mouth to your hair and breathes you in like it’s something he could survive on, his arms tightening around you just how you like. It’s become his favorite thing to do ever since you told him how safe and cocooned you feel in his embrace. 

Because when you’re awake, you might see the way his breathing changes when your fingers trace absentminded patterns on his chest, or the way he shivers when you call him Jamie—you are the only one allowed to do that. 

You might finally understand that every innocent kiss is just him restraining himself.

So Bucky lets himself slip only in the dark, when no one can see the awe twinkling in his eyes whenever you are around. He’s balancing on a thin line as it is; one wrong move and the entire “best friends” foundation cracks. And he swallows it all. The jealousy, the hunger, those three treacherous words that rise too close to the surface every time you look up at him with those pretty eyes. 

But loving you is perpetual. It hums under his skin when you let yourself melt into his hugs. It sits heavy in his stomach when your lips brush his forehead with a quick kiss before you run to class. It blooms sharp and hot every time someone asks for your number.

He wonders if he ruined himself by loving you that young, because no one else has ever fit right by his side. Yet, he would rather have you like this than risk losing you by asking for more. Even if sometimes it feels like his heart is stretched too tight in his chest. Even if when you look at him, tired and soft and wrapped in his comforter, he has to glance away and breathe through the urge to kiss you until you’re both left wheezing.

With him, you just get to exist. And if this is the only role he ever gets to play in your life, he’ll take it. Because Bucky has always thought of himself as the equivalent of an oversized hoodie that’s been worn too long.

Comfortable, warm, easy to grab when you’re cold.

But not the thing you pick when you want to feel special.

Bucky presses a kiss to your cheek, then your jaw. When he reaches the side of your neck, his lips linger just enough to receive a squirm in return and a giggle that softens his smile into the most tender thing you’ve ever seen.

“Bucky.” You whisper, half-scolding, half-laughing.

“What?” He asks innocently. “I’m just appreciating my favorite person.”

“You’re distracting me.”

“Good.” He hums, preening inside. “That’s the point, baby.”

Moving onto your bed, his hands tug you gently until you stumble back. “C’mere. Sit with me.”

Lying down, he looks at you expectantly, blue eyes prettily begging you to follow him.

“James seriously, I have to finish—”

“Nope.” He grabs your wrists and pulls you forward so you’re kneeling right between his thighs. His hands settle on your hips like they’ve always belonged there, and you shiver, hoping he’ll blame it on the heating not working properly in the middle of winter.

“You need to breathe, angel. And you breathe better when you’re not spiraling over footnotes. Look at you, you chewed on that pen like a stressed little squirrel.” He teases, guiding you until you’re reluctantly lying on your front. “You’re too precious to suffer like this. Not on my watch.”

You huff softly, but you don’t dare move away. The knowledge that you trust him to this extent, that you allow yourself to bend your strict study routines for him, floods him with a quiet, overwhelming happiness that makes his heart ache in the best way.

“You know,” Bucky starts softly, brushing his nose against your temple. “You don’t have to be in charge with me.”

Your shoulders drop just a fraction, and he takes that in with a hint of a satisfied smile.

“I’ve got it, okay? I’ve got you.” He continues with a lower voice. You finally go completely slack in his hold, the curve of your body molding against his chest as your ear presses on his left pec.

And God, he would stay like this forever if you’d let him.

Bucky kisses the top of your head again, tracing a path with his lips that ends on the apple of your cheek. “See? There’s my girl.” He murmurs. “You’re adorable, angel. Did you know that? Ridiculously, impossibly adorable.”

“And you’re impossible.” You mumble, eyelids threatening to close under his tender attention.

“I know. I know, sweetheart.” He murmurs, pretending to pout. “I can’t help it. It’s a curse, really. You’re just… irresistible when you let yourself go.”

“But you adore me.” He quickly adds.

You don’t answer that, yet he pretends to ignore the way his heart skips when you squeeze your arms once around his torso. A hand comes up to run up and down your back slowly. Protective. Possessive in the quietest way. 

“If anyone bothered you today,” he mentions casually, jaw tightening just slightly. “I’d like names.”

You burst out laughing and Bucky tightens his hold just a little at that, a fuzzy feeling tingling in the back of his head as his ears are blessed with his favorite melody. “Calm down, stud. No one bothered me today.”

“Good.” His thumb brushes absent circles on your lower back. “Because I don’t feel like scowling at freshmen tonight.”

“You always scowl at freshmen.” You peek up at him, impossibly cute with your cheek smushed against his chest. The urge to kiss you is so strong he almost shortens the distance between you.

“They look at you.”

“They look at everyone.”

“Not like they look at you, baby.”

There’s a small silence after that, but Bucky fills it quickly.

“Anyway,” He glides over the topic, his voice suddenly too high to sound nonchalant, so he clears his throat. “You’re done for the night. Doctor’s orders.”

“You’re not a doctor.”

“I’m a concerned citizen.”

You lift your head just enough to squint at him. 

“Chronic overworking, severe lack of cuddling, and acute stubbornness are very serious conditions.” His fingers walk up your spine as he lists your “symptoms”.

You snort, letting your head fall back to its previous resting place. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Mh. Tragic, really.” Bucky shifts, scooting back against the headboard to settle against the myriad of pillows you accumulated throughout the years, tugging you with him. “Prescription says: cuddles, a movie, and you,” he pats his chest, wiggling his eyebrows. “Right here.” 

You laugh again, softer now that you have given up. “Alright, alright, Dr. Barnes.” You know he hates when you roll your eyes, but you do it anyway. 

“Ha! Victory!” He whispers triumphantly.

You shake your head, the corners of your mouth betraying you as they lift just slightly when you reach for your laptop. Once you settle back down, you automatically curl into his side, like it’s muscle memory. It’s always been that simple between the two of you.

He shifts immediately to accommodate you, one arm sliding around your waist as the other tucks behind his head. 

“You know I’m proud of you, right?” Bucky mentions casually, low like a secret you are only meant to know. “You always work so hard. You’re so good—too good.”

Your fingers tighten in his shirt, but you only nod, pressing closer.

You’ve never known what to do with praise. It slides off you most of the time, makes you fidget, causes your eyes to drop to the floor like you’re being accused of something you don’t quite believe. And it’s not as if Bucky’s new at this—he’s been telling you how brilliant you are, how capable, how kind, and pretty since you were small enough to swing your legs off a playground bench. He’s never once missed a chance to compliment you.

Still, every time he does that, your shoulders go tight for a second before you remember it’s just him. Just Bucky. Not judging, not measuring, not expecting you to live up to the compliment. You never thank him with words, just burrow closer, like you’re doing now, hiding your face against his chest as if you can tuck the warmth of his words somewhere safe. They feel so fragile, so precious, and you are still learning how to hold them properly.

“What are we in the mood for, sweetheart, mh?” His words are gentle near your ear. “Something brainless? Something with explosions so I can complain about the physics and you can pretend to be impressed?”

You shift slightly, tucking your leg over his thigh. He adjusts immediately, never failing to make space for you, hand tightening just a little at your waist to keep you steady.

“Blanket?” A small shiver and a nod are enough for Bucky to lean sideways awkwardly, reaching for the fluffy lilac fabric lying on your second desk chair, nearly falling over in the process.

“Careful.” You snicker.

“I’m graceful.” Bucky insists, dragging the blanket back triumphantly. “Military precision.”

“You almost tripped over the air.”

“Well, the air started it.”

He drapes it over the both of you, smoothing it at your hip, before pressing a kiss to the crown of your head like it’s part of the ritual. 

“There,” he hums. “Contained.”

His chin settles then on the top of your head. “So? If you don’t choose in the next minute, I’m putting on Interstellar again.”

You go rigid at that. “James.”

“What?” He quips, entirely unapologetic.

“You made me watch that at two in the morning.”

“It’s a masterpiece.”

“It’s almost three hours long.”

“It’s cinema.”

“You paused it every five minutes,” you accuse, lifting your head to glare back at him. “You had diagrams, Bucky.”

He grins, completely unashamed. “You said you wanted something educational.”

“I did not say I wanted a physics lecture in my pajamas.”

“You loved it.”

You raise an eyebrow. “I fell asleep during the wormhole explanation.”

He gasps softly. “How dare you!”

You burst out in an incredulous laugh. “You started calculating stuff on the back of a takeout receipt!”

At that point Bucky chuckles under his breath, the sound vibrating against your cheek when you drop your head back on his chest.

“You’re impossible.” You mutter, going back to scroll through movies you’ve already watched, and rated, with your best friend. “I need something easy. My brain’s fried.”

“Easy,” he repeats thoughtfully. “So no space, no time paradoxes—”

“No academic lectures.” You add firmly.

“Fine, baby.” He sighs. “But one day you’re going to sit through the docking scene without complaining.”

“You cried during the docking scene.”

“I did not.”

“You absolutely did.”

With a clear of his throat, he squirms awkwardly under you. “It’s just... well done.”

After finally picking a mindless sitcom you’ve both seen a hundred times, he sets the laptop on his thigh, adjusting the angle so you can see as well, then shifts again so your body is draped more comfortably over him, leaving his free hand to lie on his chest. You reach forward absently and lace your fingers with his, causing Bucky to go still for half a second, before his fingers squeeze yours back. He presses another kiss into your hair, hoping you won’t hear his heart do something embarrassing in his ribcage.

“Comfy, pretty girl?” He asks softly.

“Mh.” You sigh. “You’re warm.”

“Good. Means I’m doing my job.”

Huffing a quiet laugh at that, you just curl closer.

Bucky pretends to focus on the show, but really he’s more aware of the slow sound of your breathing. His thumb keeps stroking your side, tracing slow, absent circles that leave goosebumps behind, even with the soft fabric of your sweater separating him from your skin. Every so often he presses a kiss into your hairline, or your temple... just wherever he can reach without jostling you too much.

When you shiver again, Bucky perks up.

“Still cold?”

“No.”

He narrows his eyes playfully. “Liar.”

“I’m not cold.”

“You shivered.”

“I just—” You stop, realizing you have no explanation that you can give him.

You can feel his grin into his next words. “Yeah. That’s what I thought.”

You smack his chest lightly, and he laughs—soft and low—then catches your hand to press a quick peck on your knuckles.

“Careful,” he murmurs. “This is violence against your concerned citizen.”

Though the small crease in your eyebrows has finally smoothed out, your fingers keep twitching in his shirt, and your jaw ticks every few seconds like you’re biting back thoughts. The tightness in your shoulders is very much alive and burning under your skin, your breathing shaky at the edge each time you exhale. Bucky can’t help but glance down at your leg shifting under the blanket every few seconds. 

He lets it go on longer than he should.

His thumb traces the same slow path over your side, patient, grounding. Pressing his lips briefly to your forehead, he waits for you to melt into him the way you usually do. But instead, you sigh. It’s a little, quiet sound, but it carries too much weight.

“What is it?”

“Oh? Nothing, sorry.” Your reply is quick and rehearsed, and Bucky doesn’t like that one bit.

“Hey,” his arm squeezes your torso once. “None of that, sweetheart. You know you can tell me anything.”

At that point you shift onto your back with a slow exhale, staring up at the ceiling. “It’s just…” You hesitate for what seems like an endless amount of time to Bucky, like you’re deciding whether it’s worth saying out loud.

“I keep thinking about that paper. I should finish it by tomorrow, because we haven’t made any progress with that group project I told you about last week. I’ve sent four messages on the group chat to ask when we should meet and no one has read them.” A small, frustrated laugh bursts out of your chest. “I feel so dumb for chasing them, but at this point I’ll have to finish it by myself.”

His jaw tightens.

“You know that’s what they want you to do, right? They’re gonna take all the credits while you try to finish the entire presentation by yourself on top of your own assignments. You’re not supposed to carry all of that, baby. It’s not fair.” He frowns. “You’ve already got enough on your plate and you need to rest.”

“I know.” You groan, momentarily closing your eyes. “But I hate not having any control over it.” Words pick up speed as your eyes flit over the surface of your white ceiling turned orange by the warm lamp on your nightstand. “Everything’s half-finished and sitting there waiting for me, and I can’t stop thinking about it long enough to breathe.”

Bucky lets you vent at your own pace, because he knows better than to rush you. You try to sound calm, reasonable, like this is just another thing to manage, but he can feel the pressure running through your veins, the strain that causes your voice to shake at the end.

“I can help you.”

The words leave him before he can fully consider them.

You immediately turn your head to give him a reproachful look. “James.”

“What?”

“No.”

“Why—”

“You have your own stuff to do—”

Bucky shakes his head, pushing himself up on one elbow so he can look at you properly. “That’s not what I meant.”

“It sounded like it.”

“You know I’d write all your papers if you’d let me, but you’re such a little spitfire, angel. You’ve got this ridiculous way of holding yourself to every rule, every detail... I love it, but damn, you’re stubborn as hell about doing things your own way.” A faint exhale of a laugh slips out the both of you despite the tension. “But I meant, I can help you not think about it.”

You study him carefully, brows furrowed. “What do you mean? Aren’t we already taking a break?”

That question sits between you, innocent, and Bucky swears the room is starting to spin. 

His mind betrays him with an image so vivid it nearly steals the air from his lungs: you beneath him, pliant and warm, your fingers tangled in his shirt, and your mouth soft against his, muffling your sweet pants and moans. Just that morning Bucky woke up from the cruelest of dreams. Your mouth on his, your skin bare. His shirt was drenched in sweat and his underwear embarrassingly sticky when the sun split through the curtains and hit him with a brutal dose of reality. He quietly jerked off in the shower, ears red and stomach flipping with shame as he only saw you behind his closed eyelids, but the ache is always there. It never goes away.

His eyes close briefly.

This is not the time.

But the words sit at the back of his tongue, heavy and impatient.

“Maybe,” he starts slowly, choosing each word like the world might explode. “You just need something stimulating enough that forces your brain to focus on one thing.”

“Like what?”

His heart is pounding so loudly he’s certain you can hear it. He can’t believe he’s really going to say it.

He swallows. “Have you ever thought about… I don’t know… sex?”

It feels as if someone snatched the word from his throat and tossed it between the two of you, like a sturdy stone being violently thrown into a still lake.

You don’t react immediately, but you recoil a little, taken aback. 

“I didn’t mean it like—” Bucky winces, suddenly aware of the very small distance between your bodies. So he stands up, cheeks flushed as your eyes follow him. “I mean, I did mean it, but not in a...” He exhales sharply. “God. That sounded worse.”

You blink at him, and Bucky runs a hand through his hair, pacing at the edge of the bed like he’s trying to outrun his own suggestion.

“I just meant,” he tries again, cautious now. “Sometimes when your brain won’t shut up, you need something… physical. Something that makes you focus on anything but your thoughts.” He gestures vaguely between you, not quite daring to point. “We’re—We’ve always been—I mean, there’s nothing we haven’t shared, so it doesn’t have to be weird. It could just be...”

You tilt your head. “What?”

“I…” His mouth opens and closes pathetically, the words dying in his throat as you adjust yourself, now sitting upright with your legs crossed. “It’d just be… us.”

The room is plunged into a religious silence, broken solely by the low hum of the old fridge near the kitchenette and the faint sound of your labored breaths. It makes Bucky want to bury himself alive.

Your fingers keep fidgeting with the blanket.

“It’s been a long time.” You quietly admit.

He stops abruptly in his quest of digging his own grave by walking up and down your room.

“What?”

You stubbornly stare at your hands, chin tucked down.

“Since... the last time I had sex.”

His stomach drops.

“How long?” Bucky croaks out, trying to sound nonchalant but he fails miserably as he almost chokes on his own saliva.

You hesitate for half a second, then mumble. “Since Chris.”

The name lands awkwardly between you, like a relic from another lifetime. Those five letters drag up memories Bucky thought he’d pushed down beneath the careful armor he’d worn around you for all these years. You wailing against his chest in his bedroom, the smug grin on Chris’ face every time he crossed you in the school hallways, and Bucky pretending he didn’t want to hunt that asshole down.

His throat suddenly goes very dry. “High school Chris?”

You nod, still too embarrassed to look him in the eye.

Bucky lets out a disbelieving breath. “That was... years ago.”

You swallow. “I know.”

“You haven’t—” He can’t finish the sentence, but you understand.

You shake your head, biting your bottom lip.

His brain struggles to process that. Bucky had convinced himself there had to be someone. Some random fling at one of the frat parties he couldn’t attend because of some last-minute visit to his family, or an assignment started too late. He spent so many nights lying awake waiting for your text reassuring him that you were home, safe and sound, telling himself he was being ridiculous, that of course you had allowed someone to touch you the way he wanted to.

But now this revelation feels like being shoved off a cliff, blindfolded in darkness.

“So,” you start softly, like you’re testing the word. “You believe… sex would help.”

He swallows, nodding sharply. “It might.”

You glance at your best friend, then away again. “You’ve thought about it.”

It’s not a question.

Bucky huffs nervously. “I mean, I’m not blind.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

His right hand reaches up to rub the back of his neck. “Yeah. I’ve thought about it.”

There’s a moment of silence that makes Bucky wonder if being completely honest was the right choice.

“Recently?” You perk up.

He almost laughs at that. “Define recently.”

You try not to smile, and Bucky steps closer again, slower this time, like approaching a skittish wild animal.

“I’m not trying to make this weird.” He clarifies quickly. “I can go away, or—or we can pretend I never said anything and I’ll go back to being your emotional support distraction machine.”

Your head snaps up at that, a spark of hurt flashing in your eyes. “It’s not weird, and you’re not my emotional support distraction machine.” A frown settles on your features, and Bucky’s heart thuds at the adorable sight.

“I was joking, sweetheart.” He reassures you gently.

“I know, but I don’t like you calling yourself that. You know you are everything to me.”

“Yeah?” He strangles out, and you nod, chewing on your bottom lip.

“You are everything to me too.” 

The air feels different now. Thicker. You glance at his mouth, just for a fleeting moment, yet his blue eyes—too bright, too earnest, like they’d strip you bare if you let yourself crack the slightest bit—catch that instantly.

“Should we do it?” You ask, almost daring.

Bucky hesitates—not because he doesn’t want to, but because he wants it so much he wouldn’t know what to do with himself if you were to accept his absurd offer just for one night.

“Only if you want to.” His voice cracks. “I don’t—I don’t want you to think I’m taking advantage of you, or something. We’re just...” He gestures between you helplessly. “We’re us.”

Your silence stretches just long enough for his chest to start caving in. Bucky examines your face carefully, searching for any sign of discomfort, annoyance… anything he can work with. But you give him nothing.

Just a clean slate of neutrality.

The shift inside himself is dreadful, hope morphing into humiliation. Of course he pushed too far. You’re stressed, allowing yourself to be vulnerable around him and what does he decide to do? He suggests to have fucking sex with you.

Bucky takes a step back without meaning to, already bracing for the fallout. What would you do if he confessed right now? Telling you he’s loved you since scraped knees and shared headphones and walking you home because “it’s on my way anyway”. That every girl who approached him felt like a placeholder. That he’s swallowed the ache years ago, and locked the longing somewhere unreachable, so it would never hurt you.

“Forget I said anything,” he mutters, already stepping back from your bed. “That was out of line. You’re overwhelmed and I just made it worse. I’m so sorry, sweetheart.”

Even the name that has been lightning your eyes up since high school tastes bitter now. 

She’s trying to figure out how to let you down gently.

She’s contemplating if this will change things between you two.

She’s wondering if she’s been leading you on without realizing it.

She’s suspecting you’ve been trying to get in her pants all along.

Bucky moves another step back, running a hand over his face. “I’m—”

“James.”

He looks up immediately, and you’re suddenly watching him like you’re going to cry.

“I haven’t done this in years.” You repeat softly. “So if I’m bad at it—”

His stomach drops. “You won’t be.” He rushes out.

You observe him with a rueful smile, shoulders dropping as if suddenly freed from an unbearable weight. “You don’t know that.”

“I do.” He frowns, blushing violently at how certain he sounds.

Your sigh sounds like it’s been living in your chest for years, and after you clear your throat, attempting to pull yourself together. “What happens now?”

His heart is pounding so hard it almost drowns out the show still playing in the background.

“Now,” he says carefully, stepping closer. “I ask if I can kiss you.”

You hold his gaze. “And then?”

“And then, if you say yes,” he continues, fighting to keep his voice steady. “I’m going to do it. Just once. And if you hate it, we pretend it never happened.”

You don’t hesitate, your body unconsciously leaning forward as he kneels in front of you.

“I won’t hate it.”

That confidence nearly unravels him.

“So… can I?” Bucky’s voice is barely above a whisper, rough around the edges, his hunger leaking out after holding it back for years.

At your tiny, shy nod, that carries more weight than anything he’s ever felt, his chest tightens, almost forgetting how to breathe. His hand lifts slowly, almost reverently, and cups the side of your face, his gaze focusing on the action. The feeling of his thumb gently brushing along your jaw makes you shiver, before his eyes flutter close for a fraction of a second, enough to carve this moment into his soul. When he opens them, his breath hitches at what he sees: your pretty, trusting eyes fixed on him, openly giving him permission.

You don’t pull back. Instead, you tilt your head just slightly, leaning into the touch, and that simple motion nearly stops his heart. 

Bucky exhales softly and bravely leans in, lips brushing yours in a featherlike, tentative contact—a question posed in motion. It’s the most tender of kisses, meant to taste the waters, to ask if you want this as much as he does. You respond immediately, pressing against him, and in that moment, a spark ignites in his chest. 

Every sensation is magnified. The softness of your lips against his, your eyelashes fluttering against his cheek as you close your eyes, your quiet, pleased sigh… Each one sends shockwaves through him.

His other hand hesitantly reaches your waist, just enough to anchor you against him. He doesn’t pull, allowing your body to find his to its own volition. The pressure is grounding, careful, and each subtle shift of your weight beneath his palm leaves him more certain, more addicted to the feeling of you.

Your hands slide to his chest, light at first, then press more firmly as if to claim the space that’s always been yours to take. His fingers twitch instinctively, tracing lines along your sides, feeling the curve of your ribcage, memorizing the rhythm of you in his arms. That’s when he deepens the kiss, still careful not to overwhelm. Your lips part just a bit, yielding, allowing him to savor the sweetness, the trust. And your hair is caught through his fingers as he tilts your head slightly, to explore without breaking the fragile balance. The clean, floral scent of the body lotion you recently bought mixes with something inherently yours, filling his senses, grounding him while simultaneously setting his nerves ablaze. You make a high, almost imperceptible mewl that sends heat straight to his crotch, prompting Buck to lean into you just a little more, confirming that this—this closeness, this softness—is real.

Time stretches, the show hums unnoticed, the bed creaks faintly beneath the weight of you both, and your breathing mingles with his, shallow and intoxicating. Every tremor of yours is loaded with anticipation, your heart racing in tandem with his.

Finally, Bucky pulls back just enough to rest his forehead against yours, the tips of your noses brushing. 

“You’re so beautiful.” He whispers, voice raw and breathy, as if saying it louder would shatter this dream he never wants to wake up from. “Can I... Can I kiss you again, angel?”

Your smile is just short of shy as you press once more into him. The way he tilts his head is automatic, capturing the soft warmth of your lips again. Your sternums touch, and one of your hands grasps the hair on his nape, eliciting a low groan out of him. This time, Bucky kisses you as if he wants it to bruise, his mouth heavy against yours, trying so desperately to burn himself into you. You’re trembling in his tight hold, yes, but Bucky is barely holding himself together at the thought of a lifetime spent loving you in secret. His teeth graze your bottom lip in the middle of it all, leaving behind a surprisingly nice sting that makes you shiver. He wants to kiss you forever, even against the merciless ache in his lungs. 

His hands finally gather the courage to move, fingers digging into the flesh of your hips, slipping under the cotton of your oversized sweater to graze your bare skin, a moan shamelessly falling into your mouth.

“Bucky.” You whimper as his lips trace an unmapped path along your jaw. 

“Yeah, sweetheart?” He gently nibbles a sensitive spot just under your ear that you didn’t even know existed. You shiver again, feeling the curve of his grin against your bare throat. “What is it, doll? Talk to me.” He presses an open-mouthed, heated kiss on the crook of your collarbone, suckling until you squeak.

“I’m—” You gasp. “It’s hard.” You blurt out. “To... to come these days.” Your voice fades into a whisper. “Too much stress. I can’t focus.” 

Bucky stills at your timid confession. He presses your foreheads together to quietly stare at you, all blown pupils and this dazed, adoring expression that makes your stomach flutter. “That’s okay, angel.” He stops your anxious blabbering. “What do you usually do?”

“What?” You gape at him, not expecting that question. 

“What do you do when you’re alone, baby?” 

“I have… toys.” Your cheeks feel so hot you start sweating.

“Show me.” 

“You—You want to watch me while I…?” You squeak, eyebrows shooting up.

His jaw clenches at the thought, cock already half-hard since your lips touched for the first time, before he nods. “Will you let me, darling?”

“But—”

Bucky calls your name, steady and serious. “Do you trust me?”

“Of course!” The way those words fall from your lips, offended that he would even hint you don’t, elicits a boyish laugh out of him. 

“Then let me help you.”

There’s a beat. A long, awful, charged beat.

“Okay.” You whisper.

“Yeah?” He perks up a little too enthusiastically.

“Yes, yes Bucky.” You bite your bottom lip, trying to hide your amusement.

“Where are they?”

“Um, second drawer of the nightstand.”

Once the box is opened, Bucky’s mouth goes completely dry, so much that it almost hurts to swallow. 

His brain stops. Just… fully refuses to work.

It’s ridiculous how fast heat climbs up his neck, spreads across his chest and then drops straight into his stomach. 

A shockingly realistic dildo, a bullet vibrator, a suction vibrator connected to the curled end of a dildo, another dildo, and it vibrates too... 

Pull yourself together, it’s just silicone for fuck’s sake.

But it’s yours.

And suddenly his mind, traitorous and vivid, supplies images he has spent years trying not to picture too clearly. You, laughing. You, stretching in one of his large hoodies. You, soft and sleepy in his arms. You, riding one of these fucking toys. You, spread on his bed with that thing stretching your pussy just enough to burn deliciously. You, moaning and whining and calling his name, begging to make it better with his—

And under the mortification, something else coils low in his crotch. Crude, shameful… disrespectful.

“They’re just toys.” You mumble, promptly looking away. “Right?” 

“Yes!” Bucky rushes out, hating the way you seem to make yourself a little smaller, as if embarrassed. “Yes, sweetheart. I’m sorry. It’s just… I never knew you…” He trails off absentmindedly, exhaling harshly as his blue eyes trace your curves. His hands slide slowly to your waist, thumbs brushing small strokes over your hipbones as if he’s reacquainting himself with something he’s known forever but is allowed to touch differently now.

“Let me make you feel good. Can I?” Bucky murmurs, momentarily forgetting about the protagonists of his future dreams. He guides you back until he has you propped against your plush pillows by the headboard, their fuzziness and the soft plaid comforter under you easing your nerves just slightly.

You nod, certain but coyly.

Bucky then leans in carefully, planting a sweet kiss on the corner of your mouth first.

“Does this feel good? Here?” Half-lidded eyes burn into yours, your breath catching in your throat at the tenderness, and you nod again, quickly.

He smiles against your skin and shifts slightly, lips brushing along your jaw. Slower, lingering.

“What about here, mh?”

You bite down on your lower lip, the smallest sound trying to escape your throat before you swallow it back. Another nod.

His hand slides up to cradle the side of your neck, thumb warm beneath your ear as he presses a kiss just under it. He feels the way your pulse jumps, feels the way your shoulders tense before melting again.

“Oh,” Bucky hums quietly. “Definitely here.”

Your fingers curl into his shirt as a reflex, grounding yourself and him both.

Moving lower, his lips set over the spot where your neck meets your shoulder, charting your skin like an astronomer tracing a constellation he’s spent a lifetime hoping to find.

“Here?” 

You nod too fast this time, and Bucky pulls back just enough to look at you, all twinkling eyes and clenched jaw. 

“You don’t have to be so quiet,” he murmurs, thumb pressing against your lip to free it from your teeth. “I wanna hear you.”

That only makes it worse.

You shake your head slightly, and he chuckles under his breath, so terribly fond. 

“No?” He whispers, leaning back in. “You don’t want me to hear your sweet sounds?”

He kisses your mouth this time, taking your chin between his fingers and making sure your tongues touch in a slow dance. And you don’t disappoint, rewarding him with the most precious of moans.

“Good job, sweetheart.” Your next breath is shaky, gaze avoiding his as Bucky reaches lower to brush his mouth on the sliver of belly exposed by the raised hem of your sweater.

Another nod, and Bucky smiles against your skin, teasing.

“Mh, still nodding at me?” There’s no bite to it. “Cute, but I know you can give me more.” Your hand slides then into his hair as a response, tugging lightly, and Bucky almost breaks his composure. He exhales sharply, forehead dropping briefly to your stomach like he is the one being unraveled.

“You like that, huh?” He sighs, voice low. “Making me lose my mind over you?” The corners of your mouth lift mischievously, and Bucky has to grit his teeth to not smile at the adorable sight.

“Careful, doll.” His thumbs slide along your hips, adjusting himself so he can go even lower. “I might just return the favor… in a way you won’t forget.”

Your breath hitches, and his lips return patient, learning you like a sacred treasure.

“Here?” His mouth lands on your hipbone, and you nod, pressing your lips together.

“And here?”

A kiss on your thigh that again gives him a nod in return.

“And what about here, angel?”

Your breath stutters, and this time you can’t stop the high whimper that slips free.

His lips... kissing your clothed pussy.

Bucky stills for half a second to make sure he heard right, before a smug grin brightens his features.

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “Thought so.”

Once he’s climbed back up, hands back at the curve of your waist, he squeezes the flesh, relishing in your startled squeak. “How often do you use them?” He glances between your cloudy eyes and your tantalizing lips as you cling to his broad shoulders.

“What?” You mumble dizzily, blinking as if waking up from a soft dream.

“The toys.” 

“It—It depends if—” A gasp interrupts you as he starts mouthing down your jaw and neck. “If I’m in the mood—Bucky.” You sigh, tossing your head back when his fingers dig into your sides.

“Mh?” He barely acknowledges you.

“Tickles.” Your fingers tighten in the fabric of his shirt. His grip eases a little, stroking the skin as if to apologize. He goes back to your lips just in time to swallow your wanton whine. Meanwhile, his right hand grabs the box.

“What’s your favorite, sweetheart?” He asks, planting a kiss on your cheek that feels too pure compared to what you are about to do. Gulping, you sit more upright to examine your secret stash as he holds it between you two, his left hand gently splaying over your thigh to comfort you.

Your hand snatches the purple dildo that vibrates, your cheeks instantly heating up as Bucky leans back over you with a satisfied smile, kissing you with more love than hunger. His tongue runs along your lower lip, and when granted permission, he meets your tongue in an eager dance.

“This okay?” He pants in your mouth, his fingers having traveled to the waistband of your sweats without you even noticing it. His lips have you so dizzy your brain has been turned to complete mush, so you can only nod, already tugging him back to you as he lowers your bottoms, tossing them somewhere on the floor. You whimper in protest when Bucky doesn’t move, taking a moment to examine your panties, something that you were entirely unprepared for. 

“You’ve been this wet the whole time, baby?”

Oh.

You feel your eyes widen, jaw going slack as you notice exactly what he was referring to. Glancing away in embarrassment, your hands shoot up to cover your face. You knew you were aroused, but hearing your best friend declaring it so crudely just makes you want to hide under your sheets and never come out. Your core throbs just a little, hot and aching under the uncomfortable fabric and his intense attention. Your fingers part shyly just in time to see Bucky reach for your centre, flinching as two fingers start a slow rubbing motion with just enough pressure, and an occasional pinch of your nub. Your slick seeps through, turning the cotton to a darker color, and Bucky groans as his digits get sticky with your arousal, his other hand undoing the belt and then unbuttoning his jeans for some room for his erection.

Your stomach churns as you bravely tuck your palms under your chin, finding him still staring at that stain. It’s really happening, you realize at once, particularly vulnerable now that your best friend looms between your spread thighs. 

“Your shirt, can you…?” You croak out softly, and that’s when Bucky’s head shoots up, hands clumsily going for the hem of his sweater. You then wrap one hand around his neck to bring him back into a kiss as you let the other wrap around the dildo. Still devouring your lips, his fingers focus now on your panties, holding them from both sides until an abrupt rip echoes in the silent room.

You gasp, eyes snapping wide open just in time to see his hand carelessly toss your ruined underwear over his shoulders. Unbothered by the fact that he literally just tore the fabric in two, his whole body tenses at the faint click, followed by a low buzzing noise. The toy comes to life in your hand, tingling your palm, and you consider the sensation for a short moment, before pressing the button again. 

“Fuck.” He exhales harshly, his forehead falling on your shoulder to brace himself as he feels your body tense beneath his, a soft whimper getting caught in your throat when you press the tip of the toy firmly against your clit.

“Can I—” He clears his throat, voice so rough you can hear restrain bleed through. “Can I look, princess?” He could come right now, completely untouched, but your comfort comes first. Always. 

“Ah—yes, yes please!” Your eyes fall shut.

“So fucking pretty.” Swallowing back a growl, his hips shift unconsciously. His palms land on your thighs, thumbs stroking the skin at a calming pace. “Prettiest pussy I’ve ever seen.” He murmurs, darkened eyes glancing up at your scrunched-up features.

“Open your eyes, baby. Let me look at you, c’mon.”

The command is soft but you obey instantly, eager to show Bucky just how good you can be for him. 

“Good girl.” The proud praise elicits a whimper out of you before you can swallow it. Your urge to please him definitely goes beyond eating reminders and proper breaks between your study sessions. 

Your hips jolt up unconsciously when you start grinding the toy against your clit after pressing the small button once to let it vibrate faster. Your free hand scrambles to grasp Bucky’s wrist in attempt to find some sort of comfort while you let yourself fall blindly into the pleasure.  

“Feels so good, right?”

Your eyes drift over his face, half-lidded, drinking in the stubble darkening his jaw, the perfect line of his nose, the smug curve of his smile, each contour and shadow marking him as impossibly beautiful. Scorching heat hums between you, and you feel it not just in your skin but deep in your chest, pressing against your ribs like it could tear you open. Every brush of his lips, every press of his palm, every quiet sigh that slips from him drives you closer to breaking open, like stepping through your front door after the world has worn you down, when the pull in your chest finally bursts and you can only surrender to its force.

“Bucky.” You call out to him absently, panting. 

“Say it again. My name.” His voice is suddenly deeper, you can see his throat bobbing.

“Bucky.” You moan, raw and louder this time, even if your face feels like it just bursted in flames. 

“Good girl.” He notices the exact moment you register the words, a shiver shaking your body as your eyes close again in pure bliss.

Yes, a good girl. His. 

“Wanna hear you say my name like that all the time.” He groans. “Why don’t you show me how good she can take this little toy of yours?”

You twitch, aching with the desperate need to put the dildo back, to indulge in the cruel vibrations until you fall over the edge. Yet your body complies without hesitation, sliding it inside your soaking core. 

“Shit.”

You draw the dildo back out again, relishing the drag, setting a slow and steady pace with your wrist as a wanton moan falls from your parted lips. “Oh Bucky.” 

“I’m right here, okay?” He grits out, exhaling harshly as his gaze traces your body. “C’mon baby, put on a show for me.” 

Thrusting harder, your eyes roll back as your pussy clenches tightly around the toy in its desperation. 

“Good girl.”

All of a sudden, Bucky’s hands, warm and so familiar yet new as they explore your bare sides, glide under your sweater, until your chest is exposed to the chilly air of your bedroom. 

“That’s it, baby. Keep that pretty hole stretched for me.” He encourages, his tongue licking his bottom lip as he looks in your hazy eyes, before slowly leaning down. 

His breath is hot on your skin, that’s the first thing your brain registers. You close your eyes in anticipation as he tenderly kisses you, then moving down to leave soft pecks on the swell of your breasts that send shivers down your spine. His thumbs brush your nipples so gently, indulging in every little gasp, but it’s not long before his lips close around a hard peak, both nipples receiving sweet suckles that gradually turn meaner. 

“Why were you hiding these pretty tits from me, doll mh?” His eyes glance up, slyly grinning when his teeth bite down a little harder and your back jerks up. 

“You’re drooling, baby. Can’t imagine what’ll happen when I split you on my fat cock.” The needy, desperate whine is out of your mouth the second the thought enters your mind. He licks his way up, from the side of your breast to your damp cheek, before firmly grabbing your jaw. His fingers keep your mouth open, only for a globe of his spit to land your tongue.

“Swallow.” 

Gasping, you quickly follow his order, a hint of humiliation swirling chaotically in your belly. It only makes your core throb painfully.

“Beautiful.” 

“Bucky please.” 

“Please what? Need words, angel.”

Your mouth opens and closes pathetically a few times, before you can string a proper sentence together. “I want—fuck—I need you.” You eventually whimper out. 

The deep groan rumbling in his ribcage goes straight to your stomach. “Good girl. Wanna see you come once around it, watch you moan and gush as you beg for me to touch you. And then I’ll make you leak for days.” His lips attach to your neck and collarbone, his rough words muffled by your soft skin.

You nod eagerly, whimpering as you pick up the pace, pushing the dildo as deep as you can, and it’s not long before you’re floating again, light like a fuzzy cloud of pink cotton candy. This is the best torture you’ve ever experienced, docile to his orders and exposed to his adoring eyes, but you really need more. You need him to fuck you like an animal, to have his strong hands that until now have only handled you with care to ruin you to tears and hold you down as his cock carves its shape inside you. 

Bucky coos, observing your reaction meticulously, your legs twitching impossibly wider as you let your head hit the headboard. “That’s it. It’s been so long since anyone has fucked you like you deserve, and now my princess needs me to take care of her, isn’t that right sweet girl?”

“Only you, Bucky. Only you can do it.” You whisper.

His shaky exhale gives his anticipation away. “I will, baby. I will.” His eyes lock on your trembling form. “Fucking hell, doll, you’re perfect.” His lips are again all over your face, your lust-glazed eyes unable to do anything but flutter shut with desire. “My pretty girl, all mine.”

It’s all too much and not enough at the same time.

“You ready to come for me, sweetheart?”

Nodding enthusiastically, the sound clawing out of your throat is pitiful. You love being stuffed and pounded, but having an orgasm just from it? It’s not something that comes easy to you. All at once, this feels like a cruel punishment. You need more, but pleasing Bucky is necessary, something stronger than the urge to rub your clit.

“Bucky.” You wail, squeezing his wrist.

He gently soothes his palms along your thighs and the effect is immediate. You melt into the mattress at the warmth of his skin, yet your chin wobbles pathetically. “What is it? I’m right here, sweetheart. You’re doing so good for me.”

“I need—can I touch it, please?”

Bucky sits back on his heels with a playful smirk, the urgent worry disappearing at once. “You can’t come if you don’t touch your pretty little clit?”

“No.” You shake your head, a thrill of excitement racing under your hot skin. “I—I hit it sometimes too.” You reveal quietly, the words spilling out before you can stop them.

His eyes widen, Adam’s apple bobbing. His whole body goes still, stripped of every shred of cockiness. “What?”

You quickly slap your hand against your pussy, glancing up at him to find him licking his lips like a wolf ready to sink his fangs into its coveted prey.

“Sweet girl, you like being rough with your pretty pussy?”

At your eager nod, your best friend swears every ounce of oxygen has vanished from the room.

“Then slap it for me.”

You swiftly pull the toy out just enough to bring your hand down with a sharp smack. The shock of the impact makes your body jolt, the sensation recoiling through your core as the wet sound resounds lewdly in his ears.

“Fuck!” Your pussy is so tender, yet the slap only spurs you closer to the edge. 

“Again.” 

You smack your flesh harder, gasping at the delicious sting. Alternating a few thrusts of the dildo to the little spanks, you are not sure you’ll be able to wait for his permission to come if Bucky keeps ordering you around. 

“Just like that, don’t stop.” Humming thoughtfully—his cock hot and painfully hard, still trapped in the confines of his underwear—Bucky takes a deep breath, trying to regain at least a fraction of self-control before coming untouched just by witnessing the girl he yearned so long for losing herself to this debauchery. 

“You’re doing so well for me. One day I’ll make you come just by slapping your pussy, I promise.” Your reaction is immediate, hips twitching up and mouth forming a lovely circle around a loud whine. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you? My dirty, little girl.” His fingers smush your cheeks together with a cocky smirk. “You want another one, doll?” 

“Please.” 

“So fucking sweet.” He growls. “Go on.”

Tears start running down your cheeks unprompted. “’M so close.”

Nuzzling your jaw, he cups your face with such tenderness, appealing directly to that part of you that would do anything for him. “Beautiful… so, so beautiful. Wanna come for me, baby?”

You nod enthusiastically.

“Yeah, I know you do.” He coos. “C’mon then, put that stupid toy to use.”

“Oh my God.” Your eyes roll in the back of your head as you bring the toy back on your clit, the knot in your belly ready to snap violently. At this point you’re far too close to what you’ve been craving to care about your neighbors hearing you.

“Fuck! I’m coming—Bucky!”

“Let go, doll. You have been such a good girl for me. Make me proud, and I’ll reward you by licking your pussy clean after, okay?”

The tight knot in your lower belly finally snaps. You are at your pleasure’s mercy, your thighs trembling and your aching pussy clenching helplessly around nothing.

“There you go. You’re so fucking perfect, so good for me. Love you so damn much, angel.”

The toy ends up dumped somewhere on the bed as your entire focus shifts on your breathing, your head flopping back to look at the ceiling, utterly exhausted and still quivering from the leftover pleasure.

Without wasting a minute, Bucky is already kissing his way down your body, gently and attentively, until he stops between your legs, resting his head against your inner thigh, two fingers leisurely running from your clit down to your entrance. 

Your reaction is immediate as your body lurches. “Bucky.” 

He softly parts your glistening folds with his thumbs. “Look at this pretty mess.” He whispers directly into your core, his breath sending shivers down your spine.

As Bucky lazily flicks your clit with the tip of his tongue, your body suddenly feels like it is going to implode. A strangled gasp falls from your lips when he slips a finger in, his mouth moving to thoroughly savor every drop of arousal from your previous release on your inner things.

Bucky decides then to busy himself with your clit again, and your body stiffens. 

“Bucky! Sensitive!” You choke out, a hand shooting down to grasp his wrist while the other fists a handful of your bed sheets.

“‘S okay, I’ve got you, sweet girl.” With a mumble, he slips another finger in, making you cry out.

“Fuck fuck fuck!” You almost scream, thighs snapping close around his head.

Bucky growls at the pressure, hungrily nursing on your throbbing clit as his nostrils flare, your scent making him dizzy as he literally buries his face in your core. It’s so messy, with his saliva dripping down his chin and the insatiable need to please you driving him wild. You can feel its intensity from the way his starved tongue laps at you, every flick sending biting sparks down your spine.

Your mind and body are both spiraling out of control, thoroughly consumed by the exquisite sensation of his fingers stretching you so deliciously. 

His eyes stay fixed on your crumpled features, his hand imprinting its shape on the soft flesh of your thigh to stop himself from humping your bed like a beast, so close to his own release that he could come right there with a single brush of the mattress against his cock. 

He pulls away with a wet squelch, groaning in delight at the intoxicating taste. “Make a mess on my face” He rumbles, chest heaving. “Wanna taste you every day on my tongue.” His mouth latches back onto your clit, sucking on it with a steady rhythm, producing such humiliating, sloppy sounds. 

His fingers strategically curl up, massaging that sweet spot of yours, leaving you teetering on the edge of sublime release. His arms shake with pent-up desire, still, Bucky makes sure to take his time with your trembling body.

“I’m gonna—fuck, please please don’t stop!” You cry out, fisting his hair and he grunts. 

“Give it to me, doll. Use me.” 

You obey, literally humping his face. “‘M gonna come.” You sob, hips frantically driving into his face. “Jamie!” His tongue abuses the poor nub while quickly pumping his fingers even as your walls clamp, your slick pouring into his eager mouth, soaking his stubble. 

“Breathe, angel.” Slowly retracting his fingers, his eyes study your face, your inner thighs burning raw from the way he rubbed his facial hair all over your core. He brings his fingers to his mouth, making a show of licking them clean as he crawls forward to hover over you again, his bulge now impatiently pressing against the fabric for your attention.

“Holy shit.” You huff, on the brink of passing out.

“One more.” Bucky kisses you.

“What?” You squeak out, still dazed yet blinking at him more awake than ever. 

“One more, baby.” He implores, his hand soothing along the curve of your hip as you faintly catch the rustling of fabric. “You were crying so prettily for my cock before, don’t you want it anymore?”

Before your lips can part around an incredulous laugh, a weight settles between your folds. Your eyes shoot down as his length is gradually coated in your slick. 

Thick, long, with veins running along the flushed skin.

“Shit.” He grits out, mouth watering at the sight of the mess you are making on his cock.

“I’m gonna come inside you, sweetheart. Ask me for it, ask me for my cum.”

“Please, Bucky.” You swallow back a whine, nails digging into his skin. “Make me yours.”

He shushes your blabbering gently, cupping your cheek. “Look at me.” He orders, your vision blurry from all the unshed tears. “I’m here, pretty girl. Just a little more patience and we’ll watch it leak out of you because it’s too much for you to keep inside.” The reverence in his blue eyes makes you shiver as he takes in your pleading gaze. The way his thumb traces your lower lip, so tenderly and hypnotizing, has him unconsciously leaning forward, until your mouths join in a slow dance.

Your name comes out of his mouth in a low murmur against your lips. “Thank you for letting me have you like this.”

You’ve been yearning for his touch for what seemed like a never-ending lifetime. Every fiber of your being has ached for him, and now that you have him like this, warm and gentle and staring down at you as if you are the missing piece of himself he was searching for all along, you can’t ignore it anymore.

“I love you, Bucky.” You blurt out, tremblingly grabbing his face with both of your hands, bringing him down for another kiss—hard and desperate and filthy, your heart beating so fast you’re convinced it’s going to escape your chest anytime now.

With flushed cheeks, Bucky pants, the tip of his nose brushing yours. “Sweetheart,” he soothes dotingly, an ache to his voice that creeps through the tenderness as he buries his face into the crook of your neck. He breathes you in, brought to his knees by three simple words.

“You don’t know how many times I’ve dreamed of this. Of you. I can’t pretend anymore now that I know what it feels like to have you in my arms, knowing that you’re mine...” Bucky swallows, eyes falling down on your chest before tentatively lifting up to meet yours.

You have never seen him like this. Hesitant. Never around you.

“You are mine, right?”

“Always have.” You breathe out, and with a broken groan, he takes your face in his hands, kissing any part he can reach: from your neck to your collarbones and then your breasts, latching onto a nipple. Moaning, you indulge in his warm tongue taking care of both nubs as his length slowly humps your wet folds. 

“You feel it, angel? This is what you do to me.” He murmurs, humming at your nod. “Such a good girl.”

“Your good girl.”

That earns you a feral kiss. “I have to be inside you.” Bucky pants as your lips messily meet once again. “Now. I can’t take it anymore, need to feel you—Christ.” You break with a sharp cry when his tip encounters some resistance as it finally breeches your hole.

“Slowly sweetheart, look at her opening up so beautifully for me, you—” Bucky abruptly grunts as you clench incredibly tight. Maintaining a clear head becomes tricky, his forehead dropping to your shoulder as a choked groan leaves his throat. “You need to relax for me, or else I’m gonna finish embarrassingly fast, angel.” A strained chuckle bleeds through his gritted teeth.

“Can’t. You’re so big.” You squeal mindlessly, thighs trembling around his hips as his base finally meets your core.

“I know.” His lips briefly press to your cheek, shuddering. “I know, but you’re taking it so well. God, look at you.” He swallows as his hips ease back slowly, until you can feel only the tip inside. You squeak out a pathetic whimper, hands clinging onto his shoulders. Then he bottoms out again, quicker this time. You gasp, back arching.

“Fuck!” You almost scream, your insides feeling so sensitive you feel like you are going to burst into flames.

Bucky finds a temporary steady pace, letting you melt beneath him, then bends your legs back, until they almost touch your chest, satisfied as soon as you respond with a sob of pleasure, the new angle making your eyes cross.

“Oh shit! Bucky!” Your nails leave crescent marks into his skin, toes curling.

He can’t take his eyes off you, drinking carefully in the way your eyes squeeze shut, or how your hole snuggles his cock deeper when his tip brushes just right against your walls. At some point, his wet mouth is on your breasts again, flicking your nipple some more just to listen to your pathetic whimpers and feel you arch back into him. His hips are picking up their pace, slamming against that deep spot at an almost desperate speed. When his fingers momentarily leave your hip to flick and rub your puffy clit, your lips open in a silent scream as you clench again.

“There she is.” He growls. “Fuck, it feels so good.” His thrusts turn animalistic.

“I’m gonna make a mess on your pussy.”

The shameless sound of your flesh slapping against his is so loud but you can’t hear it, too dizzy and lost in the feeling of his dick hitting your sweet spot with a new kind of precision. His muscled arms keep you safe and still for him to play with, his chest pressed against your bouncing breasts so your sensitive nipples are rubbed raw. 

“Fuck, wish you could see yourself right now.” His voice breaks when your pussy tightens.

It’s too much—his fierce, insistent thrusts, his pubic hair stimulating your clit, the way he talks to you as if he’s losing his mind, just blabbering about whatever pops into his head. 

And you? You can just take it. You scream his name, eyes rolling back and mouth unable to close, legs shaky and hips trying to rock back into his, unsuccessfully. Until your climax unravels violently and you ascend to heaven. Your body freezes, before pleasure ripples through you like pure electricity. Bucky marvels with gritted teeth at the clear liquid squirting out of you and making a mess of his lower abdomen and cock, fucking you through it to prolong your pleasure as much as he can.

You squirm uncontrollably in his hold, but he keeps you firmly locked on his cock.

“Jesus Christ, fucking beautiful, sweetheart. Wish I could keep you here and make you squirt on my cock every day for the rest of my life. You’re gonna make me come so hard.” He pants, voice bordering on a snarl and features scrunched up. “’S coming, take it all, doll—fuck!”

His cum spurts on your walls to claim you fully, cock throbbing, making him groan in utter relief. At some point, some spills out and down his thick length, mixing with your creamy mess on the bed and on your ass. You decide to not acknowledge it, too embarrassed by what you have done. 

Bucky ends up collapsing over you, forearms firmly planted on the mattress to keep himself from completely crushing you, mindful of your well-being even as he feels like he is going to pass out after this powerful release, fueled by having restrained himself for so long.

You’re still shaking in his hold, exhausted and sated, but definitely more alert now that you have both freed yourselves of years of longing and pent-up sexual frustration. He’s reluctant to let you go just yet—and you couldn’t be more grateful for that, your body feeling like it’s going to crumble after your last climax—so he opts to pepper the slope of your neck in lazy kisses, indulging in your soft mewls when he finally reaches your mouth.

Bucky shifts just enough to brush a thumb over your cheek, watching your eyes flutter close and then back open, as though checking if he’s still there.

“Hey.” He clears his throat, voice hoarse.

Your lips part, words sticking somewhere between your throat and the tips of your tongue. You try to answer, but only a breathless hum escapes, and it’s enough. He leans closer, resting his forehead against yours, inhaling, grounding himself in the reality of you.

“You don’t have to say anything,” he says more to himself, worry threading through his awe. “I just… I just want to know if you’re okay.”

You manage a weak nod, letting your fingers curl around his wrists. His eyes, wide and unguarded, observe you like you’re the only thing he’s ever wanted to understand.

“You’re perfect,” he says finally, the words spilling urgently, reverently. “Every bit of you. You’re—” He swallows, shaking his head slightly, as if even language feels too clumsy for this. “You’re everything I’ve ever needed.”

A small, exhausted laugh catches in your throat, and you bury your face into the crook of his neck, letting him feel you trembling with the last threads of adrenaline leaving you. He holds you tighter, hums a random, almost inaudible melody against your hair, and for a long while, neither of you speaks. 

It feels like an eternity passes before Bucky finally cradles your face in his hands, looking a little more lucid.

“We can talk after. But you need to know, doll, you are my whole world.” His forehead presses to yours, like he needs the contact to stay upright, as if pulling away means the gravity of the moment would swallow him whole. 

“You have no idea,” he murmurs, voice breaking at the edges. “How long I tried to hold this in. But I can’t anymore, not after tonight, not after having a taste of what it feels like to be completely and utterly yours.” His thumb traces the curve of your jaw.

“I think I’ve loved you,” his breath hitches, because he can’t believe he’s finally saying it out loud for you to hear. No moans, no bed creaking to drown the words. Just the quiet stillness of the night, as if the moon itself is holding its breath with him. “Since I was too young to even understand what that meant.”

Your hand flattens against the rapid drum of his chest, perceiving every irregular skip, every fierce, insistent beat that has somehow always belonged to you. For a moment, it feels as if the rest of the world has fallen away, leaving only the two of you suspended in this fragile, trembling bubble.

Your eyes glisten with tears you haven’t let fall—tiny, fragile sparks that catch the dim light like stars at night, and your chest tightens with the ache of everything you’ve held in silence for so long. All the unspoken words between you, the years of stolen glances, small touches, and secrets suddenly all converge in this single moment.

His shoulders shift, leaning ever so slightly toward you, and your fingers press more firmly, almost desperate, into the heat of his chest. 

“Jamie,” your voice quivers. “It’s always been you.”

And when you glance up at him, so radiant and so inevitably his, Bucky finally looks at you without any restraint, staying like he always has, and always will.

"You've read this already?" You laughed, playfully arching an eyebrow as you swiped the file back.

Penelope opened her mouth to speak, but stopped midway. Guilty. "No... kinda. I merely held it up to the light." You hummed in amusement and she let out a whine. "It's been there for nearly an hour. A terribly long hour. When the prettiest set of flowers show up, and the recipient is momentarily absent, you have to take matters into your own hands. Especially when your own love life is clogged down the drain and there's not a plumber in sight."

"No plans tonight, then?" Morgan teased.

"On the contrary, you and I will get up to all sorts of trouble." She quipped in return, causing him to cackle.

"Ah... Valentine's Day." Dave chimed in as he joined the huddle, Aaron with him. "Something I used to be good at."

"You have been married three times,” Aaron deadpanned, crossing his arms across his chest.

As Aaron spoke, your gaze latched onto his. His brown eyes were warm and bright, brimming with affection. No words passed, but you felt it all, the quiet pull between your hearts. The unspoken moments were something the two of you had perfected, whether on a case or just within earshot of the team. Stolen glances and subtle gestures were the best you could hope for if you wanted to keep your relationship under wraps.

Even with the team possibly - definitely - watching, you couldn’t hide the smile that spread across your face as you looked at him.

You'd thank him later, in more ways than one, but hopefully for the meantime you were able to relay how much you truly appreciated and loved the gesture. How much you loved him.

"I wonder who they could be from." Penelope thought aloud, scanning the bullpen. Ironically enough, her eyes landed on every person except for the very one it was. "Who was here early? Are they even on this floor?"

"Oh- I know." JJ chimed in, smirking in your direction. Leaning forward and crossing her arms on her desk, "Agent Carter from Homeland Security has the hots for you."

You shushed her, immediately dismissing her statement. You were well aware of Carter's feelings for you - he's only awkwardly flirted with you a handful of times. Each attempt was admittedly sweet, but obviously unsuccessful as your heart belonged elsewhere.

You shook your head. "No, I'm positive it wasn't him." You’d made it clear that you weren’t interested, and the last time he tried to sway you had ended so badly you were sure it was the last time. 

"If not, I'm sure we can figure it out by lunch." Emily scoffed, clearly opposed to the idea that an agent would be so brazen. "Sending flowers to a profiler? He's practically begging to be discovered."

"If you want, I can organize data by floor, then narrow the possibilities to single men, and sort those from most to least likely candidates based on factors such as proximal age, interests, and number of conversations they’ve had with you since you started work here.” Spencer offered, his lips quirking upwards.

You gaped at him, though you really shouldn’t be surprised. "All before lunch?"

Penelope didn't miss a beat, raising a hand. "I can get you a list."

"On that note, if you’d all like to leave early today to make your evening plans, I suggest we focus on getting our work done." Aaron redirected smoothly, in a way that hardly hinted at any personal agenda behind his attempt to steer the conversation. "Roundtable in ten."

The team let out a collective sigh and drifted apart, eager to leave early. Dave returned to his office, the others to their desks. As she passed, Penelope patted Spencer on the shoulder, reiterating that she’d get him a list.

Meanwhile, you let out a soft laugh and remained near your flowers, unable to keep yourself from admiring them for just one more long moment before you got swept up in the workday. As you did so, you could sense Aaron's presence lingering behind you.