#neighbor!reader

You were just getting ready to settle down and watch TV when a loud thud and a yell sounded.

You startled, looking around and slowly getting off your couch.

“Shit!” You heard, followed by heavy breathing.

Shattering came next, along with more yelling and this time it was evident that it came from the apartment next door.

You were confused as your neighbour was often quiet. You had seen him in the building and talked a few times, which is how you knew his name was Dex and that he worked for the FBI, but you rarely heard any noise come from his apartment. The only times you did were when he would leave for work and come back. Dex was the perfect neighbour, no loud music, no arguing until the early hours of the morning, and he was nice when you saw him. Not in a “I’m such a nice guy” kind of way, but actually nice.

You wondered if someone had broken into his apartment, or maybe he had just dropped a plate or something.

Then you heard crashing. A lot of it. That didn’t sound like a robbery. It sounded like someone having a breakdown. You hurriedly pulled on your shoes, grabbed your keys and knocked on his door.

“Dex? It’s your neighbour,” you called, reminding him of your name. “I heard things breaking and wanted to check that you’re okay.”

Slow footsteps and heavy breathing came closer to the door.

Dex slowly opened it just enough to see through, the chain still attached.

His eyes were watering, as if he wanted to cry but was making himself hold back. His chest was red and heaving. And then you saw his knuckles, bloodied and raw-looking.

“What happened?” You were cautious, not wanting to scare him more than he clearly already was.

Dex just continued to stare at you, eyes wide, barely hearing you over the buzzing in his head.

“Can I come in?” You tried, hoping to help in any way you could.

Dex gave a slight nod before closing the door. The chain rattled as it was disconnected, and the door opened properly now, so you could step inside his apartment.

You noticed how clean and sterile it felt, like no-one really lived there. Like someone just came to eat, sleep and shower. Then you noticed the mess.

The floor in the small kitchen was covered in pieces of drywall, crockery and glass. Cutlery was strewn across the living area and furniture. And there, right by the door you had just walked through, was a knife embedded in a picture that was hanging lopsidedly on the wall.

You could feel Dex’s eyes on you as you took everything in, his breath catching in his throat like he was trying to hold it, but his lungs wouldn’t allow him to. You kept looking around and saw the hole in the wall. ‘I guess that’s what happened to his knuckles,’ you thought to yourself.

You finally turned to look at him and felt your heart squeeze. He looked so lost and broken. You just wanted to help.

You took a deep breath, trying to figure out where to start. What the right thing to say first would be.

“Are you hurt anywhere else?” You asked, your voice barely above a whisper, glancing briefly at his knuckles.

Dex didn’t respond, still breathing heavily.

“What happened, Dex?”

Panic flooded his veins. How was he supposed to explain how his apartment came to look like it did? How could he explain what had happened with Julie without sounding like a total creep? He’d only just been rejected by someone he felt was so good, all because he’d revealed that he knew things he wasn’t supposed to because he had been observing them closely. He couldn’t let that happen again. Especially not so soon. You had been nice to him whenever you saw each other, and now you came to see how he was because you had heard his rage through the walls. That’s what a good person does, and he could use as many of those types of people in his life as possible. Particularly, if they kept leaving him. No, he couldn’t lose you when he’d only just got you. So he did what he did best. He lied.

“Work isn’t too great right now,” he managed to mumble out. At least it wasn’t really a lie. Watching Fisk was not what he wanted to be doing with his time, and the public perception of the FBI was not going the way the higher-ups liked. Which meant that someone was going to be made a scapegoat.

You nodded in understanding. Work could be hell at the best of times, but you thought that working for the FBI was probably a special type of hell.

“You’re part of the team watching Wilson Fisk, right?” At this question, Dex tensed. This conversation hadn’t gone well with Julie. “Must’ve been tough seeing your colleagues die the other night.”

“Yeah,” he cleared his throat. “It was hard. It was really hard.”

“Will you let me put something on those knuckles, before they get infected? Please?” It wasn’t like you had any medical training, but you knew how to apply some antiseptic and gauze to wounds. Hopefully, that’s all that would be needed to help Dex. The cuts were angry and sore, but at least they weren’t bleeding anymore.

Dex was caught off guard. You were worried about him. Genuinely worried. Not out of an obligation due to work. Not out of pity. You actually wanted to help him. Dex wasn’t sure when he’d had that. Even Dr Mercer had an agenda as she had been assigned to him. Neither of them chose that; it just was what it was.

Dex didn’t really know what to say to you, so he just nodded, a small smile pulling at his lips.

“I have some supplies at my place. We could go there if you want?” At that, Dex looked around his apartment. There was so much to clean up, and he didn’t like that. Why did he have so much cutlery? He lived on his own and rarely ate here anyway. Was it stuff left by the previous tenant? Oh fuck! The hole! The landlord would have a fit! Maybe he could find someone who could do a really good job and make it look new. Or maybe he’d hang a frame over it and hope it wouldn’t be noticed until he got his deposit back. His thoughts were racing, and the buzzing was getting louder. He was losing control. Again. And you would be here to witness it first-hand before you ran and left him alone. Maybe you’d even break the lease on your apartment just so you didn’t have to see him again.

“Dex?” And just like that, everything stopped. Your voice calmed him. The hand you had placed on his forearm was grounding. He didn’t know when you’d done that, but he wanted to feel it forever. He could breathe again.

“Sorry, I -,” he cleared his throat, trying to get the words out without croaking. “Yeah, thank you. That’d be nice.” The small smile that had fallen during his spiral graced his lips again.

“Don’t thank me just yet. I don’t know how good a job it will be, and my place is not the tidiest.” You smiled at him, and that gave him some courage for his next words.

“Gotta be better than mine,” he joked, smile widening when you let out a snort/laugh.

Dex suddenly became very aware of your hand on his arm. His arm that was attached to his torso. His torso that was currently missing a shirt. He flushed, not used to this type of situation.

“Let me just –,” his throat was dry again, and clearing it only helped marginally. “Let me grab a shirt.” And he swiftly went to his bedroom, avoiding the pieces of smashed plates with precision.

Dex tried to get his breathing and heart rate under control before he was alone with you longer than he ever had before, but it was easier said than done. He would be in close contact with someone. That someone would be touching him. Maybe even holding his hand. He could not remember if that had ever happened to him before. All of those thoughts were not helping him at all.

“Get it together, Dex,” he muttered to himself, shaking his hands at his sides as if that could rid the anxiety from his body.

“Okay, I’m decent,” Dex announced, exiting his bedroom and going back to where you were.

He wanted to slap himself. What the hell was that?! Why did he say it? It was as if parts of his body were acting independently and just doing whatever they wanted. But you didn’t seem put off by the words that had left his mouth. Instead, you looked… Dex wasn’t sure. Your eyes had widened slightly, and your face flushed.

“Let’s go,” you said softly, smiling and gesturing him to follow. “Don’t forget your keys.”

Your apartment felt like a proper home compared to Dex’s. There were cushions on a soft-looking sofa. Pictures that looked like you had actually taken the time to choose them, rather than ones that came with the apartment. A blanket was haphazardly thrown on the sofa, like you had been under it, then pulled it off when you moved. The kitchen looked used, like you hadn’t immediately tidied up after using each individual implement.

Dex liked it. He hoped to be allowed back in again, preferably under better circumstances.

You watched him take everything in, his eyes analysing everything around him that made up you.

“Sorry,” you blushed, hoping he wasn’t judging you.

“It’s nice. Feels warm,” he said quietly, as if this wasn’t something he was used to.

“Wait here. I’ll just grab some things from the bathroom.” Then you were gone, and Dex was alone.

He wasn’t sure what to do with himself, so he stayed standing by the door, waiting for you to come back. For you to tell him that it was okay for him to be here. To tell him what to do. Where to sit. How to move.

“You can sit down, you know.” Dex started. He hadn’t heard you come back.

“I wasn’t sure where you wanted me,” he replied, feeling a little embarrassed.

“The sofa is fine.” You were already sitting, and he went to join you.

He was right. The sofa was soft. It felt like the type of place you would fall asleep on or have an afternoon nap. Dex wondered what it would feel like to lie down upon it and close his eyes, while you tended to his hand or carded your fingers through his hair.

He tried to stop his thoughts from going further. He didn’t want to imagine too much or become too attached, although he knew that was pointless. He already was. You were so kind, and he craved more.

“This will probably sting,” you warned, taking your hand in his, “but I want to give it a clean first.” You looked at him, waiting for permission to continue, but Dex could barely concentrate on your words. All of his focus was on how gently you were holding his hand. Like he was something precious that you didn’t want to break. Like he was worth protecting. You were wonderful. Maybe you could help make him believe that the world could be good. That he could be good.

Dex swallowed and nodded, waiting for you to move again.

You carefully wiped the antiseptic wipe over his knuckles, taking care not to press too hard on the open wounds. You could feel Dex’s pulse through his palm and wrist, and gave him a small smile to try to ease any panic. To Dex, it felt like it did the opposite. Every time you looked at him, he felt his pulse jump and heart stutter. He couldn’t get enough of that feeling.

When you were satisfied that you had cleaned enough, you dabbed ointment over the raw, red skin before finally wrapping a bandage around his hand a few times, holding it together with some medical tape.

“There,” you announced. “I’m no expert, but hopefully that should help for a few days. Erm, I guess try not to get it wet? You could always put some cling-wrap or something around it for showers and washing-up. I’ve heard people do that when they have a cast on their arm. But yeah. Does it feel okay? Not too tight or too loose?” You were rambling, and you knew it, but you couldn’t stop words just tumbling out of your mouth.

“It feels perfect,” Dex murmured after flexing his hand a few times to make sure. He looked down at his hand in wonder. How was he ever supposed to take the dressing off? How was he going to bring himself to wash that hand? Not after you had touched and held it in yours while you took care of him.

Your smile in reply lit up your whole face and Dex’s insides. You were amazing to him.

“Thanks,” you whispered, feeling shy. “Did…erm…did you want to stay for a bit? I could make you some tea? We could watch something on TV?” Dex just wanted to watch you, but he couldn’t say that.

“Y-yeah. That would be nice. Thank you.” He could feel his face flushing, knowing that he would be in your presence longer, in your home, and that you wanted him there. At least he hoped, and that you weren’t just asking him out of obligation.

“What sort of tea do you like and how do you take it?” You asked as you walked towards your kitchen.

“However you take yours. I don’t mind.” Dex followed you into the kitchen. He wasn’t a big tea drinker, but for you, he could be.

“Erm, I usually have green with honey,” you turned towards him while you filled the kettle.

“Then green with honey it is,” he smiled, hoping it looked right.

“Did you want anything to eat?” You asked, grabbing what you needed from the cupboards.

“Only if you want.” He didn’t really care either way and didn’t want to put you out.

“I have some new cookies that I got today. Chocolate chip. They’re supposed to be a good brand, but I’ve never had them before. Oh, I should have checked. And I should have asked before I cleaned your knuckles. You don’t have any allergies or anything, do you? Sorry, I only just remembered because the cookies I have are gluten free. I have coeliac disease, you see. So I really should know better before offering something to someone. Sorry!” You were rambling now, and Dex wanted to ease your panic. So he did what you had done before.

“It’s okay.” He placed his hand lightly on your arm, not wanting to scare you. “No, I don’t.” And when you smiled and didn’t pull away, Dex felt like he had finally done something right in his life.

Once you had made the tea and placed the cookies onto a plate, Dex insisted on carrying the mugs. You tried to argue with him. That it might put unnecessary pressure on his knuckles. That the heat seeping through the porcelain might burn him. But he kept saying he was fine, and that carrying two mugs less than 20 steps wasn’t going to impact his recovery. You sighed and conceded, finally agreeing to let him carry them, but that you would carry the plate. He hoped that you would let him carry more things for you in the future. Maybe grocery bags or packages from the mail room. Maybe even you to bed when you had fallen asleep on the sofa.

“Only because plates and I don’t have the best track record,” Dex smirked, inclining his head towards his apartment. You let out a small laugh, and Dex could feel a grin spread across his face at hearing the sound. And he was the one who had brought that sound out of you. Twice. He felt elated.

“So,” you began, as you both settled on the sofa. “What do you fancy watching?”

“I don’t mind. Not really a big TV watcher. And work keeps me busy, so I don’t have much free time anyway,” he shrugged.

In the end, you found some mindless comedy show to put on. Dex didn’t care what it was or pay attention to it. He was too busy looking at you as you laughed.

The tea warmed him from the inside out, and he found himself relaxing more as the evening went on. You both gravitated towards each other, eventually switching the TV off altogether and just talking about anything and everything. He tried to learn as much as he could about you, just in case this was a one-off and he never got to talk to you again. That thought made his heart squeeze, so he pushed it away. No. You would want to do this again. Without the medical emergency, though.

His arm moved to rest against the back of the sofa, and your hand moved to rest on his arm, stroking patterns he couldn’t recognise into his skin. If he died right here and right now, he would die happy.

When you couldn’t stop yawning, he reluctantly got up to leave.

“I should let you sleep,” he said, watching as you flushed lightly with embarrassment.

“Maybe we can do this again sometime? Without the medical emergency, though?” You asked, and Dex’s heart stopped. Isn’t that exactly what he had thought earlier? Could you read his mind? Or did you genuinely want to see him again?

“Yeah. I’d like that,” Dex grinned.

“I know we’re neighbours, but here. Put your number in.” You gave him your phone, and your fingers brushed as he took it from you.

When you took it back, you typed something, smirking a little, before throwing it down on the sofa.

“What?” Dex asked, tilting his head in confusion.

“Just a little something for you for when you pick up your phone,” you responded, cheekily.

You both walked to your front door, and you held it open, watching as he struggled to cross the threshold into the hallway.

“Goodnight, Dex,” you practically whispered, lightly brushing your fingers across his bandaged knuckles.

“Goodnight,” he said just as softly, saying your name like it was a prayer.

In a moment of bravery, Dex tucked a piece of hair behind your ear, stroking your cheek as he did so. Your face blossomed with heat, a shy smile curling at your lips.

You watched as he went back to his own apartment and shut the door, leaning against your own once you had closed it, pressing your face into your hands and letting out a little squeal of happiness.

Dex immediately reached for his phone once he was inside his apartment, which now felt cold and lonely after being surrounded by you and your warmth.

‘Try not to get injured again anytime soon. But I don’t mind helping to patch you up :)x’

He brought the phone to his chest and squeezed it tight. He had never seen something so beautiful written in text before. Maybe he would be lucky enough to get more.

That night, you both went to sleep thinking of the other, wondering what adventures you might have together.

fin

Thanks for reading! Let me know what you think :)

Tagged: @chunkpiboli @artandpunishment @rporter19

You stood in front of the elevator doors, waiting for them to open after pushing the down button. You heard footsteps coming from the way you just came from. You looked in that direction to see Bucky. You huffed exasperatedly and rolled your eyes at him.

“Good morning to you too.” Bucky says sarcastically.

You rolled your eyes again. When the elevator doors opened, you got on the elevator first and then Bucky got on and you two pressed the button to the lobby floor. A short moment later, the elevator makes a jerking movement and then stops. You and Bucky immediately know what that means. The elevator is stuck. That’s not good. That means you two are stuck together. You pushed the lobby button repeatedly and rapidly, thinking it would do something.

“It’s not going to do anything if you keep pounding your finger on the button.” Bucky says.

“I don’t remember asking you.” You say, shooting a glare at him.

Bucky leans against the wall of the elevator and crosses his arms as he watches you push the lobby button over and over again. You stopped after a few seconds and groaned loudly. Then you got another idea. You weren’t sure if it was going to work and there’s only one way to find out.

“Hey! Hello! We’re stuck in here!” You say loudly, hitting the elevator door.

“Shut the fuck up. It’s too early in the morning to be that loud.” Bucky says.

“Again, I don’t remember asking you.” You say.

You gave up and then leaned against the wall and crossed your arms.

“I can’t believe that I’m stuck in an elevator with an asshole.” You mumbled to yourself.

“I heard that.” He says, narrowing his eyes at you.

“Good!” You say.

Bucky scoffs and shakes his head at you.

“You wanna know what I think your problem is?” You say.

“You’re going to say it even though I never asked.” He says.

“You need to fuck someone that’s not your hand.” You say.

Bucky’s head shot up.

“Excuse me?” He says.

“You heard me. You’re always such a grumpy asshole that you always take your anger out on me.” You say.

“Shut up.” He says, his jaw clenching.

“You would be more relaxed if you didn’t have so much pent up anger inside of you.” You say.

“Shut up.” He says again.

“I’m right and you know it.” You say.

Bucky uncrosses his arms and pushes himself off of the wall, walking over to you and wrapping his hand around your throat, squeezing it just enough for you to feel it.

“I said, shut up.” Bucky says, his voice dangerously low.

“Or what? You won’t do shit, jackass.” You taunted.

That’s when he kisses you roughly. You were caught by surprise, but kissed him back. You dropped your purse on the floor and grasped his jacket, tugging it to pull him closer to you. His body is now pressed against yours.

“You’re so fucking annoying.” You say against his lips.

“So are you.” He says.

Bucky’s free hand finds its way to the waistband of your jeans and expertly unbuttons and unzips them. He shoves his hand into your jeans, instantly feeling the wet spot on your panties.

“You’re wet like a slut.” Bucky says, his voice sounding a bit deeper than it was a moment ago.

You whined softly against his lips. He then shoves his hand into your panties, feeling your slick with his fingers. His fingers teased your clit in a flicking motion. You whined again and bucked your hips against his hand, wanting more. Bucky’s hand that’s around your throat tightens a bit.

“Quit your fucking whining.” He says.

Your mouth falls agape and your head falls back against the wall when he slides two fingers into your pussy. His fingers fuck you relentlessly, not letting up at all.

“Oh fuck! Fuck!” You moaned.

“Yea, you like that?” Bucky asks, his voice still dangerously low.

Bucky let’s go of your throat. Then he places kisses along the column of your neck, moving to the side of your neck. You tilt your head to the side so he can have full access to your neck as he’s marking you up.

“Don’t have anything to say? That smart mouth had a lot to say a couple minutes ago.” He says.

You opened your mouth to say something, but a moan came out instead.

“All out of smartass comments and insults, little girl?” He asks. “I’m sure you have more in you. Go ahead. Spill ‘em. I wanna hear them.” He says.

“Fuck you!” You managed to say.

Bucky chuckles softly and grins against your neck.

“That’ll happen, doll face.” He says.

Then he curls his fingers, hitting that one spot inside of you. Bucky smirks to himself, knowing that he found that one spot inside of you.

“Did I find your little spot, babydoll?” He asks in a cooing voice, knowing damn well he did.

“Yes! Oh my god! Yes!” You moaned.

Bucky keeps his fingers curled so they keep hitting that same spot over and over. Your orgasm was building up quickly.

“I’m-” A moan left your lips before you could say anything else.

“Gonna cum?” He asks.

You nodded your head yes while moaning.

“Cum for me. Give it to me.” He says like an order.

You moaned loudly when you came on his fingers. Bucky’s fingers didn’t let up. His fingers fucked you through your orgasm. Then he took his fingers out of your pussy and licks your release off of his fingers while you were leaning against the wall and panting.

“Holy shit…” You breathed.

“Don’t say that just yet, doll face. We’re not done yet.” Bucky says and smirks.

Bucky turns you around so you’re facing the elevator wall. He yanks down your jeans and panties. You moaned when he smacked your ass, the smack echoing in the elevator. A shiver went through when you heard his belt make a clinking sound. He unbuttons and unzips his jeans, pulling them down just enough for his hard cock to spring out. You looked over your shoulder as he was stroking his cock.

“Are you going to put it in me or what?” You say like a smartass.

Bucky turns your head back around, pressing it against the wall. You stick your ass out towards him as he lines his cock at your entrance, getting it wet with your slick first. Then he thrusts it into you. You gasped at the stretch from his cock entering you. He didn’t even give you any time to adjust to his size when he started thrusting.

“Fuck. You’re tight.” Bucky moans.

His thrusts are relentless. Your hands scrambled to hold onto, but you couldn’t find anything to grab onto. Your hands eventually flatten out on the wall, your nails leaving scratch lines on the wall. The only sounds that could be heard in the elevator are yours and Bucky’s moans and skin slapping every time his pelvis presses against your ass as he fucks you.

“Where’s that smartass mouth now, huh?” Bucky asks.

You wanted to say a smartass comment, but the only sound that came out of your mouth is moans.

“Don’t have anything to say now? All you needed was a cock to shut your smartass up.” He says.

You moaned and nodded. That wasn’t a good enough answer for Bucky. He grabs a handful of your hair and pulls your head back. You gasped when he pulled your hair.

“Use your fucking words, slut.” He says like a demand.

“Yes! I need your cock to shut me up!” You answered, sounding like a cock drunk whore.

“Your smartass side left you and now, you’re a cock drunk whore.” He says.

“Only for you.” You say, almost babbling.

“Yea, you are.” He says.

He’s not wrong. There’s not an ounce of smartass in you. Bucky fucking you turned you into a cock drunk whore. At least, he did for a while.

“I bet this is what you wanted all along.” Bucky says.

“I can say the same thing about you.” You say before moaning.

Bucky’s hand let go of your hair and goes down to your clit, rubbing it in a fast circular motion. You leaned your head back against the wall. Your second orgasm is building up quicker than the first one.

“Gonna cum?” Bucky asks.

“Yes! Please!” You begged.

“I don’t know if I should let you cum.” He says.

“Bucky, I swear if you don’t let me cum-” You were cut off by a moan when Bucky slapped your clit.

“What’re you gonna do? Huh?” He taunts.

All you could do is whine in response at first. Bucky chuckles softly.

“Bucky, please!” You begged, your voice sounding whiny.

“Are you going to be a good girl?” Bucky asks.

“Yes! I’ll be so good!” You replied.

“If you’re going to be a good girl, cum for me.” He says.

Your orgasm came crashing down on you like a tidal wave. Bucky wraps his arm around your waist, holding you against him as your legs began to tremble. His name fell from your lips in a loud moan when you came. Bucky said soft and dirty praises in your ear and fucked you through your orgasm. His fingers stopped rubbing your clit and he focused on his own orgasm, which wasn’t too far from yours. His thrusts didn’t falter for a second. Then his thrusts came to a stop, his pelvis pressed against your ass when he came inside of you. Both of you remained in the same position for a moment to catch your breath before he pulled out of you. Bucky smirks when he sees his cum leaking out of your pussy and smacks your ass one last time.

Both of you pulled yours and his pants back up before facing each other. You two stare at each other, not sure what to say after what you two just did a moment ago. Then the elevator made a jolting movement and the doors opened to the lobby. You picked your purse up from the floor and you two got off of the elevator like you two didn’t just fuck in it. Bucky stands in the lobby of the apartment complex you two live in, smirking to himself before catching up with you as you walked to your car. He spins you around so you were facing him.

“Have a good day at work knowing that my cum is dripping in your panties all day.” Bucky says dirtily and smirks.

“Fuck you.” You say, narrowing your eyes at him.

“You just did.” He grins. “You know where to find me if you want to do it again.” He says before walking away.

Bucky had a smirk on his face as he walked away. You stared at him for a few seconds. You two know that this isn’t going to be the last time.

Of all the days to start jogging...

Cursing yourself as you struggled up a steep incline, your feet feeling heavier with each step as you continued but you knew better than to stop. You had to get to either your car or a rangers station...That's the only way you might be safe in all of this.

You had only been at the halfway point of the hiking trail you'd decided to go for a run through when a breaking news alert came through to your phone. Your music suddenly being cut off, the public service signal tone abusing your ears as it rang through your headphones.

Hissing in mix of of surprise at the interruption and pain at the near deafening volume, you snatch headphones from your ears as you pull your phone from your pocket to read the news bulletin.

You only managed to read 'Multiple Hostile Individuals attacking' before a distant sonic boom followed by an explosion startled you, jumping in shock your phone's sleek case slipped from your hands as you back away from the direction of the sound. It wasn't nearby but it was enough to fry your senses for a moment, just long enough for you to fumble your phone and for it to fall into the rough of the trail.

And of course it landed screen down directly on a sharp rock..

"No! No no no...Please be ok, Please be ok..."

Bending down, you hesitantly reach out a shaky hand to pick up the cellular, one eye closed as you silently pray for the screen to be intact. Your heart drops and your eyes widen when you see the screen completely shattered and your colorful background replaced by nothing more than a black screen.

"Fuck! God damn it-!" Your panicked tantrum interrupted by another distant explosion, followed closely by a second and then a third, the ground rumbling under your feet. Tripping backwards, you press your back against the trunk of a large tree. Digging your fingernails into the tree bark, you struggle to catch your breath as you feel tears prick their way into your eyes as your other hand clutches your busted phone, the only possible lifeline completely useless...

"Alright...Ok...Do-Do the next best thing..."

Pushing yourself from the tree, your legs shaky and unsteady as you keep your eyes to the sky while slowly making your way through the remaining half of the trail. Shaking your head to chase away any overly pessimistic thoughts, you trudged through the woods.

No one is saving you here. You need to save yourself...

Reaching the top of the incline you'd been struggling with, your eyes scan what should be a beautiful serene view. You're in a clearing along the trail that overlooks both the lake and expansive forest. The only break from the treeline being the mountains off in the distance. This picturesque moment undercut by the echoing noises of destruction surrounding you...Explosions, sonic booms, emergency sirens wailing, every catastrophic noise bouncing off the mountains just so they can make their way to your ears...

The last thing you see before you drop to your knees -whether it be from shock or exhaustion- is a person crashing into a mountain peek miles away. It was a purposeful action, the person slamming into one side and coming out the other, only to continue on and slam right into the next ridge behind it. Rocks and trees lining the sides crashing down and rolling towards the base, the sounds deafening in your ears as you watch in horror.

Tears rolling your cheeks, your legs buckle as you fall to the ground. Hearing a familiar whooshing sound, almost like a high pitch hum, you point your head towards the sky,eyes scanning the source.

It's one you recognize all too well. You've heard it a thousand times before now. That distinct sound you've never misidentified.

It had to be him...

Your next door neighbor. The teenage superhero who on the first night he got his powers was practicing flying and slamming into his backyard, thinking that somehow no one would notice. The once slightly gawky teenager who had been too engrossed in comics to get a girlfriend that now would come to you prattling on about his dating life. The guy you would confidently call your best friend... You were always there for him when he needed, let's just hope you're right and he's here when you need him now.

It just had to be him.

It had to be -

"MARK!"

SINISTER!MARK

The glimmer of hope in your eyes slowly slips away when the figure in the air comes into frame. Form suddenly stopping nearly directly above you, the wind current behind him sweeping ahead. The long yellow cape billowing behind while the silhouette of a person all but blocks the sun from your vision.

You were wrong...It wasn't Mark...

In your optimism you got lost in the delusion that Mark would somehow know where you were and come save you...and in your delusion you announced your less than ideal hiding spot at the top of your lungs.

Legs kicking out from underneath your shaking body, you struggle to get to your feet and book it back down the trail. Despite your best efforts, you don't get far...

You don't get more than a few steps away before you hear your future assailant slam onto the ground, the shock of his landing shaking the dirt beneath your sneakers. Somehow you manage to keep your balance, your steps unsteady and desperate as you run. A gust of wind catches your attention and you open your eyes, which you hadn't even realized you'd screwed shut in your panic.

You open your eyes just in time to get a glimpse of the broad chest you run face first into. A sharp cry leaving your lips as you rear back from the impact while the person you ran full-ish force into remains motionless after the collision, he simply stares down at your small frame before a wolfish smile slowly etches its way to his face.

"I thought I'd never find you"

Another panicked whimper you accidentally let slip does nothing but fuel his intrigue. You slam your hands against his chest to try and force any distance but as you pivot away to retreat he roughly grabs hold of you.

A strong hand wrapping itself around your wrist before he jerks you back towards him. Forcing your chest against his own, he cocks his head to the side as he looks you over. Taking in every detail he can etch into his mind of you...You who was long gone from his world...

Your wide panicked eyes failing to focus on any one part of his face, your cheeks are flushed and tear stained, your bottom lip quivering in fear as you face your captor.

But the most delicious part of this sight of you is that trail of blood coming from your nose. You must've hurt it when you ran headfirst into him...The crimson liquid dripping over your top lip as you stare up at him frozen in fear.

His left hand quickly grabs your chin and cranes your head up as he bends down, his face frighteningly close to yours. The corners of his mouth turned upward while he swipes his tongue across his bottom lip as he nears closer to you.

You can feel a warm liquid on his hands as he ensnares your chin and wrist in his grasp, you swear you smell a familiar cooper tang in the air but can't discern it from your own bloody nose. With your free hand pressed to his chest, you shift your stance on the ground as you try in vain to rip yourself from his hold.

"Wh-what are you do-doing? Let-let me g-!"

Your protest is cut short as you feel his tongue slowly drag itself across your upper lip. His goal isn't to tease a kiss out of you or make you blush or wither underneath him. That will come later...

A low, throaty moan escapes him as he relishes in your taste, seemingly savoring every drop of your blood he can steal. His tongue pressing roughly into your philtrum before pulling away. With a satisfied sigh, he swipes his tongue upwards dramatically while his tongue hits the tip of your nose. Your head thrashing to the side as you manage a glare, your piercing eyes betraying your shaking frame.

"What the fuck is your problem?! You psy-psycho!"

"Baby, it's still me...I'm just a much better model."

In a shocking turn of events, he actually drops his hold of you. Your wrist already aching and starting to bruise as you pull it from him and take a flurry of hurried steps backwards. Your eyes never once leaving his floating and imposing frame. The distance you created short lived as he silently moves closer, his yellow cape swaying gently behind him just barely not touching the dirt below.

Trying to get the rest of the blood from your nose and the saliva he left on you off, you rub the back of your hand across your face as you struggle to steady your ragged breathing. In the nano second you blinked you felt another gust of wind and opened your eyes to find the black and yellow draped individual gone. Hearing a choked snicker come from behind, you whip your head around only to be met with a pair of strong arms caging you in a vice grip.

A panicked cry out is only met with condescending shushing, the side of his masked face roughly nuzzling the side of your head as he slowly presses his weight against your back. Buckling under his strength, your bare knees hit the dirt trail roughly as he curls his body around your small trapped figure.

"Shhh, shhh...It's alright now..."

"Ge-get off, Mark..."

"I know I'm not yours...But you'll be mine. This world's Mark is a fucking idiot. You've been right here the whole time, why would he want anyone else?"

Your hands come up to grab hold of his forearms as you squirm, his hold of you unyielding as you wither. Your breath hitches in your throat as you feel his hot breath against the side of your neck. Pressing small, uncharacteristically gentle kisses to the tender skin before he speaks.

"You know, my you let me cover every inch of this beautiful skin in teeth marks...Whaddya say? I can put a nice one right here..." His voice low and dark as he speaks. Not waiting for an answer, he runs his tongue up the side of your neck slowly.

Gritting your teeth as your glare to the side, your eyes just barley able to see the top of his black hair coming from the top of his mask.

"Bite me, you fucking freak..." Your words laced with venom as you speak.

You can't see the dark smile that creeps to his face, he's not sure about the meaning behind your taunt...but he's choosing the more entertaining option.

Hotch rarely spares a thought for the empty house next door. It’s more scenery than structure, slowly deteriorating with neglect, gutters strangled with fallen leaves and ivy clawing up weathered brick. He keeps the lawn presentable enough to ward off complaints from the neighborhood association, but beyond that, it might as well be a ghost, out of sight, out of mind, pushed aside in favor of more immediate demands.

The house’s former occupant, a mild-mannered elderly woman, had been perfectly agreeable company, never intrusive, always amiable enough to warrant polite nods or the occasional commiseration over Jim’s habitual disregard for modesty behind open blinds across the street. Their relationship, if one could call it that, remained comfortably superficial, never straying into genuine familiarity. And that arrangement suited Hotch entirely, aligning neatly with his preference for clear, intentional boundaries around his personal life.

At the mailbox, Hotch absently flips through the day’s standard collection of bills, takeout menus and coupon sheets that never make it past his front door. His routine is punctuated by the sharp report of a closing car door, redirecting his gaze to the adjacent driveway, now conspicuously filled by a moving truck.

Someone steps out, silhouetted by the syrupy, waning daylight. Hotch’s gaze stays fixed for longer than socially acceptable, he knows better, really, but something holds him in place, knuckles gradually paling around the paper as courtesy battles, and loses, to curiosity.

It’s a girl — no Hotch corrects himself quickly, clearly a young woman — overburdened by two enormous tote bags slung haphazardly over your shoulders and a precarious cardboard box balanced in your arms. You’re muttering hurriedly into a phone tucked awkwardly between your ear and your shoulder, finger fumbling unsuccessfully at the unfamiliar lock.

Your cardigan slips thoughtlessly aside, revealing a smooth sweep of skin at your spine. His eyes dip lower before decency yanks it forcibly upward again, self-reproach prickling beneath his collar.

Young. Far too young, he reminds himself with sober conviction. Possibly still in college. Off-limits in every interpretation of the word.

The door swings inward with sudden force, pitching you forward into a graceless stumble punctuated by a small, startled squeak. His muscles coil, one foot already primed forward in an unnecessary rescue. You regain your balance quickly, arms righting the load without assistance.

Just as he’s about to discreetly look away, your head turns, perhaps intuitively sensing his scrutiny. Perhaps by sheer coincidence, though Hotch doubts it. 

Either way, when your eyes find his, he stills.

You’re unexpectedly — no, almost unreasonably —- beautiful. But even that qualifier feels off, because unexpectedly implies he envisioned this scenario and simply miscalculated. It implies he came to this moment with assumptions. He didn’t. He didn’t even realize he was getting a new neighbor. What he’s feeling now isn’t the failure of prediction. It’s the failure of preparation. And Aaron Hotchner, of all people, does not appreciate feeling unprepared.

Your eyes are a mosaic of shades, elusive and difficult to pinpoint with just one look. He catches himself wanting to pause everything, just to study them long enough to trace every hue until he could paint them from memory. Completely absurd, he thinks, even as golden light brushes in them, revealing more flecks of color, reflections that seem to catch with every movement. That same light skims across your skin now, illuminating every slope and hollow of face that’s uniquely, almost achingly lovely.

“Oh! Hi!” Your face instantly radiates warmth, all traces of momentary confusion rapidly dissolving into sincere, unabashed friendliness. In your hurry to greet him, you quickly set down your belongings, completely oblivious to the thick books tumbling from the box and sprawling across the porch. You rush toward him with enthusiastic, apologetic steps. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t even notice you standing there! I was a little distracted by — well, all that,” you gesture behind you with a laugh. “But anyway, hi!”

“Hi,” Hotch replies slowly, inclining his head toward the house. “I suppose you’re moving in next door?”

“Yes!” you say, immediately extending your hand as you offer your name. “My grandma actually left it to me. Honestly, I’m still processing how much space there is, I mean, it’s just me. But isn’t it beautiful? It’s a Craftsman bungalow, built around 1915. They were actually part of the Arts and Crafts movement, celebrating handmade work instead of mass production. See how they used wood and stone to blend in? And the open floor plans were supposed to encourage family interaction, which…” You pause, glancing at the porch, smiling sheepishly. “Well, saying that aloud does make the size a bit ironically excessive for one person, doesn’t it?”

His brows raise as he takes your hand, the sheer velocity of your speech catching him off guard. He doesn’t interrupt, just listens, half-curious if you’ll come up for air. He’s not sure you notice how fast you’re going.

The gentleness of your hand startles him. Warm and smooth, untouched by the rugged imperfections he has come to view as unavoidable companions of experience. No scar tissue, no marks, no wounds.

His hand, by comparison, is rough-hewn, textured from relentless repetition, the practiced grip of a Glock 17, calluses hardened on a firing range. There’s a white scar slicing across the space between thumb and forefinger, evidence of a blade and a bad angle, just one of many, others tucked beneath shirtsleeves or hidden by the waistband of his trousers. 

He’s never minded it until now, never even considered it worth nothing, but now, with your hand is his, he’s aware of just how easily his grip could bruise and mar your unblemished perfection.

“Aaron Hotchner.”

“Oh! You’re that Mr. Hotchner! My grandma always mentioned you, she said you were her very serious, very polite neighbor with suits straight out of a fashion magazine.” You pause. “I hope that wasn’t weird to say out loud.”

“No, not weird at all.” He huffs a small laugh. “Though, I’m not sure I’ve ever thought of my suits as fashion magazine material. Your grandma was being very generous.”

That response prompts an instant smile, one that seems to flood your face with such beauty he can hardly bear to look directly at it. He really needs to go inside.

“She was generous, but also pretty accurate,” you say, redirecting your attention toward the tidy row of houses along the street. “I hope everyone else around here is as nice as she made you sound. Any neighborhood secrets I should know?”

“I can’t say there are many secrets,” he admits, “but I’d suggest being careful if you value privacy, news travels fast here, especially if you accidentally leave your recycling bin out a day too long.”

“Oh no, that’s exactly the kind of secret I needed to know,” you laugh, placing a hand over your heart. “My recycling bin and I have a very complicated relationship. I’ll try not to scandalize everyone my first week.” You glance quickly at the boxes behind you. “I won’t keep you any longer, though. It was lovely meeting you, Mr. Hotchner. Hopefully I’ll see you around, preferably not on recycling day.”

Hotch watches as you step away, already immersing yourself in the scattered array of boxes awaiting your attention. 

The stretch between your front door and his is hardly more than ten paces, yet the distance suddenly feels different — lengthened somehow, or perhaps strangely diminished. He isn’t quite sure which it is. 

Closing the door behind him, he releases a breath. For the first time in recent memory, the quiet solitude of his home feels insufficient, as though he’s listening without fully meaning to, for the sound of another presence just beyond his walls.

He's not good at this, not good at opening up to someone he hasn't bled and fought for, but it's nice, sitting somewhere warm and cozy, decorations on the walls instead of the flat paint of his own. You keep glancing at him and then away, cheeks burning, which is- cute. He thinks you're cute, fumbling your words even while your hands move sure and confident around the mess of sticky spatulas, whisks, bowls with sugar on the rims. He's trying to keep up a conversation but he's distracted with the way you move, watching as you lick your fingertips clean before remembering he's there and wiping them on your apron instead. His blood warms when you bend over and your ass curves right in his vision, full and round. He's never been this close to you this long, never had more than a few attempts at hello and a couple comments about the rain.

Simon accepts a sugar cookie warm from the oven and feels his heart turn over when you bite your lip, fingers lingering on his. Fuck.

"All these just for you?" He asks, and you startle a little. Maybe he'd gotten a bit quiet.

"Oh, no, most of it goes to the charity shop- they put them in with the Christmas dinner boxes, a little treat, you know?" Meringue stands in little puffy rounds on the parchment paper. "I just keep a few favorites for myself. Some for, uh, friends. Here. Taste this?"

A spoon appears in front of his face. He looks up from his seat, your eyes big and very nervous. He swears he hears your heartbeat pick up when he licks the edge, letting you hold the spoon, keeping his gaze on yours because he's shit at talking but you're the sweetest thing he's ever met-

Oh, oh thats fucking delicious. Creamy and, spicy? Not hot but rich, something dissolving on his tongue and going warm right down his throat, like liquor, brilliant and fresh and fuck is that lemon he's tasting?

He's pretty sure his cock got hard just from that, holy fuck.

He thinks about cream, and creampies, and the way you'd taste as a chaser, and yeah he's a goner. He wants warm hands and sugar on his tongue and to find out which of the piles of sweets are your favorites, what makes you blush and smile, if he could get away with a kiss or something more.

He stands up and you're stuck between him and the counter. "....do you like it?" You manage, whispery.

Taking your hand in his, he gets another lick of the spoon, that spicy-sweet burst of flavor on his tongue second to the way your pupils dilate, how your breathing picks up. "Yeah," he manages, and his whole body burns when you lick your lips.

Simon nearly falls over when you get up on your toes and kiss him, eyes fluttering closed, lips soft and warm. He thought he'd have to take the first step, instead you're right up against him, sticky fingers holding the side of his jaw and smelling like sweat and sugar. Soft at first, gentle, then his lips part and oh-

Oh-

Your tongue is slick and hot, slipping right inside, his head coming down and angling for you to get the best reach, his hands clutching at the counter behind you as the spoon goes clattering to the floor. Simon's kissed and been kissed but this is something else, sparks lighting up behind his eyes, and when you moan into his mouth and pull him down, a handful of his hair in your grip, a low heated "delicious," comes off your lips and goes right down his throat like the cream, slams into his belly, and Simon moans and comes in his pants right there in front of you, your hand in his hair and your tongue in his mouth, the beaten-in military discipline the only thing keeping him on his feet.

You break the kiss with a wet smack, breathing hard, your hand still in his hair, strands curling around your fingers. Simon's panting against your cheek, and the sound you make, god, it's enough to make his cock jump, start fattening up properly. He licks your cheek, cranes his neck to get at yours, smudged floury fingerprints where you'd rubbed it and the sweat gathering on your hairline.

"Is there anything," he grunts, "on this counter that needs to be saved?"

You swallow, and gasp when he gets his other hand down to your ass, groping and squeezing, feeling every soft inch. A quick turn to look means Simon gets his lips back under your ear, and you shudder, hips rolling; he files that spot away to remember later.

"Ah, no, just- mind the mixer-" Simon pushes the clunky machine over, an empty baking sheet crashing down, and sweeps the rest of the piles of parchment, icing bags, and other etceteras away. Your ass fits perfectly onto the counter, and as Simon pushes your apron up and spreads your legs- you're gasping again, hot and flushed- he sees the dark damp spot right in the center.

Your hands come back to his hair, both this time, and you moan full throated, loud, when Simon kneels and puts his nose right into you, inhaling. Richer than the cream and even more intoxicating, he tugs at your leggings, pulling them down with your panties as you helpfully lift your hips up.

You're so wet, all flushed and slick, and Simon rubs up and down your thighs as your bare ass settles back down, soft little pants and moans echoing in his ears when he puts his thumbs on either side of you and spreads them. Your hole clenches, winks at him, as a drop of slick oozes out, begging to be licked up.

"Is this all for me?" He rumbles, as if he didn't come himself from just a kiss. You tug at his hair.

"You just kept staring at me- I could feel you, watching- watching me- and I kept thinking about oh, oh fuck, Simon!"

He curls his tongue deeper into you, lapping, drawing out hot slick that he smears up across your clit before sucking at it wetly, swallowing. His thumbs keep holding you open, perfect to bury his face in, and you haul on his head to drag him up and down, clit rolling between his lips, your pussy squeezing down on his tongue every time it plunges in.

"Thinkin' 'bout this?" He pants, and bites the inside of your thigh to make you whine. Another suck to your clit, and your thighs try to close around him.

Simon releases your pussy to hold one open, the other working at his zipper, shoving his pants down to get his cock out. Hard and aching, a throb in his belly, and he strokes at it clumsily as he goes back to filling his stomach with you.

You whine, and actually hump his face when he gives you the flat of his tongue to grind on. Fucking hell, if he hadn't come already Simon would be losing it just from that. There's bursts of salt on his tongue, your pussy getting wetter and hotter, soft folds all puffing up and clit getting firmer. He looks up over your belly and sees your eyes squeeze shut as your mouth falls open, sugar at the corner of your lips, and as you start to come Simon releases your thigh to let them slam around his ears as you just- take it, take what you want from his tongue and mouth, groping your ass and dragging you forward until you're practically sitting on his face.

"Oh, oh god, oh fuck Simon don't stop, gonna come," you burst out, and Simon hums and sucks hard, not letting up as you moan and shake. "Ah, aaah, fuck!"

Your pussy floods his mouth, a hot thick gush, creamy and delicious, and Simon moans and soaks it up, swallowing thickly, his cock spurting pre over his palm. He keeps sucking until you groan and haul his head back, and Simon feels his cock throb at how eaten out you are, soft and sensitive and wet to the counter, slick and spit all over. There's creamy come smeared over your clit, and Simon pants after it, wanting another lick.

Instead you pull him up, knees creaking as he stands, cock bobbing freely, and there's more clattering as another set of pans go falling when you lay back as much as you can.

You're tugging at your apron ties, panting, thighs still quivering, and Simon catches what you're after and helps untangle the thing from around you. Your shirt is shoved up impatiently, and fuck but your tits are amazing, begging for their own attention- Simon bends down over you and sucks a nipple into his mouth, flicking it with his tongue, and the sound you make will haunt him forever.

God, what did he do right to get this.

Nipple wet and hard, Simon licks up your chest, finds your mouth, kisses the sugar still stubbornly clinging there. You kiss him back, wet, lush, and break away just to gasp when Simon's cock rubs across your pussy, leaking onto you.

"Its- I'm clean, promise," he pants, so close and so far. "Whatever you want, baby, please," and he swears and has to pinch his own thigh when you lock your legs around him and draw him in, head nudging inside, hot and tight and wet.

"Simon, fuck me," you tell him, and shift your grip to the back of his neck.

Simon does, head bowed, groaning as his cock slides in, pulling out just to look down and see that creamy come before fucking it back inside you. Your tits bounce as his hips smack into you, he'd be worried about being too rough but you dig your fingers into him and urge him harder, taking the brutal pounding with moans and shivery cries that make his balls tighten.

Simon pants hard against your cheek, your lips, catches you for kisses that break almost immediately with moans. The spot behind your ear gets sucked hard and your whole body clenches tight, like a violin string. Your pussy is flexing rhythmically, slicking him down to his balls, and Simon feels it from the inside when you snap and come again, finding your mouth to swallow it all down, bracing on the counter and groping your breasts with the other hand.

Your lashes flutter, clumped with sweat. Simon can't hold on, you're too wet, hot, all soft flesh and big eyes and demanding mouth, sugar and come on his tongue, and you drag his forehead down to meet yours as his hips stutter.

He can't look away, caught, whines building up in his throat. He wants to come but he can't bear to make this stop, to have to leave the soft wet hole you're giving him, but the choice is taken out of his hands when you reach out blindly, groping at a bowl, and shove your fingers into his mouth dripping with that spicy rich sweet cream - he tastes it on top of the musky flavor of your pussy and he was right, it's perfect, it's the best thing he's ever tasted, and Simon's eyes roll as he comes so hard it hurts, moaning around your fingers, spit and cream drooling off his lips and down your palm.

You shriek as he bucks into you, fucking you back up the counter, pussy clamping down as Simon's cock throbs and spurts deep into your belly, thick and creamy white, and you keep your fingers on his tongue as he sags, panting and shivering. Legs around his waist, you hold him there, pinning you, as he gets his breath back, slowly shifting his weight until he can step back, give you room to breathe.

Your pussy squeezes his cock, still inside, and you moan softly. An orgasm for each of you, but you're still craving, and Simon groans deep in his chest when he pulls out fully and sees the way your hole spurts out his come, thick milky drops sliding down the crease of your ass. He nips your fingertips and gets a giggle, smiling himself, suddenly lighter than meringue, surrounded by sugar and knocked-over kitchen supplies, his cock spent, his mouth and nose all full of spice and cream and you you you.